Ambrose

The day after Ambrose stepped out of Eli’s Elixirs, the eponymous fool turned the new shop into an eyesore.

It started out with one banner. Just one brightly colored banner, with the words Grand Opening painted in heavy block letters.

That was fine, Ambrose supposed. He anticipated a less-than-grand closing in a month, anyway.

But the banners kept multiplying, all clashing colors and gaudy capitals, with messages that made Ambrose want to scratch his nails into the front counter.

Half Off All Healing Potions!

Buy One Get One Free—Underwater Breathing Vials!

Twenty Percent Off Fire Resistance Tonics!

As the bold sales and nauseating colors flapped happily in the breeze, Ambrose ground his teeth and compared the prices to his own ledgers. The potions across the street were surely of lower quality than his, but they were also cheaper.

Far cheaper.

He slapped the ledger closed and shoved it under the shelf. Everything was still fine. The reputation of The Griffin’s Claw couldn’t be undermined by a few discounts. If adventurers wanted fire resistance potions that didn’t fade on them halfway through a dragon’s rampage, they’d know where to go.

Then the day of the grand opening arrived.

The door to Eli’s Elixirs was wide open. Chimes above the doorframe swayed in the breeze, gentle and bright. A table of pastries sat inside the entrance, so fragrant that it made Ambrose’s traitorous stomach rumble. As passersby began to stop and wander into Eli’s shop, Ambrose clenched his fist around his quill.

“You, uh. . .all right there?” A voice dragged Ambrose out of his fuming surveillance. He quickly let go of the quill and turned to his customer, a gnome pushing a levitation potion across the counter. Behind her, two orcish adventurers milled around the window display, dual axes strapped to their backs. These two had been frequenting The Griffin’s Claw for years, always tromping in with their potion belts of studded leather and fur, then filling them to the brim with healing vials.

Ambrose settled himself, gave a nod to the orcs, then took the bottle from the gnome.

“Perfectly fine, thank you,” he said, then rang up the customer without further conversation. Which was quite how everything was supposed to go—Master Pearce had always instructed him not to pester the customers. They wanted potions, not small talk. Best not to bother them, or anyone else, for that matter. Ambrose found such consistency in social decorum comforting.

But as laughter spilled out of Eli’s Elixirs, the orcs by the window looked up, peeked over at the rival store, thenhen with a sheepish glance in Ambrose’s direction, left The Griffin’s Claw and walked across the street.

Ambrose froze, still holding the gnome’s vial halfway over the counter.

“Mr. Beake, sir?” The gnome held out a hand. “Can I have that potion now?”

He dropped it into her palm. “Yes. And,” he fumbled quietly, “thank you for your patronage.”

***

The orcs may have been the first blow dealt, but they certainly weren’t the last. As the next week rolled on, more of Ambrose’s customers began to peer over at Eli’s Elixirs. Peering turned into wandering, wandering into window-shopping, window-shopping into purchasing. And Eli himself was always there to welcome them, hailing Ambrose’s customers with an infuriatingly sunny grin that matched the light in the store. Though it was hard to see through the sparkling window displays and hanging plants, his customers seemed to move more slowly in the shop, chatting and gossiping with Eli as they browsed.

And as Eli’s crowds grew, Ambrose’s ledgers shrank.

***

“Just terrible. . .” Ambrose muttered to himself. Dawn was late to their usual lunch, and he passed the time by flipping through his anniversary notebook and sighing heavily. He had been depending on sales this week to fund the new wand rack, but thanks to Eli’s Elixirs, he had come up short. He grimaced, took his quill, and crossed the wand rack off the list. It was for the best, he reasoned. If he gave that up, he could save money for the—

“That bad, huh?”

Dawn’s question made him jump, and he turned to find her leaning over his shoulder, scanning his maimed list.

“No,” he retorted, then recomposed himself as she swung into the chair across from him. “I mean—no. Simply. . .being realistic about what I can afford for the anniversary.”

“The anniversary?” Dawn tilted her head, her mohawk flopping to one side. “That’s months away. You’ve got time.”

“But most of the Guild adventurers are only in town for another few weeks.” Ambrose leaned forward. “This is when I make the bulk of my profits for the quarter, and if that man cuts into it—”

“Hey, I get it.” Dawn poured herself tea. “You’ll be fine, Ames. You’ll turn this around.”

Ambrose slouched in his chair and looked about the café, their go-to spot for the last decade. The place was two levels up in the northern quarter, its stout proportions and sloped ceiling more suited to a gnome’s build than an elf’s. But the cinnamon cookies more than made up for the cramped atmosphere, so Ambrose and Dawn made a weekly habit of lounging in the only two human-sized seats available.

