20 – The Guild of Termites

  They entered Hamselton at dawn. The sky was already painted with golden rays, but the sun itself had not yet appeared from behind the peaks of the eastern mountains. The small clouds running across the sky were beautifully painted in peach by the low rays and contrasted picturesquely with the heavens’ azure.

  The southern route narrowed approaching the town’s outskirts. The road bent a few times between the rows of buildings that stayed close to each other and opened straight into the town’s main square. Well, the only square was a more correct definition of this ring of sturdy buildings gathered around a paved expanse that ended at the pier. The square and the waterfront were one continuous space, since fishing and trade were the foundation of Hamselton’s economy.

  On the eastern side, the square began with a widening of the road leading to a passage further into the Eastern Approach. Near the lakeshore, the road turned north and continued onward. The houses along it were initially two-story stone structures, then simple stone buildings, then wooden, and then the city released its grip on the road letting it flow elsewhere. This was the northern route—the main transport artery of the Valley of Ringing Springs. Apparently, the southern road, due to its lower significance, was not given the same honor.

  Most of the houses on the square were built from grey limestone fitted in irregular patterns, timber beams exposed in dark lines across their fa?ades. Their roofs were pitched steeply and shingled in clay tile. A handful of buildings rose to two stories—the inn with a broad balcony was the centerpiece of the architectural complex. The inn’s tavern was a thumping heart of Hamselton’s social life. Muffled sounds could be heard from its open doors, indicating that there were customers there even at such an early hour.

  To the right of the tavern, there was an armory. But its sign with crossed daggers, topped by a fishhook and harpoon, suggested it was more of a fishing tackle and equipment store. Adjoining it was a forge with wide openings instead of windows and doors. There was some movement inside; it seemed the blacksmith was just starting to light the furnace.

  The pier extended directly from the edge of the square. Thick posts, blackened by pitch, supported a wide walkway of planks that had been replaced one section at a time over the years. Mooring rings were bolted into the wood. Barrels were stacked in tidy clusters near the waterfront, lids stamped with tar seals. Nets hung from pegs driven into the outer walls of the nearest buildings, drying in loose folds like draped cloth.

  From the clearing morning mist, boats appeared one after another, arriving after the night’s catch. A couple of them were already moored, their hulls painted in faded blues and greens, names lettered along their sides in careful script. Fishermen were busily scurrying along the pier, unloading fish from their boats.

  Life was already awakening on the square as well. A baker opened his shutters and propped them in place with a wooden rod, then leaned out to shake crumbs from a piece of cloth. A young fisherman carried a basket of small fish across the square, his steps quick and purposeful. A cart from a neighboring village stopped near the tavern: a farmer was unloading his goods, preparing for the morning trade.

  Hamselton held itself together in close, practical lines. No ornamentation beyond a few carved lintels and painted signs. No towers, no walls. The smell of tar, fish and silt reigned here. Such simplicity, subordinated to a daily schedule year after year, had its charm, Elanil noted. Boring, of course. But predictable, without much stress or upheaval.

  “So, what are our plans?” She turned to Gaspard, who was smiling as he was surveying the square’s small expanse.

  “You look like you’re here for the first time,” Nura chuckled. “And you said you knew this town.”

  “I haven’t been here for a while,” he remarked. “Wouldn’t say Hamselton has changed dramatically, but it’s grown. Look, they’ve expanded the pier! I guess fishing is doing just fine here. Let’s go check if this applies to the Adventurers guild. I wonder how they are doing.”

  “Are you sure there would be someone there at this ungodly hour?” Elanil asked.

  “Who knows?” Gaspard shrugged. “Some guild branches are busy any time of day or night. Of course normally in much more populated places. Anyway, if no one’s there, we’ll just return to the square and wait in the tavern until the city finally wakes up.”

  “Let’s go then,” Elanil nodded.

  They crossed the square and took one of the narrow streets adjacent to it. The houses were so close that the morning sun hadn’t yet reached there, and the damp night air still lingered.

  “What is the ritual of joining the Guild?” Nura asked Gaspard on their way.

  “Ritual is a very strong word,” he laughed. “For guilds like the Adventurers Guild, the only ritual is paying the entry fee. Then they’ll fill out your file, issue you a badge, and voila!”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “That’s all?” Nura sounded both relieved and disappointed. She probably expected more mystery, akin to a rite of passage.

  “Again, as I said, for the Adventurers it will suffice,” Gaspard explained, as they took another turn. Here the street and the road widened, the houses became lower, more wooden ones among them, and there was more light. “But it doesn’t mean all guilds are so easy to enter for new members.”

  “For instance, the one you’re a part of, right?” Elanil squinted slyly at him. He opened his mouth to answer, but Nura attracted their attention with a surprised whistle.

  “Look at that!”

  They both followed her gesture.

  “Well, here we are,” Gaspard said bitterly. “Allow me to introduce to you Hamselton’s branch of the Adventurers Guild.”

  The building leaned inward upon itself, as if ashamed of its own survival. Its timber frame had been hollowed from within; its beams showed long, jagged channels where termites had eaten through the grain, leaving only brittle shells. Sections of the upper floor had already given way. One corner of the roof had collapsed entirely, shingles spilling into the street. The remaining eaves sagged, warped and split.

