Told by Flinch
Part 7 of the Homegrown Help series
Nobbybanks wrote back, in the end. Took him three days, and when it came it weren’t the plain no I’d braced meself for, nor the plain yes Master were hopin’ on. Somethin’ in between, and worse for it, if I’m honest about how it sat with me.
No nine thousand gold, straight off. But he’d match, gold for gold, whatever Master brought in sellin’ fish and potions off his own line — up to a point, and only once he’d seen a week of it proved, written down, no roundin’ up. A deal, he called it. I’ve been the one keepin’ the numbers since, and I’m the one who has to say plain whether they’re honest ones before they go back to him.
The first haul come in at seventeen bottles of Darkmoon Firewater, sold for three thousand, two hundred and sixty-eight gold between the lot of ’em. A second batch followed close after — thirty-five more bottles of Firewater, a pair of saltwater potions, five fizzy faire drinks nobody much wanted but sold anyway, and eleven bottles more Firewater on top of that, comin’ to nine thousand, one hundred and sixty-seven gold all told. Add the two together and it stands at twelve thousand, four hundred and thirty-five gold, near enough all of it built on bottles that took no more effort to land than a fish worth nothin’ sittin’ right next to ’em on the same line. That’s where it’s sat uneasy in me since. Luck, wearin’ the coat of graft. I said as much to Master once, careful, and he told me it were still his own line, his own hands, and I couldn’t rightly argue the shape of that.
We’re after a thousand Darkmoon Daggermaw now, on top of everythin’ else — Master’s set on it, tickets bein’ the point rather than the coin this time, though the coin keeps comin’ along regardless whether it’s wanted or not. Seven hundred and twenty-five of the thousand still want findin’, and at market price that’d run to six thousand, seven hundred and six gold and twenty-five silver if bought outright rather than fished. Good thing the Firewater’s more than covered it twice over, whatever unease it’s brought along with the coin.
Don’t know if it’s a scam, proper. Don’t think Master means it as one. But I’m the one puttin’ pen to it and sendin’ it off as truth, and a dredger don’t get to claim he weren’t part of somethin’ just ’cause he weren’t the one who thought of it first.
Nobbybanks’s letter had one line at the end that’s stuck with me since. “I have dealt with worse schemes from better men. Send the numbers weekly, and send them honest, and we’ll see.” Don’t know if that were meant for Master or for whoever were doin’ the writin’. Either way, I’ve took it as bein’ about me too.
More in the Homegrown Help series
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