This is fucking ridiculous! Ughhhhhhhh…
I groan into both of my hands and dragged them slowly down my face until my glasses threaten to come with them.
There are perhaps more than three dozen things currently wrong with the Gored Boar tavern but none of these frighten me. The bloody document lying on the little writing desk does. I stared at it again.
Marna finally found these papers and gave them to me right after dinner since I requested these as I wanted to inspect the terms before going to the clerk tomorrow, which is an exceptionally sensible thing to do for someone as impulsive as I am. Marna mentioned that sometime ago, when she first accepted that keeping the tavern might eventually ruin her, she had gone to the town clerk and asked what would be required should she find someone to purchase it. The clerk had given her two copies of the standard property-transfer deed, explained which sections would need completing, and told her to return with the buyer when the day finally came. And lo and behold, I am now holding a copy. I do enjoy knowing precisely what manner of legal trap I am stepping into before inserting my foot, despite knowing this is a horrible investment.
Unfortunately, I have discovered the trap.
I leaned closer to the page again, despite having read the offending passage enough times that I could probably recite it while unconscious.
Purchaser's full lawful name, place of origin, and permanent residence.
There is a very long and annoying space beneath it.
I pushed myself away from the desk and began pacing again.
"Nope!"
The room, however, does not respond, which is fortunate because I am not presently prepared to debate furniture. I turn at the bed, walk back towards the window, turn again, caught my boot on one of the papers scattered across the floor and step over it with considerably less dignity than I would prefer.
My heart has started beating too quickly.
What the hells, Claudemund. Why are you being a nervous wreck?!
There is no reason for my body to do that. This is paperwork! I have survived worse things than paperwork.
I have survived brutal examinations by the royal tutors that could get me whipped had I given the wrong answer.
I had survived a wedding and its long, excruciating aftermath of discovering that surviving one did not necessarily mean it worked.
I have survived getting thrown on the ground by mechanical llama.
I literally escaped a fortress.
I can't let a legal document defeat me.
I stopped beside the desk and stared down at it again.
Full lawful name.
"Claudemund Meridian," I told myself.
That should be enough, right?
It is a name. It is, more specifically, my name. I have been called Claudemund Meridian for three decades and have responded to it with reasonable consistency, therefore one could construct an entirely respectable argument that the additional portion is unnecessary administrative decoration.
My eyes drifted downward back to the document.
Full lawful name.
"Oh, fuck off!"
Perhaps I could simply omit the final name. People shorten names constantly! Nobody arrests William Baker for writing William instead of William Alexander Percival Baker the Third when ordering a bloody wine. Probably.
Actually, no. I have no fucking idea.
Wine merchants may possess unusually strict documentation procedures. Fuck. Why am I thinking about wine merchants?
"Calm down," I muttered, pressing both hands against my temples. "You are perfectly fine. This is manageable. You are purchasing a dilapidated tavern in a town where nobody knows who you are, using stolen royal money while pretending to be a merchant's daughter after fleeing the country on an illegally constructed death machine."
My god.
That sounded so much better before I said it aloud.
Merchant's daughter, that is all I need to be. A merchant's daughter travelling alone and eventually accompanied by fellow travellers I met along my journey. Wealthy enough to possess gold coins, educated in Halleya to explain the accent and behaviour, and eccentric enough that nobody questions why I carry bunch of bullshite inside my satchel or owning the mechanical llama. A perfectly ordinary merchant's daughter. There must be thousands of them… or at least twelve of them out there.
I reached towards the window, turn around and walk back again. Nobody here knows Princess Claudemund Meridian von Halleya… right? They would only know the strange woman who has a draconian and an elf as a companion, an absolute failure in cooking, and has enough money to purchase an inn because I possess absolutely no understanding of what ordinary people consider a proportionate financial decision. Yes, I can manage that.
Full lawful name.
"Oh, for fucking fucker fuck's—"
I froze as the words escape before I can stop them. There was a time when that would have frightened me more than this situation I got myself into. Not that I never swore… Hells, no. I swore extensively. My internal vocabulary had been carefully cultivated over the years through a combination of military people, kitchen staff, and common folks working in the palace that are quite frustrated with the protocol they had to follow, though I had been assured that repeating them during meals would not improve my table manners.
