Chapter 18.5: The Hazard Premium
Elian stood in the thoroughfare of Evergrowth with both hands braced on Barnaby’s dusty neck and tried, with very limited success, to make himself look like a man having a normal day.
He ignored the looks thrown his way by passing Centaurs, by Behemoth-Kin whose footfalls set a faint tremor through the cobbles, and by a pair of lacquered city guards who seemed to find nothing unusual in the sight of a mud-stained human pressing his forehead to a mule in obvious distress. Instead he focused on breathing. In for four. Hold. Out for six. It was a technique a Guild supervisor had once sold to a room full of junior clerks for an insulting fee under the name commercial composure under pressure, which turned out to mean do not faint in front of people with better clothes than you.
“She’s a predator, Barnaby,” Elian whispered into the mule’s coat. “An actual one. She hunts magical beasts in the dark for a living. She has claws, night vision, and the reflexes of a divine punishment. I am out here reacting like prey.”
Barnaby stopped chewing, turned his head with painful slowness, and fixed Elian with one long, unimpressed stare. Then the mule stepped neatly half a pace to the side.
Without Barnaby’s shoulder under him, Elian stumbled forward and nearly planted his face in the street.
You are embarrassing us in public, architect, Barnaby’s tail informed him with a single annoyed flick. Buy the oats and stop narrating your decline. The wolf-woman is your issue, not mine.
Elian caught his balance and smoothed the front of his travel coat. The mule was right. Panic was a waste of daylight, and Evergrowth was not a city that rewarded lingering. He checked the weight of his leather coin pouch. It still held the silver Vash had paid him, plus the hoarded reserves he had brought from Oakhaven.
The Oaken Hearth needed supplies—root-syrup, coarse salt, and Fire-bite were immediate priorities—but if he was going to reinforce the taproom and build enough booths to survive regular Vanguard patrols, his current method was unsustainable. Hauling individual Iron-heart trunks out of the deep briar by hand had already cost him days of grueling labor. Doing it a dozen more times would kill him before the Month of the Howling Winds even arrived.
He needed a bulk supplier. He needed a logging contract.
"Come along," Elian told the mule, taking up the lead rope. "We are going to find a timber yard. And hopefully, we will find one devoid of tactile illustrations."
Evergrowth's industrial sector sat far from the enchanted silks and polished glass of the upper canopies. Down near the river networks, the elegant living-wood architecture gave way to the brutal, pragmatic industry of the Unified Dwarven Empire's expatriate clans. Massive waterwheels churned the river, driving steel saw-blades that screamed against dense timber. The air here tasted of fresh sawdust, hot iron, and boiling pine pitch.
Elian led Barnaby through a wide courtyard crowded with heavy wagons and shouting laborers, stopping before the largest of the logging operations: The Deep-Briar Timber Exchange.
It was an active battleground of logistics. Bear Kin and broad-shouldered humans hauled rough-cut logs. Clerks darted between stacks of cedar and pine with chalkboards.
Elian tied Barnaby to an iron hitching post near a stack of raw timber. "Stay. Do not eat the inventory."
He navigated the yard until he spotted a raised platform overlooking the operation. A Dwarf with an ink-stained ledger and a beard bound in heavy brass rings stood there, aggressively arguing with a finely dressed merchant.
"The axles snapped in the mud!" the Dwarf barked, his voice grinding like stones sliding together. "I cannot pull wagons out of the Murkmire with a prayer and a tug! You get the ironwood when the ground freezes solid, not a day before!"
The merchant threw up his hands in defeat and stormed down the stairs.
Elian stepped up to the platform, slipping comfortably back into the cold, detached cloak of a Tavern-master.
The Dwarf slammed his ledger shut and glared. "If you're here to complain about southern route delays, get in line behind the crying silk-merchant."
"I have no interest in the south," Elian said evenly. "I am the tavern-master of the Oaken Hearth waystation on the old Briar-Route. I am here to establish a long-term supply contract for fortification-grade timber."
The Dwarf’s bushy eyebrows rose. "The Oaken Hearth? That cursed ruin? I heard the last fool who bought it got himself eaten by a Shadowclaw a month ago."
"He did," Elian confirmed. "I bought the deed. I am rebuilding the interior to accommodate Vanguard patrols. I require dense, heavy-impact timber. Specifically, a recurring delivery of raw Iron-heart logs and reinforced planks."
The Dwarf let out a loud, barking laugh. "Iron-heart? Human, you don't build tavern chairs out of Iron-heart. You build siege gates out of it. It ruins saws, breaks iron wedges, and is too heavy to transport cheaply."
"I am aware of its structural difficulties," Elian replied, tapping his blistered hands against the wooden railing. "I spent the last week carving it with a hand chisel. Which is exactly why I need bulk delivery. The Vanguard expects seating that will survive their armor, and I expect walls that will survive the winter."
The Dwarf narrowed his eyes, re-evaluating the muddy, bespectacled human. "You want a standing contract for heavy combat timber delivered to an isolated waystation on an old road most teamsters won't touch without hazard pay."
"I do," Elian said. "I need one full wagon load delivered before the deep freeze sets in next week, and a subsequent delivery scheduled every two months."
"The road is bad," the Dwarf warned, crossing his thick arms. "My teamsters won't risk the deep briar without a hefty premium."
"I understand risk," Elian said, his ledger-brain settling into place. "But the Vanguard has officially returned to my tavern. They are patrolling the route around the Oaken Hearth. Your teamsters will have the most heavily guarded stretch of the old road to travel on, and a warm, fortified waystation waiting for them at the drop point. Waive the hazard premium, and I will guarantee your drivers a free, hot meal and secure stabling for their draft animals every time they deliver."
The Dwarf stared at him. He looked at the ledger, then back at Elian, clearly doing the brutal math of road logistics, food costs, and teamster morale.
"A hot meal," the Dwarf repeated slowly. "And secure stabling."
"And dark root-tonic," Elian added, offering the final piece of leverage. "Brewed thick. Exactly the way the patrols prefer it."
The Dwarf grinned, revealing a row of square, durable teeth. He pulled a fresh piece of parchment from his leather folio and reached for a charcoal stick.
"You negotiate like a stone-breaker, human," the Dwarf said, the hostility dropping from his gruff voice. "I am Foreman Brannic Slatehand. Let's talk about board feet, and let's talk about how much silver you brought with you."
Elian stepped up to the table, feeling the solid, comforting weight of the business transaction wash away the lingering panic of the Silk-Fur District.
"Foreman Slatehand," Elian said, unhooking his coin pouch. "Let's begin."