006 The Carriage Conversation
“What’s that!?” Bret’s voice rose sharply, startling a few pigeons perched near the shop’s awning. He hadn’t meant to shout, but the sight in front of him caught him completely off guard.
Ron paused mid-step with a confused look, painting his face. “What do you mean, Mr. Beck?”
Bret stood by the door of Beck & Relics, arms crossed and brow furrowed. He had been waiting for Ron for some time, expecting the man to show up in his usual drab traveler's garb… maybe an old coat or simple shirt with patched trousers. Nothing too extravagant. Certainly nothing that would compete with the kind of attire he had meticulously prepared for the event. And yet, there Ron was… wearing a crisp blue vest layered over a white tunic, a short cloak clipped over one shoulder, and tailored trousers tucked neatly into polished adventuring boots. The ensemble rode the fine line between ceremonial and practical, a sort of duelist's formal wear that wouldn't look out of place at a noble’s duel or a midnight masquerade.
Bret pointed incredulously. “Y-your clothes… You didn’t steal them, did you?”
Ron gave an exasperated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m a former adventurer, Mr. Beck. Not a former thief. Is there a problem with my clothes? Maybe… there’s too much frill. I knew this looked dumb.”
Dumb? No, not quite. If anything, Ron had pulled off a strange charm that Bret hadn’t anticipated. The scars on his face, his naturally rugged build, and the calmness in his eyes created an odd yet appealing contrast to his refined outfit. It made him look like a seasoned noble swordsman in disguise, a character out of one of those embellished serialized romances that women in the district often swooned over.
“No, no,” Bret said quickly, raising his hands in a half-apology. “It’s just… surprising to see you so well-dressed. Your face is cleaner, too. You actually washed up, huh?”
Ron gave a half-smile and looked down at his outfit. “This was something left to me after an escorting mission. Parting gift, I guess.”
“Ah,” Bret muttered, nodding. “I see.”
That explained part of it… But not the whole story. Bret’s merchant instincts began to twitch. Ron, as mysterious as he was modest, had always given the impression of someone more complex than his quiet manner let on. And if he truly did have noble ties, even loosely, that could mean complications… or opportunities. It made Bret unsatiably curious.
“I heard you were a knight,” Bret ventured, keeping his tone casual.
Ron adjusted the satchel over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable. “More of an honorary knight, really. The person who bestowed it was… eccentric. I wasn’t even supposed to get land, but she insisted and attached a small plot to the title anyway.”
That didn’t help Bret’s growing suspicion. There was a story there, clearly, one with enough weight to change how Ron was treated in certain circles. He imagined some grand romance… perhaps a forbidden affair between a commoner adventurer and a noble lady. Maybe the lady had gifted him the title out of love, only for the affair to fall apart due to political tensions. Maybe Ron had been cast out for honor’s sake, forced to carve a life for himself in the woods…
‘No,’ Bret shook the thoughts from his head. ‘Don’t be an idiot. You’re a merchant, not a bard. An art merchant, yes… but…’
Still, he had to ask. “This is more a professional query, not me prying. After all, as artists, the nobility are both our greatest enemy and our greatest ally. So, I have to know… who was this ‘person’ that gave you the title and land?”
Ron chuckled, low and a bit sharp, before saying, “Ah, I see. You think I had some romantic entanglement. Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Beck, but I can’t tell you. I was sworn to secrecy. The two of us could get beheaded if I spoke of it.”
Bret froze, tongue-tied. His face paled, and then flushed red. “B-beheaded?”
Ron looked over his shoulder, casual as ever. “Don’t worry. This won’t affect our professional relationship. I’ve always honored my contracts. And besides, the person in question was far too young… think the king’s youngest daughter. So no, no romance. Just a very complicated memory.”
“Oh,” Bret said quietly, eyes wide.
Embarrassment bubbled in his chest. He felt like a fool, dreaming up soapy tales while standing next to a man who was likely walking a very dangerous political tightrope. If anything, he had to tread carefully. Ron had never acted entitled, despite having land and a title, but maybe that was exactly why Bret found him trustworthy. Still, the line between casual respect and protocol became fuzzy.
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Just then, the sound of wheels crunching on gravel announced the arrival of a carriage… It was black, sleek, and trimmed in silver. A pair of brown stallions snorted as the driver pulled the reins to a stop just outside the shop.
Bret cleared his throat and straightened his cuffs. “Ron, bring the painting to the carriage, would you? We’ll be riding to Harle Mansion together. I don’t want to risk the painting getting damaged.”
Ron moved without complaint, hoisting the canvas with practiced care. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t act like a knight expecting servants, and didn’t even flinch at being given tasks. Just calm, steady, efficient.
‘Maybe I should be more respectful,’ Bret thought. ‘The man is technically a knight, after all.’
