- Chapter 084 -

  I See You as a Friend

  The Drunken Drake was a total disappointment.

  After weeks of hearing Carl cheer on its virtues as the only sanctuary for an honest worker, Mark had expected... character. A roaring hearth, perhaps. Or at least a barman who knew the difference between pouring a pint and drowning a glass. Instead, he found himself sitting at a scrubbed pine table in a room that smelled aggressively of lye soap and despair. The place was clean, aggressively so, but it had the soul of a hospital waiting room. If the current project fell through, Mark was convinced starting his own tavern would be a favor to the town.

  He picked up his sandwich. Two thick slabs of bread imprisoning a fried egg that had been cooked until it cried in surrender and a sausage that looked suspiciously boiled. It was a caloric intake requirement, nothing more.

  "Eat up," Carl grunted, tearing into his own meal with a disturbing lack of discrimination. "Best in the quarter."

  "That explains the issues at the sawmill," Mark noted, dropping the sandwich back onto the plate. He took a sip of his ale. It was flat and tasted faintly of copper. "If this is the highlight of the day, I'd be considering blowing up my workplace."

  He pushed the tankard away. He checked the door. No sign of their contact yet.

  "So," Mark began, shifting gears from culinary critique to business strategy. "We're about to pitch to the Engineers. A Guild that prides itself on knowing everything before you do. How much sales experience do you actually have?"

  Carl paused, a piece of sausage hovering halfway to his mouth. He looked offended.

  "Sales?" he scoffed. "I don't 'sell' things, Mark. I produce masterworks. People come to me. They wait in line. They pay the price I set, or they leave empty-handed." He puffed out his chest, the leather apron creaking. "I am one of the finest gemsmiths in the Sawtooth. I don't hawk wares like the markets."

  "Right," Mark said. "So, zero sales experience. You have order fulfillment experience. That's… different."

  He tapped his finger on the table, calculating. Relying on the Engineers to see reason was a high-risk strategy. Finnian was optimistic, but Mark knew corporate inertia. Large organizations hated solutions they didn't invent.

  "Hypothetically," Mark said, leaning in. "If this meeting goes south. If they try to bury the technology or just refuse to license it... we some leverage. We need a statement."

  He looked at Carl.

  "How long would it take you to manufacture twenty units? Not the brass-and-polish showpiece we showed Finnian. I mean a base model. Ugly. Functional. Durable."

  Carl chewed slowly, his eyes narrowing as he ran the numbers. "Rough cast iron casing instead of brass? Lower grade quartz for the projector? Standard mount?"

  "Exactly," Mark said. "And I want a fail-safe. An anti-tamper enchantment. If someone tries to open the casing to reverse-engineer the array, the crystal shatters."

  Carl raised an eyebrow. "Proprietary protection. Nasty." He nodded, a glimmer of respect in his eyes. "If I use the laser to cut the arrays... and I don't bother with the finishing polish... I could knock out twenty in a day. Maybe less if I skip lunch."

  "Good," Mark said. "Do it. Start tomorrow. I want inventory on hand."

  "Why?" Carl asked. "We haven't even pitched it yet."

  A chair scraped loudly against the floorboards.

  "Dangerous game, stranger. Assuming we can't come to an arrangement, or that you have something of interest."

  Mark looked up. A woman had pulled out the third chair at their table and was sitting down. She moved with the heavy, deliberate grace of someone whose joints complained but obeyed. She looked to be in her late sixties, her hair a steel-grey bun held in place by copper pins. Her face was lined with soot and experience, and she wore a heavy canvas coat stained with grease.

  On the back of her wrinkled hand, a tattoo pulsed with a steady, low-frequency red light. The Heart of the Forge.

  She looked from Mark to Carl, her eyes sharp and assessing.

  "I'm Daisy," she said, her voice a gravelly rasp. "Finnian said you had something to show me. And he said you'd probably try to sell me a bridge while you were at it."

