- Chapter 076 -

  Unique Work Costs

  Mr. Bjornson almost had a heart attack.

  The tailor was a mountain of a man, despite his age. His hair was a shock of white, his beard a neatly braided thicket, and in his hands he held a tape measure like a strangling cord. He looked to be in his sixties, but the steady, garnet-red glow of the Heart of the Weaver on his hand suggested he could be pushing two hundred.

  He stared at the black suit draped over Mark's arm, his eyes wide with a mixture of professional horror and superstitious dread.

  "Put it away!" Bjornson hissed, his accent thick and rolling, sounding like rocks tumbling down a fjord. "Are you mad? Walking in here with the Warden's shroud?" He made a quick, warding gesture. "Bad luck. Very bad luck."

  "It's just a suit, Mr. Bjornson," Mark said, trying to keep his voice calm. "Cotton blend. Not a shroud."

  "It is the uniform of the End!" Bjornson countered, backing away behind his cutting table. "I will not touch it. I will not copy it. I do not need that kind of attention from the mountain."

  "I don't want you to copy it," Mark explained patiently. He held up a hand. "Please. Just look at the cut. The structure." He draped the jacket over a mannequin, smoothing the lapels. "I want something similar. But different. Green. Deep forest green, with a stunning blue trim. Something I can wear without people crossing the street to avoid me."

  Bjornson eyed the jacket warily. He crept forward, prodding the fabric with a single finger.

  "Green," he muttered. "Blue trim. Not black. Not grey." He looked up, his professional interest warring with his superstition. "No tunic?"

  "No tunic," Mark confirmed. "I need trousers. A jacket. A shirt with a collar." He gestured to his cane. "I need something that fits a man who walks, but also sits. Something that commands a room, but allows movement."

  Bjornson grunted. "And what is this... suit... for? Are you planning to attend more funerals?"

  "Administrator work," Mark lied smoothly. "Meetings. Negotiations. And workshop visits. I need something durable but refined."

  The tailor scoffed. "Workshop work? In a jacket with structure? You will tear the seams reaching for a hammer."

  "I don't swing hammers," Mark said. "I point at things."

  Bjornson narrowed his eyes. He circled Mark, his gaze analytical now, stripping away the borrowed blue tunic and seeing the frame beneath.

  "You stand crooked," the tailor observed bluntly. "The hip. The spine. Standard patterns will hang wrong. They will bunch." He tapped his chin. "We will need to adjust the rise. Open the vents in the back. Give you room to move without losing the line."

  He reached for his tape measure, the superstition fading as the problem took over.

  "Green," Bjornson muttered, the tape measure snapping around Mark's chest. "With blue trim." He paused, meeting Mark's eyes in the mirror. "You know blue is the Masons' color. After the... unpleasantness... do you really want to walk around looking like you're applying for a job with them?"

  "The Masons' issues are their own," Mark said steadily. "The blue is for me. Not them." It was a reclaiming. A subtle nod to the sky he missed, the oceans he remembered, if the Masons took offense, that was a bonus.

  "Bold," Bjornson grunted. "Or stupid. We shall see."

  He moved to the shirt. "Pale cream," Mark decided. "Keep it neutral. Trousers in charcoal. And the tie..." He pulled the black silk tie from his pocket. "I need one of these. Green. With gold chevrons."

  Bjornson recoiled slightly, eyeing the strip of silk as if it were a noose. "A garrote made of silk? What is the function?"

  "It's decorative," Mark explained. "It covers the buttons. It adds... finish."

  The tailor picked it up gingerly. He examined the stitching, the lining. A slow, thoughtful frown creased his brow. "Useless," he declared. "But... elegant. I have never made one. It will be a challenge."

  "Materials," Mark prompted. "No leather. I'm not hunting."

  "Silk is local," Bjornson said, gesturing to bolts of shimmering fabric. "From the Mimas worms. Reasonable price. Good for the shirt and this... tie. For the jacket and trousers... a wool-cotton blend. Durable. Breathable. It holds its shape."

  He made some notes. Then he looked up, his expression serious.

  "Now. Enhancements."

  Mark blinked. "Enhancements?"

  "Do not play the fool," Bjornson growled. "You are ordering a custom set from a Master Weaver. You do not leave without magic woven into the seams. What do you need? Durability? Stain resistance? Thermal regulation?"

  Mark paused. A suit with magical enchantments. It sounded like something from a bad role-playing game. [Robes of the Arch-Accountant, +2 to Spreadsheets]. But here, it was just... tailoring.

  "I admit, I hadn't considered it," Mark said. "I know little about what's possible." He thought for a moment. "Something to keep it clean? Self-repair? And... is there something for mental resistance?"

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Bjornson barked a laugh, a booming sound that shook dust from the rafters. "Self-repair! If I could weave that, I would put myself out of business in a week. No one has figured that out yet."

  He ticked off items on his fingers. "Stain resistance, yes. Simple to weave into the cotton. Thermal regulation... easy enough. Keeps you cool in the forge, warm in the snow."

  He looked Mark up and down, his gaze lingering on the cane.

  "And given your... reputation... and your propensity for finding trouble," Bjornson added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble, "I will add a layer of kinetic dampening. Impact resistance. It won't stop a falling beam, but it might turn a broken rib into a bruise."

  Mark raised an eyebrow. "Impact resistance. In a suit jacket."

  "Better to have it and not need it," Bjornson said sagely.

  Then the tailor's expression shifted. He frowned. "Mental resistance? That is... unusual. For a piece of clothing." He eyed Mark suspiciously. "Are you planning on hunting Night-Stalkers? Or dealing with the Dream-Weavers of the Verdant Conclave?"

