The next day, children started arriving at dawn, before Garrett had even lit the forge. Timothy Marsh sat on the doorstep with a bundle of charcoal sticks wrapped in cloth, watching the sky lighten over Marblehaven's rooftops.

  "You're early," Clive said, unlocking the door.

  "Didn't want to miss it." Tim clutched his bundle tighter. "Ma thinks I'm running deliveries for the baker."

  By the time Garrett arrived, three more children had gathered in the forge's front room. By midmorning, there were twelve. They ranged from Tim's ten years to a girl who couldn't have been more than seven, her older brother holding her hand.

  "This is a forge, not a schoolhouse," Garrett muttered, but he cleared a space near the back wall and brought out crates for them to sit on.

  Clive started simple. "Before you can draw anything, you need to see it. Really see it." He held up his hand. "How many of you think you know what a hand looks like?"

  Every hand shot up.

  "Good. Draw one. Don't look at your hand, just draw what you think a hand looks like."

  The children bent over their papers. Clive walked among them, watching. Circles with five lines sprouting out. Mittens with finger suggestions. One ambitious attempt at showing knuckles that looked more like a string of sausages. Hands were always the most difficult to draw for any artist. But for a first attempt, the children were giving it their best shot.

  "Now," Clive said, "look at your actual hand. See how the fingers aren't the same length? See how the thumb connects differently than the others?"

  The seven-year-old frowned at her paper, then at her hand, then at her paper again. "Mine's all wrong."

  "It's not wrong. It's just what you thought you knew versus what's actually there." Clive knelt beside her. "Try again. But this time, look at your hand more than your paper."

  [Achievement Earned: Mentor - Teaching others grants +5% skill progression to both teacher and student]

  For two hours, they drew hands. Just hands. By the end, Tim had discovered that thumbs had two joints, not three. The seven-year-old had figured out that fingers bent in specific places. One boy realized that palms had lines that moved when you moved your hand.

  "Tomorrow, same time?" Tim asked as they prepared to leave.

  "Tomorrow," Clive confirmed.

  After the children left, Garrett leaned against his anvil.

  "Clive, I like you, but you can't keep teaching them in my forge."

  "I know. Got any place to recommend?"

  Garrett grabbed his chin in thought. "The warehouse behind here. Old Crenshaw's place before he died. It's been empty for two years. His son's been trying to sell it. Can't find buyers. The roof leaks, and the foundation's cracked in places."

  Clive walked to the forge's back window. The warehouse sat there, three stories of brick and rotting timber, windows clouded with dust and bird droppings. But the bones were good—solid walls, high ceilings. Room for easels, tables, supply storage. Room to grow.

  [New Quest: Establish an Arts Guild]

  "How much?" Clive asked.

  "Two thousand gold, last I heard," Garrett continued. "Plus repairs. Plus supplies if you're really doing this guild properly."

  Clive paused. Two thousand gold was two thousand more than he had. He could try to raise some money through his artworks—the regular kind that Certainty won’t just steal away through [Artistic Purity]—but two thousand gold seemed out of reach.

  “Do you know any other locations? One with a friendlier budget.”

  "Better. I know someone who has money. Someone whose wife you saved and might be interested in having his name attached to something respectable."

  Of course. Lord Thornwald. He owed Clive a favor for saving Lady Thornwald. But still, two thousand gold was a lot of money, enough to purchase a ship. Clive wasn’t sure if he would be willing to let go of such a large sum.

  "I could try… I hope Lord Thornwald has a charitable heart." Clive said.

  "You'll need more than charity. Lord Thornwald’s a businessman through and through. If you want to convince him, you’ll need a proposal. Numbers. A plan that shows return on investment. That’s how you’ll get him in." Garrett moved to his workbench, pulled out a ledger. "Lucky for you, I've been keeping books for thirty years. Sit down. Let's figure out what this guild actually needs."

  They worked through lunch. Garrett's practical mind cut through Clive's artistic visions to hard realities. Roof repair, three hundred gold minimum. Windows, fifty gold if they bought glass in bulk. Tables, easels, basic supplies, and another three hundred. That was just to make it functional.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "Then ongoing costs," Garrett continued. "Heat in winter. Lamp oil. Paper, canvas, paints, charcoal. Do you intend to charge?"

  “I’m not sure… Should I?”

  “Well, the commonfolk probably won’t be able to afford it. Only the noble children who wants to learn art as a social skill.”

  Clive frowned. He didn’t like the idea of restricting his membership. Art should be accessible to all, not just the privileged class. But at the same time, he needed to face the harsh realities of managing the financials. Not even art could run solely on passion alone.

  He thought about it for a moment and realized the solution. A concept he had learned from economics class. Price discrimination. By charging different groups of people what they were willing and able to pay, he would be able to maximize societal benefit by allowing as many people as possible to enjoy his art lessons. In effect, it would be a social enterprise, the rich subsidizing the poor. Noblesse obliges.

  Clive smiled to himself. It was such a great idea, and he explained it to Garrett with enthusiasm.

  "That’s a pretty brilliant idea. But how do you prevent the nobles from complaining? If there’s one thing they hate, it's charity. They won't be happy paying for something others get for free.”

  “It’s all a matter of packaging it right,” Clive explained. “We’ll sell it as premium classes. Different classes, different rates. Free kids in the morning, paying students in the afternoon. And we’ll offer them a better service. Snacks during breaks, more tutors during lessons.”

