Chapter 4: The Appraiser
Summer heat pressed down on Oxenfurt like a blanket soaked in river water. The streets steamed after morning rain, and every breath tasted of fish and damp stone. I'd been in this body for six weeks now, and somewhere along the way, I'd stopped counting days.
The merchant's shop was cramped and dim, lit by candles that had melted into strange shapes over years of neglect. A woman in expensive silks stood across the counter from me, holding what she claimed was an elven blade.
"My late husband acquired it from a trader in Vengerberg," she said. "Authentic Aen Seidhe craftsmanship. Surely worth—"
I took the blade. The Scanner activated with a thought, painting the weapon in dull grey with text floating beside it.
[ITEM IDENTIFIED]
"Elven" Blade (Forgery)
Classification: Human-made weapon
Age: Approximately 3 years
Materials: Standard steel, decorative silver inlay
Actual Value: 12 crowns
Notes: Engravings imitate elven script but contain grammatical errors. Handle wrap is machine-stitched (human technique).
"Grammatical errors in fake elvish. This Scanner doesn't mess around."
"I'm sorry," I said, handing it back. "The blade is well-made, but it's not elven. The steel composition is wrong, and the script on the blade—it's decorative, not functional. A skilled human forger, probably working three or four years ago."
Her face went through several stages: denial, anger, grief. Her husband had probably overpaid dramatically.
"How much?" she asked, voice tight.
"Twelve crowns for materials. Maybe fifteen if you find a collector who appreciates the craftsmanship regardless of origin."
She left without thanking me. Fair enough. I'd just told her that her dead husband's prized acquisition was worthless. Nobody wanted to hear that.
The shop's owner—a jeweler named Henryk who'd started consulting me after Aldous spread the word—emerged from his back room. He'd been listening.
"You're certain?"
"The engravings have errors. Real elven smiths wouldn't make those mistakes."
Henryk nodded slowly. He'd stopped questioning my assessments after the first week. My accuracy rate was too consistent for comfortable explanation, and he'd learned not to ask how I did it.
"Natural talent. That's what they think. Some kind of savant gift for spotting value."
The lie was easier than the truth. And the truth would get me burned as a witch or worse.
[DAILY AUTHENTICATION COMPLETE]
[+85 GP AWARDED]
[TOTAL GP: 1,247]
I collected my fee—eight crowns for the morning's work—and stepped into the humid streets. The sun was past its peak, shadows lengthening between buildings. My stomach growled, reminding me that breakfast had been hours ago.
The Drunken Scholar was busy for mid-afternoon. Students argued philosophy at corner tables, merchants nursed ales while discussing trade routes, and a group of off-duty guards played dice near the fireplace. I found my usual spot—a small table near the kitchen, where I could watch the room and reach the back door if needed.
Old habits. New world. Same paranoia.
"Mutton stew," I told the tavern keeper when he passed. "And bread if you have any fresh."
He grunted acknowledgment. We'd developed an understanding over the weeks. I paid promptly, caused no trouble, and tipped well when I could afford it. He remembered my orders and occasionally passed along useful gossip.
The stew arrived steaming. Thick gravy, chunks of meat that might actually have been mutton, root vegetables soft from hours of simmering. I ate slowly, savoring each bite.
"When did I stop comparing this to restaurant food? When did 'good stew' stop meaning 'good for medieval standards' and just start meaning good?"
The realization hit me somewhere between the third and fourth spoonful. I'd adapted. The mental noise of my old life—the constant background comparison, the longing for conveniences that didn't exist here—had faded to silence. This was home now. Not by choice, but by survival. And survival had its own kind of peace.
A burst of laughter from the dice game drew my attention. One of the guards had won big, coins clinking as he scooped them toward himself. His companions groaned and ordered more ale to drown their losses.
"Normal people. Normal problems. Nobody here knows about dimensional tears or the Wild Hunt or whatever cosmic horror is scheduled for this decade."
I smiled into my stew. Gallows humor. The only kind that fit.
"You're in a good mood."
The voice came from beside my table. Young woman, maybe eighteen or nineteen, dark hair pulled back in a practical braid. The tavern server—I'd noticed her before but never learned her name. She carried a pitcher of water and the kind of observant expression that suggested she noticed more than most people realized.
"The stew's better than usual."
"Liar. Cook made it the same as always." She refilled my cup without asking. "You're the appraiser, right? The one who spotted the luck charm at Gregor's stable?"
"Word travels. In a city this size, that's either very good or very dangerous."
"I have a knack for seeing value. Nothing special."
"Nothing special doesn't take someone from sleeping in stables to merchant consultations in two months."
She wasn't wrong. And the directness was refreshing after weeks of merchants dancing around their real questions.
"I'm Finn."
"Mira." She glanced toward the kitchen, checking she wasn't needed. "The merchants talk, you know. When they drink. They say you've never been wrong. Not once."
"Everyone's wrong eventually."
"But you haven't been yet." Her eyes held mine—curious, not challenging. "That's interesting."