“So”—Ambrose snapped his notebook shut and tossed it onto the table— “what do you have for me today? You said it was an emergency lunch.”

Dawn sipped her tea and gave an excited wiggle, her bright earrings and silks swaying with her. Today, she was drenched in fuchsia, casting a lovely pink glow on her white teacup. “Yes! Emergency lunch called to order.”

“All present.” Ambrose smiled. The occasion was far less urgent than the name suggested—Dawn called for them nearly every week. Emergency lunch to tell him about the new girl she had met at the tavern. Emergency lunch to describe a new commission or complain about the ever-changing needs of her customers. . .

The teapots rattled as Dawn dropped her own journal on the table, three times as thick as Ambrose’s and spiked with extra tabs and papers. “I’ve got new hunting grounds for the star shine moss,” she said, flipping the journal open for emphasis.

“I see.” Ambrose straightened. “Where are we going next, Captain?”

“I only have two more options.” She set her fingers on two maps—one of a scribbling network of tunnels and one of a large, gaping hole. “Construction tunnels first, then the sinkhole, if we need to.”

Ambrose swallowed at the deep, dark levels in the sinkhole drawing. “And you think you can get access to the construction tunnels?”

Dawn wiggled her fingers. “Benefits of being on the birthday committee, thank you. If the mayor’s daughter wants legendary fireworks for her birthday parade, some strings must be pulled.”

“Oh, such power. I’m overwhelmed.” Ambrose pointed to her notes with a cookie. “When shall we venture?”

“You free this week?” When Ambrose raised his eyebrows, Dawn shrugged. “If I’m going to use the moss in my fireworks, I need to start working with it now.”

“Provided it still exists.”

“Yup.” She leaned back. “The Thirty Under 130 folks won’t know what hit ’em.”

Ambrose shook his head and finished his cookie. Of all of Dawn’s commissions, committees, and commitments, this was her most ambitious. Rediscover a long-lost magic lichen, use it in her parade fireworks, and impress one very important group: the Thirty Under 130 magical business journal.

“I even know where I’m gonna frame the article,” Dawn continued, pointing into the air. “Right above the front counter, between the shelves.”

Ambrose sipped his tea. “Didn’t you hang your Best in Scar plaque there?”

“I can move that to the side wall.”

“And oust your line of wand-making awards?”

“Whatever, I’ll move those to the back shelves.”

Ambrose grinned, took a flower petal from his plate, and tossed it at her. “Then how will people know you’re the best?”

Dawn threw it back. “Because the article will be above the front counter!”

“Article, please.” He scoffed. “You’re going to be on the cover, and you know it.”

Dawn’s eyes glittered at the thought, and Ambrose gladly soaked in her excited rambling through the end of their tea.

“If I could just get my hands on the moss this month. . .” she continued eagerly as they walked home, navigating the chasm’s network of wooden platforms and creaking rope bridges. “Do you know how much control I could add to the fireworks? I could add paths and complex movements! The Thirty’s gonna love it—” Her enthusiastic gesture almost smacked a passing orc in the face, and she reeled back her hand. “Oh, sorry!”

Ambrose laughed. “We’ll have to find that moss for you, then.”

Dawn beamed. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

He slowed his pace as they neared their second-favorite haunt—Widdershins’ Books, a daintily carved little place north of Rosemond Street. Stained-glass flowers adorned the window, their colors casting rainbow hues over the latest books on display. Ambrose stopped to inspect the new arrivals and caught a whiff of paper and coffee from the open doorway. The scent felt overly decadent after already lounging in the café—but he tapped Dawn’s arm nonetheless. “Do we have time to stop in?”

“You go ahead.” She kept moving forward. “I need to pick up some iron pollen Eli borrowed.”

The cinnamon cookies immediately sat heavier in Ambrose’s stomach.

“Eli?” He followed her down the ramp. “Why did you let him borrow something?”

“Street policy, Ames.” She laughed. “Don’t be rude, let people borrow stuff. Literally, Banneker wrote those words into the rules himself.”

“Fine, fine.”

When they reached Rosemond Street, he tried to duck away toward his shop—but Dawn tugged on his sleeve, her grin sharp.

“Come on. Walk in with me, and you can spy on his stuff while I get the pollen back.”

Ambrose glanced reluctantly at the rival store, still obscured by plants and customers, then shook his head. “He’ll see right through it.”

