That was what she imagined Dondrian being, all of the time, only bigger, more crowded, noisier, and with buildings that towered above her like large cliffs.
“Did you enjoy living in the city?” asked Isra, after another of their periodic bouts of silence. They had started up the hill at the hex border, having to go through a long, winding path to get to the inconvenient edge.
“It’s faster there,” said Alfric. “More… ordered. There are aspects of it I miss already, and others that I wouldn’t be sad to never see again. Sometimes in the city it feels like everything is constantly calling for your attention, and at the same time, it feels like everyone is also ignoring you.” They crossed another few paces. “But I can see already that there’s less of the rich variety you get in the city. Even Tarchwood had only three stores of note for adventurers. In Dondrian, there are entad emporiums and a whole quarter of the city devoted to ectads. There are stores that specialize in not just henlings, but specific kinds of henlings, with enormous amounts of selection and choice. I’d always known how spoiled for choice we were, but I’m not sure that it really set in until yesterday.”
“Yesterday you said that Dondrian had dangerous dungeons,” said Isra. “Too dangerous for people to go into.”
“Yes, of course,” said Alfric, nodding. “Too much magic floating around means the dungeons are supercharged.”
“Then where do these things come from?” asked Isra. “How are these warehouses filled?”
“Oh,” said Alfric. “Well, from people like us, or if not quite like us, then close. Teams go out into the world and engage in dungeoneering, clearing as many as they can before injuries or apathy catch up with them, and the entads, ectads, henlings, and other things eventually flow back toward Dondrian, where the people are, or a smaller city, like Plenarch. Some of what we sold yesterday will be kept as stock in those stores, but quite a bit of it will flow through portals and down leylines until it makes its way to one of those cities.”
Isra thought that was an interesting view of the world but had no idea whether or not it actually made sense. She simply didn’t know enough about the wider world. She didn’t think she particularly liked the viewpoint though, not if it meant that places like Pucklechurch existed partly to funnel things to a big city somewhere very far away. Perhaps that was what it looked like to the citizens of Dondrian, but Isra brought meat and furs to the people of Pucklechurch, and none of that was sold on to someone far away. Was it? Isra supposed that she didn’t actually know.
“Anyhow,” said Alfric, “one of the big benefits of going into the dungeons is that we get the best pick of what’s there, and all it costs is our labor and the risk we’re taking, which isn’t actually all that high. The bow you have would probably have fetched more than all the rest combined at auction. If we can convince the others that it’s worth it to do more, we’ll be practically dripping in entads by the end of it.”
“The end of it?” asked Isra.
“Well, you know,” said Alfric. “People slow down, get old, want to start families.” He shrugged. “I don’t expect we’ll stay together forever, especially not as things are now, but five or ten years is realistic if we can make it through the next month or two. And if it crumbles, I’ll have bona fides and equipment that will help me find a more… professional party.”
“Your parents still do this though,” said Isra.
“Yes, they do,” he said. “But they don’t have the same hunger for it that I do, almost no one their age does. Mom does ten dungeons a year, if that, though they’re longer, more dangerous ones. Dad aims for fifteen and always ends up doing fewer.” He shrugged. “But I expect when I’m their age, I’ll be doing the same. They say once you hit fifty, your career as a dungeoneer can be considered over, and both my parents are approaching that.”
“Eventually you run out of dungeons,” said Isra.
“Well, yes, that too,” said Alfric. “Right now, we’re looking at the low-hanging fruit, the simple ones like the Pucklechurch dungeon that shouldn’t cause problems. But the more we do, the more we’ll end up ranging, and there’s travel times to consider until you get a travel entad or can purchase one. Even then, it’s pretty rare to be able to cut out travel times completely. Ideally you’re able to chart a path that allows a dungeon a day, or sometimes two, but that can only last for a limited amount of time, because there aren’t that many hexes in the world, and a lot of them are either impossible to get to or too dangerous to attempt.”
That Alfric seemed to like talking about dungeons seemed like an understatement, but Isra found herself not minding too much. Her least favorite part of talking with others was the pleasantries that they felt the need to lob back and forth at every opportunity. It had never been like that with her father: if there was nothing to say, they would stay silent. When things needed to be communicated, especially from someone who knew a lot to someone who didn’t, conversation felt a lot more pleasant, at least to Isra.
“Your parents were both dungeoneers,” said Isra. “Why aren’t you better equipped?”
“Ah,” said Alfric. He faltered. “Two reasons. The first is that my parents didn’t want me to depend too heavily on their support. The boots and the sword were a gift, as was the shield and my armor, but they didn’t offer more than that, and I think that if I’d tried to press them on it, they’d have given me a lecture far before they’d given me any of their more valuable entads. I was given money, but only just enough to settle myself. I do sorely need something for travel though, especially so that the team can be called in. The second reason is that the feeling of going into a dungeon and gathering new gear for yourself is, to them, something that makes you appreciate what you’ve earned. Once I get a good suit of armor for myself, something that resizes to me, at the very least, I’ll know that it was gained through the sweat of my brow. The same goes for a travel entad, and a storage entad if we find something better than the book, and entads that work with our own particular talents.”
“You think your parents were right,” said Isra.
“Yes,” said Alfric. “Absolutely. They were good parents, with many valuable lessons. Our family has a fair amount of prominence in Dondrian, and there’s a good reason for that. Honesty, disclosure, hard work, self-reliance, duty to others… I do my best to live by those values. Part of that means making my own way and not strolling into my first dungeon dressed in half the family armory.”
They saved their breath as they went up the hill, taking the path as it came. At a certain point they had to climb a set of stone steps. The path would have been impossible for a cart and the lizard that would pull it, and Isra wondered how much time a pass in the hills somewhere would add on the journey to and from Tarchwood.
They took a break at the top of the hills, by the markers for the hex boundary. Isra drank from her waterskin, and Alfric from his. Their packs were lighter, but the hill had been higher and quite a bit steeper. Alfric still had the storage book, and Isra felt bad that he was having to carry it, but he did so without complaint.
“Sorry for not showing trust,” she said.
“No, it’s fine,” Alfric replied. “I understand. We don’t know each other, and it’s a lot of rings. I can’t say I’d have done the same, but I don’t fault you for it. Sorry if it was a waste of your time.”
Isra shrugged. “It’s further than I’ve ever been from home.” She had gathered quite a few rocks from that beach as well and, in the course of their wandering, had seen many more things that she would like to bring home with her. She had never quite realized how different it could be such a short way from Pucklechurch.