An Unwavering Craftsman

Damien left the warehouse with the item bag clutched firmly in both arms, as if he was worried it would sprout wings and fly away. For all of his parents' wealth, he wasn't used to walking around town carrying something so valuable. Intellectually, he knew it looked like a completely regular pouch, and that acting nervous was far more likely to draw attention to it than simply walking home normally with it tucked into his belt, but emotions were not easy things to master.

Not that the item bag was likely to attract anyone on the short walk home, no matter how he carried it. Rather, it was his dad's earlier behaviour that precluded any sort of surprise when a hand clamped over his mouth and nose from behind, forcing a burning cloth into his face. A cloth that was obviously drenched in a sleeping potion or anaesthetising poison, given the way his body immediately felt ten times its normal weight. He had just enough time to smirk beneath his gag before falling into unconsciousness.

He'd actually been concerned the kidnappers weren't going to strike, given the constant stream of pedestrians on the seafront. Walking down a deserted alleyway for no reason would have done nothing but raise their suspicions, and it hadn't been until he'd left the port area and was almost home that they'd had the chance to move in unseen. If not for that small break in foot traffic, Shigeo's ploy would have been completely wasted, and there was a risk they'd strike while he was out of town instead.

Damien awoke groggily sometime later, with a pounding headache, but otherwise unharmed.

"Just do as we say, and I promise you won't get hurt," came the world's most poorly disguised voice.

"Nice try, Dad, but if those kidnappers managed to steal my bed along with me, we all might as well give up right now."

Shigeo's deep chuckle did nothing to improve Damien's headache, but he appreciated the humour nonetheless.

"You'll be pleased to know I followed them to their hideout and got them all. Your mum got the spy, too. An obvious, if bloody, message to anyone who cares to read it."

"That's nice, but that was still an abuse of our illusion wards. They're supposed to discourage crime, not encourage it. That was practically entrapment."

Shigeo chuckled again. "No, it was absolutely entrapment. Thanks for playing bait, my boy. They hit you with some nasty stuff, but nothing that won't wear off in another hour or so. There's a glass of water on your bedside table, along with the item bag you were carrying. And you're going to need to explain that, once you're up."

Damien groaned beneath his covers, not currently feeling like explaining anything. His body felt like lead from the after-effects of whatever they'd used to knock him out, and he really wanted to go back to sleep. He was slightly annoyed that Shigeo had let them knock him out at all, rather than pouncing the moment they revealed themselves, but he could understand wanting to trail them and deal with the full group. He managed to drink something, but soon drifted back into unconsciousness.

It was dark when he woke up next, but there were sounds from downstairs, which meant it was only evening and not nighttime. The headache had faded, too, letting him get up and join the rest of the household.

"Damien!" exclaimed Lana, the only worried face in the room. "What happened? They said you'd been hurt."

"Just people mistakenly thinking that my low-tier class is an opportunity. Ex-people now, by the sound of it."

"What? Why would they want you?"

"As a hostage against my parents," Damien said with a shrug. It had been a while since he'd complained about not wanting famous parents, but if they weren't who they were, they would either be unwilling or unable to bankroll his experiment. He'd take them, for better and worse.

"What? How can you accept that so casually?"

"You've never met a noble before?"

"Of course not. Why would any nobles bother with a small farming village?"

"Then treasure your naivety. I'm jealous."

Lana stared in disbelief.

"Noble is your word for criminal?" asked Greenhair.

Now it was Damien's turn to catch flies. That was as bad as not knowing about cake! He'd lived in the capital for a number of years. There were nobles everywhere.

... No, not everywhere. Begging wasn't permitted on the main streets; the wealthier citizens had no desire to have their day spoilt by the sight of starving children, after all. Greenhair would have been begging in the slums. Slums that would have had bread but not cake. But bread must have existed in the elvish kingdom, or they wouldn't have had analogies based on it. At some point, Damien really wanted to tease out everything that Greenhair considered common sense. He just needed to find a polite way of phrasing his questions. And a day in which he wasn't busy playing bait for criminals. Or nobles.

"Not quite. The two are often synonymous, but nobles are people of high social status, granted a title by the king. Some of them own land, too. This town is the territory of Earl Gretton."

"They are the equivalent of elvish elders," chimed in Fleta. "Except that they usually have the position by birthright, while your elders elect new members to their own ranks based on merit."

"The leaders of your country are criminals?"

"They aren't as bad as Damien made it sound. Our family just doesn't get on well with them. They don't like powerful fighters being outside their control."