I simply knew better than to say them aloud because in the palace, these words had consequences. And eventually, I became very good at keeping them inside my head.
And…I have stopped doing that. Juria is not helping. She is definitely a horrible influence. Spending several days around a woman who considers profanity as punctuation has clearly damaged something inside me, though blaming Juria entirely would be dishonest. Nobody has punished me for saying it. Luna was a bit shocked, yes, but Juria laughed. There had been no summons nor a servant appearing at my door with the dreadful announcement that Their Majesties wished to speak with me. And without those consequences, my mouth has concluded that civilisation has ended.
"Wonderful," I grinned. "Another gold star for personal development."
And… I got distracted again. Where was I?
I scratched my head and then remembered where I left off. I pick up the document once again and forced myself back into the chair.
Right. Enough of this nonsense. I know how to read documents. I'm a highly educated woman!
There will be a loophole. There will always a loophole. I understand property law considerably better than most people expect because being raised as a possible successor requires knowing several hundred ways in which land may legally ruin one's afternoon.
If had found them in documents written by men who believed themselves incapable of being outsmarted, then I could definitely find one here.
I began reading again, but this time slowly, tracing the lines with one finger.
Seller's declaration. Property boundaries. Existing debt obligations. Transfer of fixtures. Witness. Seal. Buyer.
Perhaps lawful name meant only the name under which I conducted business?
I had never conducted business, although that might actually help. I could establish one tonight, if necessary.
Claudemund Meridian & Company.
No. That sounded like a dressmaker.
Meridian Mechanical Works.
Worse.
C. Meridian.
Suspicious.
I pushed the paper flat against the desk and stared at it. Why had my ancestors named the entire kingdom after themselves? Or themselves after the kingdom? I was uncertain which had come first, and suddenly I resented both possibilities equally. I lower my forehead onto the desk, almost accepting defeat. This is it. The next thing I know, the Royal Guards are gonna march in here with her mechanical arses and drag me back to Halleya.
"Fuck Halleya," I said though perhaps a little louder than how I wanted it to be. "Fuck Halleya," I repeated, much quieter this time. "I am not going back to that family. Ugh."
I came all this way.
I made sure I was far enough from Halleya, and yet… Halleya is still fucking here. My purse, my accent, the clothes I wear, the things I know, the way I stand when I am angry, and now… inside a fucking property contract in Brackenford. Fucking hells.
I straightened abruptly and walked away from the desk again because sitting has become impossible and I am starting to become irate.
"How far am I supposed to go?" The room remains infuriatingly silent. "I am not even in Halleya anymore. Why does that fucking place still follow me?"
My chest tightens again and I realise I am breathing too quickly.
No.
No, absolutely not.
I closed my eyes as I slowly breathe in and out.
One thing at a time.
This is what that idiot brick wall of a man back in Halleya would've told me every time my mind starts to become creatively self-destructive again. I tried my best to keep breathing slowly though I admit I am not very good at this by myself.
"You are fine," I told myself. "You are in Brackenford. Nobody knows you. Nobody is looking at you. Nobody can order you anywhere. You are merely Claudemund."
As my breathing slowly stabilised, I sat down again and pulled the contract towards me. There must be some provision permitting a purchaser to register under a trading name, a shortened name, an appointed representative, anything which does not require me to walk into the Brackenford clerk's office tomorrow and announce that I am Claudemund Meridian von Halleya and ask them to ignore the fact that the royal family is almost certainly looking for me.
"No fucking way!" I exclaimed. I adjusted my glasses and leaned closer.
My eyes move down the page across the smaller writing beneath the purchaser's declaration. The lettering is cramped, almost looks like it has been deliberately produced by the bastard who believed important qualifications needs to be hidden from anyone with less than stellar eyesight.
For the purposes of common freehold, the purchaser shall be entered by lawful given and family name. Titles of rank, noble house, religious order, military office, territorial style or courtesy shall not form part of the register unless ownership is conveyed in such capacity.
My brows furrowed as my finger remained pressed against the line. I tried reading the line again.
Titles of rank, noble house... territorial style... shall not form part of the register.
My heart gave one enormous thump.
