“OLd sir, are you a mage?” Kent asked, astonished.
Magic was the stuff of legends back on Earth—he’d never dreamed it actually existed in this world!
“No, no.
My teacher was a mage.
I’m only a magic apprentice myself, and now I make my living off the few letters I can read.” The old man reddened as he spoke.
In truth, he’d only ever been a mage’s servant, barely knowing a few things about magic—let alone being a genuine apprentice.
“Ah, you’re amazing!
Anything touched by magic is beyond wondrous!” Kent gushed loudly.
But inside, he knew better: if the old man really were a magic apprentice, he wouldn’t have sunk to hawking books at a market stall.
Still, Kent wanted those books.
He couldn’t read them yet, but they had to be worth something.
Maybe the old coot had stolen some precious tomes from a mage and fled!
Kent silently sneered at the thought.
“Er…
keep your voice down!” Being flattered felt good, especially by a naive-looking boy, and the old man was pleased.
But when he noticed the disdainful glances from the people around him—people who knew exactly who he was—his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“Master mage, could you show me a little magic?
I’m from a remote backwater, and I’ve never seen such wonders!” Kent wore a worshipful expression, but his eyes were busy scanning the old man from head to toe, hunting for anything valuable.
The inspection was disappointing.
The man was dressed in shabby clothes, just like him, and his worn boots had holes through which blackened toes peeked out.
A decent pair of boots cost only half a silver coin.
Kent concluded that this old fellow was either a con man or a scrap picker from the city.
As for literacy—he probably didn’t know much more than Kent did.
“Well, er…
that is…” The old man hemmed and hawed, his eyes darting about.
“Very well, old sir.
I’ve only got two silver coins, so I can’t afford your books anyway.
I’d best go over to the tavern, drink a cup, have a beefsteak, and hire a dancing girl for some fun—I’d still have a silver coin left over.” Kent rose as he spoke, making a show of leaving.
“Two silver coins!” The old man’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
The truth was, this entire stack of books had been scavenged from the city and brought out to the countryside to fool the gullible.
In the cities, literate folk were common; in the villages, the landowners were rich but barely knew a single character—yet they still loved buying books.
That was the old man’s entire scheme: a business with zero capital.
He’d assumed the lad had nothing but coppers, which was why he’d spoken so grandly.
But two silver coins was a real sum of money, and these books had cost him nothing at all.
“Wait, wait—I’ll sell them to you cheaper!” The old man grabbed Kent by the arm, speaking quickly.
“Old Blackhead, your whole stall isn’t worth one silver coin.
Are you really trying to cheat a kid?” A woman selling hats nearby had seen enough and shouted at the old man.
“Who says?
I’ve got something good right here!” Old Blackhead jumped up and shot back.
“Oh?
Don’t tell me it’s a magic book.
If it were a real magic book, it’d be worth dozens of gold coins.
You wouldn’t be running around town with us peddlers.
If you’ve got the nerve, show me.” The woman wasn’t easily intimidated, and she immediately began exposing Old Blackhead’s tricks.
“Fine!
Look—look!
This is a magic book, and a pet egg.” Old Blackhead reached into the crate he’d been sitting on and pulled out a thick book and a black cloth bag.
The book was about the same size and material as the one Kent had found in the cellar.
The cloth bag was only fist-sized, cinched shut with a cord.
“A pet egg, really?
Don’t try to fool me.
Last time in Harri City, a mage master already appraised it—that egg of yours is dead.
Nobody would take it even if you gave it away free.
And even if it were alive, a grass-spirit egg is only worth a few dozen silver coins.
What I can’t stand is you cheating children.
If you’ve got guts, go swindle some rich man.
Picking on a kid—what kind of lowlife does that?” The woman spat out every detail of Old Blackhead’s shady business in one breath.
“You…
you…
you foul-mouthed hag!” Old Blackhead saw his secrets laid bare, his face flushed red with fury.
And when he saw the people around him staring like he was a common swindler, he knew he couldn’t stay.
He began packing up to leave—if the town patrol caught him, his old bones would be finished.
“Old Blackhead, since these things aren’t worth much anyway, how about I give you one silver coin for the whole lot?” Kent walked over as Old Blackhead hurriedly packed.
Kent knew that in this world, cheats and thieves caught red-handed were often beaten to death on the spot.
After a moment’s thought, he stepped forward and asked quietly.
“Fine!
They’re all picked-up junk anyway.
Just give me one silver coin for my trouble.” Old Blackhead looked at Kent a little awkwardly, then at the people around them pointing and whispering.
He snatched the coin Kent offered and scurried off without another word.
If he stayed any longer, the patrol would show up and cause even more trouble—and besides, a man carrying a crate couldn’t run fast.
Kent stared at the wooden crate and sighed.
Inside were seven or eight books—all bound in sheepskin, some worn and tattered, but heavy enough to be a real burden.
There was also the so-called pet egg.
He’d opened the bag earlier to check: it was only the size of a fist, with a snowy-white shell.
From the hat seller, he’d learned that a grass spirit was a first-rank magical beast—a humanoid creature often kept as a pet by noble girls.
It wasn’t worth much, since grass spirits were gentle and lived in groups, feeding only on plants, fruit, and nectar.
But that knowledge had cost him a hat worth fifty copper coins.
He’d spent the remaining fifty on a small knife for self-defense and some spices.
After getting his hair cut, both silver coins were gone.
Now, at the foot of the mountain, he was stuck with a wooden box weighing several dozen pounds.
He suspected most of it was junk—but he couldn’t read a single word, so how could he know?
“Ugh.
Fine.
I’ll carry it.
Slow and steady.” Kent hoisted the crate and began the climb.
He tied the so-called grass-spirit egg to his belt—not out of sentiment, but because he was half-planning to find out what a magical beast’s egg tasted like.
Back at the castle, Hallman sat in his chair, with Captain Torry in the chair beside him.
Hallman had sent someone to keep an eye on Kent.
What if the boy ran off?
A runaway slave was an all-too-common thing, and then who would tend the horses?
“So what books did he buy?” Torry asked, puzzled.
“Captain, they’re just broken old books,” the spy reported.
“Trash someone else threw away.
An old swindler picked them up in the city and brought them here to fool folks.
Heard they’ve got some right pretty pictures in them.” The man grinned lewdly as he said it.
Anyone would know what sort of books he meant.
“Ha!
Ha!
Kent’s sixteen now.
Looks like he’s got girls on the mind.”
“Heh, heh, heh.” Laughter filled the room for a long while.
Meanwhile, a figure slipped out through the main gate, muttering under his breath: “Damn, good thing I was clever enough to ask around first.
If Hallman had found out I went to the circus looking for fun, he’d have docked this month’s pay for sure.
What else would a half-grown lad buy but that sort of book?
Even a dog’s brain could figure it out.”