But then again… Ron had already moved. He hadn’t flinched at being asked. There was no tension, and no pride to offend. Maybe treating him like any other man was what Ron preferred. And honestly, Bret could respect that more than any badge or ribbon.
He followed Ron into the carriage, mind already spinning with the names they might meet at Harle Mansion. Nobles with too much power, critics with sharper tongues than blades, and maybe, a future patron waiting to discover a new voice in literature.
The carriage rolled steadily along the cobblestone roads, the rhythmic clatter of hooves muffled by the thick curtains and velvet cushions lining the interior. Inside, Bret Beck sat with his arms folded and the three copies of [Paladin System: The Hidden Code of Swords securely tied together with a red ribbon and tucked neatly beside him. Each book was lovingly bound, a proof to Ron’s care, and would serve as both product and proof of effort to whoever they might meet today.
Across from him, Ron adjusted the collar of his vest, the fabric still stiff from disuse. He had cleaned up better than Bret expected… too well, perhaps… and the noble aura that clung to him now made the merchant uneasy in ways he couldn’t explain.
“Just a quick ask,” Ron said, his voice soft but direct.
Bret turned his gaze from the carriage window. “What is it?”
Ron tapped his fingers against his knee before asking, “I know it’s partly my fault… I didn’t write any physical description for Lancelot… but… does he really have to be blonde? Wouldn’t black hair suffice? It’s more common and more grounded.”
Bret blinked, then chuckled, patting the books gently as if to calm them down. “Because blonde hair is the most common among nobility. Not just in Harle, but across several kingdoms. It’s an inherited trait often associated with the divine right to rule. That sort of imagery has weight. It’s marketing, plain and simple.”
He leaned forward slightly, his merchant’s tone slipping into the polished cadence of an art critic. “The nobility is our primary target audience. If we want their attention and their coin, we need to reflect their world. If you’d described Lancelot with black hair or brown, it might not have drawn out the same emotion. And since you left the description open, you’ve essentially handed the reader a mirror. They’ll fill in the blanks with what speaks most to them, just like you intended. That’s why it is important to be as detailed as possible if you want your story untouched… by people like me.”
Ron sat back and folded his arms, his lips forming a thin line before he gave a small nod. “I suppose I assumed too much. Since I didn’t describe the character, I guess I subconsciously made him resemble myself in my mind… black hair and all. Lesson learned.”
Bret smirked but said nothing more on the matter. Instead, he reached for the painting resting across from them. With a careful tug, he pulled a linen cloth over it, shielding it from dust or possible mishandling once they reached the mansion.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said after a moment of silence, “what made you decide to pursue writing in the first place? I know you said something about willingness back at the shop, and I respect that. But breaking into the literary world isn’t exactly easy. Even with support, it's uncertain. Meanwhile, you’re a landed knight… even if only honorary. That’s a path far more stable, not to mention one with a clearer upward track. Serve well, earn favor, get your title legitimized. Eventually pass the land and name down to your children. It's the beginning of a continuing legacy. Yet here you are… chasing ink.”
The question wasn’t meant to offend, but Bret knew it might hit a nerve. In a world where nobility was earned through service or blood, most would’ve killed for Ron’s position. And here he was, treating it like a footnote.
Ron leaned his head back against the cushion, his expression unreadable at first. But then he spoke, not rushed, not defensive… just honest.
“I don’t think the path of a knight is as certain as you make it sound. Wars break out between kingdoms, between towns, even between families. Monsters roam unchecked, and once in a while, a powerful mage loses their mind and burns a city to the ground. Life here is unpredictable, chaotic even. Honor can’t shield you from a dragon’s breath or a scheming noble. And I don’t want to die on a road I never chose.”
He turned his gaze to the window, the trees outside rushing past like memories. “I want to write, Mr. Beck. Even if it’s the last thing I do in this world, I want it to be something I chose with my whole heart.”
Bret was quiet for a moment. He studied Ron carefully, weighing the words and their weight. There was no bravado in them, and no inflated sense of destiny or misplaced confidence. Just resolve. And that, to Bret, was more telling than any title or sword ever could be.
“Truly an admirable character…” Bret said with a small smile. “I can’t make any promises. The world of nobles and critics is… vicious. But I’ll help you however I can.”
A sharp knock from the front of the carriage signaled their arrival. The coachman’s voice followed shortly after. “Mr. Beck. Sir Ron. We’ve arrived at Harle Mansion.”
The carriage slowed to a halt, the scent of trimmed hedges and fresh gravel wafting in through the open curtains. Bret felt a pinch of nerves tighten in his stomach. Nobles could be many things… gilded patrons, pretentious vultures, or, on rare occasions, genuine lovers of the arts. Whichever one they met today would determine the future of Ron’s book.
He adjusted his collar and gave Ron a nod. “Well then. Let’s go see if they have a taste in stories.”