  Daisy nodded at Carl, a curt, vertical motion of her chin. "I remember you," she said, her gravelly voice cutting through the ambient noise of the tavern. "I commissioned a set of thermal couplers from you a decade back for the steam exchange. They were... acceptable. They held pressure."

  Carl bristled, his spine straightening against the hard chair. "Acceptable?" he muttered, the insult clearly stinging his professional pride. "Those couplers are likely the only thing keeping the eastern district from becoming a crater."

  Daisy ignored him, turning her assessing gaze to Mark. "Finnian says you're clever. He didn't say you were patient. So let's skip the pleasantries."

  "Agreed," Mark said. He rested his elbows on the table, clasping his hands. "I'm not looking for membership, Daisy. I don't want a green tunic and I don't want to apprentice in a boiler room. I'm interested in a partnership. A distribution deal."

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the brass prototype. He placed it on the table between them, pressing the activation stud.

  The hum of the condenser filled the silence. The water coalesced, spinning up into the blue and white marble of Earth. It hovered there, a perfect, glowing sphere of a world that didn't exist anymore.

  Daisy looked at it. She didn't gasp. She didn't lean in. She let out a long, heavy sigh that sounded like a steam valve releasing pressure.

  "Pretty," she said, the word landing flat. She looked up at Mark, her eyes weary. "You want to know why you're talking to a pipe-fitter and not an Administrator in an office?"

  She tapped the table with a calloused finger.

  "Because I'm two hundred and twelve years old, son. My Heart keeps me moving, but my patience ran out about eighty years ago. I've spent two centuries dealing with frauds, dreamers, and 'visionaries' who think they've reinvented the wheel."

  She gestured dismissively at the spinning globe.

  "It's a nice little trinket. Good for entertaining children or impressing a date. But it has no value to the Guild. It does nothing."

  Mark didn't flinch. He had expected the skepticism. Engineers bought utility, not art. He reached out and touched the control interface.

  "You're right," Mark said. "A picture is just a picture. But data... data is leverage."

  The Earth dissolved. The water reshaped itself instantly, collapsing into the jagged, precise peaks of the Sawtooth range before zooming in with dizzying speed. The tabletop became a three-dimensional map of Enceladus.

  Mark rotated the image with a flick of his finger. He zoomed in on the Artisans' Quarter, then deeper, expanding the view until the wireframe structure of the Drunken Drake itself was visible, sitting on the map like an architectural model.

  "It's not a painting," Mark said. "It's a survey. Scalable. Rotatable. Verifiable."

  Daisy stopped tapping her finger. She stared at the projection. She watched as Mark peeled back the roof of a virtual building to show the internal layout.

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  The silence stretched for ten seconds.

  "The Guildmaster authorized me to offer a thousand gold," Daisy said, her voice devoid of emotion. She didn't look up from the map. "For the design schematics, the prototype, and the sole manufacturing rights."

  She finally looked at Mark, her expression hard.

  "But based on what I'm seeing... it's delicate. It relies on a basic water suspension. It's fussy." She sat back, crossing her arms. "Seven hundred and fifty. That's the offer. We take it, we refine it as something usable if possible, and you walk away with a heavy purse."

  Mark smiled, a thin expression that didn't reach his eyes. "It is refreshing," he observed, picking up the brass prototype and clicking the lid shut. "To see that corporate procurement strategies are a universal constant. Lowball the initial valuation, demand full intellectual property rights, and frame it as a favor."

  Daisy leaned back, the wood of her chair creaking under the heavy canvas coat. "I'm aware of your supposed origins, Mr. Shilling. The rumors of the old homeworld are loud enough to reach the steam tunnels." She shrugged, a gesture of heavy indifference. "It doesn't change the math. A tool is worth what it saves, not a questionable and mythological origin."

  Carl’s eyes had widened at the mention of seven hundred and fifty gold. He opened his mouth, breath hitching as he prepared to accept a sum that would fund his workshop for years.

