# Chapter 5: Two Weeks

Gavren was restocking the silverthorn when I told him.

Not the cheap bulk stuff — the refined powder, guild-certified, the kind Mere had bought that first morning she'd walked in and rearranged my assumptions about what constituted interesting. Gavren was measuring it with the same mechanical precision he applied to everything: level scoop, tap twice, pour. Level scoop, tap twice, pour. His hands didn't pause when I spoke.

"I'm giving my notice," I said. "Two weeks, as agreed."

He set the scoop down. Aligned it parallel to the jar's edge. Then he looked at me with an expression that held exactly as much surprise as an empty shelf.

"I'm aware."

Of course he was. Gavren had probably known before I did — he'd told me as much three years ago, and again the day he'd asked for his two weeks. The man ran his life the way he ran his inventory: everything in its place, everything accounted for, everything anticipated.

"I'll finish the current rotation," I said. "Restock the feverwort, update the supplier notes, brief whoever replaces me on the shelf organization."

"The shelf organization will revert to alphabetical within a week of your departure."

"I know."

"It was better your way."

This was, from Gavren, the equivalent of a standing ovation. I noted it the way I noted everything — filed it, measured its weight, declined to acknowledge what it meant.

He moved to the back counter and returned with a parcel wrapped in brown paper. The size and heft of it said herbs. The careful wrapping said Gavren. He set it on the counter between us with his usual deliberate precision.

"Thornwell root," he said. "Dried chamomile. Sweetbalm. Feverwort — your preferred supplier, not the bulk stock." A pause, calibrated to exactly the right length. "And silverthorn. Refined."

(*Thornwell root. Three months ago, I stole a measure of it from his back stock during a migraine I couldn't think through. He never mentioned it. Never adjusted the inventory notation. I'd checked. The numbers should have been off by one measure, and they weren't, which meant he'd either missed it or accounted for it without comment. Gavren didn't miss things.*)

"That's—" I started.

"A practical consideration," he said. "You're entering a line of work that is, by reputation, somewhat unpredictable. You will likely need these before you can establish your own supply arrangements." He straightened a jar that was already straight. "The thornwell is a replacement for the measure that went missing in late autumn. I assumed you had a reason."

There it was. Not forgiveness — Gavren didn't operate in those terms. Acknowledgment. A debt noted, a ledger balanced, and a door held open for precisely the length of time required for me to walk through it without either of us having to discuss what we were doing.

"Thank you," I said.

He nodded once. "Your final pay will be calculated through the end of the two-week period, regardless of whether the transition is completed early. I see no reason to penalize punctuality."

Full pay for two weeks. The parcel. The thornwell replacement delivered without accusation. Three years of working for a man who communicated entirely through inventory management and schedule adherence, and this was his version of a farewell: precise, complete, and entirely without sentiment.

This was what it looked like when someone who didn't do warmth did something warm. You'd miss it if you weren't paying attention. Most people weren't.

"Seventh bell tomorrow?" I asked.

"Seventh bell," he confirmed, and turned back to the silverthorn. Level scoop, tap twice, pour.

I picked up the parcel and left.

* * *

Leon D'Nardis lived above a chandler's shop on the south side of the dockside district, in three rooms that could charitably be described as "furnished" and accurately described as "a controlled avalanche." I'd been there enough times to know the navigation pattern: step over the boot by the door, don't touch the stack of papers on the second chair (they were in an order only Leon understood), and never, under any circumstances, move the mug on the windowsill.

The mug was load-bearing. I'd asked once. Leon had said "structurally and emotionally" and refused to elaborate.

He opened the door still chewing something — bread, from the crumbs — and gestured me in with the hand that wasn't holding a half-eaten apple. Dark hair pushed back from his face — he'd run his fingers through it recently and called that grooming. Medium build, slightly muscular in the way people got when their work involved climbing into tombs and occasionally climbing out of them quickly. Five-ten, dressed in a loose shirt and trousers that had been expensive once, before they'd met Leon.

(*Ink stain on the right cuff — fresh, within the hour. Calluses on both palms, heavier on the left — he'd been rope-climbing recently. Slight tension in the right shoulder — old strain, not new injury. Weight favoring the left foot, but that was habitual, not damage. He'd been up since before dawn. The apple was breakfast, which meant he'd been working on a project that had eaten the morning.*)

"You look terrible," he said. This was how Leon said hello.

