Chapter 13 - A Strange Man Approaches

"A whisper on parchment carries farther than a scream in a field."

— Saying of the Southern Scribes' Guild

*Richard POV*

The smell of cinnamon, wet straw, and pungent fish hung in the air like a damp blanket. The market was bustling - not due to an event, but because today was the day we started distributing our order backlog and advertising the printing press. After a couple modifications done by Uncle Phil, the press was much more effective than I had imagined, and much sturdier too.

I covered my face with my scarf, blocking out the overwhelming mix of odours in the market, especially the faint traces of manure, which clung along the delivery drivers' paths. Unfortunately for me, I had to stand there holding a stack of posters ordered by the butcher, as he plastered them across his wagons, readying himself to sell his meats across the surrounding area.

The broad butcher held up one of the posters with both hands, moving his lips as he sounded out the headline: "Best cuts this side of the Krahl River - cheaper than a dozen finch eggs".

He laughed to himself, turning to the grain stall beside his. "You see this? They printed this in ink, and there are so many of them! All the same! I won't need to hire the town crier anymore - just slap one of these on a wagon and drive it around!"

I tried not to smile too widely.

"Hey, lad," he turned to me, still holding his posters. "You helped with this thing, right? The... printer?"

I nodded, shifting the stack in my arms. "Just slightly. Mostly design stuff, testing, and I know how to typeset the plates."

The butcher scratched his head, unsure what half the words I said meant. "You think you could make one for my cousin in Rottweil? He sells pies at the winter market. Not the best at reading, but, if there's a picture of a pie and it says something like 'Warm Your Belly Before the Snow' or whatever... he'd really love that."

I nodded again, this time with a bit more confidence.

"Sure! I can try to get a rough sketch ready later today and probably have it done by the end of the week."

He grinned. "Good lad. I'll pay in sausages if that's alright."

I almost refused, but, honestly, sausages as payment wasn't half bad. It's nice to have pocket money, but my family isn't poor-off anyway, and I'm fairly certain the sausages could even be worth more money than I would have charged.

Around us, carts were starting to roll out - some with simple flyers nailed to their backs, others with decorative signs etched in wood and framed with dyed rope. Theo had spent a few days designing some fancier posters for the merchants, mostly out of fun, but also because they'd pay quite a hefty sum. I'm sure there's something concerning about a four-year-old's newfound love for money, but I'd rather not think too hard about that. The market was beginning to turn into a gallery of inked expression. People stopped by, not to buy their groceries or certain wares, but to read, to point, to laugh.

I didn't think much of it at the time, but perhaps I had created the first large-scale advertising campaign in this world, and it was only ever going to scale up higher and higher from then onwards.

And then the visitors began arriving.

They came in ones and twos at first - mostly sceptical, older merchants wondering what all the fuss was about. One was a young woman in a grey shawl who seemed most obsessed with the soap posters, muttering something to herself, before flagging down a carriage driver, asking where the posters came from, and who to see to procure one for herself. When she was pointed in my direction, she nodded, spent a few moments admiring the other surrounding posters and flyers, before making a couple notes down in a little pocket book.

One man came up to me and asked to see the machine directly - said he came from Rottweil and wanted to purchase a couple dozen copies of a farming calendar. I told him he'd need to speak to the Vogels to arrange a proper appointment with them.

Sometime near midday, a tall man in a muted grey cloak appeared at the village square. He didn't walk with the shuffles of a farmer, or the swagger of a merchant, but, instead, moved confidently, controlled, and with precision. He had sharp cheekbones, dirty blond hair tied back in a ribbon, and a walking stick that he definitely didn't need. When he smiled, it was the kind that didn't quite reach the eyes.

I was just finishing my last delivery when he approached me.

"You there," he said politely. "You're the one distributing these posters, yes?"

I gave a cautious nod. No one in this world had warned me of stranger danger, and I feel like that should have been taught day one of daycare. Regardless, I responded.

