by R. A. Mejia
She gave me a frank look. “How’s that turning out for you? Are you getting close to level eight? You only have a few weeks left till the council’s deadline.”
“Well, I’ve only reached level 6 recently. But I’m expecting to ramp up my XP gain as soon as I finish building my secret weapon.”
“Oh, I love secrets. Tell me what you are making.”
A paused for a moment and considered telling her exactly what I was working on. But, no, she worked for the Institute, and I wasn’t sure I could trust her with all my secrets. Not when someone like Gnomerad could threaten her job to try and make her tell what she knew. But I also didn’t want to outright deny her and possibly hurt her feelings, so I dissembled. “I’m not really even sure if it’s worth talking about yet. It may not be the game-changer that I hope it will be. But I can tell you that if it works the way I’m hoping it will, it’ll boost my damage output in the dungeon by two or threefold.”
“Well, feel free to show me your secrets when you’re all done then. But I hope it does turn out well for you. I’d hate to see that terrible Gnomerad get his way and take your spot in the competition.”
I couldn’t help the bitter tone that crept into my voice as I said, “I would hate to see him take the spot too. If only because it would mean being kept as property by the Institute for the next few years until I paid off my debt to them.” There was an awkward silence after my statement, and I could tell Niala felt uncomfortable, which I’d never meant to make her feel. “I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject to something more pleasant. Please, tell me more about yourself, Niala. Where do you come from? How did you end up working for the Gnomish Research Institute?”
“Well, I grew up on a farm near the city of Gnomeberg to the far west. It's a place that is almost completely populated by my people with a few humans here and there. We grew grains that we sold to the city and while I was a decent enough farmer, I’d always dreamed of adventuring. So, when I came of age, I left my parent’s farm and traveled to the city where I quickly had my hopes of fighting monsters and going on grand adventures dashed.”
“Why did that happen? I imagine there are lots of monsters to fight and adventures to be had in any city.”
“Well, you’d be wrong then. Well, partially. To really understand, I have to tell you a bit about gnome society. Unlike humans or orcs or goblins, gnomes don’t like to get into physical fights. Instead, we value intelligence and ingenuity--so much so, in fact, our social order places inventors, mages, and researchers above all other professions. While fighters are thought of as stupid brutes too dumb to figure out a way not to have to fight.
“So when I went to the city for adventure, all I found were schools teaching magic and technology. No one was interested in fighting with a sword and shield, and there was certainly nothing like the Adventurer’s Guild there.”
“So, why didn’t you go to school like the rest of the gnomes and become a researcher?” I asked.
“Being a researcher is one of the highest callings a gnome could ask for, but if I’m being honest, I just wasn’t smart enough. I was strong and tough from years of working the fields, but I’d never gotten a proper education. So, I became a fighter. I worked as a mercenary for a few years, picking up levels here and there as I escorted caravans and guarded researchers as they captured monsters from the wild or experimented with spells.”
“That doesn’t seem so bad.”
“It wasn’t. But, frankly, it wasn’t what I wanted to do. So when I heard a caravan was heading to Divitiae, I jumped at the chance. Coming here was the adventure I’d been looking for all my life. Between the dungeon, the monsters, and the quests, I’d finally found the adventure I’d been looking for. Not only that, but there were plenty of fighter class trainers, I even found someone to help me specialize as a shieldmaiden.”
“Then why are you a guard for the Institute?”
She turned her head away, and her eyes got this far off look as she answered. “Like any dream, I had to wake up one day. My ma and pa got sick and needed coin to pay hands to tend the fields and for their own medicines. As an adventurer, I just couldn’t afford to send them that much. So, I hired on as a guard at the Institute. It pays steady, and I still have time on my days off to go into the dungeon. My life isn’t quite as exciting as it once was, but I’m taking care of my family and that’s more important.”
I felt guilty for my early mistrust and dissembling. Niala was basically a slave to the Institute because of circumstance. She may not have been their property like I was, but she did not have the option to quit their employ. I reached out and grabbed her hand. She turned back and looked down at my large hand that seemed to engulf hers and I said, “You’re a good woman, Niala. Not everyone would sacrifice their own dreams to take care of their family. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you. I know I am.”
Niala wiggled her nose, sniffled, and pulled her hand from mine to dab at her eye with her napkin. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
She opened her mouth to say something but never finished as our waiter returned with our drinks and Niala’s soup. She smiled at him and inhaled the smell of her food. “Oh, that smells wonderful. It’s already making my eyes water, and I haven’t even had any yet.”
I wasn’t sure if she had said that because the food truly was spicy or to cover her own emotions, but I let it go. Instead I asked, “Oh? Remember our deal. I pay, you eat, but you have to tell me everything about the dish.”
She smiled up at me and nodded vigorously. “I remember.”
As Niala took her fist spoonful of soup her eyes started to truly water and she took a sip of my sweet drink. “Oh, that’s spicy alright. It tastes like peppers and onions and something hot that I can’t quite put my finger on. The salamander meat is tender, and the red sauce gives it a really great bite.”