"But they tried to kidnap a young adult?"

"And your elders kick out young adults to die out at sea," pointed out Damien.

"From my earliest years, I was taught that was the correct thing to do, for the good of the kingdom. I see I have much to consider."

In Greenhair's mind, the elders had done nothing wrong. Removing low-tier blood from the island was the best way to protect the population. Self-sacrifice for the benefit of the many was engraved into their thinking from their first day at school, and, like the others, he had been thoroughly indoctrinated. It was simply the way things were, and was agreed to by children and parents long before the children came of age. Yes, there were occasional dissenters once it actually happened, and a child was found to have a class below the minimum tier, but they were in the minority and were swiftly silenced. Greenhair's own parents hadn't said a word against his banishment, merely loading the ceremonial canoe up with all the supplies it would fit and wishing him luck in his new life. No-one mentioned the low survival rate, the chances of someone of low-tier and with such an immature body successfully piloting a canoe to another island being slim. Perhaps they didn't even know.

In Damien's mind, it was the opposite way around. The elvish elders may act with consent, but Damien still considered it murder. Had his kidnappers been successful, Damien would have lived a life of luxury. It would have been a gilded cage, with zero freedom, but he'd have been taken care of. To do otherwise would cause Shigeo and Fleta to take risks to free him and destroy his captors. It was still an evil act, but on his personal scale of morality, it was nowhere near sending children off to die just because they didn't want weak blood in their kingdom.

"Did you find out who they were working for?"

"Yeah. Langhyme."

"Bah. Another Marquess."

"Thankfully, Lord Gretton became rather irate when he heard that another noble had attempted to kidnap one of his citizens in broad daylight, and promised to raise a complaint straight to the royal palace."

Damien couldn't resist a smile. One noble carrying out clandestine operations in the territory of another was, strictly speaking, illegal, and while in reality it happened all the time, Lord Gretton raising a complaint would certainly make the life of Lord Langhyme more complicated.

"Actually, I think he was irate about another noble doing something that resulted in you kicking his door down, with a head held in each hand, dripping blood and lumps of spine all over his carpet," corrected Fleta.

"Right, that's enough of that heavy topic for one evening," said Shigeo, refraining from further comment about what he may or may not have leaked over Lord Gretton's property. "Onto the next heavy topic. Damien, why the hell were you walking around with an item bag? It's not the largest I've seen, but it's bigger than mine, and even that cost me an arm and a leg. Where did it come from?"

"Viscount Flemming of the Grand Western Trading Company. I went to see what sort of materials they could supply a constant stream of, and ended up ushered into a personal meeting with him. He seemed... quite eager to help."

Damien went on to reiterate the entire conversation.

"He's definitely one of the better nobles," agreed Fleta. "Ruthless in business, but never dishonest."

"Yeah. I'd say congratulations on your negotiations, but from the sounds of it, you were mostly just talked at. It's a good deal for him. He makes money while you're working. If you fail, he's made a minor profit, and earned himself some amount of goodwill with us. If you succeed, he has an excellent chance of getting his hands on what will instantly become the most valuable goods in the bowl."

"Wait. You have just been describing how evil these nobles of yours are, yet now you have entered a business relationship with one?"

"They aren't united, and often act against each other's interests," explained Fleta.

"Your leaders... act against each other? How does the kingdom not tear itself apart?"

If there was a short and snappy answer to that one, Damien didn't know it. "At least part of it is that if two fought each other seriously, they'd weaken each other enough for a third to sweep up the pieces."

"Sweep up?" inquired Greenhair, used to living at first within tree houses largely open to the elements, followed by the streets, which were completely open to them. Of the many issues he'd experienced in his lifetime, dust had never been one.

"Oh, for goodness' sake," grumbled Damien. "This is going to be hard work."

A few minutes of explanation gave Greenhair a better understanding of both housework and the nobility, just in time for Grace to serve an evening meal to Damien, everyone else having eaten some time earlier.

"Did your trip to the capital go well?" he asked Fleta between mouthfuls.

"Yes. I've got you all the tools you need to start using your skills. Nothing you're going to be sewing dragon-leather with, but you can get your first few levels. William finished with the dragon, too, including processing the raw materials. The leather's ready for you and there's plenty of prepared ingredients for Greenhair."

How many hours earlier had it been when he'd been watching William carefully skinning the dragon? And now he'd converted the hide to leather already? He couldn't possibly have tanned it; it must have been some skill or feat that skipped the process entirely, just like the way the meat cleanly fell from the bones at the softest touch of his knife.