  Garrett jotted down some notes in his parchment. “More tutors eh. They'll need compensation. Not much at first, maybe, but something. And that’s if you can even find anyone. I’m pretty sure you’re the only artist in town.”

  “No matter, we’ll train our own then.”

  The more they discussed it, the more Clive grew excited at the prospects. It was late in the afternoon when they finished the figures. Garrett had written out a clean copy of their proposal, numbers organized in neat columns.

  Clive stared at the numbers. Five thousand gold for the first year.

  “That's a fortune," Clive muttered.

  "That's an investment. The question is whether Thornwald sees it that way."

  Before heading out, Clive changed into his least-stained shirt and cleaned the paint from under his fingernails as best he could. He rehearsed the pitch in his head multiple times as he packed the proposal into his bag.

  "One last thing," Garrett said. "Don't go in there like you're begging. You're offering him something—legitimacy, cultural influence, his name attached to something that isn't just about money. Your idea is great. Do it justice."

  "I'm terrible at this kind of thing." Clive was an artist at heart. It had been years since he had to do a business pitch. He couldn’t even convince his former employers not to do something highly illegal. Did he really have it in him to convince the rich to do charity?

  Keep calm Clive, you just need to show him that it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.

  The walk to the Thornwald compound took twenty minutes through Marblehaven's merchant district. The houses grew larger, walls higher, gardens more elaborate. When he arrived, the guards at the gate recognized him from his previous visits.

  "Lord Thornwald is receiving petitioners in the Blue Hall," one said. "We’ll notify him immediately. Please come with us sir."

  The Blue Hall earned its name from the ceiling. It was painted to look like a summer sky, complete with slowly moving clouds that must have cost a fortune in enchantments. Petitioners sat on benches along the walls: a merchant clutching shipping contracts, two craftsmen with what looked like a dispute over workshop boundaries, a woman in widow's black holding property deeds.

  Lord Thornwald sat in an ornate chair that wasn’t quite a throne but could easily pass off as one. He listened to a wool merchant's proposal about exclusive contracts.

  "Denied," he said when the merchant finished. "Your rates are fifteen percent above market. Next."

  The widow approached. Her husband had died with debts. She needed an extension on payments.

  "Granted. Six months extension, but interest continues to accrue. Next."

  Cold and efficient. Calculating everything in terms of profit and loss. Clive could envision how he came to be the shipping magnate that he was.

  When Clive's turn came, he walked forward with Garrett's proposal in hand. Thornwald's expression shifted to a warm smile.

  "Clive, the hero of Marblehaven. To what do I owe the pleasure today?"

  "A business proposition, Lord Thornwald."

  "Business?" His smile turned from warm to professional. "Interesting. I never thought of you as a business type."

  "Which is why I need a partner. Someone with vision to see beyond immediate profit."

  "Flattery? That's unlike you." Thornwald gestured for him to continue.

  Clive set the proposal on the small table beside Thornwald's chair. "An artist guild. Formal training in visual arts, crafts, and practical creation."

  “Let me stop you here, Clive.” Lord Thornwald maintained his smile, but it had gone noticeably colder. “I owe you a great debt, and see you as a family friend. But business is business, and I don’t do business with friends. It’ll only complicate things. How about I donate two thousand gold pieces and we’ll call it a day.”

  “Lord Thornwald, I don’t just want your money. I want you as a partner in this.” It was true. Clive was an artist first and foremost. If he wanted this venture to succeed, the experience of a successful merchant like Lord Thornwald would be invaluable.

  "With all due respect, Clive, there are already craft guilds. Blacksmithing, Leatherworking, and Potions, amongst others. Any would-be craftsmen already have plenty of options."

  "Craftsmen. This would be for artists. For those who create beauty, not just function."

  "Beauty doesn't pay taxes. This has no hope of turning a profit."

  "No, but it attracts them." Clive met his eyes. "Every major city on the continent has arts patronage except Marblehaven.” Or at least Clive hoped so. He didn’t know this for certain, but it seemed a reasonable assumption to make, given Lord Thornwald was able to find an artist at the capital. “We're known for commerce, shipping, and a now extinct stone curse. What if we were known for culture instead?"

  Thornwald picked up the proposal and scanned the numbers.

  "This is no small sum. Five thousand gold initial investment."

  "For the building, repairs, and first year's operations."

  "And returns?"

  "Tuition from wealthy families. Commissioned works. Cultural prestige that brings wealthy patrons to Marblehaven." Clive paused. "And your name as founding patron. The Thornwald Academy of Arts."

  That got a reaction. A slight raising of eyebrows.

  “And don’t forget Lord Thornwald, how Lady Thornwald was cured of her stone curse. Every noble in Marblehaven will want a portrait of themselves. Even if it’s just for future insurance.”

  That hooked him. Lord Thornwald was leaning forward now, studying the proposal with newfound intensity.

  "You've thought this through."

  "The stone curse is ended. The Saintess is gone. Marblehaven needs something new to believe in, to build toward. Art could be that thing."

  "Or it could be a five thousand gold disaster."

  "Possible. But you've risked more on shipping ventures with less potential return."

  Thornwald was quiet for a long moment. Then, he extended his hand to Clive.

  “Let’s do it. Let's make Marblehaven an artistic haven.”

  It is not from the benevolence of the butcher, the brewer, or the baker that we expect our dinner, but from their regard to their own interest.

  — Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations