Chapter 211 - 212 — Eight Coppers an Hour

Two flat-bed wagons loaded with timber scaffolding were blocking the main archway when Arthur crossed the lower quad on Friday morning.

A team of municipal carpenters had roped off the stone paving around the central fountain, forcing the morning crowd of students onto the damp grass of the east lawn. Men in city tabards were hauling crates of brass lanterns toward the administrative steps, while a clerk with a surveying rod argued with an academy groundskeeper over where to drive the support stakes for a viewing pavilion.

Arthur stepped around a coil of heavy hemp rope, keeping his left arm tucked slightly against his ribs so the crowd wouldn’t jostle his bracer. What normally took three minutes of walking was turning into a ten-minute detour around the mud.

Near the base of the administrative stairs, Leon and Alicia stood slightly apart from the foot traffic. Leon held a thick, cream-colored sheet of parchment bearing the wax seal of the city council. He was staring at it the way he usually stared at Vale’s surprise tactical exams.

Arthur cut across the gravel path and walked up to them. "Did the watch finally decide to arrest you, or is that a tax audit?"

Leon lowered the paper. "The city’s festival is in a few weeks."

"I noticed the lumber," Arthur said, glancing back at the carpenter hammering a bracket into the stone arch. "What does that have to do with you?"

"The Chancellor’s office submitted a list of student representatives to the city organizers," Leon said, holding up the parchment. "I’m supposed to stand on the main platform during the opening procession and escort the provincial magistrates through the upper ring."

"Sounds easy enough," Arthur said. "Wave at the crowd, try not to trip over your sword, go home."

"Read the second page," Alicia said from beside him. She had a smaller folded notice tucked against her textbook.

Arthur leaned over and squinted at the dense black script on the reverse side of Leon’s summons.

"Three evening rehearsals at the civic plaza," Arthur read aloud, a grin starting to pull at the corner of his mouth. "A mandatory uniform fitting this afternoon, a formal reception at the guildhall, and two days of escort duty for the eastern trade envoys." He looked up at Leon. "You’re not a representative. You’re free labor in a nice coat."

"It’s an honor to represent the first-year combat division," Leon said, though his voice lacked conviction. "My father already sent a message telling me not to embarrass the family name in front of the council."

"You’re going to spend six hours standing behind a velvet rope watching old men eat roasted pheasant," Arthur said.

"He isn’t allowed near the buffet during the first two hours," Alicia pointed out. "Protocol requires the academy honor guard to remain stationed by the dais until the magistrates finish their toasts."

Leon dragged a hand through his hair. "Why do you know the buffet rules?"

"Because my family has hosted half those magistrates," Alicia said. "And because I was assigned to the reception committee."

Leon blinked, looking over at her. "You’re going to be there?"

"Someone has to make sure the delegates from the river provinces aren’t seated next to the iron guild," Alicia said, adjusting the strap of her bag. "Just nod until they run out of breath, and don’t let anyone ask you about border tariffs."

Before Arthur could comment, one of the academy’s administrative liaisons hurried down the stone steps, carrying a leather binder stuffed with loose rosters. The man spotted Leon’s bright hair first, then stopped short when he recognized Arthur standing next to him.

"Mr. Vance," the liaison said, flipping his binder open. "Good. Saved me a trip to the dormitories. The festival committee asked for three more names from the upper combat rankings to fill out the opening procession. Given your involvement in the autumn clearance operations, the Vice-Chancellor suggested we include you."

Arthur took a half-step back. "What does it pay?"

The liaison paused, his pen hovering over the roster. "Pay? It’s a ceremonial appointment, Mr. Vance. The city council provides your dress sash, and the participation is recorded directly on your academy commendation file."

"Can I trade the dress sash for fourteen silver?" Arthur asked.

"Certainly not."

"Then I’m going to pass," Arthur said. "I’ve already got enough to do without spending my evenings rehearsing how to stand behind somebody important."

"A commendation from the municipal council carries significant weight with the upper guilds," the liaison said, frowning.

"I already have a guild," Arthur said. "Give the sash to someone who wants to look pretty on the platform."

The liaison sighed and drew a line through an entry on his sheet. "Very well. Mr. Braveheart, the municipal tailor is waiting in Room Four of the west annex. Miss Valentine, the protocol coordinator needs your signature on the seating chart before noon."

"We’re on our way," Alicia said politely.

As the liaison turned back toward the temporary pavilions, Leon looked at Arthur. "You could have suffered through the rehearsals with me."

"I’m a supportive friend, Leon, not an idiot," Arthur said. "Enjoy the tailor. Make sure they leave room in the shoulders so you can carry Alicia’s notes."

"Go to hell, Arthur," Leon muttered, falling into step beside Alicia as the two of them headed toward the west annex.

With the main quad still jammed with timber carts, Arthur took the covered colonnade that ran along the side of the old lecture hall.

