Black Mould - Thirty-Two - Cleaver Dealings Leading to Inflating Profits

Black Mould - Thirty-Two - Cleaver Dealings Leading to Inflating Profits

Black Mould - Thirty-Two - Cleaver Dealings Leading to Inflating Profits

Here you go, I said as I raised the skewer up to my last client of the day.

Last, because I was all out of mushrooms. For that matter, I was nearly out of skewers too. Halfway through the morning, I realised that I was going to run out long before the day was up. I came up with a last-minute plan based on something Id seen back on Earth.

I sold the mushrooms for one price, and the skewer for another. If they returned the skewer, they got the halfpenny they paid for it back. I recalled a few pubs doing that with their mugs.

The morning wasnt even done before I had some clever boywho was about three years older than merunning around and picking up discarded skewers to bring them back to me for the few coins they were worth.

I had come to one of the nicer markets in the slums. It was run by a middle-aged guy with a bit of a belly and a peg-leg. He said that he owned the entire warehouse the market was housed in, and the two guys working security both worked for him directly.

The place cost me two shillings just for the right to set up my little stall, but I had come early enough that I got to pick more or less where Id set it up. I placed my table next to one of the entrances, where the wind from the city would blow the smell of my cooking inwards.Visit no(v)eLb(i)n.com for the best novel reading experience

If someone didnt like the smell of cooking butter and garlic, then they were out of luck.

Scuse me, someone said.

I glanced up at the man standing before my table. Scruffy fellow, with a knit cap flopped on his head. There were more folk behind him, forming an orderly line.

Oh, uh, Im sorry sirs, maams, I said. But Im fresh out of mushrooms, and oil and butter. The last few Id cooked Id scraped along the surface of the pan just to get them a bit wet. I was out of nearly everything except for a small jar of finely chopped garlic which I closed up before they could start to go bad.

Damn, the man said. I could pay twice as much.

Im really out, I said.

Sorry mate, Stew said. He had stood behind me all morning. Though he wasnt really standing, but was rather perched on a stool with one of Debras blankets draped over his shoulders. He managed to look somewhat intimidating, all thin and scrawny as he was. It helped that I couldnt tell at a glance that he was missing some bits. Little ladys all out. Well be back tomorrow, alright?

Oh, okay, the guy said.

We had a bit of a party that night, especially since I stopped by a grocer and splurged on a can of meat paste and some bread that was a little more fresh than our usual fare. I even got a bottle of beer for Dad, since he liked that stuff, and some candy because candy.

Mom and Dad danced together while I clapped a beat, and I went to sleep that night with the hunger a distant memory, buried under laughs and a light head.

I spent the next week preparing for my second outing.

As I predicted, the second outing wasnt quite as great as the first, though it wasnt bad by any means. I sold nearly all of my stock before the morning was up, and the few skewers I had left at the end I split between a few people. I gave a couple to Stew, then one to the old guy who owned the place and one to each of his guards.

Of course, I kicked up my cute innocent act as much as I could while doing that. Big eyes, bigger smile, lots of thanks and praise and laughter when they thanked me.

Stew shook his head when we were leaving, but he didnt comment on my acting.

The following months started a bit of a routine for me. It took about three weeks for my mushrooms to regrow, but I had enough planted that it only took about a third of my food-yield to head out to the market. It didnt exactly work out; mushrooms didnt care about the date on the calendar, so they sometimes took longer to grow, or came in sooner than expected.

Mostly I got to harvest enough [Brown Horse Heads] to hit the market every week and a half or so. The amount I made varied, and over the spring and summer, the amount I had to spend to keep things going shifted too. On my seventh outing, my burner broke an hour into the morning. I had to cut things off early that day.

I bought a new burner with the money Id saved up, and got the guy that sold me my first one to fix it, with a few minor improvements.

Once, one of my tables legs snapped right off. I was lucky that the client before me had good reflexes and he caught the corner of it. Another merchant found a few chunks of wood I could use to hold the table up for the rest of the day (she earned herself a couple of free skewers for that).

When I complained to my dad, he insisted that he could make something better. It took a few days, which he spent downing beers while muttering at what he was working on, but in the end I got a nicer table with folding legs which had a couple of handles for easier transportation. It looked much cleaner, too.

Things progressed nicely until fall swept in and things got real cold. The last couple of trips to the market had me huddled close to my burner for warmth. I ended up buying some thick yarn from one of the other stalls, and I knit myself a thick green sweater.

Winter was coming, and with it, I was going to be turning six.

Soon Id be about old enough, and rich enough, to start plotting the next step of my plan to become financially independent before hitting my double digits!

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