Niala would go on to describe the baked Metaleon pasta, as crunchy and creamy with a bit of salty after taste. The Alvorian brandy was brown and had a smoky taste but went down smoothly for her. She actually liked my sweet fruity drink more and said it was a good choice.
We made more small talk with me describing a few of the blacksmithing projects I’d worked on and she told me about an interesting adventure or two she’d had before she became a guard. Then, once she finished her meal, a busboy came and took our plates away. The waiter reappeared and asked, “Would you like some dessert to end your meal? We have a delightful custard pie.”
“Do you have ice cream?” I asked without thinking. It was my default response for most of my life on earth whenever anyone had asked me that question.
“Iced Cream?” He repeated back to me with a shake of his head. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of such a dish. But if you tell me how to make it, I’m sure our chef can make you some.”
I felt stunned that this world didn’t have ice cream. It was one of the true joys in my life on Earth. I loved just about every flavor I could get my hands on, even the weird combinations that mixed salty, sweet, and creamy flavors like Roasted Strawberry Coconut or Avocado & Oaxacan Chocolate Fudge. I liked ice cream so much that as a substitute teacher, I’d made it a regular reward for the kids if they behaved well and even incorporated it into their science lesson.
“Well, it’s a bit of a process to make. If you bring me a few things I can show you right here how to make a simple version.”
The waiter looked surprised for a moment, but then after a quick glance at Niala, he nodded and said, “Of course. I’d be happy if you showed me this dish.”
I listed the equipment and ingredients I needed: a baking dish, a smaller pan or flat baking sheet along with ice, salt, milk, cream, sugar, and any sweet fruit. He returned to the kitchen, and I heard raised voices and the clatter of metal.
“You sure this is a good idea?” Niala asked.
“Trust me. These restaurant guys are going to be thanking me when I’m done.”
The waiter returned shortly carrying the metal pans and
ingredients in his arms. He was followed out of the kitchen by a large, heavy-set human wearing a long white shirt, an apron, and a chef's hat. I cleared our table of dishes and the waiter put the items in front of me. The chef watched, red-faced and huffing. He did not say anything, but I could tell that he was upset as he looked down at me with his arms crossed.
I hadn’t meant to upset anyone with my request, but it was too late to turn back as not only had the chef come to watch but most of the patrons had also started to turn around in their seats, curious why the chef had come out of the kitchen. I started by putting the ice in the two-inch deep baking pan and poured salt over the ice.
“Salt on ice? What a waste,” I heard from one of the patrons.
I could not see who said it, but I understood that it was counter-intuitive so I explained out loud. “It’s important to get the baking pan as cold as possible so that the mixture I’m going to make will form special ice crystals. Normal ice won’t do it, and by adding salt, it actually makes the ice extra cold.”
The chef looked around and realized how many eyes were watching, and he nodded as if it were common knowledge.
“Next, I’ll put the shallow baking pan over the salted ice so that it will get cold while I mix equal amounts of cream and milk and add in sugar.” Even though I’d not be able to taste the mixture to test how sweet it was, I’d made this so many times, I already knew just the right amount of sugar to add to make it sweet but not so much that it would overpower the creamy texture. “Next, I’ll add the chopped…” I looked down at the purple diced fruit and then up at the chef and asked, “What kind of sweet fruit is this?”
“It’s Applerry. A fruit we import from a town south of here. How have you not heard of it?”
“Sorry, just didn’t recognize it chopped up like this is all. But next, I'll add the chopped Applerry and the ice cream mixture to the pan, which should be cold enough by now.” I put the fruit onto the frosted pan and poured the mixture of cream, milk, and sugar. “Now, we just wait a moment for it to freeze. Oh, I forgot the spatula.” I turned to the waiter. “I’ll need a spatula and a bowl, please.”
The waiter turned to the chef, who nodded curtly, and the waiter ran off to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with the requested items. “Ok, now that the layer of the mixture that is touching the cold pan is frozen, I just scrape and mix in the fruit.”
I used the spatula to scrape the now-crystallized layer of ice cream from the pan. I rolled as I scraped it from the pan, and I made sure to get every inch of cream and mix it with the chopped fruit. It took a few minutes to make sure all of the liquid cream mixture touched the cold pan and crystallized but it all soon turned into the creamy frozen treat I’d loved.
I scraped up the ice cream and mixed in fruit to the two bowls, snagged spoons from the table next to us, and handed one to Niala and the other to the chef, who no longer looked angry but rather curious. A notification popped up in my vision, but I dismissed it as I wanted to watch the chef as he took his first bite of my favorite dessert.
He took the spoon and scooped up a small bit of the ice cream and carefully put it into his mouth. His expression went from skeptic to delighted as he took another larger spoonful of the treat.