And so the process of tanning, which should have taken days, was reduced to the time taken to activate a skill and supply it with mana. No potion or enchanted item could replicate such a display, so it wasn't as if Damien would be a one-man replacement for everything if he succeeded. More likely was that he'd be supplying million times experience multipliers and physical boosts to everyone else.

Damien went to bed exhausted, despite his forced nap. Once again, it had been a busy day. Thankfully, the next would likely be better. With one kidnapping attempt thwarted, no-one would be stupid enough to try again imminently; should his parents suddenly decide to forgo their neutrality and sign on with a noble just as Damien vanished off the face of the bowl, other nobles would start asking inconvenient, pointed questions. The cost and benefit calculation had been skewed in Damien's favour.

And so, the next morning, Fleta and Shigeo already having left for work before Damien awoke, he commandeered a spare bedroom as a workroom, stacking his share of the item bag contents across a wall. Lord Flemming had certainly known what he wanted; while there was a variety of material, the difference was in composition, not colour. Everything was raw, dull whites and greys. Useless if he was making items to sell, but perfect for his purposes; skipping the bleaching and dyeing steps meant cheaper materials, and it didn't affect their tier.

There were a variety of high tier threads, and sundry items such as buttons, all cheap, flimsy things, since they wouldn't affect the experience he gained. Again, a helpful gesture from Lord Flemming to keep the costs down.

He probably could have supplied tools, too. If he could source buttons, then needles, pins, knives and scissors would be easy. Damien had simply never considered that route. Besides, it was unlikely he'd have been able to source adamantite, at least not at any sane price point.

Meanwhile, Greenhair gained a desk in the corner of their storeroom, the enchantments keeping any smell contained in the basement. Shigeo had almost come to tears over the thought of what the alchemy reaction by-products were going to do to his store of dragon meat, so Greenhair had promised to direct his experiments along a pleasant, floral direction until a dedicated room could be enchanted.

Not until after a deep conversation about the morality of eating another sapient species, though. It was no surprise Greenhair found the idea abhorrent, given that all elves were herbivorous by biological necessity as much as culture, but Shigeo had patiently and calmly explained his point of view that the dragon lost any and all rights when it had tried to kill him, and had managed to elicit from Greenhair an admission that murder of the living was a worse sin than desecration of the dead. He still wasn't happy about it, but he wasn't going to protest further.

Damien was just happy that he felt he could speak his mind. Apparently, some of the traditional elvish respect for their hosts had worn off already. Or perhaps in elvish tradition, an employer wasn't considered a host.

Grace had, with some reluctance, dug up a patch of half-grown potatoes from their garden, which Shigeo had then compacted by the simple procedure of punching the ground very hard. Fleta hadn't been able to carry a full furnace all the way from the capital, and was expecting Lana to have to wait a while longer before she could get going, but Lord Flemming had neatly solved that problem twice over. Firstly, Fleta could use the item bag he provided to bring back everything she ordered, rather than needing to travel far more slowly with a cart, or make multiple trips with the family's own, smaller bag. Secondly, he'd once again proven he knew his target market by including a few ingots of tin among his samples.

Pure tin was an utterly ridiculous thing to be forging goods from, but once again it simply didn't matter. The products didn't need to be any good; Lana's [Smithing] skill only needed to register them as forged items. So what if she forged a knife that could barely cut butter and bent in her bare hands? More important was the fact that it melted at a temperature low enough that no furnace was required.

Rather than a knife, she fashioned moulds from clay, using a simple ring as the template, and poured molten batches of tin into each of them, producing dozens of the things. Even better, once they were made, she could remelt them for reuse. It wasn't what Damien considered smithing, with no hammer or anvil even tangentially involved, but it earned her levels.

There were, perhaps unsurprisingly, no other metal samples in the bag. Given that metal could be recycled, and it didn't take the entire ton of adamantite to forge their tools, she was unlikely to need much from the deal.

Damien himself cut thin strips of tier two cotton fabrics, sewing them into a simple loop to form tier one bracelets. Without seeing his status, he didn't want to guess how many levels he was gaining, but it wouldn't be many, given the tier one items and tier two materials. He didn't even have the appraisal skill required to tell if his skill considered the items failures. It didn't matter; this work was simply to get used to using his skill, and after getting a feel for his equipment, he made an attempt at a tier seven Ergland-style bracelet.

Thankfully, Grace was around to help bandage his stabbed fingers. It would be a little while yet before he was ready for that challenge.