Chapter 40: Apples and tent
The next morning, William and Trojjan rise early, both still looking weary from the long journey. After a simple breakfast of cheap meat stew, they head to the stables to check on Betty. The mare greets them with an annoyed snort, clearly displeased with the state of the stable. After a quick brushing and a few reassuring pats, however, she allows Trojjan to harness her to the wagon.
As they leave the inn, the streets are unsurprisingly busy, even in the early morning. William's thoughts remain stuck on finding someone who knows about magic, but his focus is broken when the sudden jolt of the wagon makes him realize they are in an unfamiliar area.
“Where are we?” William asks, looking around at the workers hauling crates while merchants haggle over prices.
“Lad, this is the Merchant District.” Trojjan steers the wagon through the crowded street. “We're looking for the owner of a merchant caravan that supplies herbs to the city. Let's hope he still has some Ashenflower left.”
William opens his mouth to ask another question, but the words die in his throat.
A loud crack rings out ahead. One of the ropes securing a heavily loaded wagon snaps as it jolts over a rut. Crate after crate crashes onto the road, spilling across the street and blocking the way.
Two men immediately jump down from the wagon and begin gathering the fallen crates and rolls of cloth scattered across the road. Before long, two more people hurry over from a nearby wagon. One joins in helping clear the mess, while the other keeps a watchful eye on the growing crowd, making sure no one takes advantage of the confusion.
Nearly half an hour passes before the road is finally cleared and traffic begins moving again.
Trojjan steers the wagon to the left, following the line of traffic into a street lined with shops. Some still have their shutters closed, but most are already open for business. He slows Betty to a stop and scans the street, searching for the merchant caravan he heard about at the inn.
A moment later, he spots a group of wagons bearing the same emblem—a stack of coins.
“What's that?” William asks, pointing at the symbol.
“That's the emblem of the Merchant Guild,” Trojjan replies without missing a beat. “Most of the larger caravans and shops belong to it.” A note of irritation creeps into his voice. “And listen carefully, lad. Never trust a merchant who belongs to the guild. The only time they're telling the truth is when they're keeping their mouths shut.”
William nods seriously. “Then why aren't they in Arindale?”
“Not enough coin.” Trojjan snorts. “Without coin, they might not even bother breathing.”
He brings the wagon to a stop and climbs down. “Stay here, lad.”
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William nods and watches as Trojjan approaches a man in a simple tunic, who appears to be one of the caravan's workers. After a brief exchange, the worker hurries off and returns with a well-dressed merchant. The two speak for a moment before the merchant slowly shakes his head and lets out a sigh.
Trojjan turns back toward the wagon, a scowl already forming on his face. William doesn't need to hear the conversation to know they haven't found the Ashenflower.
Climbing back onto the driver's bench, Trojjan clicks his tongue. “Someone beat us to it, kid. The merchant says he sold his last one just minutes ago.”
Trojjan's words make William think. If that wagon hadn't spilled its cargo, maybe we would have reached the caravan in time.
Trojjan turns the wagon into a narrow side street toward the only other place that might have an Ashenflower. Before long, they stop outside a modest shop.
They climb down and step inside. The familiar scent of dried herbs fills William's nose, the same smell that clings to Trojjan's shop back in Arindale. Judging by the shelves lined with jars and bundles of plants, this is another apothecary.
A middle-aged woman looks up from behind the counter. “What can I do for you two?”
Trojjan steps forward. “I'm looking to buy some herbs to sell in the next city.”
The woman studies him with a skeptical look before motioning for him to follow.
Just then, an impatient neigh echoes from outside. Trojjan and William turn toward the door.
“I'll take care of it,” William says. Trojjan nods and follows the woman deeper into the shop.
William steps outside to find Betty shifting restlessly, her ears fixed on a passing cart piled high with bright red fruit unlike anything he has ever seen.
“You want one of those?”
Betty lets out an eager neigh without taking her eyes off the cart.
William sighs and hurries after it. I hope they have the Ashenflower…
Catching up with the cart, he points at one of the fruits. “What's this?”
The cart owner grins. “An apple, lad. Sweetest fruit you'll ever taste. They grow near the capital, so only a few make it this far.” He lowers his voice. “Even the nobles eat them.”
William eyes the fruit suspiciously. “How much for two?”
“Four coppers.”
’Four coppers? That's expensive. I could eat two meals in Arindale for that.’
“Three.”
“Can't do it, boy.” The merchant shakes his head dramatically. “Any less, and I'd be selling at a loss.”
William glances back at Betty, who is still watching the cart expectantly. With another sigh, he picks the two largest apples he can find and hands over the four coppers.
As he walks toward Betty and gives her an apple, she gulps it down in a single bite with a pleased expression. Just as William is about to take a bite of his own apple, a sharp clunk interrupts him.
He turns to see one of the cart's wheels stuck in a pothole, with the fruit merchant struggling to haul it free. The merchant looks over and waves for William to help. William runs back to assist.
“Thanks, kid,” the man says, wiping his brow. “Just press down on this side of the cart with all your weight while I lift from over here.”
William nods and leans into the cart. With a heavy, coordinated heave, the wheel pops free from the rut. The cart owner thanks him warmly once more and hands him a small apple with a grateful smile.
As William turns back toward the shop, a subtle warmth grew behind his eyes, pulling his gaze down a quiet alleyway. At the far end stands a solitary tent.
Before he can rationalize why, his thoughts turn hazy, replaced by a single, irresistible command: Enter . His limbs move on their own, his feet carrying him across the cobblestones until he breaks through the tent's threshold.
As he steps inside, a familiar voice snaps him out of his stupor.
“Oh, another one?” The voice continues in a mildly surprised tone. “And this time, someone I already suspected.”