"Food is the language of every culture."

"Oh, is that right, Franz? And I suppose you're the only one who knows how to speak that language, eh?"

"Not the only one, but I do consider myself familiar with it."

"Familiar? You're fucking fluent if that belly's anything to go by!"

"Shut it, ya bastard. I mean it, food tells a story about every culture."

"Okay, I'll bite. What does their food say about the Desolate Empire?"

"Well, I'm glad you asked, Greg. It's varied and includes vegetables grown across at least three distinct climates – shows they hold lots of territory and have for a while. Seafood also holds a place of prominence – as demonstrated by this delightful pie we're sharing – which suggests that they were a coastal power to begin with."

"Alright, I'll give you that one. But it's just post-hoc generalising. You already knew all that and simply looked for some food-based justification. What about the Sarhail? You don't know shit about them. What do their culinary habits say about them then, wise man?"

"…. says they eat food, right?"

"You fuckin–"

- Discussion between two vessel-guards in Salazar, recorded in the travel guide 'Wonders of the Wandering States' by Brother Ferdinand Genitivi

"Welcome to Colchet, adventurers!"

The cheerful words echoed in my head as Jorge began to withdraw items from his storage device, Vera approaching to do the same and laying them out on nearby tables, hastily cleared of their previous loads by the eager trader.

Was that what we were? Adventurers? I wasn't really sure. I'd travelled so far in just a few months, through at least three distinct ecosystems and across multiple territories. It didn't feel like I'd had much adventure, mostly just training and travelling, but I'd fought living skeletons, wild animals of all stripes and supposedly dropped into the realm of a dead god on one occasion. Perhaps 'adventurer' was an apt description after all.

The grey-haired trader moved several objects to the side on each table, clearly indicating what he was interested in. Meats, pelts and various spices and herbs that I hadn't even realised Jorge was carrying filled one table, alongside some well-made but fairly standard long knives and short-swords.

The trader never stopped talking as he moved, listing out prices and asking Jorge and Vera for other items they might be carrying. I was surprised by the lack of precious gems and metals, but I supposed it made sense that neither carried much that had no purpose except to others.

Vera produced some beautiful vases, delicately brushed with soft, chalky colours, and the trader practically buzzed over to examine them. He offered to take all she had, and she steadfastly refused, allowing only a half dozen to be set aside on the traders 'procurement bench' as I was coming to think of it. Jorge even tried to get Nathlan to join in, laying out a whole bunch of scrolls and parchments on half a table to the left. The scholar was having none of it, though, and buzzed over to fret at the papers, sorting everything into 'sell' and 'keep' piles. The sell pile remained empty.

After the whole charade had gone on for far too long, the trader and my companions eventually came to an agreement, and a series of wooden sticks were handed over, notched at various lengths and bearing a particular rune carved into the base of each. Jorge passed a number to Vera, a couple to Nathlan, and stored the rest. The trader nodded to us, gave a final list of directions and advice that made my head spin, and then departed, shuffling away excitedly as if he'd just made the score of the century.

"What was all that?" I asked when he'd left. Nathlan looked back at me with surprise, before a look of realisation passed across his face.

"Ah, yes. Sorry, I had forgotten this must your first time in a large settlement. Most independent city states have their own currency, and while we might get better prices if we entered the market district and plied our goods around manually, it would be much more of a hassle. This way, we can sell everything at once. Of course, the guard takes a cut, as does the city itself, but we would have to pay taxes or tariffs if we were selling in the markets anyway, so this is generally considered easier."

"How does that work?" I asked. I thumbed the gold signet ring on my finger and thought back to the dead Crimson Lion that I'd come across in the foothills of the Unclaimed Peaks, and to the handful of coins I'd liberated from her corpse. "I know the Sunset Kingdoms have a shared currency. Why don't these city states?"

"Because," Nathlan replied with a long suffering look, as if teaching a child something they should already know, "setting up a shared currency between competing political entities is difficult, and requires a degree of centralisation and bureaucracy that the Copper Canyons simply do not have in place."