“So what? He can walk into your store at any time, and you can walk into his.” She marched toward the door. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Eli’s Elixirs still smelled of soil, sunlight, and herbs—but now that Eli had fully stocked the shelves and begun to brew, the earthy scents had softened into something more familiar. Burnt wood, metal polish, the sharp tang of healing potions. Ambrose stiffened. The idea of smelling those things here, not in his own workroom, somehow made him angry. Like Eli had stolen something of his, something he liked very much, and twisted it against him.

“Lemme know if you need help!” The thief in question was behind the front counter, smiling at a customer. When Dawn stepped in, his warm expression brightened—then dimmed when he saw Ambrose.

“Hey, Dawn!” He quickly turned the charm back on to address her. “You’re here for the iron pollen, right? I’ll go get it.”

“No rush!” Dawn tried, but he was already half-jogging to the storeroom in the back.

“No, I know you’re busy!” He waved and disappeared through a door. Ambrose let out a breath and began to explore the shop, hands clasped behind his back.

It was difficult to find the right path to take. In The Griffin’s Claw, the layout was a simple oval. Everything was labeled and structured in a way that allowed one to find their potions, circle back to the front, and leave.

Here, the store forced him to take a more scenic route. Tables of all shapes and sizes blocked his path to the discounts in the back, turning his route into a distracting maze. He wound his way past potions aligned in rainbow patterns, vials with bright ribbon tags, crystal bottles that glittered just so in the light. . .

Once he reached the back of the shop, Ambrose bit down a curse and took in the entire store. This was intentional, all of it. In his quest to reach the advertised discounts, he had unwittingly stopped several times to inspect the more expensive potions, arranged in ways that took advantage of the store’s afternoon light. As he watched, an elven customer took one of the cheaper healing vials, doubled back to one of the crystal displays, and plucked a few bottles to add to his growing bundle of purchases.

Ambrose fought the urge to throw his signet ring across the room. Years of hard work and knowledge, only to be bested by—by marketing strategies—

“Afternoon, Beake.”

Ambrose whipped around. Grim stood a shelf over, brow furrowed at a display of night-vision potions. A flash of betrayal surged through Ambrose.

“You’re not buying anything of his, are you?” he hissed. Grim gave him a flicker of a glance over their glasses.

“Only to test the goods,” they said. “Need to make sure the man’s legitimate.”

“Oh.” Ambrose flushed at his own outburst. “Of course, absolutely. And. . .what have you found?” He glanced around him. His initial inspection hadn’t turned up anything subpar yet, but if Grim had discovered something. . .

The jeweler made a noncommittal noise and slid a bottle back on the shelf. “They’re good, Beake. Not as good as yours”—another sideways glance—“but they’re good.”

Ambrose stifled another curse. Couldn’t even pin the man for malpractice. “Very well. I’ll just. . .”

He folded his arms and looked around, hoping the solution to his problem would materialize—but nothing came to mind. Grim copied his stance with their beefy arms. “Not sure why you’re so worried.”

Ambrose scoffed. “Do you see these crowds?”

“I see them.” Grim’s voice was quietly persistent. “Low-level adventurers taking advantage of cheap, low-level potions. But you can do better than that, can’t you?” They lifted their eyebrows. “Beake, you can make potions he could never dream of making, not in a decade. You’re talented. Use that.”

Grim clapped him on the shoulder with a heavy hand and shuffled off. Before Ambrose could shake his surprise and form a “thank you,” Eli emerged from the storeroom.

“Thanks for letting me borrow the pollen, Dawn,” he said, handing her a jar of gray dust. “I swear I put in an order a few days ago with. . .” He snapped his fingers. “That traveling merchant, Joss. . .”

“Jae?”

“Yes!” Eli brightened. “Jae, from Hart’s Fenn.”

“I’ve got an order out with her, too.” Dawn pocketed the jar. “I heard the giants’ migration delayed her, but she’ll get here in a few days. Ames, you ready to go?”

Her words ended in a sharp point, and Ambrose realized he was glaring at Eli’s back. As Eli turned around, he quickly adjusted his expression.

“Yes,” he replied, his voice clipped. “Quite ready.”

But as he passed by Eli, the man cleared his throat.

“Actually, I. . .” Eli started. Ambrose turned reluctantly. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m hosting a networking night at the Jumping Ogre tomorrow. How about you join?” Then, like it was helpful, he added, “Sherry, Grim, and Banneker already said yes.”

Ambrose bristled—he’d rather do literally anything else—but Dawn raised her eyebrows over Eli’s shoulder, and he stifled the insult.

“Of course,” he said stiffly. “I’ll be there.”