"I got into the guild."

He stopped chewing. Looked at me. Swallowed. "The Necessary Services lot?"

"Two weeks ago. I've been wrapping up at the shop."

Leon leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and studied me with the unhurried calm of a man who had one speed regardless of the information being processed. That was the thing about Leon — the delivery never changed. Good news, bad news, the building is on fire, he found a priceless artifact behind a death ward — same measured tone, same steady posture, same faint suggestion that he'd already considered this possibility and moved on to implications.

"Congratulations," he said. "I assume they made you jump through some absurd set of hoops disguised as a professional evaluation."

"Three-man panel. Stone room. The chair was uncomfortable on purpose."

"Naturally." He pushed off the doorframe and dropped into the chair by the window — the one without the paper stack. "And you told them exactly enough to be impressive without being alarming, because that's what you do."

"That's what I do."

He grinned. It was a quick thing, there and gone — Leon's emotional responses ran on a short loop: acknowledged, processed, filed. "Sit down. Tell me what's actually on your mind."

This was the other thing about Leon. He'd heard about the guild, absorbed it in three seconds, and pivoted to the interesting part. Not because he didn't care — because he'd already decided the guild acceptance was good, and dwelling on good news was a waste of perfectly usable brain space.

I sat. I told him about the dog.

Not the emotional parts — not Mere's three weeks of patient care, not the moment the animal had crossed the room and pressed its head against her hand. Those were Mere's, and I didn't share things that belonged to other people. I told him the architecture.

"Fear curse," I said. "Anchored to the visual processing channel. Three primary anchors, two redundant supports, feedback loop refreshing on every visual trigger. The whole thing was designed for a human perceptual framework."

"But it was on a dog."

"It was on a dog."

Leon's eyes sharpened. This was what our conversations looked like from the outside: two people stating facts at each other with increasing specificity until the picture resolved. From the inside, it was better than that. From the inside, it was the only conversation where my brain didn't have to slow down.

"Sensory hierarchy mismatch," he said. "Dogs trust the nose."

"Dogs trust the nose. The curse was running on maybe fifty percent magical compulsion and fifty percent the animal's own confused terror. The visual channel was screaming predator, the olfactory channel was saying safe, and the curse was winning because it had more magical weight behind it."

"So you tipped the scales."

"Amplified the competing sensory data. Binding salts to weaken the magical signal, silverthorn to suppress the fear response, and an amplification sequence to boost the scent processing. The curse's own feedback loop turned into a liability — every refresh cycle cost more energy fighting contradictory information. The anchors strained. It ate itself."

Leon was quiet for a moment. Not thinking — processing. Leon thought the way other people breathed: constantly, invisibly, and you only noticed when it stopped.

"That's elegant," he said. "You didn't touch the curse at all."

"Not directly. The binding salts were Mere's idea, originally — she'd been using them for weeks to create a localized dampening field. I just added the amplification layer to weaponize what she'd already built."

"Mere." Leon said the name with the particular inflection of someone cataloguing new information. "The woman who owns the bookshop?"

"Manages it. Thresholds, on the east side of the arcane district."

"And she independently figured out the sensory channel mismatch?"

"Through observation alone. Three weeks of trial and error with the binding salts and silverthorn — no formal curse-breaking background, no training. Pure pattern recognition and logical deduction."

Leon tilted his head. The gesture was small, but I'd known him long enough to read it: *that's unusual and I want to know more but I'm going to wait for you to volunteer it.*

"She thinks the way I do," I said. And then, because my mouth apparently had its own agenda: "Not the same way. Complementary. She sees the patterns in behavior and structure. I see the patterns in the magic. Put those together and—"

"And you can break a curse two professional curse-breakers couldn't," Leon finished. "Wedding bells already?"

I laughed. Actually laughed — it surprised me as much as it would have surprised anyone watching. "No. I doubt that."

But if anyone could. She'd sat in a bookshop and deduced the architecture of a curse through three weeks of patience and observation, and she'd never once asked me to explain my brain — because she didn't need to. Hers worked the same way, just pointed in a different direction.