"Oh…"
I pulled the page so close that the edge nearly touches my nose.
Territorial style.
I know what a territorial style is. I was forced to learn the structure of noble naming conventions before I was old enough to understand why anybody required more than one name in the first place.
Von Halleya denotes House. A dynasty. Territorial association.
Political station.
It identifies me as belonging to the royal House that bears the kingdom's name, and under Halleyan law it matters enormously whenever succession, inheritance, Crown property or royal authority is involved.
But this is not Halleya. This is Brackenford!
And I am not purchasing this tavern on behalf of the Crown. I am purchasing it privately.
"Claudemund Meridian," I whispered as my eyes move slowly towards the blank line.
Given name: Claudemund.
Family name: Meridian.
Von Halleya: dynastic territorial style.
Not required. Hells, it's not even omitted dishonestly. None of what I am about to do is false nor forged. Von Halleya is simply irrelevant in this side of the world.
I started cracking a laughter that perhaps sounded like a madwoman.
"Oh, you beautiful, beautiful fucking bureaucratic bastard! You almost got me!"
I grabbed my pen but then stopped myself before actually writing anything on Marna's untouched copy. Tomorrow's clerk can have the pleasure of watching me fill the official deed while I enjoy knowing precisely what I am legally entitled to leave off it.
For some reason, the thought puts me at ease more effectively than all the breathing exercises I have attempted in the last quarter of an hour. I read the clause once more to make absolutely certain I am not hallucinating legal salvation from exhaustion.
Oh, yeah. Still there.
"Hah!" I cracked.
Then another problem immediately presented itself.
Place of origin.
Of course, that is unavoidable, but hardly incriminating. Halleya is a huge kingdom spanning from the mountain provinces to the sea, not just a tiny village populated exclusively by my immediate relatives. Thousands upon thousands of people possess Halleyan accents, Halleyan clothes and Halleyan coin. No one would be suspicious if I wrote Halleya, right?
My eyes move to the next requirement.
Permanent residence.
Well, I do not have one which sounds depressing but useful. The instructions were provided for travelling merchants, itinerant tradesmen, displaced persons and anyone otherwise lacking established local residence. In those circumstances, the register accepts no fixed residence presently established, with the acquired property becoming the purchaser's registered address once possession transfers.
A sigh of relief escapes me as I look around the room.
Tomorrow, if everything goes properly, this will become my permanent residence.
"What in Elandra's name are you doing?" A muffled voice that sounded like it was from Luna spoke from outside of my door made my nervous arse jump that I immediately darted towards the door and pulled it open. Juria, who seems to hade been leaning against it tumbled forward onto the floor.
What in the hells?!
"Why are you at my door, Juria?" I asked rather furiously. Gods, did she hear the shite I've been saying to myself? I could feel my fingers tightening as anxiety starts creeping up again.
Juria was still watching me with her expression so bright and an expectation of a retort. She had no idea that, for once, I was not trying to think of something clever to say. I was just trying to work out whether she had heard enough to understand what is going on behind the door. The thought made my stomach twist.
"Get the bloody hells out of my room, Juria," I demanded.
"Your swearing has improved dramatically," she said while grinning like an idiot.
Normally, I would have had something prepared for that, like something devastating enough that Juria would still be thinking about it tomorrow. But I was not in the mood. I could feel my body getting so nervous that I'm about to pass out from there.
Juria's grin faded after realising I'm being serious when Luna intervened. "We should let you rest."
"Yes," I replied quietly.
"You all right?" Juria asked. Well, that question took me completely by surprise that I found myself staring at her.
"I am fine," the words left my mouth automatically before I could even think of a better response but I'm certain that it was not convincing. "Goodnight."
I closed the door and stood there with my hand still on the latch, listening to their footsteps disappear down the corridor. Only after the silence returned did I exhale. My fingers are still tight around the latch. The metal feels cold beneath my palm. I hate this but I can't seem to let go. My body's tensing up again. My thoughts kept circling the same questions:
How much had Juria heard?
Had she understood?
My breathing grew shallow and my heart was once again racing.
No.
One thing at a time, remember that.