“So cold, so creamy, so sweet. It’s delicious!” he loudly declared, slapping my back with his heavy hand. “You, my friend, are welcome to show me any other dishes like this. I apologize for my skepticism.”
Niala ate a spoonful of the Applerry ice cream and moaned in pleasure. “This is so good, Repair.”
One older woman pointed to Niala, whose eyes were closed as she savored the icy delight, and said, “I’ll have what she’s having.” There was a murmur from the other patrons, and I heard several more ask their waiters for some of the new dessert.
The chef’s eyes widened when he heard the same requests, and he leaned over and asked quickly, “I know how carefully I guard my own recipes, but you seemed to have caused quite a stir with my customers. Would you mind if I made your dish for those that are requesting it? I would, of course, be sure to give you full credit for the dish.”
“Of course, feel free to make as much as you can,” I said. Then, seeing the big smile on the chef’s face, I quickly added, “for 10% of all sales of the ice cream of course.”
Niala held up her empty bowl and asked for another serving. The chef took one look at her delighted expression, took her bowl, and agreed to my terms. A notification appeared in my vision, but I dismissed it for the moment and said, “I’ll warn you that the dessert was among the most popular where I came from. You may have to get more ingredients if you are to keep up with demand.”
The chef nodded eagerly and walked back to his kitchen as he yelled for more pans, ice, and salt and other items.
As I sat there in the restaurant, I watched as each person that ordered ice cream tasted it and childlike wonder came over them. It filled me with gladness to know that I’d helped give them such a positive experience. I recalled the notifications I dismissed and pulled them back up.
You’ve created a first of its kind item. Because of your class ‘Inventor’, you receive one bonus skill point for inventing a new item. Would you like to name the item?
I was surprised by the notification, but it made sense when I thought about it. After all, my specialization was ‘Inventor,’ and it made sense that the System that ruled the world would reward new things related to one's class. I didn’t want to change the name of my favorite dessert, so I named it Ice Cream. Then, I read the other notification.
You have agreed to let Chef Jerry make and sell your food creation in exchange for 10% of the profit.
I chuckled at the notification, recalling that most negotiated deals were registered with the system. It made it very difficult to renege on a deal.
I tried to pay for our meal once we were finished, but the waitstaff refused to take my coins arguing that Chef Jerry insisted that our food was on the house. I thanked them for their generosity and left a silver coin as a tip for the waiter, whose eyes practically popped out of his head as he swiped it from the table. I guessed I might have over tipped, but shrugged it off since I hadn’t had to pay for the soup or food and suspected it would have come out to about the same price since the restaurant seemed to cater to the richer district residents.
Niala and I left the restaurant, and I walked her to her home in the residential neighborhood to the south. She shared a rather spacious apartment with some other female gnome guards. I thought she might invite me inside, but instead, she kissed me goodnight at the door, and I was left thinking about her as I walked back to the Institute.
Chapter 17 - Flintlocked
The next day at the forge, I considered my goals. I’d secured a steady source of income by investing in the mining project, and I’d learned some crafting skills. The only thing I was stalling out on was the rifle project. Ever since I’d seen that Flintlock Pistol on my first day exploring the city, I had known that I’d wanted one. No, I’d wanted something better than a smoothbore Flintlock weapon. I’d tried to get a scan of a flintlock musket from a gunsmith’s shop, but the security was so tight that it was impossible. I also couldn’t afford to spend 10 gold on their cheapest pistol. So, that meant that I’d have to build one for myself.
It was the main reason that I’d taken precious time away from dungeon diving to learn how to blacksmith, woodwork, and craft by hand. It was a serious gamble on my part, devoting so much of my limited time to this, but I hoped that the increase in killing power would ramp up my ability to gain XP from the dungeon and rocket me to level eight. I could see few other ways to overcome the challenge the gnomes had set before me.
I recalled some general principles of firearms and early American rifles in particular from some engineering classes I’d taken. Rifling provided a huge jump in accuracy from smoothbore barrels because it gave the bullet spin as it traveled along the barrel and exited. It was the same principle that applied to throwing a foo
tball: you could just lob it with two hands with a ton of force and hope your receiver was in the right place, or you could grab the football and apply the right spin while throwing it and be able to get that thing to a receiver running toward the goal line.
I gave myself two thumbs up as I thought of the analogy. It really stretched my knowledge of the sport, and I’d only taken an interest in how a football was thrown because of the math and physics involved. Still, it was an accurate comparison. Musket balls were eventually replaced by the conical bullet, called a minié ball, and it wasn’t a design that was hard to replicate. Yet, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember how the early American colonists made their rifles. There had been some innovative weapons used during the American Revolution, like the Kentucky and Pennsylvania rifles. They were legendary because of their unique, long-barrel designs, and if I was going to make my own firearms, I intended to mimic those proven designs. From a design point of view, I knew the barrel had to be strong enough to withstand the powerful combustion of the gunpowder and that they were even tested using three or four times normal loading powder to make sure they were safe.
