A Road That Pays

By the time the last buckle held, Maeril’s eggs had gone cold.

She sat down across from Rishi and ate them anyway. Around them, bowls vanished into hungry hands, benches scraped, and a merchant near the hearth disputed every line of his bill.

Outside, wheels struck the morning stones.

Maeril glanced at the two packs beside their table. Rishi’s bundle was small and orderly. Hers stood only because an extra cord bound its middle.

“Coin,” she said.

Rishi set down his cup.

“We need work.”

The word tasted worse than the tea.

“Paid work. Not ‘here is a bowl of soup because you mended my cousin.’ Not ‘thank you, Green Witch, the children have stopped stealing turnips for three hours.’ Coin.”

Rishi frowned. “I can still offer healing.”

“You will. Your hands start helping before your head has been consulted.” She pointed a crust of bread at him. “But gratitude will not buy ink, food, or a dry bed.”

“Indeed.”

Maeril bit off the end of the crust and considered what Beregost might pay for.

“Copying spellwork, perhaps. Assuming anyone has work worth copying and does not hand me a cursed laundry list disguised as a scroll.”

“Warding?”

“Shops. Doors. Lockboxes.” She shook her head. “That keeps us here.”

Rishi looked toward the window. “Guard work.”

“Still here.”

“Escort work.”

“That pays if the merchant is frightened enough to be honest.”

Rishi listened to the wheels outside.

“Caravans.”

Maeril stopped with the bread halfway to her mouth.

A drover shouted from the street. Harness bells answered. Then a mule brayed with the particular despair of a creature that had met humans and found them disappointing.

She lowered the bread.

“Well. That was offensively obvious.”

“This is a caravan town.”

“Yes, thank you, Sage Warrior of Noticing the Large Wagons.”

Rishi accepted the title with a small inclination of his head.

Maeril leaned back and began sorting possibilities despite herself.

“A caravan going south needs guards. Perhaps a healer. Someone who can make bandits regret their scheduling choices.” She counted on her fingers. “A wizard who can read weather, mend small magical idiocies, and warn merchants before a rock falls on them.”

“That sounds useful.”

“It sounds underpaid.”

“We can ask.”

“We can ask with leverage.”

Rishi finished his bread and reached for his bundle.

“Already?” Maeril asked.

“The wagons may leave soon.”

Of course they might. Roads, unlike scholars, did not wait while she assembled a perfect argument.

Maeril stood, remembered the loose top strap, and sat again. She tightened it until the leather creaked. Then she hooked both arms through the shoulder straps and forced the pack upright with her legs.

The weight pulled her backward.

Rishi stepped close enough to catch either her or the books.

“I have it.”

“I’m fine.”

The side-bundle slipped lower.

He waited.

Maeril held his gaze while the bundle dragged the pack another inch sideways.

“Fine. You may rescue the arcane profession from gravity.”

Rishi unfastened the heaviest bundle and slung it over his own shoulder before she could revise the terms.

The pressure eased across Maeril’s back. She straightened and pretended not to notice.

They stepped into Beregost’s morning.

Trade day had filled the street. Carts crowded the corners. Mules stamped between shafts while merchants counted crates and caravan guards checked buckles, blades, and clouds.

“South road!” a drover called above the noise. “Last checks before we roll!”

Maeril settled what remained of the pack against her shoulders and lifted her chin toward the voice.

“Come on, monk. Let’s go sell our alarming competence.”

Rishi took up his staff.

Together, they walked toward the wagons.