Chapter 10: The Old Blacksmith
He didn't have to search his mental map for long. His eyes settled on the town of Saltpans, located just over 180 kilometers from his current position in Harrenhal.
At a steady pace, it was less than a three-day ride. If he pushed his horse, he could make it in two. In such a short time, it was unlikely that even the players rushing to the established meeting points would have met one another yet.
If everything went perfectly, he could even claim the first kill of the Game.
Even if he didn't, successfully hunting just one player in the next two months would grant him four points—enough to keep the threat of the assassin mechanic at bay for a long time.
He paused, a wrinkle forming on his brow. There was a flaw in his plan. While other classes might not realize their starting equipment was a giveaway, a canny merchant certainly would. They would likely liquidate some assets, buy more mules, or perhaps dismiss a servant to hire a few farmhands for protection.
With such variations, how could he possibly identify them?
After a moment of thought, the answer came to him: their starting capital. That was the one constant.
Ian had studied the character creation process meticulously. He clearly remembered that, aside from the final profession choice, the preceding options had a pitifully small impact on a player's starting funds.
Even if a merchant player had maxed out every possible starting-money option, they would have no more than 110 gold dragons. To turn that into the 1,000 gold dragons needed for their quest within two months, they would have to invest every last coin. They would have to go all in.
"When I reach Saltpans, I just need to learn the local price of salt," Ian murmured, perfecting the final details in his mind. "The foreman will likely take a kickback, so I'll find out that percentage as well. With those two figures, I can calculate the precise purchasing power of a player merchant. I can then target individuals whose shipping volume matches that calculation."
There was no more time to waste. He quickly gathered all his equipment from the table.
His plan was to sell everything—his armor, his sword, and his horse. Then he would buy a simple machete and an old draft horse, posing as an ordinary caravan guard on his way to Saltpans.
"Caravan Guard" was a selectable starting class, but Ian had ranked it in the third tier due to its poor equipment, mediocre stats, and lack of funds. Furthermore, their starting gear was a shortsword and leather armor, making his own disguise distinct enough to avoid suspicion.
Against a merchant with their pathetic strength stat, he only needed to get close. The moment he was within arm's reach without arousing suspicion, victory was assured.
The advantage is mine.
With that thought, Ian began to estimate the value of his belongings. A full set of chainmail armor would fetch about 500 silver stags. A good bastard sword, more than 200.
His horse, currently tied in the inn's courtyard, was a five-year-old Riverlands courser in its prime, according to his background knowledge. It should sell for 750 silver stags or more.
All told, he was looking at over 1,400 silver stags.
After finishing his appraisal, Ian packed his gear into a large sack, opened the door, and left his room. Downstairs, he asked the innkeeper for the location of the blacksmith, paying her ten copper pennies for his stay. He then went to the backyard stable, retrieved his horse, and left the inn.
He stopped just outside the door.
Less than a yard in front of him stood a stone wall of impossible thickness. Covered in moss and a web of dense cracks, it looked ancient, weathered by centuries of wind and rain.
Ian took two steps forward, peering through a fissure in the stone.
He saw a vast, roofless hall, its floor choked with rubble and refuse. Tattered banners, so caked with dust that their sigils were unrecognizable, hung from the walls like ghosts, whispering of a long-dead history.
The gloomy atmosphere and the foul stench wafting from the ruins sent a shiver down Ian's spine. He didn't linger, pulling his gaze away and walking quickly toward the mouth of the alley.
As he turned the corner, a sudden gust of north wind swept through the ruins, and a strange, mournful cry echoed from the sky.
Ian knew it was just the sound of air rushing through the crenellations of the Wailing Tower, but the sound still filled him with a primal dread. He picked up his pace, his quick walk breaking into a trot.
The clatter of his boots and his horse's hooves echoed in the narrow passage, creating an eerie harmony with the howling song of the tower.
After navigating several more deserted, rubble-strewn streets, Ian finally arrived at the square where the blacksmith shop was located.
"What a damnable place," he muttered, tying his horse to a post. "Sell this gear and get out of this hellhole." He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The forge was quiet, occupied only by an old blacksmith and two young apprentices.
The blacksmith was short but powerfully built, with brown hair just beginning to gray at the temples. As Ian entered, he was in the middle of his work, pulling a newly hammered sword from the fire with practiced skill and plunging it into a bucket of cold water.
The red-hot steel met the water with a loud hiss, releasing a plume of white steam.
"Lad," the old blacksmith said, noticing Ian's arrival as he turned. "What can I do for you?"
Ian's eyes scanned the room, quickly ruling out the possibility of other players.
He had asked the innkeeper's wife about the smith. According to her, the man had worked in Harrenhal his entire life, which, given the "out of thin air" nature of players, meant he was an NPC. The two apprentices looked to be barely in their teens, well below the minimum selectable age for a player.
Ian breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He opened his sack and laid his sword and the full suit of chainmail on the table.
"Master smith, I want to sell this equipment."
The old blacksmith, Eton, shot Ian a suspicious look before turning his attention to the gear. He inspected it carefully. There were no cracks, and the surface wear was minor. It could be re-polished and sold for a handsome profit.
But… Eton's eyes drifted back to Ian, his brow furrowed with confusion. "You're a knight, aren't you? And so young. Why would you be selling your arms and armor?"
Ian was indeed young—too young, in fact. When creating his character, he had discovered that age had no impact on stats, so he had simply set it to the lowest possible limit: sixteen.
To the old blacksmith, a knight of this age should have a bright future ahead of him. He couldn't fathom why the boy would be selling his gear.
Because I took an arrow in the knee? Ian thought with a flash of dark humor.
He forced a wry smile onto his face and spun a plausible tale. "Because I've had my fill of the hedge knight's life. They say we're just the other side of the same sword as a robber knight. There's no honor in it, and I want no more of that life."