He slowly walked through the small city, grateful for the fact he could basically create food and water from energy. Being self-sufficient this way drastically cut down on the amount of money he would need, and simplified logistics, too. Wes kept his slow pace, but gradually made his way to where Harkin had told him Tamlin's shop was located.
The streets of Mercosa twisted like a maze, each turn revealing new layers of grime and quasi-medieval grandeur. Wes passed stalls selling skewered meats dripping with sauce, apothecaries displaying jars of pickled creatures, and armorers hammering out dents in battered breastplates. At first he was surprised by that, until he realized this was a city serving all the farmland of this country, and the outdoor craftsmen were working on cheap gear.
The number of people increased as he neared the merchant quarter, truly driving home then that this city basically existed to be a trade hub.
Old Tamlin's shop crouched between a spice merchant and a dye-works, its faded blue door barely wider than Wes's shoulders. The sign above creaked on rusted hinges—a painted book with open pages and an eye symbol above it. It looked like something straight out of a video game. Wes pushed inside, the bell above the door giving a dull tone instead of a chime.
The interior smelled of vellum and something acrid. As Wes looked around, he was struck by how the shop sort of looked like a weird knick knack store back on earth and a book store had a baby. Dust motes swirled in shafts of sunlight that pierced the grimy windows. Shelves sagged under the weight of mismatched tomes—some bound in cracked leather, others wrapped in what looked like reptile hide. Glass display cases held an assortment of oddities: a mummified hand with burnt fingers, a crystal that glowed faintly violet, a compass whose needle pointed insistently at the ceiling.
"Close the damn door," came a surly voice.
Wes immediately closed the door, then asked, "Why?"
The voice came from behind a towering stack of boxes. "Because the draft ruins my preservation spells, you imbecile." A hunched figure emerged—an elderly man with skin like crumpled parchment. His eyes gleamed with unnatural sharpness beneath wiry white brows. The man’s fingers, crooked as old roots, clutched a staff.
Wes narrowed his eyes. "You call me an imbecile, but you're the one insulting a potentially paying customer? Bold."
The old man's lips twisted into a sneer, revealing teeth filed to points. "I know the look of time-wasters, boy." His gnarled fingers tightened around the staff, making the green runes softly glow. "Which is it? Are you lost or stupid enough to think you can buy true power off a shelf?"
A glass case near the counter rattled as something inside shifted—a small obsidian sphere rolling against its confines. The old mage seemed disappointed that the sound and motion didn’t make Wes start or cry out in surprise.
Wes immediately did not like this man very much. He said, "You must hate money to be such an asshole to strangers. Either that, or you're just such an asshole you can't control yourself, which would explain why your shop looks like such a dive."
The old man's yellowed eyes narrowed to slits. His staff struck the wooden floor with a crack, sending a ripple through the dust motes in the air. It was a simple, but effective display of magic. "You've got a sharp tongue. I see the mage bracelet, but you’re too young to be lashing it about, hmmm?" His free hand gestured toward Wes's wrist. "Tell me, boy—what manner of magic do you pretend to wield?"
Wes said, "I'm not sure there is a name for it." He was being honest. "But I won't show you. You don't need to know, and if you level that staff at me, I want it to be a surprise how you die. Now are you going to act like a rational person who likes money and ask what I've come for, or are we going to keep wasting time and measuring dicks?"
The old man's knuckles whitened around his staff, the green runes flaring briefly before dimming again. His lips peeled back from those filed teeth in something that might have been a smile. "I like you, boy. You've got stones." He gestured with his free hand toward the cluttered shelves. "Old Tamlin's at your service—for the right price. What is it you're after?"
Wes resisted making an annoyed face and scanned the shop again, taking in the haphazard organization. He said, "First, how about you tell me how much wealth I have, so we both know how much wealth I’ve got, and so you know it's not a waste of your time to answer my questions?"
Old Tamlin's eyes darted to a brass scale on the counter, his yellowed eyes calculating. "Show me your coin first. Or trades, I suppose."
