Chapter 4-4

It was common to say that the Dutchies, despite technically being dozens of different nations, were all the same. It was certainly something that Leonas and Anjanette complained about frequently enough. But if you looked hard enough there were differences. Fashions were different, some states were more conservative than others. And every once in a while, you would run into a bizarre dutchy that worshipped ducks or had a statue of a giant shoe in the middle of it or something like that.

“Sure, whoever built this was probably insane,” said Leonas at one such landmark, a gigantic ant farm. “But living your life doing nothing but raising cattle for sixty years is pretty insane in itself. It’s not a surprise that they do other crazy shit.”

A less insane but just as remarkable phenomenon was Durobimania. Durobia, as a mysterious island in the middle of nowhere, was naturally the sort of things that drew a lot of people’s interests. Their customs and art were so foreign that they enticed a lot of people, who found that they liked them a lot more than their own culture. It was trendy to wear one of the ornate Durobian dresses, or to have an exotic Durobian girl on your arm.

But some people went beyond that. Spending all their wages on expensive imported Durobian ilscs, taking up the meditative Durobian religions, and making their own shoddy imitations of the foreign art to trade amongst themselves.

The dutchy of Allens, it seemed, was entirely consumed by Durobimania.

Adolescents walked the streets nose-deep in Durobian pulp novels. Almost half of the signs they saw were not the common Imperial, but elaborate and unknown characters. Advertised prominently was a masquerade to be held in a month, held by a minor Durobian noble.

“This is sort of sickening,” said Anjanette.

Milly shrugged. “I don’t know... it’s good those kids are reading.”

“You don’t actually like this stuff, do you Milly?” asked Anjanette.

“No, no,” Milly said in a rush. “Well... I am a bit of a Mahore Ii Dena fan.”

“Which translates to?”

Milly’s face fell and she blushed. “Um... Magic Girl Swordfight.” Anjanette nearly fell off her horse with laughter.

“I wouldn’t be criticizing her tastes, soap-girl,” said Leonas.

“Hey, at least I don’t have to import my guilty pleasure,” argued Anjanette, before collapsing into sobbing laughter. Milly glared at her. If looks could kill, Milly’s glare would be a light tickle.

They pulled up their horses to the nearest inn, the Verbing Noun. Belief the faded sign was the name of the bar painted in fresh Durobian script. A rough-looking stableboy put away their horses while the innkeeper, a huge man wearing a pair of paper-mache tiger ears, approached them.

“Gorin!” he said.

“Speak Imperial, asshole,” said Anjanette.

“Greetings, teme,” said the innkeeper with a snarl. “We don’t have very many rooms, but we can make room for your group. It’ll be five silver per bed.”

Leonas dug through his moneypouch, already adopting a pitiable look. “That’s awfully high, don’t you think?”

“We’re getting a lot of tourism, so I can raise prices,” gloated the innkeeper.

Leonas emptied the contents of the moneypouch into his hand. Inside were ten silver pieces, roughly two dozen coppers, and a shiny marble. “Um... will you take this? We have nowhere else to stay, and it’s so cold outside on these winter nights. You wouldn’t want the deaths of these girls on your head, would you?” His voice was weak and shaking. It was hard not to pick him up into his arms and embrace him like a starving puppy.

The innkeeper seemed to weaken, but turned to look at Anjanette and his face stiffened. “You get two rooms. Prices are prices.”

They received their keys and made it up to their rooms, if they could properly be called rooms. Claustrophobic and damp, they were more clsoets than proper rooms. The beds were small and hard, the sound of the congested street invaded through the walls, and there was little in the way of furniture. “Five silver a room, and we get a closet,” said Leonas.

“Eh, quit your whining,” said Anjanette, collapsing onto the bed. “You and I can share, Leo. Just like in the bad old days.”

“More importantly, we need money,” said Leonas. “Any ideas?”

“Um... we could take on mercenary work,” said Milly.

It took all of Leonas’s will not to roll his eyes. “No sidequests. Anjanette?”

“We go back to what we know. I haven’t run a good con in a while.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” said Leonas. “And I know an easy one to do here. Milly, do you have any blank scrolls?”

“Of course,” she said, as if he had asked “Do you have any blood in your veins?” She produced a long virgin scroll from her sleeves.

Leonas spread the scroll out on what little floor was available. “Ink?” Milly handed him a vial, which he promptly opened up and splashed wantonly over the middle of the scroll. Then the ink began moving with a slight hum, seperating and repelling itself into small blots, which formed twisty and unreadable characters on the scroll. The movement was magical, but not the magic of great curses and demonic deals, but the simple domestic magic that any mage could do with little effort.

“Ta da,” he said. “What we have hear is the hottest new piece of Durobian fiction. Untranslated, of course, but a valuable item nonetheless.”

“Brilliant,” said Anjanette with a cackle. “But we’ll need more scrolls.”

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