Chapter 98

Silo # 43.

Abigail

Lavenfauvish.

Rue, Saint Nicoli. Rue, Saint Geff. Rue, Saint Alexandre. Rue, Saint Fasin.

The streets were all named after famous bricklayers and stonemasons. Aptly so, because the city was a museum of their old skills and talents. Ivy dripped from every balustrade. Every column. Every arch. Every unexplored ally. Even across neglected clothes lines that spanned whole streets.

Lavenfauvish was a grand city. A tall city with bell towers and high spires. Adventurers flocked there for training and to meet with the like-minded. If you were the best of the best, it was more than likely you owned an apartment in Lavenfauvish. Many diamond rankers passed their time there. Which meant I had more than my one goal to worry about. I now also hoped to avoid running into Margaux.

The first half of my day was spent running around the southern part of the city. Although I enjoyed fantastic beers and fair company, I still had no clues on the whereabouts of Hawkin. I wasn’t surprised. It was hard to break into the beer market in Lavenfauvish, which hardly boasted any bronze ranked beers at all. I had to be thorough, though.

My main purpose was to meet with an old acquaintance. So in the second half of my first day in Lavenfauvish, I strolled up the cobbled Rue Saint Serpine to Hiccup’s Gardens. Beautiful gardens.

It was an absolute delight to meet with my long time friend.

“The groundskeeper is gold ranked,” Hiccup said as we strolled around the perimeter of his expansive brewery and gazed upon the rows of dwarf roses. “He used to work on castle grounds until I put in a notice looking for someone of his talents.”

“Explains the floating lotuses and statues of prickly pears.”

“Let us enter my favorite part of the garden, my dear,” Hiccup said.

We turned down a row of tall hedges with a myriad of arranged flowers. Uprooted plants walked along the stonewalk. They lifted one leg of rhizomes, took a step, and then another.

“Delightful!” I said. “What are they?”

“Sweetflag and goldenclubs. Not the most beautiful flowers. The sweetflags can be candied. The goldenclubs can be ground into flour.”

“They’re gorgeous,” I said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Do they need to be watered?”

“I don’t inquire about the man’s secrets. I’m pleased with his work, and I pay him well. These were experimental for him, but they’ve drawn people from around the world. I’ve had to start handing out visitor passes to guests.”

“Absolutely fascinating.”

“Indeed,” Hiccup said. Then after a pause, “it’s been a long time, Miss Yak. Please tell me all that you’ve been up to.”

Hiccup offered an arm and I took it, knowing I could never replace his lost love. Not that I wanted to—certainly not. Hiccup was an old friend. He treated me well. Always had. Even when he was a little punk.

We walked the grounds some more as we talked. Caught up a bit on life. He asked if there was a man in my life. I said “god no” and we laughed about it.

“An absolute delight that you’re here,” Hiccup said at last. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Lavenfauvish.”

“Well, Lavenfauvish is sort of the exception,” I said, “but I’m on a quest to find a particular brewer.”

“The exception? Why wouldn’t you find him here?”

“Well, he’s a bronze ranked brewer.”

“Ah. I see. Why on earth is the gold ranked Abigail Yak searching for a bronze ranked brewer.”

“Potere himself asked me.”

“No,” Hiccup whispered with disbelief, halting our walk for emphasis.

“Afraid so,” I said.

“Well,” he said with raised brows. We resumed our leisurely stroll. “I take it Lavenfauvish is merely a stopping point?”

“I’m being thorough in my search.”

"What’s his name? Maybe I can help.”

“I doubt it. You would be the last to know about a bronze ranked brewer.”

“Try me.”

“His name’s Hawkin.”

“Hawkin,” Hiccup chuckled. “Come this way.”

“Where to?”

“To the silos.”

We left the gardens and entered a sanctuary of tall firs that variegated a field. Barley grew beneath the sun. Like a sea of gold around the firs.

We came to a few rows of tall silos, each as magical as the next. Some empty, some full. They were constructed entirely of light. A pastel, mother of pearl light. When touched, the silos rippled from bottom to top. They even flagged in a light breeze.

“Fantastic,” I said. “I’d very much like something like this.”

“Each silo is connected to a slot in your inventory.”

“What about the weight it adds?”

“The beautiful thing about these silos is that they carry the weight instead.”

“How much for one? I’ll buy one right now. No question about it.”

“I’d love to sell you one. Unfortunately, they’re not mine to sell. I donated them to the gods. I simply agreed to keep them here where they are safe.”

“So the only way I could get one would be through a shard quest, I’m guessing.”

“Precisely,” Hiccup said.

I pouted.

After a moment, Hiccup continued. “Come look at silo number forty-three with me.”

He led me forward.

“I adore this field,” I said. “Reminds me of home. As I’d said, I live on vast hills where the grass is left to grow and die at its own whims.”

Hiccup listened, but was partially preoccupied with counting the silos we passed.

“Here we are,” he said. “Each silo has a plaque with the owner’s name and level. I wanted to show you this one. It’s been of interest to me lately.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I’ve never seen someone level up so quickly. There’s also one other odd thing about this silo. We’re right on time to see it happen.”

“What happens?”

“Around this time, every single day, the silo instantly fills to the brim. Then it’s emptied throughout the following morning.”

“Sounds like someone’s simply quick with it.”

“It’s more than speed,” Hiccup said, now fixated on the clearly empty silo. “It’s instantaneous. I can’t figure out how the man does it. One moment it’s empty. The next moment—bang!—It’s full. Remarkable really.”

“Perhaps he fills it while under the effect of a Slow Time attribute beer.”

“That’s what I thought,” Hiccup said. “So I brewed myself a Slow Time attribute beer and came to watch just the other day. It was still instantaneous.”

“Impossible.”

“I haven’t been able to figure it out,” Hiccup said beneath his breath.

“Well, whose silo is this?”

“Take a look.”

I left Hiccup’s side to approach silo number forty-three. On the plaque was a level counter. It read “Level 812.” Then it changed to Level 813. Then to Level 814. I frowned. Below that was the owner’s rank, and at the bottom was the brewer’s name. “Hawkin.”