The word landed like a dropped anvil in the pristine store.
Garret blinked rapidly, his face scrunching in profound bewilderment. "Cuh... culture? Like... dirt? For plants?"
He glanced down at the immaculately swept floor, then back at the shelf, utterly lost. "But... we just cleaned? And why put dirt inside? On a shelf?" His mind, attuned to the tangible and practical, struggled to grasp the abstract.
Mira's head tilted sharply to the side, a rare expression of open confusion momentarily fracturing her usual composure. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound emerged. Her keen gaze darted between Eamond and the stark emptiness of the shelves, as if the answer lay hidden in the bare grain of the wood or the dust motes dancing in the sunlight.
Culture? The word conjured vague notions of nobility, distant lands, and complex etiquette – things utterly alien to their world of orphanages, petty theft, and survival. How could it possibly fit here?
Jake stared, his perpetual scowl deepening into utter, slack-jawed disbelief. "Culture? What in the nine hells does that mean? You gonna sell people... ideas? Fancy air? Snooty vibes?"
He threw his hands up in exasperation, the gesture encompassing the sheer impracticality of it all. "Sounds like a great way to starve faster."
Eamond chuckled, pushing off the shelf, his eyes sparkling with amusement at their predictable confusion. "Oh, ye of little faith and fertile imaginations! Garret, not that kind of culture. Think higher! Think... refinement! Knowledge! The very essence of civilization!" He gestured grandly towards the empty expanse of wood, imbuing it with sudden, almost theatrical significance.
"Books, my dear boy! Glorious, knowledge-filled books! Poetry! Histories! Maybe even a scandalous novel or two!" He winked conspiratorially. "Courtesy of our esteemed patroness, and her sudden, overwhelming urge to educate the masses... or at least, to educate me into respectable poverty."
The confusion didn't entirely lift, but it shifted. Garret looked slightly less worried about indoor dirt farming, replaced by deep puzzlement. "Books? Like... the heavy ones? The ones with all the squiggly lines?" His brow furrowed. "Who buys those? People who can't sleep?" His experience with written words was limited to signs, ledgers, and the occasional broadsheet headline.
"People with minds eager to expand, Garret!" Eamond retorted, warmth in his voice despite the teasing. "People seeking entertainment, enlightenment... escapism! Or," he added with a grin, "just something thick to throw at annoying relatives."
He patted the shelf again, a conductor acknowledging his orchestra before the performance. "This shelf will hold the wisdom of the ages. Or at least, the wisdom deemed appropriate to dump upon us. It's the cornerstone of our respectable facade. Culture, Jake! The most valuable, and sometimes most baffling, commodity of all."
Mira's expression had shifted from pure confusion to a thoughtful, almost calculating quietness as she studied the empty shelf. Perhaps she was visualizing the physical weight of volumes filling it, the space they would occupy, the customers they might attract. Or perhaps she was weighing the sheer absurdity of Eamond's pronouncement against the reality of their situation.
Her practical mind immediately latched onto the most glaring hurdle. "And how," she asked, her brow deeply furrowed, "will you get these... culture books?" Her gaze swept over her companions. "I can only read simple words. Jake struggles with sentences longer than five words. Garret knows his letters, barely." She paused, the implication hanging heavy. "None of us can write anything beyond our names. You expect us to copy them? Page by page?" The sheer scale of such an endeavor was daunting.
Vale's stoic facade cracked slightly. A muscle twitched near his jawline, the only outward sign of the dawning horror within. "Don't tell me," he said slowly, the words heavy with the weight of terrible possibility, "you are going to write them all yourself?"
His sharp eyes scanned Eamond, perhaps envisioning years locked in a back room, surrounded by mountains of parchment, ink-stained and frantic, while the orphans starved, the shop gathered dust, and the Marquess's patience wore thinner than cheap paper. The professional detachment momentarily vanished, replaced by stark assessment of a potential disaster.
Jake just grunted, crossing his arms tightly, his skepticism a solid wall. "Sounds stupid. And slow. Real slow."
Garret, bless his optimistic heart, looked between Vale and Eamond, seeking a solution. "Could... could we hire someone to write it?" he ventured tentatively. "A really, really fast one?" Even as he said it, the impracticality of the cost seemed to dawn on him, his hopeful expression dimming.
A slow, enigmatic smile spread across Eamond's face, the kind that usually preceded either brilliance or spectacular disaster, often indistinguishable in the moment. Their skepticism was palpable, thick as the scent of new paint hanging in the air. Perfect fuel. Let them doubt. The reveal will be sweeter.
"Gentlemen, Mira," he said, holding up a placating hand, his voice smooth and confident. "Your concerns are noted. Valid, even! But entirely unnecessary." He strolled towards the long, polished counter, running a hand along its cool, smooth surface, grounding himself in the physical promise of the shop.