Wes said, "I have more to trade than I have in coin." Then he removed a few items from his backpack, including the silver tooth bracelet and the ward key. He also added a few things he'd gotten with Cosmic Vending specifically to trade. One was a little keychain flashlight. Another was a lighter. Last, Wes had a few more little animal figurines, like the one he'd given Lissa.
The old man grunted as his gnarled fingers hovered over the artifacts. His cracked nails scraped against the silver tooth bracelet first, tracing the jagged edges of each fang. "This... this sings with old magic." His milky eyes flicked to Wes's face. "World-wakers monster ward. Rare to find one intact—most get eaten by the things they're meant to detect." He lifted the ward key next, his hands trembling slightly as the green runes pulsed under his touch. "And this... stolen goods, maybe. Maybe taken from a body. Belonged to the Thieves' Guild once—their marks are subtle but unmistakable. This was a dead core that got modified." His yellowed teeth showed in a grin. "Dangerous to possess."
Wes watched impassively as Tamlin examined each item. The old man's gnarled fingers hesitated over the modern artifacts—the flashlight and lighter. His eyes narrowed as he turned the plastic casing over in his hands, sniffing at the metal components. "These... these bear no magic I can sense." A tremor of something like fear entered his voice. "Yet their making is beyond any craftsman's skill. What in the…"
When he reached the little animal figures, his breath caught. "Impossible..." Tamlin whispered, holding the tiny dog figurine up to the dim light. His hands trembled slightly. "Not glass. Not wood. Not metal. So colorful…" He set it down carefully before turning his sharp gaze on Wes. "You didn't steal these from some noble's collection.” He stated it as a fact, it wasn’t a question. “These are too... strange."
Wes remained silent, watching the old man's reactions with careful focus.
Tamlin licked his cracked lips. He asked, "What...what is this?" He flicked on the lighter again like Wes had demonstrated before.
"They are...artifacts from another world. Well, some of them.”
"Ah!" Tamlin nodded. "Now I understand. I suspected already. You are an Underworld Diver. Why didn't you just say so?"
"I didn't get a chance to say anything before you were insulting me," said Wes drily.
The old man's milky eyes gleamed with impish and unrepentant understanding. He set the lighter down carefully on the worn countertop, his gnarled fingers lingering near its smooth surface. "Underworld artifacts explain much." His voice dropped to whisper. "Though I've never seen trinkets so... polished before." He rubbed his thumb on a little plastic cat. “Fantastic.”
Then, Wes watched as Tamlin picked up the tiny dog figurine again, turning it between his crooked fingers. The shopkeeper's breath came faster, his yellowed nails scraping against the plastic. "This is—" He glanced up sharply. "How many layers down did you dive to find such things?"
Wes remained silent.
Tamlin exhaled through his nose and set the figurine down with exaggerated care. "Fine. Keep your secrets." His gnarled fingers tapped the countertop in a restless rhythm. At this point, Wes felt it would be most advantageous to act mysterious, like he knew what was going on, and all the questions he asked before were just a game, or eccentric teasing.
The old man’s watery eyes narrowed as he studied Wes's silence. Tamlin's gnarled fingers drummed against the counter. "You're no ordinary diver," he rasped. "Not with artifacts like these. Don’t see many coming into my shop in a town like this. They usually go to the Night Market." He gestured to the lighter with a trembling hand. "This is either mechanical, or...a new type of magic."
Wes still did not offer answers, letting the old man's imagination fill the gaps. All he said was, "The light and the flame device have a finite life, but will last months if used sparingly."
Tamlin licked his cracked lips, his gaze darting between the artifacts. "Finite..." He muttered the word like a curse. His hunched shoulders tensed as he reached for the keychain flashlight, clicking it on and off with shaking fingers. The beam cut through the dusty air, illuminating floating motes in stark relief. He shined it under the counter, sucking air through his teeth, likely when he saw the filth. “So useful…” He muttered. Then Tamlin snapped, "Enough games." He set the flashlight down. The plastic casing clicked against the worn wood. “What do you want?”