The city organizers had set up a row of folding wooden tables beneath the stone arches to handle the paid municipal work for the festival. A painted signboard near the pillars listed hourly rates for temporary student hires: courier runners, ward-lamp tenders, baggage clerks, and night-watch assistants.

At the far end of the walkway, a city artificer in a heavy leather apron sat behind a table stacked with brass calibration spheres, testing students for the magical maintenance crews.

A girl stood across from him with her right palm pressed flat against the largest sphere.

She was wearing a standard academy coat that had been mended twice along the left seam, the dark blue wool faded around the cuffs from too many washings. A heavy canvas satchel hung from her shoulder, bulging with thick reference books that pulled her posture slightly to one side. Her pale hair was tied back with a plain strip of black twine.

Inside the brass sphere, a thin thread of mana curled around the central spindle.

Instead of forcing more power into it, the girl carefully divided the thread into three rings. Each held steady as she adjusted the flow.

Arthur slowed.

Then the rings flickered and broke apart. The gauge barely moved.

The artificer checked the reading. "Control’s excellent. Output’s nowhere near what we need."

"The street lamps use charged cores," the girl said. "I wouldn’t need to supply the mana myself."

"And if a ward fails? You need enough power to shut it down before someone gets hurt. I can’t approve you."

She looked at the gauge again, flexing her fingers once before tucking them into her coat sleeve. "What other work do you have?"

The artificer flipped a page in his folder. "Supply depot at the south gate needs clerks to sort festival permits and check crate manifests. Eight coppers an hour."

"The lamp crew pays twenty."

"The lamp crew requires Tier Two output," the artificer said. "Take the depot slot or step aside, please. I’ve got thirty more students to test before lunch."

She leaned forward slightly, reading the upside-down contract sheet under his hand. "The notice board by the gate says the south depot clerks have to report earlier in the week to log the first merchant wagons. Does the eight-copper rate start when I sign the evening ledger, or is the city trying to count the preliminary sorting as unpaid training?"

The artificer blinked, looking down at the bottom of the municipal form. He frowned, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and crossed out a line near the margin before initialing it.

"Hourly rate applies from the moment the gate sergeant signs your timecard," he said, handing her a stamped slip. "Iris Rowan. South gate depot, Tuesday at five. Don’t lose the slip, or the paymaster won’t clear your wages."

She took the paper, folded it into quarters, and tucked it into the front pocket of her worn satchel.

Iris Rowan.

Arthur knew that name.

In the game, she eventually became the White Queen, a late-game boss who could bury entire battlefields in ice. He’d spent four fucking days trying to beat her.

And now she was standing outside an academy hiring booth, arguing over eight coppers an hour.

What the hell happened between those two versions of her?

Iris turned away from the table, took two steps down the colonnade, and stopped when she noticed Arthur looking at her.

"If you’re looking for the security roster, Vance, it’s two tables back," Iris said. "They’re paying fifteen coppers an hour if you let them put you on the night gates."

Arthur pushed off the pillar and fell into step beside her as she started walking toward the library wing. "I already turned down a free sash this morning. I’m not looking for gate duty."

"Then why were you watching my test?"

"Your control looked better than your output," Arthur said.

"Doesn’t matter if I can’t meet the minimum," Iris replied.

"For that job, maybe."

She shifted her heavy bag higher on her hip as they stepped out of the colonnade onto the gravel path. "Did you actually want something, or are you just bored because they closed the courtyard?"

"You’re in the general theory track?" Arthur asked.

"Elemental structure and array mechanics," Iris said. "Unless I pass the next practical evaluation, they’ll try to transfer me to the scribe annex."

"And you’re going to let them transfer you?"

"Of course not," she said. "The scribe annex doesn’t have access to the upper laboratory catalysts. I just need to pay my lab fees before the bursar locks my bench on the first of the month."

"Sorting manifests at the south gate is a slow way to pay for laboratory catalysts," Arthur noted.

"It’s guaranteed coin, and I can read between wagons," Iris said. She stopped near the steps of the auxiliary library, turning to face him. The wind off the lawn caught a loose strand of pale hair, blowing it across her cheek; she tucked it back behind her ear with ink-stained fingers. "Everyone at this school knows you run with that hunter guild down in the warehouse district, Vance. If you’re walking beside me to offer me a contract, tell me what the job is. If you’re not, I have an essay due at one."

"My guild buys dungeon salvage," Arthur said. "Cores, old equipment, the occasional artifact nobody knows what to do with. I could ask Sylvia if she needs someone who understands magical arrays."

"Is that a job offer?"

"Not yet. I’d have to talk to her first."

Iris considered him for a moment. "And what would it pay?"

"Depends on the work."

"Then talk to her. I’m in Room Twelve, east dormitory annex. If you’ve got something better than eight coppers an hour, send word."

"And until then?"

"I’ve already got a job, Vance."

She gave him a brief nod, turned, and hauled her heavy bag up the stone steps into the library.

Arthur watched the library doors close, already imagining Sylvia’s face when he suggested hiring a mage who couldn’t even qualify to maintain a streetlamp.