Filed. Move on.

"Right," Leon said, in a tone that communicated he had noted the laugh, catalogued its implications, and elected not to press. He picked up the apple core from the windowsill and tossed it toward the bin in the corner. It missed. He didn't seem to notice. "Speaking of architectural mismatch. I cracked the Vethani Crypts last month."

I sat forward. "The Vethani Crypts have been sealed for — what, sixty years? The ward on those is—"

"Was," Leon corrected, with the calm satisfaction of someone who had earned the past tense. "The ward on those *was* a nested detection-and-response array. Fourteen layers. Very sophisticated, very old, very much designed by someone who assumed that anyone trying to get through would be doing it with precision tools."

"And you don't use precision tools."

"I use a very large hammer." He reached under the chair and produced a bottle — cheap wine, already open. Poured two measures into mismatched cups without asking. "The ward was built to detect and respond to specific patterns of magical interaction. Lock-picking, targeted dispelling, channel isolation — the standard approach. Each attempt triggers a proportional response. The more precise your probe, the more precisely the ward counters it."

Fourteen layers. Sixty years. Whoever built that ward was thinking in terms of surgical intrusion — counter every scalpel with a sharper scalpel. Beautiful work, technically. But any system designed to match input precision has a threshold assumption about input *volume* —

"You overloaded it," I said.

Leon smiled. Not the quick grin from before — slower, more deliberate. The smile of a man describing the best moment of his professional year. "I generated roughly four hundred simultaneous low-level magical inputs across every channel the ward was monitoring. Random noise. No pattern to match, no precision to counter, no coherent signal to isolate and respond to. The ward tried to analyze and counter all four hundred at once."

"And it couldn't."

"It could not. The response array locked up trying to process contradictory data from four hundred sources. The detection layer was still running — it could see every input — but the response mechanism was completely saturated. Fourteen layers of sophisticated, beautiful ward work, and I walked through it while it was still trying to figure out what was happening."

"What was in there?"

"A Mallory focusing crystal. Pre-Compact, original inscription. The kind of thing that shouldn't exist anymore because the Compact spent two decades confiscating them." He sipped the wine. "I sold it."

"To whom?"

"To someone who paid twelve hundred silvers for it and didn't volunteer their name." He said this the same as he said everything — calmly, without apology, without the moral weight another person might have attached to it. Leon's ethics existed on a sliding scale calibrated to one question: *was this a problem for me?* If the answer was no, the transaction was complete. If the answer was eventually, he'd deal with eventually when it arrived.

The principle was the same, I realized. Different method, same family. The dog curse had choked on its own feedback loop. Leon's ward had drowned in noise. Both exploits turned the working's own design into the weapon. He overwhelmed. I redirected. Both of us found the gap where the builder's assumptions broke down.

"You ever think about the guild?" I asked. "Necessary Services could use someone who thinks like that."

Leon's expression didn't change, but his eyes went flat — the sharpness that had been there a moment ago, gone. Not anger. A door latched from the inside.

"I'm licensed because the alternative is a cell," he said. "That's as much institutional affiliation as I'm willing to tolerate. The Compact knows I exist, the Compact knows roughly what I do, and the Compact has decided that the paperwork required to prosecute me is more expensive than the revenue from my licensing fees. That's a relationship I understand. A guild—" He shook his head. "A guild means obligations. Reporting. Someone else's judgment about which jobs I take and how I take them."

"The code is minimal. Four rules."

"Four rules written by someone else." He took another sip. "I write my own rules, Phelan. Badly, sometimes. But mine." The calm delivery hadn't shifted at all. This was what made Leon difficult to argue with — he didn't get heated, didn't get defensive, didn't give you the leverage of emotional investment. He simply stated his position with the absolute confidence of a man who had considered every angle and arrived at his conclusion by a route you couldn't retrace because it wasn't your route.

"Fair enough."

"Is it? Or are you just deciding this isn't a fight worth having because you already knew the answer before you asked?"

I picked up the mismatched cup. The wine was terrible. "Both."