  Mark’s hand clamped down on the gemsmith’s forearm. Hard.

  "We decline," Mark said pleasantly. "The capital would be a nice start for future ventures, certainly. But selling the sole rights? That’s not the relationship I’m looking to build."

  Daisy stared at him. She drummed her fingers on the table, the red light of her Heart pulsing against the wood.

  "Eight hundred," she said flatly. "You're obviously new to this kind of thing. Don't let your imagination inflate your pride, it will cost you a payout. You walk out that door, the offer evaporates."

  "It's been a pleasure, Daisy," Mark said, pushing himself to his feet. He grabbed his cane. "Thank you for your time."

  He looked down at her, his expression thoughtful.

  "If the Engineers aren't interested in site visualization," he mused aloud, ensuring his voice carried just enough weight, "perhaps I should speak to Petra Novak again. The Masons have a lot of rebuilding to do. I imagine they’d pay a premium for a tool that helps them avoid... structural embarrassments."

  Daisy’s eyes narrowed to slits. The mention of the rival Guild was a calculated insult, and it landed.

  "Come on, Carl," Mark said.

  He didn't wait. He grabbed the back of Carl’s leather apron and physically hauled the stunned gemsmith up from the bench. He steered him toward the door, maintaining a brisk pace that allowed no room for second-guessing or counter-offers.

  "Have a good day," Mark called over his shoulder.

  He pushed Carl out into the cold street, the door of the Drunken Drake swinging shut on Daisy’s stony silence.

  The cold hit them the moment the heavy door swung shut, a biting wind that cut through Mark's winter jacket and the fine blue tunic beneath. He barely had time to adjust his grip on the cane before the world lurched.

  A hand like a vice clamped onto his upper arm.

  Carl didn't just stop him, he hauled him around. The movement was sudden and forceful, the raw strength of the Garnet Artisan unchecked by patience. Mark’s bad leg buckled. His cane skidded on a patch of black ice, and he stumbled, barely catching himself before he hit the cobblestones.

  "What was that about?" Carl demanded, his face inches from Mark's, his breath a cloud of steam and agitation. He didn't let go. He shook Mark, a rattle that sent a spike of fire through Mark's almost healed spine. "Eight hundred gold! Do you have any idea what that buys? That's a new workshop! That’s staff! I could have churned out twenty more by the end of the week and lived like kings!"

  Mark didn't struggle. He didn't try to pull away from the grip that was likely bruising his arm through the layers of wool. He simply stabilized his footing, planting the cane firmly, and looked up.

  His gaze was flat. It was colder than the wind howling down from the Iron-Tooth peaks. He stared at Carl's hand, then up into the gemsmith's furious eyes.

  "Let go," Mark said. The volume was low, but the tone was absolute. "Being thrown around by those far stronger than me is becoming a habit I intend to break. Right now."

  Carl froze. The red haze of greed and frustration flickered, dampened by the sheer, icy weight of Mark's stare. His grip loosened, but he didn't step back.

  Mark straightened his jacket, wincing internally as his hip throbbed.

  "You said they looked down on you," Mark said, his voice cutting through the wind. "You said the Engineers see Artisans as a lower form of life. A resource to be exploited."

  He gestured back toward the tavern door.

  "They just proved you right. Daisy didn't offer a partnership. She offered a buyout. She offered you eight hundred gold to hand over the keys to the kingdom and walk away."

  Mark leaned in, stepping into Carl's space despite the size difference.

  "That wasn't payment for the device, Carl. That was the price for letting you produce nothing. They wanted the sole rights. That means you stop making them. You hand over the design, you take the coin, and you go back to cutting rubies for heating elements while they mass-produce your genius and take the credit."

  The words hit Carl harder than a physical blow. He blinked, the anger draining away as the logic took hold. Sole rights. He had heard the number, but he hadn't processed the contract terms.

  "They would shelve me," Carl whispered, the realization dawning.

  "They would own you, and expect you to thank them for it." Mark corrected.

