The Humble Life of a Skill Trainer

With my face inches from the bottom of the flask of slowly swirling liquids, I waited for the perfect moment. The timing was everything in this reaction. Every second late from the crucial moment would be a reduction in the efficacy of the potion, too early, and the result would become explosive. During this critical time came the sound of someone entering the shop from behind me. All I could do was raise one hand and wave, indicating for a moment with my hand, hoping that the person would not take offense from my actions.

I could hear the slow labored steps of a hefty person approaching while I stared. For a moment, I was distracted wondering if there might be a skill that would help to identify a person purely by their sound, perhaps a modification of [Track]? Maybe within an evolution or offshoot of [Sneak]? In my musings, I missed the initial moment of change. However, the sudden glow still allowed me to drop in the dried Murtwood bark in a reasonable period. The potion would be less effective, not up to the shop’s usual standards, but I could sell it as one of my failures and reinforce the apprentice façade.

When I turned, I was presented with the patiently waiting - and smiling - face of the Master Clerk of the High Chancellor. My prepared demeanor - hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, hesitation, and furrowed brow - shifted into a far more natural stance. Not having to use my typical stuttering accent was nice, but having to switch into a southern Glaster accent, was just as frustrating. The Master Clerk was proud that he had seen past the mask of the apprentice alchemist and found the apprentice Skill Trainer beneath. Which was exactly as I intended when I let things slip to him in City Hall - that pride allowed me to manipulate him. One thing mother had made clear was that once someone finds the trick, they stopped looking. If they already expected a swindle, show them an easy one, and they will practically hand you their gold.

There was a reason that I had learned many of my social Skills from mother and not father. Mother was more likely to sweet talk you and slip a knife in when least expected, father was far more direct both socially and otherwise. Both could perform in half a dozen different professions at the level of at least a low apprentice or wield many a weapon, but mother could talk a silk merchant into handing over priceless silk lace to someone they didn’t know within a day of meeting them. I knew she could because she had demonstrated it once.

“Joseph, my boy, how are you this evening?” Master Clerk Bridlewood asked.

I had to stifle a chuckle since that was the same question he always asked, like clockwork. Master of deception Bridlewood was not, but then he didn’t have to be. Master Clerk Bridlewood was trained as a scholar with master skills in reading, memorization, writing, accounting, and a host of other related skills. With a glance, the man could memorize documents, notice any changes of wording or modifications, and repeat them verbatim. Honestly, the man had earned his place. He was also as corrupt as the river that flowed through the slums while being that rarest of an animal; a politician that stayed bought.

“Good, and a good morning to you, Master Clerk Bridlewood, should I fill your usual digestives order?” I asked.

Smiling with the air of a gentle grandfather, he leaned on his cane and nodded, “Yes, yes, my poor stomach. Thank you.”

Ducking below the counter, I grabbed the prepared wooden box and placed the small bag of silver coins within. Running my finger along the rows of labeled products, I plucked out the digestives, the aphrodisiacs, and the pouch of Mother’s Bane tea leaves. The Master Clerk may have been an old man, but he also had three young wives and no want of a new heir. Aphrodisiacs and Mother’s Bane tea leaves were seen as less than wholesome goods here in the city. They were legal, unlike in some kingdoms, though under a hefty tax and would act as a lodestone for rumors.

Hence, why those two bags were unlabeled and in a plain wooden box.

When I presented the rough box, Bridlewood opened it and quickly glanced within. If my mother had seen me make that kind of motion, she would have boxed my ears. Unless, of course, it was part of an act to suggest my participation in illegal activity or an intentional sign of guilt. The Master Clerk was not a Master actor. He was no actor at all. Which was one of the reasons I had selected him as my go-between for the nobility.

“Please let your Master know that I have a possible commission for him from the Baron,” Bridlewood said. Then he tapped his finger against the side of his nose in an attempt at a subtle gesture. This was the downside of working with someone so obviously lacking in guile.

Bowing slightly at the waist, I returned his friendly smile, letting the old man think he had subtly communicated his meaning. After a few other pleasantries, mostly the Master Clerk demonstrating he had the ear of the nobility through him providing choice rumors, he limped his way out of the store. For a few seconds, I stood behind the counter and considered my next actions. Should I keep the alchemy shop open and wait until closing, or should I seek out my usual sources of information before then? While I considered, I did my usual rounds of bottling the prepared potion and cleaning of the glassware. None of these supplies were worth much, but it would be unprofessional to leave the medicines to waste.

My current ruse was that I was an apprentice saddled onto a retired elderly Master Alchemist. As a retired Master, he was not required to teach an apprentice and would be expected to avoid it if at all possible. This left me to play the part of the bumbling, ignorant, and most importantly disgruntled and disheartened alchemy apprentice. This allowed me to leave the shop at whatever hours I liked. It would be seen as an apprentice failing a forgetful master, or I could work long hours and pretend to be a try-hard apprentice struggling to learn all he could. Most important of all, it meant the shop could house anything or nothing, and no one would notice either way. We could take on extravagant commissions, or lay fallow for years.

In practice, we made only a minor amount of coin, barely enough to pay for the shop and my housing. It also acted as cover to protect ‘us’ from others if they discover we were Skill Trainers. My ‘Master’ honestly was a registered Master in the Alchemy guild, though I still had no clue how mother set that up. My guess included blackmail and bribery.

Technically, my profession was perfectly legal. In practice, every trade guild, mercenary company, theater company, unofficial thieves guild, assassins guild (official or otherwise), mage, and healer in the kingdom hated us. We practiced their trades and stole their secrets, then used them to make us better teachers. It was a direct slap to the face to anyone and everyone who made their living either fighting or creating something. Just about the only groups that didn’t dislike us were the priests and the pleasure houses. Funnily enough, I had never been paid to teach lovemaking or preaching. There was some subtle statement about our culture in that, but I wouldn’t care to guess what it was.