  Bjornson didn't know about Clyde. He assumed Mark was worried about monsters.

  "Just... meetings," Mark said, keeping his face neutral. "Sometimes the arguments get heated. I like to keep a clear head."

  "Hmph," Bjornson grunted, clearly not buying it but willing to take the coin. "I can weave a Clarity pattern into the lining of a hat. Or the shirt collar. It helps focus. Blocks out... distractions."

  "The collar," Mark decided. "Definitely the collar."

  The price was staggering. When Bjornson named the figure, Mark didn't flinch, but his internal accountant screamed. It was enough gold to feed a small family for a month. Maybe two.

  "Unique work costs," Bjornson said, unapologetic. "And I have to draft the pattern from scratch."

  "Four days," the tailor stated. "On two conditions. One: I never see that..." he gestured to the black suit with disdain "...that omen of doom again. Two: You allow me to make the adjustments I see fit. I will not have my name attached to a garment that causes a riot because the cut is wrong."

  "Agreed," Mark said, handing over the heavy pouch. He watched the coins disappear into the tailor's till. It was almost everything he had. The Oracle's 'investment' and Deirdre's consultancy fee, gone in a single transaction.

  "If the work is good," Mark added, fastening his cloak, "and the results are... well-received... I would like to commission a full wardrobe. I can't wear the same suit every day."

  Bjornson's eyes gleamed. A repeat customer with strange tastes and ready gold. "We shall see," he grunted.

  Mark stepped out into the street, the cold air hitting his face. He was nearly broke. Again. His financial stability was currently resting entirely on a theoretical improvement to a sawmill he hadn't visited in a week.

  The next stop was mundane but critical. Milk. Sam’s demands were not to be ignored, and he considered if baking was worth an attempt.

  He swung by Deirdre’s shop. The layout had changed. The narrow, cluttered aisles had been widened, shelves pushed back to create turning circles. It was a subtle, thoughtful adjustment, clearly made with his wheelchair in mind. It was a small kindness that felt huge. Back home, accessibility had been a decades-long battle of regulations and retrofitting. Here, it was just... community.

  Deirdre wasn't there. Behind the counter stood Alex, the young assistant, looking terrified. He was standing on a stool to reach the till, his eyes wide as he watched the door.

  "Where's the boss?" Mark asked, placing the bottle of milk on the counter.

  "Busy," Alex squeaked. He took the coins with shaking hands. "She has guests. From Mimas. In the back room. She said... not to be disturbed. Under any and all circumstances."

  Mark nodded slowly. Guests from Mimas. The 'favor' she had called in. The people who knew how to find things that didn't want to be found.

  "Tell her I stopped by," Mark said. "And good luck."

  He walked out, clutching the cold bottle. He was profoundly grateful his part in that particular mess was over. Deirdre was sharpening her knives, and with Petra Novak still in town for the funeral aftermath... the political fallout was going to be spectacular. And this time, Mark wasn't in the blast radius.

  The library was the halfway point, a necessary rest stop for his aching hip. Today was busy. Students huddled over tables, scholars argued in hushed whispers by the stacks. Mark watched as a book on geological strata wiggled itself off a high shelf and landed perfectly in the open hands of a confused-looking miner.

  He suppressed a shudder. Efficient, yes. But he still found the gifts of Knowledge deeply unsettling.

  George met him near the entrance, looking as placid as ever. "Mr. Shilling. Good to see you walking."

  "Barely," Mark said. "I need... research. Memory rituals. And... personnel records. From First Landing."

  George led him to the ritual magic section. It was crowded. A group of teenagers were pulling books, arguing about resonance and mana efficiency.

  "Final years from the school," George murmured. "Doing their research before they commit to a Heart and a Guild. It's a busy time of year."

  He waited until the students had moved to a table, then turned back to Mark, his expression serious.

  "Memory rituals are section seven. Third shelf." He paused. "As for First Landing... yes. The records exist. We have manifests. Names. Roles."

  Mark felt a surge of hope.

  "But," George continued, his voice dropping, "you cannot see them. No one can. They are under a restriction I do not have the authority to lift. In fact, I don't think even Jenny has that kind of authority. It's old magic and rules, Mark. Foundational. The answer is simply... no."

  Mark stared at him. Another door slammed shut. Another dead end.

  "Who’s rules?" Mark asked.

  George shrugged. "The First Librarian perhaps. It predates the Collective."

  "Sounds like one of those 'best not to ask' situations," Mark mumbled.

  George sighed, a sound of genuine scholarly disappointment. "Indeed. There are corners of this library even I cannot dust."

  Mark turned to the shelves. Section seven was dense, crammed with volumes on mnemonic theory and cognitive architecture. He noted with dry amusement that the neighboring section, Dreams was practically empty. A few slim volumes and a lot of dust.

  His eyes scanned the spines. Blue. Black. Brown.

  And then, a flash of yellow.

  He flinched, half-expecting the book to jump into his hand. It didn't. It just sat there, a bright anomaly in a sea of drab leather. He reached out and pulled it free.

  Memory and External Adaptations - Revision 16.

  It looked dry. Academic. Safe.

  Mark tucked it under his arm and found a quiet chair near the window. He sat down with a groan of relief, resting his cane against the table. He had time. He had a book. And for the next hour, he had peace.

  Mark could understand memory of Earth, it was data in bits and bytes, storage in arrays of silicon. Here it was the same basic application, but more literal that memory was memory, and how it interacted with a world based on intention.

  This would be the cornerstone of his vision, and hopefully his own unique mark in this world.