"Both works." He leaned back. "If you end up needing ward-resistance compounds for guild work, there's a man named Carterson who runs a supply shop on the edge of the guild quarter. Makes a decent product — quarter the guild price, twice the potency. Tell him I sent you, or don't. He doesn't care either way."

I filed the name. Carterson. Guild quarter edge. Ward-resistance compounds. Useful, if the work went the way I expected.

"Tell me more about the amplification sequence. The scent-boosting — was that a standard enhancement working, or did you modify something?"

We talked for another hour. The wine got worse. The conversation got better. This was the architecture of our friendship — not warmth, not sentiment, not the comfortable shorthand of people who spent time together because proximity made it easy. Transactions. Ideas traded back and forth until both brains had more to work with than either had started with. Leon would supply a detail that triggered something in my head, and I'd chain it into a framework that triggered something in his, and the whole thing would accelerate until we were finishing each other's tangents.

This was the only speed my brain ran well at. Most conversations felt like wading through mud. This one felt like running — not because Leon was smarter, but because he didn't need me to slow down and didn't need me to explain the jumps. He was already there, or somewhere adjacent that was equally interesting, and either way the conversation moved at the speed of thought instead of the speed of social performance.

When I left, the sun was lower than I'd expected and the apple core was still on the floor next to the bin.

I didn't mention the guild again. He didn't mention Mere.

We'd both said what we meant and heard what we didn't — the most either of us was going to get from a conversation, and enough.

* * *

The two weeks passed the way time passes when you're waiting for something specific: unevenly.

The last day at Gavren's was a Thursday. I restocked the feverwort — his preferred supplier, the one with the consistent potency levels — and left the shelf notes in the back room where my replacement would find them. Alphabetical labels on top, functional groupings underneath. Maybe they'd use both. Probably they'd throw out the bottom set.

Gavren shook my hand at sixth bell. His grip was firm, brief, and precisely calibrated — like everything else about him.

"You were a good employee," he said. "Punctual."

From Gavren, there was no higher compliment. I accepted it as intended.

The guild operated on a rhythm I was still learning. I checked in at 14 Greystone Lane twice during the first week — once to file the orientation paperwork, once to collect the equipment lending catalogue. The receptionist recognized me both times with a warm smile that had, I now understood, nothing to do with warmth and everything to do with professional consistency. She was very good at her job. I made a point of matching her tone.

(*Fifteen silvers. Minus rent, minus food, minus incidentals. Ten and a half in reserve at the end of month one. Twenty-one after month two. The house plans on the table had started looking less like a wish and more like a schedule, and I wasn't sure how I felt about that. Dreams were safe at a distance. Schedules had deadlines. Deadlines could be missed.*)

The retainer money changed small things first. I ate three meals a day without doing arithmetic. I replaced the leaking boots, bought a proper case for my focusing tools, and stopped being a novelty at the dried meat vendor by the canal bridge. Small luxuries that felt large — the arithmetic of a man who'd been counting coppers long enough that spending silvers felt like trespassing.

I visited Mere at Thresholds on the second Tuesday. The dog — Sniff, she'd named him, because Mere named things for what they did and what had saved him was his nose — was sleeping in the front of the shop now, in a patch of sun by the door. His water bowl had migrated from the back room to the front, placed where the dog chose to be rather than where a person would have put it. She'd adapted to the animal's preference instead of training against it.

That was very Mere.

She was cataloguing new stock when I arrived — a crate of texts from an estate sale in the upper quarter. Her method was the same as always: open, assess, categorize, shelve. No wasted motion. Each book got exactly three seconds of evaluation before she decided where it belonged, and she was never wrong, because Mere's pattern recognition operated at a speed that made deliberation irrelevant.

"The amplification sequence," she said, without looking up from a treatise on mineral resonance. No greeting. We'd moved past greetings somewhere around our third conversation — unnecessary social overhead, by mutual unspoken agreement. "You modified a standard enhancement working for the scent channel. I want to know whether the modification is channel-specific or generalizable."

"Generalizable, in theory. The core technique is signal boosting — you're increasing the throughput of a specific sensory pathway relative to the competing channels. The channel itself is just a variable."

She set down the treatise and looked at me properly. This was Mere engaged — her eyes locked on with the intensity of someone who'd just been handed a puzzle shaped like a conversation. "So you could apply it to tactile processing. Or auditory."