  The guild sign still clung to its only bracket, the emblem hardly visible beneath rot and peeling paint. Windows were shattered or boarded, their frames crumbling at the touch. The door hung crooked on one hinge, swollen and cracked. There was no necessity to close it—decay and desolation guarded the building better than any lock.

  There was a notice near the porch. Apparently, whoever wrote it didn't trust the strength of the building's wall, so they hung it on a stake driven into the ground specifically for this purpose.

  The Adventurers Guild in Hamselton is closed permanently.

  For all questions contact the Borrenton branch.

  “I heard, of course, they experienced some financial difficulties, but I had no idea that things were that bad,” Gaspard admitted. “They probably never got any more or less normal adventurers capable of completing profitable quests.”

  “How come?” Nura asked.

  “Think yourself. This valley is one big sleepy place. The people here aren’t outrageously rich. No rich people—no bandits to rob them. And so, there are no escort quests, the most lucrative for Heroes and Adventurers. There aren’t any scary monsters here either, so the Empire won’t allocate grants for their eradication.”

  “I think there’s no reason for us to hang around here any longer. Let’s go back to the tavern.” Elanil suggested.

  They set off on their way back.

  “I thought quests just popped up when you ran into a problem,” Nura decided to continue her interrogation regarding Guilds.

  “True,” Gaspard nodded. “But most often, it’s just trivial loot, so, you gain nothing but experience. And experience isn’t enough to live off, nor to pay a roofer to fix a leaky roof. That’s why you need to both spot danger and convince others that, firstly, it’s a danger worth paying for getting of, and secondly, that you or your guildmates are the right people to solve the problem. And speaking about Hamselton… What need has a peasant or a fisherman in maintaining a guild of skilled heroes in his small town? When he can generally handle 99% of his own troubles.”

  “What’s it? Guilds are about fooling people!?” Nura was indignant. “To make a problem up and convince everyone that you’re the one who’ll heroically deal with it?”

  “It’s not all as fishy as it sounds like,” Gaspard shook his head. “Sometimes there really are dangers that only skilled heroes can handle. And failing to spot it in time could doom an entire city. My main point is that handing out quests is just a small part of what guilds do. Quest-finding scouting, recruiting heroes with a reputation that will make people to trust your guild more, communicating with the imperial administration, taxes… There’s a lot of different things to do.”

  “Huh, that’s rough,” Nura admitted. “I didn’t expect that operating a guild would be so difficult.”

  “Welcome to the real world. What’s so funny?” Gaspard turned to Elanil as she giggled at his comment.

  “Nothing,” she hastened to assure him with a suddenly serious face.

  They were back in the square. The sun had already peeked out from behind the mountains, and now everything around was bathed in its bright rays, reflecting now from the lake’s surface, now from the windows.

  “Don’t know about you, but I’m feeling drowsy,” Elanil admitted. It wasn’t surprising—they had walked for the whole night after their meal of fried beetle flesh. “But first, I wouldn’t mind a light breakfast.”

  They entered the inn. There weren’t many patrons inside, just enough to keep it from feeling empty. The tavern was much more spacious than Rosemary’s, Elanil noted. And, to her mind, not quite as homely. There was something about big road inns that reminded her of airports, which had people at any time of day or night and seemed to have the same lively buzz of talks as small village taverns did. But the atmosphere was different. Passers-byish, so to speak.

  A young barmaid served the counter. She took their orders without even paying attention to their appearance or the lack of any guild insignia. She merely glanced at Gaspard. Elanil realized, she wasn’t assessing his level of threat. Soon she brought their order. As Elanil paid, the barmaid didn’t even look at her as she accepted the money but cast a playful look at Gaspard. In theory, Elanil could have slipped her as much as she wanted, taking advantage of the handsome bard occupying the girl’s full attention. “It could come in handy for future quests,” she thought mischievously.

  As she put the change back in her purse, she saw three gold coins lying there and remembered what she wanted to discuss with her companions.

  “How has it happened that all the quest rewards ended up in my pocket? The reward for the cow, the money for the constructs’ parts. We have to split it.”

  “I don’t really care,” Nura shrugged. “I trust you with my money. Much more than I trust myself.” She smirked and added. “But if the bard man wants his share of the cow, give him his 3 silver and 33 bronze coins.”

  “Nah, don’t bother,” Gaspard stopped Elanil as she started counting out his share. “I agree with the orc woman, and vote for you to be our party’s treasurer. I can handsomely earn money, but I do also know I can shamelessly waste them sometimes.”

  “What made you both think I’m more frugal than you?”

  “Let’s say, your overwhelmingly trustworthy outlook,” Gaspard replied. “But in case you screw up, it will be your fault and not anyone else’s.”

  “Yep, we shifted all the burden of responsibility onto you,” Nura giggled.

  “How quickly you two conspired behind my back!” Elanil laughed. “Okay, okay.”

  Sudden commotion outside drew their attention. An increasing noise was heard from the shore, and then the fog bell rang desperately. Something strange was happening there.