Before I could respond, my elbow caught the edge of my water cup. It toppled, spilling across the table in a spreading pool. I grabbed for it too late, succeeding only in knocking the bread into the puddle.
"Smooth. Very smooth. Six weeks of building a reputation, ruined by clumsy elbows."
Mira laughed. Not mocking—genuine amusement. "The mysterious appraiser with the perfect eye. Defeated by a cup."
"It was a very aggressive cup."
She produced a rag from her apron, mopping up the spill with practiced efficiency. When she finished, she refilled my cup again and set down a fresh piece of bread.
"No charge for the refill. Consider it payment for the entertainment."
"Thanks."
She moved on to other tables, but I caught her glancing back once. Twice. Something about my situation interested her, and I filed that away for future reference. The system wanted me to recruit members eventually. Natural perception and quiet intelligence were valuable traits.
[SOCIAL INTERACTION LOGGED]
[Mira Voss - Tavern Server]
[Interest Level: Moderate]
[Potential Recruitment Candidate: Under Evaluation]
The interface pulsed at the edge of my vision. I dismissed it with a thought and returned to my stew, now slightly watered down but still edible.
Mira's Perspective
The appraiser ate like someone who'd known real hunger. Not the performative deprivation of students saving coin for ale—genuine starvation, the kind that taught you to value every mouthful. I'd seen it before. Refugees from the southern wars, villages burned by Nilfgaard, people who'd walked for weeks with nothing but hope and desperation.
But Finn wasn't a refugee. No accent, no trauma-haunted eyes, no flinching at loud noises. Just a fifteen-year-old boy who'd arrived in Oxenfurt with nothing and somehow clawed his way to merchant contracts in less than two months.
"There's a story there. One he's not telling anyone."
I wiped down empty tables, keeping him in peripheral vision. He'd finished eating and was now writing in a small notebook—client appointments, probably. Neat handwriting, the kind that came from education. Another contradiction. Educated boys didn't end up homeless in strange cities.
The kitchen door swung open. Old Marek, the cook, gestured me over.
"Stop staring at customers," he said, not unkindly. "Makes 'em nervous."
"I wasn't staring."
"You were cataloging. Different thing, same result." He handed me a stack of clean bowls to distribute. "That one's trouble, mark my words. Talent like his doesn't come from nowhere."
"Maybe he's just gifted."
Marek snorted. "Nobody's that gifted without cost. Whatever he's selling, someone's paying a price. Might be him, might be others. But the bill always comes due."
I carried the bowls to their shelf, thinking about old men and their cynicism. Marek had lived through two wars and a plague. He saw threats in every shadow.
But when I looked back at Finn's table, he was gone. Coins left neat on the wood, notebook vanished, chair pushed in with almost military precision.
"Where do you go, appraiser? When the work is done and the stew is finished, where does someone like you disappear to?"
The question lingered. Questions usually did, with me.
Finn's Perspective
Night had fallen by the time I finished reviewing my accounts. Sixty-seven crowns saved, after expenses. Decent clothes that fit properly. A quality knife—not the borrowed silver one, but my own blade, purchased fairly. A small notebook tracking clients, fees, and patterns.
Progress. Measurable, sustainable progress.
[CURRENT STATUS]
GP: 1,247
Level: 2
Phase: 1 (Foundation)
Local Reputation: Merchant Class (Oxenfurt) - 38%
Local Reputation: General Population (Oxenfurt) - 12%
Active Quest: Establish Foothold (38/50%)
The interface expanded when I focused on it, filling my rented room with ghostly light that only I could see. Skill trees branched like winter oaks, most paths locked behind phase restrictions or experience thresholds. The Guild Shop remained inaccessible—no headquarters meant no commerce system.
"Twelve percent general reputation means regular people are starting to recognize my name. That's... both good and concerning."
Recognition brought opportunities. It also brought attention. And attention in a world of witch hunters and suspicious nobles could turn dangerous fast.
I dismissed the interface and lay back on my thin mattress. The ceiling above was water-stained and cracked. Home, for now.
The problem with appraisal work was its ceiling. I could identify valuable items until the end of time and never unlock the system's combat abilities. Never prove I could handle actual threats. Never establish the kind of reputation that attracted members worth recruiting.
The system had been showing me something for days. A notification I'd been ignoring because the implications terrified me.
[REGIONAL CONTRACTS AVAILABLE]
[Monster Activity: Drowner Infestation (Oxenfurt Sewers)]
[Threat Level: Low-Moderate]
[Bounty: 20 crowns (City Guard posting)]
[System Reward: 500 GP + Combat Abilities Unlocked]
Drowners. Aquatic ghouls that lurked in waterways, dragging victims under to drown and feed. My meta-knowledge classified them as low-tier threats—dangerous to untrained peasants, manageable for anyone with proper preparation and equipment.
"Proper preparation. That's the key. No hero charges, no dramatic last stands. Plan it like a project. Execute it like a professional."
The thought crystallized into decision. Tomorrow, I'd visit the Guard Captain and accept the contract.
Tonight, I'd start planning how to survive it.