"So those sticks are the local currency?" I asked askance. They didn't look like much to tell the truth.

"Yes, though these tarrots are not truly a circulating currency and aren't used for much other than taxation and commercial debts. But they'll be accepted by most establishments at least."

"Why even have a currency if it's not going to be used by everyone within the city and can't be easily traded with outsiders?"

"Well, firstly, it can be traded with outsiders – we have just done so." That was a fair point, and I acknowledged it with a head nod, which went someway to mollifying the scholar. "How would you suggest a city like this operate without a local currency?"

"I'd have a circulating currency shared with all the Copper Canyons," I rejoined.

Nathlan sighed as we followed Jorge and Vera through a twisting tunnel leading us deeper into the canyon, if the gradient was to be believed. "Other than that."

"I don't know… barter, maybe?" I suggested half-heartedly.

"And how would that work?" Nathlan scoffed. "A hundred thousand people bartering with each other, like for like? That sounds like a nightmare." He shivered just thinking about it. "No, most cities use a complex arrangement of debts with one another. It works on a personal level in nomadic or 'primitive' groups – that's an academic term by the way, not a value judgement – but coins or taels or tarrots etcetera are used with outside traders. When you get to the level of a city like this, it is impossible for each person to know what the exchange rate is for each service or good they need, and so a local currency springs up.

"It is actually quite interesting how these currencies are created; you see, Rosenbaum wrote some seminal work on this and posits that currencies are created by states only in times of war – they need a way to leverage debt to pay for a large standing army, and low-level exchange between personal groups does not sufficiently encourage large surpluses to be created and then traded, so by forcing a universal medium of exchange and then leveraging small taxes, the state can encourage everyone, regardless of role, profession, or class to work on creating surpluses that feed into this growing economy. The state can then–"

"Thanks my friend," I said, clapping him on the shoulder, trying to interrupt him before he could go further off-topic. "So, these notched sticks are a medium of exchange? Why wouldn't everyone accept them then?"

"Not exactly. They are more of a measure of value. Most larger establishments and businesses will regularly use tarrots to pay their taxes and any debts owed to the city lords, but the smaller or less-than-legal groups will not have any use for them. Very few people inside the city pay each other with any actual physical tarrots – most transactions are either in the form of informal debts or exchange of goods and services directly."

"Isn't that just barter though?" I asked, feeling my earlier confusion return.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

"No. A fisherman will not exchange a barrel of fish to an innkeeper for a barrel of ale. Rather, both will know the approximate value of their goods in tarrots and agree to an exchange with any excess value leveraged as debt. The fisherman gets the barrel of ale and fifty tarrots worth of debt from the innkeeper. Next week, the fisherman gets a barrel of ale and twenty five bags of flour from the innkeeper, and the debt is cancelled.

"Most of this is actually to account for seasonal changes. Farmers tend to act as debt holders during the harvest season and live off those debts throughout the leaner months. This way, the economy is not thralled to seasonal work and can run year-round in a relatively steady state."

"Makes sense, I guess," I replied as I thought it through. "Thanks for the explanation."

Nathlan beamed. There was something about sharing knowledge that seemed to light him up. I wondered briefly what could have happened to him to push him from his previous path of scholarly work into seeking – and eventually obtaining – a combat class like mine. I knew something had happened with his noble family, but the details and context were still unknown to me.

I added it to the list of burning questions in my mind, the mental bookshelf already groaning under the weight of the tomes I'd filled with as-of-yet unanswered queries.

Colchet was at once beautiful and bizarre. We emerged out onto a plateau perhaps a hundred feet below the top of the canyon itself – high enough up to still see the land on the other side of the chasm, but low enough that we also had a great view of the city itself. And what a city it was.

It was built into the cliffside, a honeycomb chaos of caverns and indentations within which were built dwellings, shops, houses, and more besides. Tunnels riddled the cliffs and from what Jorge had said while we stood in awe at the sight, these descended deep into the canyon walls where the city spread sideways through the rock itself.