Wes raised his eyebrows like he knew what was going on, and then said, "I'm looking for the good stuff. Not the average goods you keep on display. If you want to trade, you'd need to make it worth my while."
The old clicked man his teeth together inside his mouth. Then he snapped his fingers—an arcane spark flaring briefly in the dim shop—and the obsidian sphere in the glass case shattered its confines with a sharp crack. It floated to his outstretched palm, rotating slowly as if examining Wes. Behind it, the glass reformed.
"Fine," the old man hissed. "But this stays between us." His gnarled fingers traced a sigil in the air, making the dust motes swirl into unnatural patterns. He tossed the sphere to the floor, where it tapped on the ground, then floated back to its glass case. A hidden panel in the floorboards groaned open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into darkness. Wes was reminded of the scene in Terminator 2 when some guy brought the characters into a hidden armory. Tamlin's milky eyes gleamed as he gestured downward. "My true collection."
Wes followed the hunched shopkeeper down the creaking steps. The air grew colder with each step, pressing against his skin like a living thing. The basement stretched further than the shop above, its walls lined with ironbound chests and glass-fronted cabinets. There were glowing, magical lights in the ceiling. Unlike the clutter upstairs, everything here stood in meticulous order—each artifact labeled in precise, spidery script. A table and chair stood to one side. This was obviously the old man’s man cave, or mage cave. Wes didn’t know the terminology of this world.
Tamlin's crooked fingers brushed the nearest cabinet. "Here lie treasures not meant for common eyes." His breath came fast now, uneven. "Dragonbone daggers from the Second Layer of the Underworld." He tapped the glass, revealing a curved blade that was dark as midnight. "Cuts through steel like parchment. Last one in Mercosa."
Wes studied the dagger with detached interest, noting how its surface absorbed rather than reflected the witchlight. The blade's edge glittered with even deeper darkness. He figured that such a thing might actually be as good for craftsmen as warriors if it actually cut steel.
.
Tamlin shuffled to another case, this one containing a set of silver rings arranged on velvet. "These belonged to a stormcaller who made it to the Third Layer before retiring," Tamlin rasped, his gnarled fingers hovering over the display. "Each one stores a single lightning strike. Useless now—the magic's faded—but collectors pay well for the craftsmanship." His milky eyes flicked to Wes's face, searching for reaction.
Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
Wes remained impassive, though his gaze lingered on a glass vial containing what looked like liquid shadow in the next cabinet. He said, "What I'm really looking for is...books. Maybe a primer, or a spell tome."
"Oh, I have several, but most are useless for most, written in other languages. They're so rare, just having my collection is an accomplishment."
“Very humble of you,” Wes said. "But still impressive. Please show me what you have."
Tamlin waved him forward with a crooked grin. He was definitely enjoying showing off his treasure room.
The four tomes were all under glass, displayed at the far end of the room. Tamlin shuffled toward the far wall, his hunched form casting a crooked shadow across the locked cases. His gnarled fingers worked a brass key from within his robes, the metal gleaming dully in the unnatural light. After a moment, the lock clicked open with a sound like cracking bone.
"These are not for sale," he said, gesturing to the quartet of uniquely bound volumes.
Wes saw lettering on the front of each tome and read them off out loud. "Echochain, Astral Fang, Heavy Mist, and Feral Summoning, huh?"
Tamlin looked at him in shock. "The only one I actually knew was Feral Summoning. You can read these!? They are all in different, rare, or unknown languages...I thought."
Too late, Wes realized his mistake. When he looked at the tomes in a different way, bending his mind, he realized that they were all indeed written in different languages. He remembered when he first came to this world, the feeling of pain in his head, and his subsequent suspicions. It seemed his theory had been confirmed. He was...multilingual. Perhaps to a staggering degree.
He coughed. "I am...something of a scholar."
