· · · ? · · ·
The caravan rolled in on a Tuesday.
Which, unfortunately, was the garrison’s quietest day.
Which meant everyone immediately noticed.
Eirik was leaning in the gate arch when Símon Gullband’s lead wagon creaked through. Best seat in the yard. He watched the merchant climb down, stretch once like a man who’d been on the road too long, and then reach under the bench for a satchel.
What followed was suspicious.
First came a folding table.
Then a folding chair.
Then a three-part display stand that snapped open with the smug confidence of something expensive.
Then an awning.
Then a locked valuables chest.
The satchel… did not get smaller.
Eirik’s Appraiser’s Touch had been idling across the yard since the wagons appeared. When it brushed the bag, the read came back sharp and strange:
— heavy ?nd folding
— stable spatial compression
— interior pocket under separate pressure
— Realm 2 work
— moderate upkeep required
Eirik’s face scrunched.
Símon looked up mid-unfold and caught him staring.
“First spatial bag?” the merchant asked.
“…Yeah.”
“What’d your skill say?”
Eirik told him.
Símon listened like a man checking weights on a scale.
“Mostly right,” he said. “You missed the preservation weave in the lining. But not bad.”
He lifted the bag and tossed it lightly.
It moved like empty leather.
“Inside’s about the size of a decent storage room,” he said. “Weighs what the leather weighs.”
He dropped it.
It landed with the soft flop of absolutely nothing.
“I’ve got three,” Símon added casually. “This is the small one.”
Eirik stared.
Reading about spatial enchantments was one thing.
Watching a table come out of a purse was another.
“How much?” he asked.
“This grade? Eight Silver.”
Eirik did the math.
His eyebrows climbed.
Símon grinned a little.
“Realm 1 versions exist,” he added. “Smaller fold. Less stable. Three Silver for a decent starter.”
Still a lot.
“They’re an investment,” Símon said. “But once you own one, you start wondering how you ever lived without it.”
He went back to setting up, then flicked Eirik a sideways look.
“You going to keep reading my inventory, or you going to help me admire my excellent packing?”
“Both,” Eirik said.
Símon snorted.
“Fair.”
· · · ? · · ·
It took twenty minutes for the south yard to turn into a proper trading spread.
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Textiles.
Preserved foods.
Tools.
Minor cultivation goods.
The practical stock of a man who knew frontier garrisons weren’t interested in fancy nonsense.
Eirik drifted through it slowly, keeping his Touch to the shallow passive layer. He’d learned that much, at least — full reads made people twitchy.
The sweep gave him:
-
common Grár materials
-
a few genuine natural finds
-
three items that had definitely been worked by hand
-
and one locked case in the back radiating quiet heat
Símon appeared at his elbow like he’d grown there.
“You found the case.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“You weren’t not trying either.”
Not wrong.
“Appraiser’s Touch,” Símon said. “Bj?rn mentioned. Odd to see it used on inventory.”
“It just… runs.”
“Since when?”
“Five.”
Símon went still for half a breath.
“…Five.”
Filed.
“What do you get off the case?” he asked.
“Denser than the rest of your stock. Realm 2, maybe brushing Realm 3. One active enchantment. Two passive. Two previous owners — last one strong.”
Símon watched him a long moment.
“Inside is a Realm 2 formation core and a minor relic that used to belong to a Tier 3 cultivator,” he said. “You got the grade right. The enchantments right. The ownership right.”
He paused.
“You missed every piece of information that would help me sell it.”
Eirik shrugged.
“I wasn’t trying to sell it.”
“No,” Símon said dryly. “You were trying to understand it.”
He picked up a carved amber pendant.
“Here,” he said. “Watch.”
The window that formed in the air was different.
Cleaner.
Structured.
Like a ledger instead of a gut feeling.
ITEM APPRAISAL — MERCHANT’S EYE · Símon Gullband
Amber Pendant, carved
Grade: Common+
Material: Northern fossil resin (~800 years)
Cultivation content: trace — negligible
Condition: excellent
Enchantment: none
Notable: rare triple insect inclusion
Est. value:
? 8–12 Copper (Realm 1)
? 18–24 Copper (Realm 2 collector)
“Your turn,” Símon said.
Eirik took the pendant and pushed a deliberate read through it.