"Tactile would be straightforward. Auditory gets complicated — the feedback dynamics are different. Sound processing involves temporal pattern matching that visual and olfactory channels don't require. You'd need to account for the lag."

"The lag is the interesting part." She pulled a sheet of notepaper from under the counter and started sketching — not runes, not formal notation, but the shorthand she used for her own thinking. Lines and nodes and arrows that looked like chaos and were, I'd learned, anything but. "If you could modulate the lag selectively, you could use the amplification sequence to enhance specific frequency ranges. Isolate a voice in a crowd. Filter ambient noise."

(*She's right. The temporal component isn't a limitation — it's a feature. Selective lag modulation would turn the amplification sequence from a blunt tool into a precision instrument. Why didn't I see that? Because I was focused on the application that worked, not the applications that could work. Mere sees forward. I see flaws. Complementary. There's that word again.*)

"That would require a secondary anchoring layer to hold the modulation parameters," I said. "Otherwise the lag adjustment drifts with every refresh cycle."

"Obviously." She said this the way other people said *good morning* — without weight, without judgment, simply confirming that the sky was blue. "But the anchoring is a solved problem. Standard stabilization runes would handle it. The interesting question is whether the enhanced channel creates downstream perceptual effects the subject doesn't expect."

We went back and forth for twenty minutes. The treatise on mineral resonance sat forgotten on the counter. Sniff slept in his patch of sun. A customer entered, browsed the reference shelf, and left without buying anything. Mere didn't notice. I noticed and didn't care.

At some point, a woman came in carrying a broadsheet and a worried expression. She approached the counter and waited, and kept waiting, because Mere was midway through explaining why the feedback harmonics of an enhanced auditory channel would behave differently in magically saturated environments and stopping would have been wasteful.

The woman cleared her throat. Mere looked up with the expression of someone who'd forgotten other people existed, which was accurate.

"Excuse me — I was wondering if you had anything on curse classification? My neighbor's husband is — well. The healers say it can't be broken, but I thought maybe there was a reference text, something that—"

"Third shelf, second row, Aldenmere's *Taxonomy of Binding Workings*," Mere said. "It won't help. If the Compact classified it, the classification is usually accurate. But the methodology chapter explains why, which is more useful than hope."

The woman thanked her and disappeared into the shelves. Mere turned back to me without comment.

"My father has opinions about amplification sequences," she said, in the particular flat tone she used for subjects she was choosing not to elaborate on. "He'd want to discuss it. At length." The second sentence landed like a door closing.

I filed it. Mere's father existed, had opinions, and was apparently someone she'd rather not invite into the conversation. That was her business. I had enough of my own things I didn't elaborate on to respect the convention.

The woman left with the Aldenmere text and a receipt. Sniff lifted his head to watch her go, assessed the door, and settled back down. The shop was quiet again — the particular quiet of a space that belonged to one person and tolerated visitors.

Mere went back to cataloguing. I stayed in the chair by the counter, not helping, not leaving. Present. The afternoon light shifted through the front window and caught the dust motes above the shelves, and Sniff's breathing was the only sound, and for a few minutes the noise in my head was quiet enough to almost not notice.

The days accumulated. River traffic shifted as the season turned — fewer barges carrying autumn produce, more carrying winter fuel. The chandler next to the net-mender's started stocking lamp oil in bulk — the nights were getting longer and the dockside residents were noticing. The old mill road got muddier. The gap in the customs wall that I walked through every morning seemed smaller, though I knew it was the same two missing bricks it had always been.

Everything was the same. The arithmetic was different.

I sat with the house plans three nights out of fourteen. Not revising — I'd promised myself that, no revisions until the foundation money was real. But I traced the lines with my eyes the way other people traced familiar roads: the workshop with its ventilation channels and warding anchor points, the main room, the kitchen I'd added in revision four, the bathroom from revision six. The bedroom that had started feeling too small in the weeks since a woman with golden hair and no capacity for subtext had walked into Gavren's shop and bought binding salts.

I still wasn't ready to examine why.

The shack was still a shack. But the table had the plans, and the plans had a timeline, and the timeline had shifted from fantasy to merely improbable. Nine revisions. Five rooms. Thirteen years, give or take.