"You look at these empty shelves and see a problem. A mountain to climb." He tapped his temple. "I see a problem that has already been solved."
He turned to face them, leaning back against the counter, radiating an aura of unshakeable certainty. "The how is my domain. My… particular genius. Let's say I have access to a rather unique supply chain." He paused, letting the phrase hang, implying connections far beyond their ken, resources hidden in the shadows.
"One that operates with startling, almost uncanny, efficiency." A vague gesture upwards hinted at forces both divine and infernal.
"Forget scribes. Forget copying. Forget the tragic image of me hunched over parchment until my eyes bleed and my fingers cramp into claws, Vale – the very thought pains me." He shuddered theatrically.
Mira remained deeply unconvinced, her practical nature warring with his grand claims. "But… overnight? Eamond, how? Books don't just... appear."
"Trade secrets, my dear Mira," he said, winking again, the picture of roguish charm. "The mysterious ways of commerce and… let's call it divine providence." The phantom prick of Yan Meigui's thorns flared in his mind, a sharp reminder of the precarious deal underpinning this venture.
"Suffice it to say," he continued, sweeping his arm dramatically towards the waiting shelves, "by this time tomorrow? These shelves won't just be filled. They will groan. They will bend under the weight! They will be filled to bursting with more 'culture' than this dusty corner of the world has seen since… well, perhaps ever."
He imbued the promise with the grandeur of a prophecy.
Garret's eyes widened, the practical hurdles momentarily forgotten in the face of promised magic. "Really? Like... actual magic?"
"Exactly like magic, Garret," Eamond confirmed, radiating assurance.
Vale's sharp eyes narrowed, his gaze sweeping the space again before locking onto Eamond with laser focus. He wasn't buying the divine providence line for a second. The professional bemusement had hardened into intense, analytical scrutiny. He was calculating risks: smuggling routes, black-market deals, the dangerous acquisition of contraband knowledge.
Perhaps he even entertained the grim thought of midnight raids on forgotten libraries or scriptoriums. "And what," he asked, his voice dangerously level, cutting through Eamond's theatrics, "guarantees the quality of this… sudden influx?" His gaze intensified. "Or its… safety?"
The question wasn't just about poisoned pages or hidden blades; it was about the ideas within, the subtle poison of dissent or heresy that could bring the Marquess's wrath down upon them all.
"Ah, Vale," Eamond chuckled, pushing off the counter, meeting the bodyguard's steely gaze without flinching. His own smile turned razor-sharp, a silent acknowledgment of the subtext.
"Ever the vigilant sentinel. Fear not. The quality will be… impeccable. Bound in leather or sturdy board, pages crisp, script clear and legible. As for safety?" He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping a fraction, emphasizing his next words.
"The only danger here is terminal boredom. We're selling escape, Vale. Intrigue. Romance. Sweeping tales of heroism and dastardly villains. The only revolution we're inciting is against the crushing dullness of everyday life." He spread his hands wide, a picture of harmless commerce.
"Hardly a threat to the Marquess's peace or purse, wouldn't you agree? Merely… distraction. Refined distraction."
Vale didn't look entirely convinced – trust was not his default setting – but the immediate threat level in his posture seemed to lower fractionally. He gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his gaze shifting back to its habitual perimeter sweep. Yet Eamond could almost see the gears turning behind his impassive eyes: Monitor the inventory. Scrutinize every title. Assess the content. Report.
"Right!" Eamond clapped his hands, the sharp sound breaking the tension and refocusing the room. "Enough speculation. Tomorrow, proof. Tangible, word-filled proof!" He pointed decisively towards the little kitchenette at the back.
"Today, we have commerce of a more immediate nature. Garret, Mira – you're on berry reconnaissance. Find us the plumpest, cheapest, least-moldy offerings the market grudgingly provides. Jake," he turned to the scowling youth, "you're with me. We need to 'persuade' Old Man Hemlock the cooper that his finest, smallest, most elegant jars are suddenly surplus to his requirements. Vale…" He smirked at the bodyguard.
"Feel free to stand guard over the profound emptiness. Ensure no rogue boredom or existential dread tries to reclaim the shelves before we fill them with enlightenment."
As the others moved, still radiating varying degrees of confusion, skepticism, and wary acceptance, Eamond turned back to the pristine, empty shelves. Tomorrow, they would hold the weapons of his quiet insurgency – not swords or spells, but bound volumes of words.
Paid for with Karma, delivered by a capricious system at the behest of a petty, thorny goddess, and sold to fund an orphanage while subtly outmaneuvering them all. The sheer, beautiful absurdity of it was almost poetic. Yan Meigui wanted to withhold magic? Fine. Tomorrow, Eamond's Emporium would unleash a different kind of power, one page at a time. The power of story, of knowledge, of culture. Let the town groan under its weight.