“About eight hundred years,” he said. “Fossil resin. Trace ambient ?nd. One prior handler — Grár, probably the carver. No active properties.”
He handed it back.
“…Not dangerous.”
Símon closed his eyes briefly.
“The age is right,” he said patiently. “The residue is right. The handler is right.”
He set the pendant down.
“You are completely useless to a merchant.”
Eirik grinned.
“Good. Sounds expensive.”
Símon barked a laugh despite himself.
“My skill wasn’t made for selling things.”
“No,” Símon agreed. “It wasn’t.”
He leaned back.
“Merchant’s Eye and Appraiser’s Touch split centuries ago. Same root. Different paths. You lot pushed toward threat-reading. We pushed toward value.”
He tapped the pendant.
“I see eight to twelve Copper.”
He pointed at Eirik.
“You see eight hundred years and who carved it.”
He spread his hands.
“Both correct. Only one pays for lunch.”
· · · ? · · ·
Leif showed up halfway through this conversation carrying a strip of dried meat and the expression of someone who had already decided to like the merchant.
“What’s this one do?” he asked, immediately picking up a vial.
Símon didn’t even blink.
“Clarity tincture. Helps breath-release timing. Archers like it.”
Leif looked at the tag.
One Copper.
He looked at Eirik.
Eirik gave the tiny shoulder tilt that meant: probably worth it.
Leif bought two.
Immediately.
Símon’s mouth twitched.
“Hold on,” the merchant muttered, rummaging under the table.
He produced a thin folded pamphlet.
“Ranged cultivation basics. Been sitting in my case three years. Take it.”
Leif accepted it like it was a sacred text.
“You’re my favorite merchant,” he announced.
From the doorway, Knút’s voice drifted in:
“Boy, you say that to every man who gives you paper.”
Leif didn’t even turn around.
“Not true. Sometimes they have to give me food.”
Símon laughed outright this time.
· · · ? · · ·
Langr had been leaning against the gate arch the whole time.
Símon had been eyeing it.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like a man trying to decide whether something was a weapon or a construction mistake.
“…Is that yours?” he asked at last.
“Yeah.”
“May I?”
Eirik handed it over.
Símon weighed it.
Tested the balance.
Ran Merchant’s Eye.
Then went very still.
ITEM APPRAISAL — MERCHANT’S EYE · Símon Gullband
Oversized training blade
Grade: Common
Material: standard iron
Condition: new
Enchantment: none
Balance: critically forward
Dimensions:
? Blade: 43 inches
? Handle: adult grip
? Weight: ~10 lbs
Intended user: adult male (~5'11"+)
Actual user: large youth (~5'5", pre-adolescent)
Notable: Functional as a weapon in the same way a large rock is functional as a weapon.
Est. value:
? 4–6 Copper (scrap weight)
? 0 Copper (as weapon)
Símon lowered the window slowly.
Looked at Eirik.
Looked at the sword.
Looked back.
“…This was on purpose.”
“Yes.”
“You gave Gróa the measurements.”
“Yes.”
“…Your measurements.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Merchant brain working.
Then—
“…This is strength training.”
“Yes.”
“It is not a sword.”
“No.”
“It is an iron bar with ambition.”
“…Also yes.”
Símon handed it back carefully.
“I respect the commitment,” he said. “Even if the market absolutely does not.”
· · · ? · · ·
The yard stayed busy through the afternoon.
Eirik mostly watched.
Especially the bags.
Every time Símon reached into one and pulled out exactly what he needed, Eirik’s brain itched.
Three Silver for an entry bag.
That changed things.
Patrol routes.
Wild growth zones.
Natural finds he’d had to leave behind.
Yeah.
That changed things.
He picked up a rough Grár spirit stone from the lower shelf.
Dense.
Clean.
Good structure.
“Price?” he asked.
“Seven Copper.”
Eirik’s face went flat.
Símon studied him.
“…Three Copper,” the merchant said mildly. “Call it an investment.”
Eirik blinked.
“That’s long-term thinking.”
“I’m a merchant,” Símon said. “It’s the only kind that works.”
Eirik took the stone.
Warm against his palm.
Useful.
“Come back in six months,” Símon added. “I’ll have the processed version.”
Eirik nodded.
Six months was nothing.
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