I waited for the job by being productive about something else. My only method.

* * *

The messenger found me at the shack on a Wednesday morning, three days before the two-week window closed. I'd been at the table with a cup of tea and the focusing tools — not working, just organizing. Displacement activity. What a man did when he was waiting and didn't want to admit it.

She was young — early twenties, guild livery worn with the self-conscious precision of someone still learning that a uniform was a tool, not a costume. She handed me a sealed envelope without small talk, waited while I confirmed receipt with a signature, and left with the efficiency of a person who had six more deliveries before noon.

The seal was the guild's: small, pressed in dark wax, enchanted to show tampering. I cracked it at the table, next to the house plans and the remains of breakfast.

The brief was short. Guild briefs, I was learning, operated like the guild itself: minimal words, maximum implication.

*Engagement Reference: NS-7714*
*Classification: Tier One — Field Retrieval*
*Client: [Withheld pending acceptance]*
*Location: The Greymarch Barrows, Lower Fenwick District*
*Objective: Recovery of intact Pallowmere Root (minimum three specimens, viable condition)*
*Hazard Assessment: Moderate — structural instability, residual ward work (age and condition unknown), possible fauna*
*Compensation: Forty silvers upon confirmed delivery, plus expenses at standard guild rates*
*Briefing: Report to 14 Greystone Lane, ninth bell, Friday*

(*Pallowmere Root. Rare — not extinct, but close. Grows in specific conditions: low light, high ambient magical residue, undisturbed soil. Old dungeons and barrows are the most common habitat because they provide all three. The Greymarch Barrows — I'd heard the name. Old. Pre-Compact era, which meant whatever ward work remained was either degraded or the kind that got more dangerous with age, not less. "Possible fauna" was guild language for anything from rats to cave stalkers, and the Barrows had a reputation for the latter. Three confirmed kills in the last decade, all treasure hunters who'd gone in underprepared and come out in pieces — or not come out at all. And treasure hunters meant competition. The Barrows weren't exactly on the Compact's registry of cleared sites, which made them fair game for anyone with a rope and more ambition than sense. Leon's kind of place, frankly. Forty silvers for a retrieval job was generous for Tier One, which meant either the barrows were worse than "moderate" or the root was more valuable than the brief implied. Probably both.*)

I set the brief down and flexed my right hand. Opened it, closed it. Tried to remember the last time I'd thrown a fire weave in anything other than my own head.

Three years. Maybe four. The muscle memory was there — I could feel the ghost of it in my fingers, the way a sequence of runes and gestures lived in the hands long after the brain stopped rehearsing them. But muscle memory without stamina was a loaded weapon with a short fuse. I could probably manage two, three combat workings before the tank hit empty. After that, I'd be throwing punches with hands that hadn't hit anything harder than a herb crate in three years.

The brief said "moderate." The brief was written by someone sitting in an office on Greystone Lane.

I was going to need to practice. Both kinds — the fire, and the part where things got close enough that fire wasn't an option anymore. Friday was two days away. Two days to shake rust off skills I'd pretended for a decade I didn't have.

(*Should have kept training. Should have found a quiet yard somewhere and kept the forms sharp instead of letting them atrophy because keeping them meant admitting I had them and admitting I had them meant questions I didn't want to answer. Stupid. The kind of stupid that gets measured in bruises.*)

I looked at the brief. Then the house plans. Then my hands — soft from three years of stacking herb jars and counting coppers.

The holding pattern was over. The two weeks were up. The guild had a job, and the job had my name on it, and somewhere in the Greymarch Barrows there was a rare herb growing in the dark alongside cave stalkers and rogue treasure hunters and whatever else had made a home in sixty years of undisturbed stone.

I finished my breakfast. I read the brief one more time. Then I pushed back from the table, cleared a space in the center of the shack, and held my right hand out, palm up.

The fire came. Sluggish, small, flickering at the edges like a candle in a draft. Nothing like the tight, controlled weaves I'd thrown as a teenager — fast and vicious and precise enough to split a practice target at twenty feet. This was a whisper where there used to be a shout.

Two days. It would have to be enough.

Friday. Ninth bell. The next page.