One of Tamlin's milky eyes narrowed and he wiggled his eyebrows. His gnarled fingers twitched toward the brass key still dangling from the lock. "Scholars don't recognize lost tongues at a glance."
“Yes we do, that’s why we’re called scholars.”
“Perhaps, but you’re too young for such knowledge.”
Wes kept his expression neutral. The dungeon core fragment in his pocket pulsed faintly against his thigh—a slow, rhythmic throb like a second heartbeat. He held up his wrist to show the bracelet. "Scholar. Also: Mage. Not giving away my secrets. Sorry."
Tamlim’s lips firmed. The witchlight flickered again, casting jagged shadows across his sunken cheeks. "Feral Summoning," he rasped, jerking his chin toward the largest tome. Its cover bore was savage, dangerous looking. The way it was bound was meant to convey caution…or strength. "Written in High Draconic. Last scholar who tried reading it screamed and gave up."
With a grin, Wes said, "Good thing that one doesn't interest me much." He paused. "You said these are not for sale, but what if I paid to have... five or ten minutes with each one? And to probe them with a...magic device?"
"Probe? What do you mean?"
"Like I said, I am a scholar. Scholars study."
"Well...it's not like it'll do much good. If you're a mage, you already have your own magic path. And we all only get one, except for those handful of geniuses throughout history. But they're usually royalty. I'm not sure what your goal is. Maybe you really are a scholar."
Wes ate up the unintended information on the world greedily, assimilating it. He didn't pause, though, and said, "How about I give you everything I showed you before, and one more of the lights I showed you, for an enchanted weapon, and some time to study these tomes? You can watch me the entire time, and I will not move them farther than that empty counter to my right."
Tamlin's fingers curled into claws around the brass key. His milky eyes darted between Wes and the tomes, calculating. "One hour," he groused. "And you'll leave everything on that table when you go." His gnarled hand swept toward the artifacts Wes had brought.
"Let me see what weapon you're trading me first. You're making a great deal on just an hour of time." Wes paused and said, "Also, since you didn't like it much, I'll keep the ward-key, too." Tamlin rubbed his thumb and forefinger together for a while in thought. "Clever boy," he rasped. "Very well."
Then the old man shuffled to an ironbound chest near the back wall, working another key from the folds of his robe. The lock opened with a rusty screech. Inside lay an assortment of blades wrapped in oilcloth, each with an unusual aura. Each of them had a sheath underneath, obviously matching.
The first was a short sword with a blade that shimmered like quicksilver. The second was a dagger whose handle seemed to shift colors when viewed from different angles—blue to black to deep violet. The third was a slender stiletto with a needle-thin blade that hummed faintly when Tamlin lifted it.
Wes asked, "What are these?"
Tamlin's gnarled fingers brushed the first blade, the quicksilver short sword. "This one steals warmth, creates cold. Cuts and and leaves frostbite in the wound." His milky eyes flicked to Wes.
The second dagger shimmered as he lifted it. "Shifts between planes after being thrown—reappears in your hand after striking." A rasping chuckle. "Only works if you don't miss, though." Then he showed Wes the last weapon. The stiletto hummed louder as Tamlin picked it up, its needle-like blade vibrating faintly. "This one's nasty—pierces magical barriers like parchment. Guild assassins pay a fortune for these. It is very effective for dealing with enchanted clothing, like nobles wear sometimes." He set it down carefully on the oilcloth. "Take your pick."
Wes studied the weapons, weighing their potential uses against his needs. The short sword intrigued him most. What he really needed was a visible weapon, since people IN this world didn't recognize what a pistol was, and he didn't want to flash it around unnecessarily, either.
"I'll take the short sword. Does it have a name?"
Tamlin's pointed teeth flashed in the magical lighting. "Whereharth," he rasped. "Means 'winter's bite' in Old Taldic." His gnarled fingers traced the quicksilver blade almost sadly.