The canyon split the city in half. Both sides of the canyon were peppered with buildings and tunnels, and between both cliffs hung numerous bridges. There were hundreds of long, arcing rope bridges that set my heart beating faster just to look at them. A dozen or more stronger, more permanent crossings could be seen, woven of the strange living wood that I'd seen used for the torches of mage-fire earlier. These naturally grown trees twisted across the cavern, supported by rope and thick wooden planks to create large bridges across which three men could walk abreast.

It was disorientating to look down into the chasm and see such a confused web of bridges connecting the city, but three stood out – great stone bridges that seemed almost to hold the canyon together, such was their size. The natural world was the one that held my heart, and no feats of engineering could match the majesty of the mountains to my eyes… but Colchet came close with its titanic bridges.

Jorge gave us enough time to gawk, and while I was by far the most over-awed of our group, Nathlan also seemed impressed. Considering he hailed from a place known as 'The Leviathan Coast', I considered it a win that a small city-state in a quiet part of the continent could impress him.

We then journeyed down through the canyon city. It was split into layers, and the general impression I had was that the higher layers were wealthier than those below. They received the most light from above, after all. Mage-light – that strange blue fire – was in use wherever a path strayed into rock and away from the outside world, but I was surprised to note how deep into twisting alleyways and crawling tunnels we could walk before the last of the natural light disappeared.

Alongside torches to light the way, most enclosed streets were equipped with mirrors that reflected and bounced the sun's rays all around, and I was left with the familiar feeling of the sun on my back even when I was a dozen twists and turns away from the canyon wall.

We didn't descend too far, in the end. Perhaps a six or seven layers deep into the city – it was hard to know for sure, as while there were central stairs cut into the rock of the canyon wall itself, I also saw many wooden scaffolds clinging tightly to the surface and ferrying goods and people up and down and around in every direction. There were also uncountable passageways carved through the rock itself that never saw the light of day, and my overall impression of the city was that you could never know how many different ways to get to and from somewhere there truly was.

It was like an ant-hive cut down the middle and left open to the elements.

Jorge and Vera left us at a fine inn, though. Clearly, the tarrots they had earned from their earlier trading had been substantial. They had paid for 3 nights up front for all of us, and ordered us to stay inside until one of them returned. It wasn;t a tough sentence though, considering the state of the place.

We'd sat in the courtyard, looking at the beautiful vista of the canyon, and then swung by the kitchens to sate our appetites. Now, we were safely enscounced in our shared room, enjoying the warmth of thick blankets and clean skin, and idly munching on a tray of carrots, hummus and olives. One of the servers had taken a real shine to Nathlan, and I wrestled down a twinge of jealousy when I caught a glance at the extra helping of fine cheeses I saw on his platter.

I crunched idly away while I read the scroll I'd propped against the headboard, detailing the history of the Breeze-Born rebellion in Colchet and how its impacts were still felt today. It had been a fairly dry read that I was close to putting down, until the section on Markath Breeze-Born and the further discussion on how his unique class had inspired a wave of copycats to take up his mantle, culminating in a city-wide rebellion and an end to an expansionist era within Colchet politics.

I could tell I was not a particularly political or historical person, the details always feeling far too boring and intertwined for my liking, but something about the magic of this world, the system's classes and even the pre-system unique magic and creatures that existed on the peripheries of civilisation instantly drew me into what would otherwise be a completely uninteresting topic.

As before, my surprise at some of the details told a story of its own about the world I had previously lived in, and from what I could tell, it was a sad one. Conflict came as no surprise to me, and while the visceral, in-your-face nature of the violence I'd seen was shocking, its existence was not.

Taking for granted the place conflict had in my life and the wider world no doubt implied a similar state in my old one. But the magic, the system, the titanic creatures and impossible scale of the world and its hidden depths… there was mystery there, and a wonder that I craved with such a deep longing it sometimes hurt.

So, I came from a world where violence and conflict were normal, but magic and wonder were not. It was no world I wanted to return to anytime soon.