I released the latch and pressed both hands against the door instead, grounding myself in the solid wood beneath my palms, putting some pressure to help myself. This room is safe. Luna is nearby. Nothing is happening now. My chest still felt tight, and the heat behind my eyes refused to fade but I kept counting.
Four in.
Four out.
Again.
The panic did not disappear but at least it stopped climbing. I walked and then climbed onto the edge of the bed, pulling the blanket over my knees while holding it tightly around myself until the fabric gave me something to focus on. A certain insufferably calm voice immediately surfaced from somewhere in my memory reminding me that merely holding the blanket was not the point.
Pressure, Claudemund.
He had discovered it almost by accident years ago, after finding me folded into myself during one particularly unpleasant episode and deciding that asking questions was achieving nothing. He had placed one of the heavy winter blankets over my shoulders, then another across my lap, carefully adding enough weight that I could feel exactly where my body ended and the rest of the world began.
It had worked. I wished I had those blankets here. I just have to work with what I have right now. I pulled the blanket more firmly around myself, tucking the edges beneath my thighs so the pressure settles across my legs and waist.
"There," I whispered to myself. It took a while but the shaking finally stopped. I could feel my body starting to loosen, too. My thoughts are still present but at least they are simply no longer trying to kill one another. I took a deep breath as I leaned back against the headboard and stared at the opposite wall.
The shed!
Wait, no.
I pulled the blankets higher but the second thought arrived before I can finish rejecting the first. The shed roof is leaking along the rear wall but the supports themselves are alright. If I replace the damaged boards and reinforce the corner nearest the yard, I could probably fit a workbench—
"Tomorrow," I whispered to myself firmly, closing my eyes. A third thought immediately joins them, bugging me that there is enough space for shelving. "I said, tomorrow!"
I have decided that I have done enough thinking for one night. I placed my glasses on the table next to my bed, turned down the lamp, and laid down onto my side, taking both blankets with me and curling beneath them until only the top of my head remains exposed.
Sleep. Yes, I should sleep.
Tomorrow involves legal paperwork and money. A sensible person would therefore rest. I did my best to remain perfectly still until I rolled onto my other side.
I had not measured the shed properly because Marna had been speaking to me at the time and Juria had appeared halfway through demanding explanations.
If I remember correctly, it was twelve paces. Twelve should still provide enough room for a workbench, right?
"Fuck."
I threw the blankets away from my face and cold air immediately attacked everything beneath my neck. I lay there glaring into the darkness, deeply pissed by the consequences of my own decision.
"Fine!"
I sat up and felt the floor freezing beneath my feet. I shove my glasses back onto my face, relight the lamp and return to the desk wearing the blanket around my shoulders like an exceptionally irritated monarch that I am.
Here we go again, Claudemund. Good fucking job.
I hurry back towards the desk, grabbed my pen and some paper, and drew a long bench along the wall, leaving enough clearance to move around it without repeatedly striking my hip against the corner… If the shelving goes behind it, perhaps tools along the wall… I could lock the storage for anything volatile or expensive because I don't fucking trust Juria and her nosy little nose.
Hmmm… Perhaps two locks just for insurance. One of the smaller storage rooms near the kitchen could become general supplies. The stable needs repairing before—
My pencil stopped drawing.
Then, I made a small mark beside the stable.
Spitfire.
There. Nice and cosy.
I took another piece of paper as my mind now moves upstairs. My room is already obvious, I am sleeping in it. Marna's room will become available once she leaves, though it is larger than mine and therefore—
Luna would probably prefer that one. She rises absurdly early by any civilised standard and possess some unnatural friendship with dawn so she would appreciate it.
I wrote: Luna — sunrise/east facing room.
Good lord, why have I assigned Luna a room?
Because she is staying here, obviously.
Obviously.
Anyway, moving on. Juria's current room is opposite mine though a few steps away. I can manage this arrangement because the distance has reduced her hideous snoring and sleep chatters to a manageable level. It is quite close to the stairs too which would be a huge help if we ever have to haul a mountain again. Oh wait, I remember the alarming amount of force with which she collapsed onto the mattress.
Yes. The bedframe requires reinforcement.
I write: Juria — reinforce bed. Significantly.
Beneath it I add check floorboards, then stronger shutters, then hooks in kitchen, although I cannot remember what thought connected those three things. It'll come back to me later.
