Sporemageddon - V1 Chapter 34

Black Mould – Thirty-Four – Smile, Nod, and Refuse

Unfortunately for me, the delvers didn’t all group up in one spot. There were a few groups of them spread out here and there.

Fortunately for me, though, all those groups reached the dungeon via the same path.

The chaos around the dungeon wasn’t… entirely chaotic. Once I looked around for a while I could make some sense of it. There were people with badges on their lapels, the same Ditz logo as above the dungeon, organising things so that everything flowed.

It took an hour or two for me to notice the pattern.

First, a group of delvers would enter the dungeon. Then, some minutes later, the first group of harvesters would go in after them. Usually there would be quite a few of them. Following them were the people who dragged resources out of the dungeon, as well as people who carried materials and supplies in. The last group was mostly made up of kids, from preteens to a few who might have been fourteen or fifteen.

I decided to name the individual groups for my own peace of mind: delvers, harvesters, carriers, and supporters.

The delvers were the first of any batch to go into the dungeon, and the last to come out, usually right after the harvesters that had gone in after them left.

The problem in keeping track was that the dungeon clearly had more than one section, so there could be multiple groups destined for different sections entering the dungeon all at once, not to mention carriers from different sections moving in and out constantly, with supporters darting in with water and the occasional tool.

Each section had an armband associated with them. There were different colours, but for the most part, they were plain beige with a number and letter written on them. I had no idea what they represented exactly, but the groups who went in all wore the same tag.

Organised chaos.

And once I figured out how that chaos was organised, it was easy to exploit it a little.

I wasn’t the only person selling food. There were quite a few stalls on the periphery, and even a few merchants who loitered near the entrance selling to whomever passed by. Usually they sold water which they’d pour out from big tanks into tin cups that the buyer would down on the spot before handing back.

I chose not to question the hygiene of hundreds of people drinking from literally the same cup.

My tactic was a little different. I stood on the very edge of the dungeon’s area, where the mana loss wasn’t quite as bad. Then, when I noticed a group of harvesters moving out of the dungeon—usually looking rather rough and sweaty—I’d dart in, set up my table so that the wind would carry any smells towards the dungeon’s opening, and immediately started cooking some mushrooms.

Most of the time, the next group out of the dungeon, other than maybe a passing group of carriers, were the delvers.

It took some work to get the timing down, and I could tell that Eight-Three-Eleven was both confused, curious, and maybe a bit frustrated with the way I moved in and out at first, but when I set up and had mushrooms sizzling for the first time just as a group of delvers stepped out, I think she caught on.

“Hey there, delvers!” I called out. “Want a snack as a reward for your hard work? First skewer’s free! Magic-restoring mushrooms! To help with your mana stores after all of your hard work!”

There was no room for shame when selling stuff.

The delvers ignored me. A few glanced my way, but it was just that, a glance. They were dressed in armour and thick cloth. Not the kind of mediaeval armour I might have expected though. For the most part, they wore heavy metal breastplates that looked like they’d been drop-forged.

Most had insignias and signs stamped onto the armour. A few had more elaborate gear. Greaves, pauldrons, and armoured gloves were common. Every last one of them had a helmet, even if it was just a metal cap with some cloth on the sides.

I shook my head and stopped inspecting them. It didn’t matter what they wore as long as they gave me their money. “Hey, you!” I said, pointing to one of the delvers near the middle-back of the group. He was a lean, mean-looking fellow, but the people next to him were walking close to his side.

His eyes snapped to me and his course changed a smidge. “What?” he asked.

I pulled a skewer off the grill and raised it up between us. “Eat this.”

Eight-Three-Eleven snickered, but I ignored her.

One of lean-and-mean’s eyebrows perked up. “And what is that?”

“This, fine sirs,” I said, because his… coworkers were still keeping close, “is a [Mana-infused Brown Horse Head] mushroom. Cooked with only the finest oil,” (that I could get my hands on for cheap) “and the best garlic,” (that was sold at the local flea market).

He stared, but one of the others approached before I could continue my pitch and he snapped the skewer out of my hand. I suppressed a wince at the sudden motion. The man sniffed the skewer, then took a small bite. “Huh,” he said.

“Well?” Lean-and-mean asked.

“Kid’s exactly right. You won’t get much mana from this. Couple of points per mushroom, at best.” He glanced down at the skewer and its five mushrooms. “Call it five to ten? Taste is alright, if you like mushrooms and garlic.” He chomped down, eating another.

Lean-and-mean sniffed. “Give me one, kid,” he said.

“Sure thing, boss,” I said. “That’ll be ten pence, please.”

He stared. “You didn’t charge him.”

“Actually, I offered it to you, but you were a bit slow. First one’s free. Second isn’t.”

“Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“Someone who can’t spare ten pence?” I asked.

Eight-Three-Eleven made a noise, like a kettle overflowing, or someone holding in a laugh.

Lean-and-mean reached into his pants and I heard some clinking. He flicked a coin at me, which I caught out of the air. I had no idea what the coin was. It was bigger than a penny, and silver. I stuffed it into my money purse and picked up a skewer for the man. “Here you go. Please enjoy! And don’t forget to return the skewer.”

“And my change?” he asked.

“Thanks for the tip!” I said with the biggest, most innocent smile I could manage.

Lean-and-mean’s friend seem to think that this was hilarious. He… didn’t, but I could tell that he wasn’t going to push things. Smacking a kid around wasn’t a good look, not to someone trying to be professional about things, and this guy seemed like he had a Rod of Professionalism shoved up his rear.

A few more delvers from the group came over while lean-and-mean walked off with a shake of his head. He still ate the mushrooms though. I could live with the loss of the skewer. I placed more mushrooms on the grill and made quick business with the next delvers to show up. Not too many sales, but a few.

Then the moment the last customer was off and the delvers were away from the entrance, I shut off my burner and picked up my table. “Let’s move,” I said.

Eight-Three-Eleven grabbed the other end of the table and we scurried out of the way while one of those organisers gave us the stink-eye. I made a mental note to bribe them later, if I could. That might be hard to pull off, but it might also be worth it. I’d give the Bullies a free sample when they patrolled around the edge too, just to stay on their good side and to prove that I was nothing but an innocent child doing innocent child stuff.

I was preparing for a second trip next to the dungeon—a group of harvesters had just left—when I noticed that the chaos had changed a little. It was hard to notice initially, just a shift in the way people walked some more rubbernecking. The Bullies jogging across the dungeon grounds was really what clued me in.

A fresh group had gathered close to the dungeon, maybe some fifty or sixty people in all. They were dungeon workers: harvesters, supporters, and carriers, with tags around their arms.

“I think we should stay back for a bit,” Eight-Three-Eleven said.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

The group was blocking access to the dungeon. Not the way out, but they stood in the path of the carriers returning into the dungeon. There was chanting, but we were too far out to hear it.

More eco-protestors?

Then the signs came up. Just two of them, held up by angry-faced young men.

Team 85G Demands Justice!

“Protestors,” Eight-Three-Eleven said.

“What are they here for?” I asked. I didn’t exactly have my ear on the ground for news about the dungeon, after all.

I never got to hear Eight-Three-Eleven’s reply.

A man moved up to the front of the group. A delver, in the same armour as most of the others. Cleaner, maybe, and with a long coat draped atop his breastplate.

He raised an arm, and the world before him warped with violent intent.

For the first time in the six years I’d been in this world, I saw magic in all of its raging fury.

***