The conclusion was one I had been edging towards for weeks now; desire for my memories fading with each passing sunrise and every beautiful sight I took in. Jorge had got me thinking further after our discussion around my weapons Skill, and I had taken his words to heart. I wanted to know what I'd lost, but that was mostly motivated by the feeling of mystery. What good were memories of a life I could never return to, especially if they belonged to such a sad and dreary world?

Still, expressing it in my mind so clearly hit me with an unexpected surge of emotion. Not grief exactly, but a sense of loss, of moving forward. I was letting go of my old life and moving onto something better.

The words on the page before me blurred and ran together as my eyes misted, and I blinked away the tears before they could fully form. A knot within my chest I hadn't even been aware of lessened and slipped away, leaving me feeling lighter.

I took in a shuddering breath, masking it with a cough when Nathlan looked over at me in concern. I waved him off and stood, muttering something about training as I hurried outside and in the direction of the courtyard.

*Nathlan*

Nathlan shrugged as Lamb strode briskly from the room, ignoring his curt tone. It was easy to see through the cold shoulder, after all. Lamb might be many things, but actor he was not, and it was plain to all that he was carrying a burden.

Clear to Nathlan at least, who had plenty of experience himself wearing guilt and sorrow like a cloak. Vera too, most likely. He honestly had no idea what Jorge's past held, as while the old man liked to play up the mystery, Nathlan didn't doubt for a moment that there was a significant story there. You didn't spend your life travelling unless you were running from something, in his opinion anyway. A happy man without regrets would be living on a farm with a partner and a bevy of children by now, surely?

He dismissed his musings and returned to his latest investigation; another attempted rebuttal of Nathlan The Ancient's thesis on the primacy of the World Tree in shaping imperial ambitions through each successive era. He dove in eagerly, scoffing as he read the abstract but continuing on, nonetheless.

He hoped dearly he had a reply from The Scholar himself for this one in his storage device, but given the flimsy nature of the starting arguments, he expected his namesake hadn't bothered to reply anyway. Ah well, perhaps the next one.

He knew it was a vice. He pretended it was an insatiable thirst for knowledge, but deep down he knew he was at least partially invested in the shear drama of the bickering of high-level academics. Perhaps it was why the scholar-kings of Ashkania loomed so large in his mind. Snuggling further into the blankets, he settled in for a long night of petty back and forth and scholarly discussion – one and the same, in many ways.

He snorted awake, momentarily startled by the feeling of the papyrus scroll pressing into his face. He sat up, peeling the disappointing reading away and storing it. He stretched, glancing at the thin beam of sunlight staining the floor to confirm how long he'd slept for. No more than an hour.

He grabbed a final slice of cheese and headed for the door, intent on finding Lamb. While he wanted to give him space to work through whatever was going on with him, it was also good to lend an ear. And, more selfishly, he was bored.

A glance out the window showed Lamb exactly where he'd known the man would be; in the centre of the small courtyard, spear and shield out and training hard. The clack of wood on wood was muted somewhat by the heavy panes of glass that filled the frame, but it was something that couldn't be blocked out entirely.

The fact that the owner of the establishment hadn't raised any protests spoke to how quiet things were in the inn currently. Jorge had mentioned that the Remembrance was a solemn affair as far as festivals go, but seeing first-hand the lack of movement today in the apparently vibrant city was a bit of a surprise, nevertheless.

It was only as he descended the wide staircase and found himself absently admiring the sweeping handrail formed of a dark, dense wood, appearing to be grown into shape rather than carved, that he wondered over the noises he'd heard.

Hastening his step, he strode towards the courtyard entrance. Surely, Lamb wasn't hitting the tree itself with his practice spear? Not only was striking a stationary target often poor practice anyway, but surely even Lamb – admittedly a bit of an idiot and culturally ignorant in the extreme – wouldn't strike a sacred tree in the middle of a city renowned for their tree-singing arts?

What a ridiculous question, of course he would.

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