"Helping with distribution, nothing more."

He picked up a flyer from the side of a cart and studied it with great curiosity. "And the printing machine that made them - who designed it?"

The man really creeped me out - he had the mannerisms of a Bond villain, somewhat posh but pretending to fit in. He must be trying to steal the design. Uncle Phil can sort him out for us.

"I.. I don't really know," I lied, shrugging. "Most people think it was Uncle Phil, the carpenter. He's good with tools, after all."

He paused, not quite trusting me, and narrowed his gaze. "And you?"

"I just help with deliveries," I replied. "I'm not good with letters - they haven't taught us how to read in school yet."

The man looked at me a little longer than I would have preferred, then turned his sights toward a nearby cart. "A marvel. These posters all look the same - such uniformity could expedite many a process! We wouldn't need all those scribes wasting away in boredom - they could do something much more useful than waste their talents copying a master poster."

"It might," I said, carefully.

He offered a smile that felt more like a mask.

"Would you be so kind as to take me to this Uncle Phil. I should like to shake the hand of a true innovator."

For some reason, I couldn't refuse. His words sat oddly in my chest, but I nodded nonetheless.

"Sure - he's usually in the back workshop by now."

We made our way through the village lanes - the stranger, who still had yet to introduce himself, walked with a grace that felt deliberate, as if he wanted to blend in but couldn't quite suppress how out of place he really was. His boots were too clean, and his cloak too finely tailored. You'd have to be a fool to not recognise him as an outsider. All throughout the journey, he looked me up and down with almost-hungry eyes. He gave me the kind of look that made me wish I was somewhere else. Preferably behind a locked door

When we reached the workshop, Uncle Phil was sanding off the rough edges of a small drawer. He looked up as I opened the door.

"Uncle Phil," I called. "Got a visitor for you. Says he wants to talk about the press."

The carpenter wiped his hands on a rag, dabbing a cloth on his forehead to rid himself of any sweat. Appearances matter for a guest, after all. His eyes then met the man.

For a second, they just stared at each other. Then Phil's mouth split into a grin.

"Bernhard?"

The stranger laughed - genuinely laughed this time round. "Took you long enough."

I blinked. "Wait. You two know each other?"

Uncle Phil waved a hand, introducing me to the strange man. "Rich, this is Bernhard. He's, well... let's just say he's family of sorts."

Bernhard smiled, finally bowing down to me and giving me a proper greeting. Took him long enough.

"Cousin to Elisabeth. Officially, I'm here to inspect the potential commercial viability of a local invention. Unofficially, I wanted to see for myself if the rumours were true."

I felt my shoulders tighten. It was eerie how quickly word had made its way to the cultivators, but, at the same time, I felt a sense of exhilaration. Perhaps this could be my big break. A sponsorship is basically guaranteed if it's Theo's relative, after all.

"And?" I ask.

Bernhard turned to me fully. "The press is brilliant. But what's more interesting is... that a boy your age is standing here, guiding visitors and designing layouts." He turned back towards Uncle Phil. "And I wouldn't have thought you had it in you to invent such a wondrous machine!"

I wasn't sure what to say to that. I didn't want to interrupt Bernhard to dispel any misconceptions - I was the inventor, but, for whatever reason, I felt it was best to leave the misunderstanding as is. My eyes met with Phil's, who quickly picked up on my thoughts and played his role.

Phil broke the silence. "You won't tell the clan yet, will you?"

"Of course not," said Bernhard. "But I'll be watching. And, when the time comes, I'll make sure the right ears hear about it."

I didn't know what that meant, but I was starting to understand something else.

I always knew, deep down, that the press wasn't just a toy. It wasn't just something to play with at daycare or a side-project between chores. Yes, my initial goal was to revolutionise something and get noticed by one of the clans, but it still all felt like a game to me.

It wasn't just a game. It was the beginning of something, much, much greater.