During the process of designing a building for myself, I appear to have designed one for three people.
"This is spatial optimisation," I informed my little empty kingdom. What I presumed is a rodent inside the wall scratched and I pointed my pen towards it. "Do not start."
"Ah—!"
I woke up with my cheek stuck to a sheet of paper, my right hand still loosely wrapped around my pen and my left shoulder attempting to murder me. Huh. I suppose I fell asleep without my consent.
I jerked upright and I instantly regretted that. Pain ran from the base of my neck across the back of my left shoulder and down beneath the shoulder blade, annoyingly painful enough to make me freeze halfway through the movement.
Wonderful. Not this shite again. When is this stupid pain going to leave me?
I remain hunched over the desk for a bit with my eyes squeezed shut while the muscles slowly decide if they intend to release me or keep me hostage for the rest of the morning. This particular nuisance has been following me for years ever since the column incident though most days it behaves itself, occasionally it reminds me that I am, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, constructed from flesh and bones.
Despite the abundance and advancement of medical knowledge in Halleya, I never had it properly checked because it only flares when I do something spectacularly stupid and also because I am very good at deciding that temporary pain is less inconvenient than seeing a doctor.
"Excellent decision, Claudemund," I murmured, forcing myself to get out of this situation.
By the time I make it downstairs, breakfast is already being prepared by none other than my two companions. Juria stood at the long kitchen table attacking a loaf of bread with more force than bread deserves while Luna works beside her with a bowl of chopped vegetables and a small pan warming over the stove. The smell of butter and something savoury reaches me before either of them notices my arrival.
I made it as far as the nearest dining chair and slumped sideways with one arm folded across the table and lower my head onto it, carefully keeping my left shoulder in a position that does not make me consider amputation as a reasonable morning activity. Juria finally noticed me so I stared back through half-open eyes.
I mean… I have made it downstairs. That is already a contribution.Nobody appears appropriately grateful.
"You planning to help?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"No?" Juria asked again, but this time, her knife stopped.
"I have decided not to," I told her. I genuinely do not understand the connection. I don't know why I have to help them. By this reasoning, I should presumably milk the cow before putting cream in my tea and mine the iron before using a fork.
"You will be eating it," Juria frowned. "So help make it."
"Why?" I asked this time, still confused. It seems like the question have offended her. I, at least, sat up a little straighter just because indignation has done what sleep could not. "Food is prepared in the kitchen by the kitchen staff, then brought to the dining room at the appropriate time. I also wear clothes every day, Juria. Nobody requires me to operate the loom."
"Well, well, your highness, as you can see, there is no kitchen staff around here."
"Stop calling me that, I am aware that there's only you, me, and Luna," I sighed.
"And now do you realise at least one of us has to make breakfast?" Now this feels like an interrogation I am not willing to participate. "You could help, Claudemund."
Why is she being so difficult early in the morning?
"I do not want to," I frowned.
The silence that followed is almost impressive. I could hear Juria about to say something potentially disastrous for my morning as my legitimate response seems to be unacceptable to her.
"Are you sick? Injured perhaps?"
"My shoulder hurts."
Luna looks up immediately. "Your shoulder?"
"Old injury. It has been conducting a personal vendetta against me for years."
"Have you had it examined?"
"Define examined---"
"So… you actually just don't want to?" Juria interrupted.
"I believe I have made that clear." Both Juria and Luna looked at each other like confused idiots who can't seem to take my answer seriously. "Is that difficult to understand? Did I do something wrong?"
"Most people don't get to refuse every unpleasant task just because they don't feel like doing it," Juria hissed as she pointed her knife towards the bread, then at me.
Most people.
There's that phrase again. I'm beginning to suspect that most people lived exceptionally inconvenient lives. Fucking good morning to you tooo, Juria. "Get the fuck up, Claudemund."
"I have already declined. I will not be bullied into manual labour."
Before this can become a matter of violence, I heard Luna placing her knife down and walked towards me. "Claudemund, I am going to show you something." Luna placed a carrot in front of me followed by a small knife. "I'd like you to try peeling this, dear."
"With what?" I asked.
"This," Luna then gently took the knife and she demonstrates slowly, drawing the blade down the length of the carrot and turning it between her fingers. "Keep it here here. Away from the edge."