Wes picked up the short sword, feeling its unnatural chill seep through the oilcloth wrapping until he held it by the handle. Then it was as if the effect vanished. It was weighted well, too. He liked it.
Tamlin watched him with narrowed eyes. "You know how to handle steel," the old man observed.
"Somewhat," he admitted. "It was a hobby." He put Whereharth in its sheath and attached it to his belt. It was surprisingly light, barely noticeable.
Tamlin tracked the motion. "Time's wasting," he muttered. "One hour. Touch nothing but the tomes." He shuffled to the high-backed chair in the corner, his staff clacking against the stone floor with each step.
Wes approached the four books. He briefly studied them again before choosing the first to open. Each had covers of different material and were different sizes.
Echochain's leather binding felt warm under Wes's fingers, as if the book had been left in sunlight despite the basement's chill. The cover pulsed faintly when touched, like holding a living creature's slowed heartbeat. He cracked the spine with care, revealing pages of vellum covered in angular runes that shimmered between silver and deep violet depending on the angle.
The first page of the Echochain tome revealed a diagram, a bipedal figure surrounded by concentric circles, each ring inscribed with runes that twisted like serpents. Wes traced a finger along the outermost ring, and the ink shimmered under his touch. The sensation reminded him of static electricity crawling up his arm. He quickly learned that Echochain was a magic developed by some kind of birdlike, or raven-like race, one that used sound and pitches to weave power. Wes was fascinated, but he moved to inspect the next tome.
Astral Fang's cover was made from a shiny hide that shimmered between black and deep blue. He opened the tome to find pages of thin, crinkly material that felt like thick dragonfly wings beneath his fingers. The script flowed in graceful arcs, each character resembling a claw mark written in ink.
The first diagram depicted a humanoid figure with a tail and with limbs extended, surrounded by constellations connected by lines. Wes traced a finger along one of the celestial pathways, and a jolt of energy shot up his arm—different from Echochain's static charge, this was sharper, hotter. The sensation lingered like the aftershock of touching a live wire.
Astral Fang Magic, he quickly gathered, was a combat-oriented discipline that channeled celestial energies through the body. He was interested, fascinated, even. But he had other things to do than gawk. He moved on to the next tome.
The Heavy Mist tome's binding was rough-textured like shark skin, its surface mottled in shades of deep green and gray. When Wes opened it, the pages released a tidal smell, like water and beaches. The script here was blocky and angular, each character pressed deeply into the thick parchment as though carved rather than inked.
There was an illustration of symbols surrounded by swirling tendrils of mist that branched into complex geometric patterns. Wes ran his fingers over the intricate lines, feeling the faintest hum of energy beneath the parchment. Unlike the other tomes, Heavy Mist seemed to resist his touch—the symbols shimmering and shifting as if trying to evade his scrutiny. The magic described within was elusive, focusing on obscuring, misdirection, and environmental manipulation through dense fog and vapor. He got the impression it was more about navigation or changing one's surroundings than anything else. The tome didn't have anything about the creators of the magic, though. He had no idea what race they were.
Wes moved on to the final tome, Feral Summoning. Feral Summoning's cover was unlike the others—ridged with what looked like actual bone fragments embedded in dark leather. The moment Wes touched it, a low growl seemed to reverberate through the basement, though Tamlin showed no reaction. The pages were thick and fibrous, more like dried flesh than parchment, the ink a deep crimson that darkened faintly when exposed to air.
Wes hesitated only a moment before opening the tome. The first page bore no diagrams, only a single line of jagged script, apparently old Draconic:
"To call the wild is to become it."
Fascinated, Wes read on, finding the first portion of the tome to be almost...philosophical. No, not almost, it was philosophical. As he read, he grew to understand that Feral Summoning was a strange tome. It had less structure than the others, and the "summoning" might be more about summoning something from within, rather than without.
Wes quirked his lips as he thought.
So far, the tome that interested him most was Astral Fang, not least of which because it seemed thematically similar, at least somewhat, with Cosmic Vending. Then, feeling fairly clever, he enacted his plan. Wes pulled out his smart phone and began taking pictures of each page.