  Carl let go of Mark's arm completely. He stepped back, running a hand through his hair, dislodging a dusting of snow. He let out a heavy huff of breath, looking from the tavern to the street.

  "So now what?" Carl asked, his voice losing its edge. "Are you really going to deal with the Masons? After what they did to you?"

  "That is up to you," Mark said simply.

  He rested both hands on the head of his cane.

  "I can't make anything, Carl. At best I'm the idea man. I'm an architect. But you? You're the builder. The magic, the metal, the stone... that's all in your hands."

  He looked at the gemsmith, offering him the exit.

  "If you want the quick payout, if you want to sell the design to the highest bidder and walk away... say the word. I'll hand over the papers, sell them to whoever you want. I won't stop you."

  Carl looked down at his hands. Broad, calloused, stained with oil and marked by a hundred tiny scars. Hands that made things. Hands that solved problems.

  He stood there in the snow, silent for a long moment.

  "I'm sorry," Carl grunted finally. He didn't look up. "For grabbing you. I… I shouldn't have done that."

  He clenched his fists.

  "But eight hundred gold, Mark... that is life-changing money. You can't blame a man for seeing just that."

  "It's life-changing money for a month," Mark said. "I'm interested in a future."

  They walked in silence for a block, the only sound the crunch of boots on the icy slush and the rhythmic tap of Mark’s cane. He kept his head up, his gaze traversing the street, noting the faces in windows, the pauses in conversation as they passed. The altercation outside the Drunken Drake hadn't gone unnoticed. In a town like Enceladus, a public shove was a press release. He would have to manage the narrative later, spin it as a passionate creative disagreement rather than a fracture in the partnership.

  "I see you as a friend, Carl," Mark said, keeping his voice low, pitched only for the gemsmith. "Not a contact. Not a laborer. I’ve tried to be respectful of your ability when planning forwards."

  He stopped, forcing Carl to stop with him. He turned, leaning on the cane to bring himself to his full height, looking the larger man in the eye.

  "But let's be absolutely clear on the terms of engagement," Mark stated, his voice devoid of warmth. "If there is a next time, if you ever decide that brute force is an acceptable method for getting answers from me, we are done. The project terminates. Immediately."

  Carl met his gaze. He looked like he wanted to argue, to bluster about stress and gold, but the cold certainty in Mark's eyes stopped him. He let out a breath, a puff of white steam in the cold air.

  "I can accept that," Carl muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck. "And... thank you. For the friend part."

  "Don't make me regret it," Mark said, resuming the walk.

  "So what's next?" Carl asked, his stride shortening to match Mark’s pace. "We just walked away from the Engineers. We burned a bridge."

  "We declined a bad offer," Mark corrected. "Now we find a better market."

  He looked at the gemsmith. "What's the retail price on a sand projector? The base model, not the custom install Finnian has."

  Carl frowned, doing the mental math. "For a standard, static-image unit? Five hundred gold. Maybe six, depending on the glass quality. The fancy ones with dynamic scaling go for over a thousand."

  Mark nodded. Five hundred. That was the price, the market expectation was set high for visual data.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his notepad and pencil. The street was too quiet, the ears of the town too open. He couldn't risk vocalizing the strategy. He scribbled quickly, the lead scratching against the paper, and tore the page out.

  He handed the note to Carl.

  Target: Petra Novak (Masons).

  Offer: 100 Gold per unit.

  Floor Price: 50 Gold.

  Volume: 20 units.

  Will you have them ready?

  Carl read the note. His eyes widened. He looked at Mark, his lips moving silently as he calculated the gross revenue. At the floor price, that was a thousand gold, two hundred more than Daisy's buyout, and they kept the rights. At the asking price, it was two thousand.

  And it was selling directly to the Engineers' biggest rivals.

  Carl looked up, a slow, wicked grin spreading through his beard. He crumpled the note in his fist and nodded once, hard.

  "I'll have them ready," Carl said.