After the little demonstration, she handed the carrot to me as I attempted to follow her instructions.
Why does it come off too thick?
This is infuriating.
I've put less pressure and now it's too thin.
Oh, fuck this vegetable.
"Hmmm…" I murmured to myself. I tried doing it again and it looked better this time.
"There," Luna smiled. "That is all."
"This hardly qualifies as cooking," I said.
"No," she agrees. "But it is part of feeding yourself. You do not need to learn everything immediately, Claudemund. But if Juria and I leave someday, you should be able to prepare something for yourself without depending on whoever happens to be nearby."
"Leave?" My hand stopped halfway down the carrot. Something unpleasant drops through my stomach.
Oh.
I do not like that word.
"Well, yes," Luna said gently. "We may not always be together."
"That seems inefficient," I sighed as I kept staring at the carrot. "There is absolutely no practical reason for either of you to leave. Brackenford is positioned along a major road! The tavern has sufficient rooms, food storage, space, and a defensible position. The shed can be converted into a workshop, which is irrelevant to you but still useful, and I have already accounted for both of you in the floor plan—"
"You did what?" Juria interrupted with a grin on her face. "Are you trying to convince us to stay?"
"No, what I said about the floor plan is irrelevant," I replied back immediately. "I am merely pointing out that departure would be strategically unsound."
"Uhuh," Juria said, still with that annoying grin again. "Nothing to do with you not wanting us to go?"
"Obviously not." My gods, I am in no mood to argue with a lizard today. Fuck off, Juria.
"We have no plans to leave today," Luna smiled.
"And tomorrow?" I asked before I can stop myself.
"We will speak about tomorrow when it comes," Luna smiled and returned back to what she was doing.
That is not an answer.
I hate non-answers.
"Fine," I murmured to myself as I look back down at the carrot. I stayed quiet for a few moments until I finally have words for the thought that was forming. When I finally got myself together, I added, "You should both stay until the tavern repairs and renovations are finished. I think for someone my size, I could use some help."
"That could take months," Juria snorted.
"Yes, I am aware, Juria."
"And after that?"
"There will probably be maintenance. Yes. A lot of it, perhaps. Buildings like this one require continuous maintenance," I said with a sigh, cutting through the carrot once more until I have demonstrated enough basic vegetable competence to satisfy Luna and Juria.
By late morning, I have run out of practical excuses to delay the inevitable. Marna's waiting by the door with the documents tucked beneath one arm.
Ugh, the sight of them made my stomach tighten again.
Hold on, Claudemund.
I solved this. I spent half the night going through this bullshite. You found a perfectly reasonable loophole though none of this information has reached the part of my body responsible for behaving rationally.
"You ready?" Marna asked, snapping me out of the mildly annoying thoughts that were starting to spiral again.
"Yes," I replied in a snap.
By the time we arrived at the clerk's office, this shite turned out to be considerably less intimidating than the one I constructed inside my head.
I suppose for a start, nobody arrested me.
There was no line of soldiers waiting behind the desk bringing a paper with royal seal stamped across the order for my return nor a messenger from Halleya pointing at me whilst shouting something dreadful. Sitting behind the desk was only an elderly man with thinning grey hair, hardly memorable except for his shiny forehead.
"Ah, Marna. Finally, the sale of the Gored Boar, I presume?" he asked.
"Aye, finally found a buyer," Marna nodded.
"Sit," the clerk said as he gestured towards the chairs opposite him.
Juria and Luna remained further back, which I appreciated because I can't get myself stressed any further by having these two right next to me. The clerk took the papers from Marna and started skimming the first page then checked the property description and then slid the purchaser's section towards me.
Oh dear gods, there it is. The same bloody line that kept me awake until an unreasonable hour. I stared at the cursed line, my fingers tightened around the pen.
"Your name, young miss?" the clerk asked.
I gulped. I could sense sweat in my armpits as nervousness started to surround me. "Claudemund Meridian…"
He wrote something in his ledger then his eyes moved down the page. "Place of origin?" He asked again.
"Halleya."