The worst, though was the Mage’s Guild. Trying to steal from the mages had ended with many a melted trainer. At the moment, we were in an unofficial and uneasy truce. While we couldn’t blast flames from our fingertips, more than one poison expert and assassin got their start as a trainer. We currently pretended we didn’t exist, and they played along. If a mage went hunting for one of us, they disappeared. If one of us was outed, they would disappear.

While cleaning the last flask, I decided to let things lie and try to gather information tomorrow. What the Baron wanted wasn’t immediately obvious. He had no son or daughter, he was practiced with all the skills of statecraft, and he had served in the king’s army in his youth. I doubted the noble wanted something simple like [Swordsmanship] or some paltry [Cooking] skill. My guess was training in one of the less savory or more dangerous skills. [Poison Resistance], [Tenacity], or maybe [Torture]. I tried not to judge and simply provide a service, but sometimes I found it distasteful. While I had skill listings and guides on how to earn certain skills, as well as many of the most frequently seen evolutions, I had no interest in learning some of them myself. Most of my skills revolved around resistances, production, and basic weapons.

Part of my reason for avoiding gathering information might be that I wanted to ignore the coming unpleasantness.

At that thought, I sighed while rubbing the bridge of my nose and then put away the rest of the cleaned glassware. One of the ways the Skill Trainers have managed to be so successful over the years is through the practice of meta-skills: skills that help you improve skills. [Trainer], or the better [Teacher], were the most obvious, but [Self Awareness] was one of the most important in a day to day setting.

While the skill didn’t increase at my musing, it was definitely tugging at my mind.

Self Awareness - Tier 1: 12

Self-Awareness gives one insight into their own mind, how thoughts flow, and where the river of consciousness runs rough and where it becomes tranquil.

Passive Effect:

Lesser: Inner Stability - Slight resistance to effects that would alter your perceptions and actions.

Active Trigger Effect:

Lesser: Improved perceptual effects.

Lesser: Improved mental effects.

Synergistic with other known mental skills:

[Memorization], [Reading], [Teacher of Skills].

Lesser: Inner Stability was tricky. It worked on spells like Charm or hallucinogenic poisons, but it also worked on things like fear and annoyance. When my father had first suggested training in it, I had been hesitant. I once doubted that it would have that strong of an effect. It was one of the hardest mental skills to raise due to the active effect being so hard to even notice at the lowest levels without active usage of mind-altering compounds. Mother set me straight.

The lies we tell ourselves are the hardest to detect.

Annoyed, I tapped my hidden pockets to make sure I had my concealed knife and the rest of my gear. I doubted I would have an occasion to use it, but it would be unfortunate to need it and not have it. Throwing my alchemy pouch over my shoulder, as much as a sign of my position as it was a disguise, I finally stuffed a large knife into my boot. The large knife was visible, and so should hopefully draw attention if I was accosted. I hadn’t been yet, but who knew what could happen.

Locking up the shop, I proceeded through the crafter’s district and into the back alleys and into the warehouse district and the wharf. When I reached my favorite tavern, I bent over slightly and slunk through the door. The calls of ‘hey Doc!’ were louder than I expected. Usually, the Rusted Lance only had a few of the Baron’s men relaxing and enjoying a pint. To my quickly hidden confusion, the tavern had more than double the number as usual. That alone would have let anyone paying attention know that something odd was going on.

Waving a single finger to the barkeep, I shuffled my way over to one of the gestured seats and gingerly sat myself down.

“You alright there, Doc? You’re movin’ like someone took a bit too much of lovin’ to your backside,” Sergeant Baker said with a gapped toothed grin and the chuckles of his friends.

“More r…r…ight than you know,” I began with my customary stutter, “my Master, the old b…b…bastard, heard some kind of rumor about the B…B…Baron and got all out of sorts over it, yelling and screaming. Which wouldn’t make no n…n…never mind to me none, except one of my p…p…potions came out wrong, and he took a switch to me over it,” I said to the ugly looks of the men.

“Sorry to hear that, boy. Any news of when your training being over and being out from under him?” the Sergeant asked.

I shook my head and then rummaged through my bag when the ale was finally delivered. Slipping out a small bit of brownish powder, in reality, just some crystalized beet juice, and poured it into my brew. Swishing my finger through the foam to ‘stir’ it, I took a hardy swig and then let out a sigh of ‘relief.’

“At least the b…b…bastard never counts the stock,” I said while winking to the Man-At-Arms.

“Hey now boy, don’t be talking like that. I appreciate what you done for the boys and all, but if we hear about wrong doin’, we have to do something about’ it, hear?” the Sergeant said in as stern a voice as he could muster, though I could tell he didn’t mean it.

Ducking my head, I nodded. In truth, I was too old to play the young brash kid eager to help, but my ‘failed’ apprenticeship pushed me down the social ladder a bit. Combine that with the Sergeant being more than thirty years my senior and surrounded by men still older than me, and the lines blurred a bit on where I really belonged socially. It didn’t hurt that I had become a bit of an unofficial mascot after providing a dose or two to clear up a case of a few things the gentlemen had picked up from the ladies of the wharf.

Chugging more of my stale ale, I leaned back with a vacant smile, letting the men think I was being affected by my medicine. I doubted I would hear anything of the Baron’s plans, but this was the closest my information gathering reached into the higher nobility. Though, you never knew when a smile would be enough to hear something vital from drinking men. Well, a smile, and maybe a bit of salve for Comfort Boils.