By the time the sturdy middle-aged coachman had the carriage ready, Raymond had changed his mind.
He picked a burly guard—not to visit Havinsson at the city lord's castle, but to take him to Kaiton's commercial district instead.
The shift in scenery helped. Bustling streets. Crowds of people going about their business. The oppressive weight of last night's encounter began to lift.
The guard's name was Mygaugh. Twenty years old, maybe, though the thick beard covering his face made him look older and meaner. Built like a bull, wrapped in the city lord's distinctive leather armor, he rode alongside the carriage on a massive horse, clearing a path through the pedestrian traffic.
People on the streets looked... content. Relaxed. Kaiton's reputation for safety seemed well-earned.
When they reached the commercial district, the fancy carriage couldn't go any further. Raymond left the coachman behind and continued on foot, Mygaugh shadowing him.
"Know any bookshops?" Raymond asked.
"Only one in all of Kaiton, my lord," Mygaugh rumbled. "At the far end of the market street."
For a man who looked like a brute, Mygaugh did his job well. He cleared a space around Raymond, keeping the crowd at arm's length without saying a word.
They wound through the press of bodies until they reached the shop—an old-fashioned place with character, dark wood and dusty windows. A clerk in gray livery met them at the door and led them inside.
Through a glass partition, Raymond could see the main sales floor: dozens of tall shelves packed with books, neatly arranged, their spines forming a rainbow of colors. The air smelled of ink and paper—and something else, faintly fishy.
Mygaugh planted himself behind Raymond, arms crossed, looking bored. After a moment, he lost patience.
"Get your owner!" he barked at the clerk. "You're wasting my lord's time!"
The deep voice brought an old man stumbling from the back. He took one look at Mygaugh's armor and paled.
"Welcome, gracious lord, welcome to my humble shop!" The old man plastered on a smile and turned to Raymond. "We are the largest book dealer on the entire western coast. Whatever you seek, you shall find it here!"
Raymond gestured toward the shelves. "What languages do you carry?"
The old man blinked. "Languages? Most of our stock is in the common tongue, my lord. Histories, biographies, whatever you desire. Is there something specific you're looking for?"
Raymond dipped a finger in his water glass and traced a symbol on the table—one of the strange characters from his book's cover.
"Anything printed in this script?"
The old man squinted, leaned close, then jerked back in recognition. "Ah! Ancient Torrise script! Yes, my lord, we have several volumes in that tongue!"
He snapped his fingers at the clerk, who scurried away and returned moments later with a stack of thick books. Heavy things, dense as bricks, filled with the same angular characters Raymond had written.
Raymond tossed a gold coin onto the table. The old man's eyes widened.
"Besides the Torrise," Raymond said, "what else do you have? Ancient languages? Rare scripts?"
The old man's words tumbled out faster now. "We have Andean script, Spadon script, common tongue of course, Matanan script—and two handwritten copies, my lord, reportedly in ancient wizard's script!"
Raymond tapped the table thoughtfully. "For each language you have, give me the three thickest volumes you stock."
The old man didn't need to be told twice. He and the clerk vanished into the stacks, emerging repeatedly with armloads of books. The pile grew. And grew.
Then two men staggered in carrying the last volume—half a meter tall, thick as a door, covered in dust. Even Mygaugh raised an eyebrow at that one.
The handwritten copies came in protective boxes, thin and precious. Raymond smiled.
Seven languages in total. He took two copies of everything except the massive tome and the handwritten scripts—those he took as singles.
Before leaving, he gave one final instruction: find people who could read these languages aloud. Hire them. Send them to his castle.
The old bookseller scratched his head, puzzled.
Raymond named his price. One gold coin per day. Just for reading aloud in his presence. The only requirement: clear diction.
He added, almost as an afterthought, that pretty young women would receive a bonus.
The old man's jaw dropped.
Half a wagon-load of books followed Raymond back to the castle.
The chip recorded everything. Nine scripts in total—more than he'd expected. The books themselves were musty, decades old at least, and some of the handwritten copies were bound in what felt suspiciously like cured animal hide. By the time the chip finished scanning them all, Raymond's temporary study reeked of rot and old leather.
He abandoned his usual bedroom for a neighboring room. The smell was that bad.
Over the next several days, the castle buzzed with activity. Applicants arrived in droves.
Readers for the common tongue and Spadon script were easy to find—dozens of candidates. The competition turned into something like a beauty pageant. Two young women, both students in Kaiton, pretty and well-spoken, won those positions.
Ancient Torrise script proved harder. Only one applicant qualified: an elderly scholar, barely able to make the journey, but his reading was clear and precise.
The remaining scripts? No one. Not a single applicant could read them at all.
Still, Raymond had what he needed. Each day, he stretched out in his chair and listened as his employees read to him—histories, biographies, rambling tales from wandering poets, and more than a few spicy anecdotes from royal courts that made the young women blush.