His pen paused and so does my heart. The clerk looked up towards me. For this horrible moment, I became annoyingly aware of every Halleyan thing about myself at once: my accent, my posture, my clothes, the gold sitting in Marna's purse, the fact that I perhaps still look like someone who has been trained from childhood to sit correctly even when trying very hard not to… Ah! This was a horrible deci—
"Long way," the clerk said.
"Yes," I nodded. Well… I suppose that snapped me out a little bit.
He continued writing while I was busy being a nervous wreck. I feel like I'm about to have a cardiac arrest on the spot. It didn't take long until the clerk pushed the deed towards me.
"Sign there."
My eyes fell to the blank space that for all the panic this little line caused me last night, it suddenly looks very ordinary.
Purchaser.
I lowered my pen as I slowly but carefully, I write:
Claudemund Meridian.
I paused for a bit though that got cut off quickly when the clerk takes the document back before I can stare at it and be an emotional wreck. He checks the signature, turns the page, asked Marna to sign beneath her declaration and begins the remaining formalities. Honestly, this was a blur to me.
My attention departed shortly afterwards as soon as he began droning on about some bureaucracy bullshite until the Halleyan gold was finally weighed. He calculated then its value in local currency and confirmed that it covers the agreed price. Marna accepts the payment, and he enters the Gored Boar as my new permanent residence. Then everyone signed again and something was stamped. I answered three non-treasonous questions and finally the clerk pressed the final seal into the wax.
I suppose I officially have an address now.
"There," he says. "Transfer recognised."
"That is all?" I asked, quite surprised at how absurdly ordinary this situation is.
"That is generally how property transfers work," the clerk replied as he looks at me over his spectacles.
"Oh! Well then... Excellent!" I nodded with as much dignity as I can gather but inside my head, several dozen thoughts begin shouting at once.
I own a tavern...
I actually own a damn tavern.
Oh gods.
What the fuck have I done?
By the time we return to the Gored Boar, I have inspected the deed gods know how many times, checked the clerk's seal twice, and resisted the urge to ask Marna whether there is a possibility that the entire transaction could be undone.
Unfortunately, it could not be undone.
The tavern looks exactly as it did when we left as the same crooked sign hangs above the entrance. I am not certain what I expected. Perhaps a fanfare? A ceremonial ribbon? Some official declaration acknowledging that I have just spent a horrifying amount of money acquiring a building that appears to be in a state of decomposition?
"Right then," Marna said as she walked behind the counter and begun rummaging through a drawer, producing a rather substantial ring of keys. "Best get these sorted before I forget which one's which."
I approached the counter while Juria immediately helped herself to a chair near the hearth. Luna remained beside me, watching as Marna spreads several keys across the wooden surface. "This one's the front door," Marna explained, holding up a large iron key. "Back door's the smaller one. Stable's got its own lock, though you'll need to give it a good shove before turning the key because the bloody thing sticks when it's damp."
I nod solemnly, attempting to commit all of this to memory. Naturally, the moment Marna puts the first key down, I have already forgotten which one she said belonged to the back door.
Dear gods, Claudemund, you twat.
"The cellar's this one. Pantry's that one but don't turn it too hard or you'll snap the bastard. Shed's the brass one. Got a spare for the front door somewhere, too, if I can remember where I put it."
"That is reassuring," I murmured
Marna laughed and continued sorting through the keys. I am beginning to suspect that this building is less a functioning establishment and more a collection of architectural hazard. But then again, I would rather pick this run down shack than that shitehole of a palace in Halle---
"There you are, lass. Tavern's yours!" Marna announced, cutting off whatever ridiculous thought I had back there as she eventually gathered the keys into one ring and placed it in my open palm while I was lost in my thoughts. Her hand lingers for another moment before she withdraws it, turning to straighten a stack of papers that was already perfectly straight. I watched her as I cannot quite tell whether she is relieved or sad to be rid of this place. I suppose spending years looking after something makes it rather difficult to part with, even when it has become an enormous pain in the arse.
Wow. The keys are heavier than I expected.
Several were worn smooth around the edges, their teeth uneven from years of use. They are thoroughly ordinary keys I have seen servants carrying around the palace hundreds of times without giving them a second thought.
Except these belong to me.