Tamlin's milky eyes snapped up the moment Wes's phone screen illuminated. The old man surged from his chair with a speed that belied his hunched form, staff coming up as he crossed the basement in three strides. "What devilry is this?" His gnarled fingers pointed toward the glowing device.
Wes said, "I mentioned already I would be using a tool to study with. This is the tool."
Tamlin's gnarled fingers hovered near the glowing screen, his milky eyes reflecting the unnatural light. "This... this is no scrying glass I've ever seen." His voice cracked with something between suspicion and reignited awe. The phone's camera shutter sound made him flinch.
Wes ignored the old man's reaction, methodically photographing each page of the Astral Fang tome. He said, "I am not harming your tomes. You are watching me. Please let me study for my allocated time without interruptions."
Tamlin grumbled to himself, but he retreated to his chair, gripping the staff tightly. The witchlight flickered faintly as Wes continued photographing pages, the soft clicks of the camera echoing unnaturally in the stone-walled basement.
When Wes finished with the Astral Fang tome, he immediately moved to the next. The Echochain book's pages emitted a faint hum as Wes photographed them—each rune vibrating subtly under the phone's artificial light. Tamlin's breath grew ragged in the corner, his gnarled fingers flexing around his staff. The old man's agitation didn’t seem to fade, but it also didn’t seem to grow, either.
Wes worked methodically, ensuring each shot was clear before turning the delicate pages. The diagrams buzzed under his touch, their arcane geometries shifting minutely between frames. By the time he had photographed the pages of every one of the tomes, he still had twenty minutes left. He double checked the pictures, making sure they were clear, then spent the rest of his time reading the Astral Fang tome. Tamlin's milky eyes tracked Wes's every movement. When the final grain of sand in the hourglass dropped, Tamlin rose with a creak of ancient joints.
"Time," the old man rasped, snapping his fingers.
Wes nodded and stood. "Alright. Thank you." He wasn't sure about the social norms for this world and if people shook hands for deals, so he just watched carefully and moved slowly. The old mage didn't make any move to shake his hand, so Wes didn't either. Tamlin tracked Wes's movements with the intensity of a starving hawk watching prey. His gnarled fingers covetously touched the artifacts on the table—the silver tooth bracelet, the plastic trinkets, the flashlight.
"You'll not speak of what you saw here," he rasped, the witchlight casting deep hollows beneath his cheekbones.
Wes adjusted Whereharth on his belt, moving the unfamiliar weight against his hip. "Of course I won’t. And I don't care if it was legal or not. Trade is trade. But I do intend to go to the Night Market tonight. If you have any tips, I'd be grateful."
Tamlin's cracked lips twisted into something resembling a smile. His gnarled fingers traced the edge of the counter where Wes's artifacts lay. "Night Market's no place for strangers asking questions." He leaned closer, his breath reeking of sour wine. "But since you've paid well..." His milky eyes darted to the staircase. "Look for the woman with foxfire eyes. She trades in things even I usually don’t deal with."
"Like what? What kinds of trades will you not touch?"
Tamlin's yellowed teeth flashed in the dim witchlight. "Premium artifacts. Living spells. Strange tomes. The kind of things that make Boundary Watchers take extra notice." His gnarled fingers tightened around his staff until the knuckles cracked. "She stands out—can't miss her if she wants to be seen."
Wes absorbed the information with a slow nod. The dungeon core fragment pulsed faintly against his thigh again. He wondered why, but it wasn’t causing any harm, so he ignored it.
There were no more pleasantries to be had, and Tamlin obviously wanted him to leave so he could study what Wes had given him. Wes left the shop after that, and newly armed with his short sword, he was pleased to see fewer shady people looking like they might be tempted to mug him...or worse.
He decided to find an inn and get a room to wait for the night market. There was some time to kill before the Night Market opened. He had some reading to do, too.
