47 – Leatherworker

The light of dawn spilled across wooden floorboards, painting Rhek’s bedroom in muted hues of orange and yellow. A long groan broke the quiet of the morning. Wood creaked as he rolled out of his cot and, reluctantly, set to his routine like a golem infused with not quite enough mana.

He spooned dark, fragrant leaves into a mug and poured steaming water over. With the warm cup in hand, he shuffled to the balcony and eased into a squat chair. He carefully kept from twinging his knee as he settled, and when done, inhaled the strong scent of the liquid. He held the breath for a moment, then released.

Brown eyes swept across the idyllic view of Meridian from this perfectly situated, private cabin home—a view even many of the upper nobility would kill for.

Gods, but it was the worst.

Who had talked him into this? He stared balefully out at the gorgeous cityscape as steam drifted from his mug to lick at his face. Not four weeks into his retirement and he was losing his mind. He didn’t understand. Who took pleasure in this hollowness? What was a man with no mission to drive him forward? Why had he abandoned what little purpose remained?

He found the idea appealing in the abstract, admittedly, even now. Finally getting to rest. And he was far too bullheaded to let anyone convince him to do anything; closing up shop had been his own decision.

Still. This was what people aspired to in their old age? What they spent their lives pursuing? Peace and quiet in their twilight years?

Why?

For the millionth time, Rhek was discovering that every person, from king to peasant, was a blithering idiot. This had been a mistake. He would rather work himself to death than wither away in dreadful monotony.

The only reason he hadn’t dragged himself back to his workshop already was because of how big of a deal he’d made of quitting. At least he hadn’t dismantled his workshop entirely. Maybe even then, he’d known peace and quiet would never sit right with him, so he hadn’t put that final nail in the coffin.

He had to survive at least a year. His pride demanded it. Any faster would be too mortifying, considering the sheer drama surrounding that event.

A year of retirement. He could manage it. He just had to suffer through.

He took a sip from his mug, and his nose wrinkled at the bitter taste.

He stood up, shuffled over, and poured the liquid over his balcony.

Who enjoyed this horse dung?

“Good riddance.”

He spat over the balcony to make his disdain clear, then sat with a huff, shoving the mug away.

Several moments passed as he stewed in annoyance, arms crossed.

Why was he in such a bad mood? And it was a particularly bad one; nobody would accuse Rhek Verontell of being a chipper person, but even his attitude wasn’t this sour on average.

Dredging up an answer wasn’t difficult. Last night, he’d gotten a response back from Leif. A simple three words, seemingly polite, but curt in context. No, thank you. The letter hadn’t even been signed.

One apprentice, he could’ve chalked up to bad luck. All four shunning him…it was clear he was the problem. That was the conclusion any rational man would make.

And he knew he wasn’t pleasant company. But he was a good teacher. Or…an effective one. There was a difference between those two things, and a rather substantial one, even he knew.

“Bah. What do I care?”

He stood, too annoyed to sit and enjoy that vile sunrise for what felt like the millionth time. Though it had only been a few dozen. Had only a month passed since he’d stormed out of the Guild with that rant of his?

He stalked to the kitchen and started the morning’s chores early. Despite his wealth, he disliked people invading his personal space too much to hire a servant. Halfway through noisily putting away last night’s dishes, a knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

He would be ashamed to admit that excitement filled him. Thankfully, he was well-practiced with denial, and stuffed that condemning emotion down. He wiped his hands and hurried to the door, his actions contradicting the grumbling under his breath.

That it might be a personal visit didn’t so much as cross his mind. He didn’t get those. He expected, and found, business on the other side of the threshold.

Stellan.

“What part of retired don’t you understand?” Rhek snapped.

“Rhek! So great to see you,” the aggravatingly tall—and implacably cheerful—human said. “Can I come in?”

“No.”

The Leatherworking Guild’s highest-ranking intermediary beamed with the unyielding congeniality only a man who had spent his life working with difficult people could muster. “Outside is fine too. Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“Retired.” He enunciated the word slowly. “That means no more jobs. I’m pretty sure I made that clear.”

“Right, right,” Stellan said smoothly. “You certainly did. Those circumstances notwithstanding, the Guild made the executive decision to come extend the offer. A particularly wealthy client requested you by name, and we thought you might be interested.”

Despite his first instinct to slam the door in Stellan’s face, Rhek studied him, eyes narrowing. “There’s nothing interesting about making armor for some spoiled duke’s son,” he said, though his thoughts were rushing forward. Very wealthy? For someone to even consider commissioning him, one of three Master Leatherworkers in the human kingdoms, gold spilling out of one’s ears was the barest prerequisite. For Stellan to highlight the client’s wealth meant, even by his standards, the starting offer must be generous.

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