Not to that awful steward. Not to the Crown. Definitely not to somebody entrusted with managing a portion of my life on my behalf.
Me!
I turned the ring over in my hand, listening to the little metallic clatter. How peculiar. I have possessed things worth considerably more than this entire building yet none of those things ever felt particularly remarkable. And yet here I am, staring at a ring of rusty keys as though Marna has just handed me something extraordinary.
"Claudemund?"
I snapped out and looked up. Marna's been looking at me.
"You all right there?"
"Of course," I replied, straightening immediately. "I am merely familiarising myself with the locking mechanisms."
"Right," she said somehow unconvinced. "Well, I'll need another day to finish packing my things, if that's all right with you. I've got a trunk upstairs and some personal bits in the kitchen. Everything else we agreed on stays."
"Yes, certainly! Please take whatever time you require," I replied. "Within reason, of course. I do intend to begin renovations before the building discovers another exciting method of collapsing."
"Aye, well, I don't envy you that part," Marna chuckled.
Neither do I, Marna. And I am apparently the idiot who paid for the privilege.
From somewhere behind us comes a familiar voice. "So you're our landlady now?"
Oh, for fuck's sake.
I turned towards Juria. She has made herself exceptionally comfortable in one of the chairs, her legs stretched out in front of her and that horrible grin slowly spreading across her face.
"Do not call me that."
"Landlady."
"Juria."
"Lady of the Gored Boar."
"I will throw you out."
Her grin widens. "Thought you didn't want us leaving?" Luna made a very suspicious coughing sound beside me.
"That is entirely different," I announced.
"How?"
"Because I am discussing a hypothetical measure, not an actual recommendation concerning your residential arrangements," I frowned.
"What?"
"I said, shut the fuck up."
"There she is!" Juria laughed, slapping her thigh. "Our lovely fucking landlady!"
I am not going to lie, I briefly considered throwing the keys at her. That would've been hilarious seeing the thing bounce on her face, though that would involve surrendering my newly acquired property for the purposes of assault, as well as the possibility of having to pick it up from the ground. I could not be bothered anymore. Marna laughed as she retreated towards the kitchen, leaving me to contemplate whether purchasing a tavern also grants me the authority to establish rules against excessive mockery of its owner.
Perhaps I should ask the clerk tomorrow.
For now, I slipped the keys into my pocket and looked around the common room. There is still a great deal to repair, an unreasonable amount to organise, and an entire business whose daily operations I understand considerably less than I would prefer to admit. Not that I would want to run it, but a side business wouldn't be so bad? Money has never been a particularly complicated matter in my experience. Whenever I required funds for something important, I simply informed the appropriate steward, explained my requirements, maybe endure an unnecessarily tedious discussion about expenditures, and eventually the requested amount appeared! Occasionally, someone would produce a ledger and insist that I review it which I usually did.
I am, after all, an exceptionally responsible person.
Of course, there were times when Their Majesties a.k.a. my mother and father would refuse to authorise my requests, particularly when my proposed projects involved what my mother once described as an appalling disregard of consequences. But those were administrative disagreements rather than financial problems.
Nevertheless, I understand the general principles of commerce. Customers enter an establishment, purchase goods or services, and provide money in exchange. The proprietor then uses that money to maintain the establishment, acquire supplies and pay the necessary expenses. Simple!
And as the proprietor, I assume the money will now come to me.
Besides, I still have plenty of gold. And when that runs out—
Hmmmmmm...
Well.
I suppose if I require additional funds, I shall simply arrange for the necessary expenditure to be authorised.
Though... by whom, exactly?
Hmmmm...
That is an excellent question.
I dislike it.
Ah! I couldn't care less about business for now. I have my own place!
Spitfire is already taking up space in the stable, Luna has a kitchen and a garden she seems remarkably pleased with, and Juria is currently on a chair that I shall almost certainly have to fix.
Tomorrow, I will wake up here. And, assuming neither of them suddenly develops an inexplicable desire to abandon a perfectly adequate accommodation, so will they.
For the first time since leaving Halleya, I actually know where I will be sleeping tomorrow night. And the night after that, and perhaps the one after that as well.
I felt the weight of the keys against my leg and cannot quite stop myself from smiling.
Well then.
Welcome home, Claudemund.