8/31

Chapter 7: Surprises and the Astronomy of a New World

Today marks the exact three-month milestone since the unfortunate ambush on the road.

When I coldly analyze the timeline since that assassination attempt, I reach the scientific conclusion that my emergency psychological plan was an absolute success. My theatrical performances of childhood terror worked like a charm: Lord Arl and Lady Sylvia developed a severe suspicion toward the coachman. They never leave me alone with that traitor anymore. Not that I would be left unprotected anyway, since the Holy See established that damn rotation of surveillance over my head.

Speaking of them, today was Monk Ethan’s week. He is a young man, and I estimate him to be between twenty-three and twenty-six years old. For a monk of the holy orders, he doesn't boast a very strong musculature, but he makes up for his lack of physical vigor with an impressive lung capacity for talking. Ethan loves to lecture for hours on end about his God and the dogmatic paths of the Light. It is an overwhelming verbal sleeping pill; the moment he opens his mouth, a migraine of sheer boredom begins to weigh heavily on my eyes.

But today I was determined to have my day off. I was going to the commercial district of the fortress-city, straight to the curiosity and antique shop. That mysterious lady might have something new on her dusty shelves to feed my data-hungry brain.

I approached my mother early in the morning in the living room, gathering my still-straining vocal cords:

"Go... out... Can I go out? See... books..."

Sylvia looked at me with a radiant countenance. She loved the fact that her son demonstrated a precocious intellect for reading, although she was still worried about the mage's report.

"Of course you can, my dear. But only with the escort," she said, caressing my face. "I would love to go with you, but today I have administrative duties with the fortress bookkeeping that demand my attention."

She called the guard servant and ordered them to prepare a carriage and an armed escort immediately.

Pausing to analyze this from my modern perspective back in Teia, I found it fascinating how open the parents of that medieval era were. A 21st-century mother would hardly let a six-year-old child walk through rustic commercial districts. But there, the notion of danger was different; as long as there was steel protecting the bloodline, the rest was considered part of growing up. There was a certain innocence—or lack of malice—in the way they handled childhood freedom.

Cindy's Shop and the 634-Day Calendar

To my delight, I received my temporary custody of freedom. I could leave the fortress, even if under the watchful eye of a bureaucratic leash formed by Monk Ethan and a heavy-armored bodyguard.

When we climbed into the carriage, I caught the traitorous coachman's glare through the imaginary rearview mirror. He stared at me with an expression of deep disgust, visibly dissatisfied with my survival and the fact that he was under constant indirect surveillance.

Taking advantage of the moment, I put on my usual drama: I widened my eyes, shrugged my shoulders, and hid behind Ethan’s robes.

*If there were a film festival on this planet, I would certainly win the Oscar for best child actor,* I laughed silently to myself inside the rattling vehicle.

Upon landing in the central district, I entered the antique shop with firm steps. The place maintained that same dense aroma of incense, dried herbs, and old metal. It didn't take long for the middle-aged woman to emerge from behind the velvet curtains.

"Hello, little master. My name is Cindy, remember me?" She smiled with gentle wrinkles around her eyes. "I’ve known your mother for a long time, since the days when she was a young single woman on this frontier. Did you come to see the books today? Did your mother allow it?"

I nodded firmly and held up the small pouch of gold coins Sylvia had given me. Cindy let out a warm laugh when she saw the weight of the metal.

"Make yourself at home, little man. Just be careful not to ruin the pages. I’m a bit busy with an order in the back, so if you need anything, just call me. I'll be right back."

I became curious about what that woman did in the back of the establishment. In classical medieval societies that I used to study or see in media, the economy was predominantly dominated by men in active professions, making it rare to find women managing businesses independently. But that frontier seemed to break a few structural rules.

I turned to the shelves of ancient tomes and began my visual scan. My geek eyes landed on a book with a thick, yellowed parchment cover titled Theories of the Firmament. I opened the volume with scientific care and began reading the handwritten notes of an ancient scholar who had spent his life observing the stars.

The author described complex mathematical calculations based on the rotation of the sun and the positioning of the constellations, defending the heretical thesis that the world was not flat, but a perfect sphere.

*No kidding? What a revolutionary discovery for your century...* I ironized mentally, but I kept devouring the astronomical data. His empirical records were fantastic. Cross-referencing the data with planetary physics, I realized that a year on this planet was much longer than on Earth or Teia.

The exact calculation recorded a Total Year of 634 days. The calendar was divided into 22 months. Maintaining an average of 28 to 29 days per month, the astronomer theorized that the year contained approximately 90 weeks, with 7 days per week, and 26 hours per day. There were extra chapters mapping the geography of the continents beyond the sea, but I decided to close the tome for now. Those chronological data points needed to be recalculated and confirmed in my mental laboratory later, but they were already a scientific foundation of priceless value.

Witchcraft and the Root of Sweetness

I walked toward the back of the shop to call Cindy and make the payment. Peeking through the curtains, I spotted a massive bronze cauldron bubbling over live coals, surrounded by dozens of bundles of exotic plants hanging from the wooden ceiling.

*Is she a real witch?* I thought, feeling a slight chill run down my spine as a noble heir.

Cindy turned abruptly and caught my frozen expression of shock. She looked at the cauldron, then at me, and let out an ironic laugh that echoed through the room.

"What is it, little one? Did you think I was a wicked witch from a children's story and that I was going to throw you into the cauldron to make a noble soup?"

I put on a face of pure grumpiness and pressed my lips together.

*Is she a psychic telepath and hit my exact thought right on the head?* I asked myself, instinctively bringing my open hands to my face to cover my revealing expressions. *Damn it, my six-year-old child features keep giving me away!*

"You look very cute when you're angry and scared," Cindy amused herself, wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "It’s amazing how Lady Sylvia managed to have such an expressive and handsome son with a man as rustic and square as Lord Arl... But, just so you know, little master, I am a herbalist. I manufacture healing potions for the guard and some protection talismans, like that silver pendant you are wearing around your neck. Consider it my protection gift to you. I hope it keeps you safe for a long time."

I heard that explanation and felt my chest lighten. Without knowing it, I had gained an admirer and a technical ally in the castle. Cindy blinked at me and went back to the commercial counter.

"It’s two gold coins for the astronomy treatise. Imported books are extremely expensive on this frontier, you know."

I placed the coins on the wood. Taking advantage of her herb knowledge, I decided to risk a gastronomic gamble. I gathered my vocal strength:

"Su... sugar... cane?" I asked, trying to keep my diction clean.

Cindy furrowed her brow, making a face of complete incomprehension. The word did not exist in the vocabulary of that region. I tried to reformulate the quantum equation of food in my mind. Since she dealt with botany, I tried to describe the properties of a sugar beet or a grass with a high concentration of sucrose, but the herbalist remained confused. I gave up on Teia's technical terms and boiled it down to the childhood basics:

"Sweet... Root... sweet..."

Cindy’s eyes finally sparked with understanding.

"Ah! You are talking about the roots of wild sweetness?" She snapped her fingers. "Yes, there are some tubers that grow in the northern swamps that have a sweet juice, but the local people are very resistant to consuming them because they turn your mouth purple and are difficult to process. Wait a moment."

She walked quickly to the back stock and returned bringing an elongated root with a brownish, fibrous skin, depositing it carefully into my tiny hand.

"Wash it well, peel it, and try it," she winked. "Then you tell me what you thought of the physics of the flavor."

I thanked her with a firm nod, feeling like I had won the day. I took my book, tucked the precious root into my linen pocket, and said goodbye to the carriage. I had discovered the raw material for primitive sugar. The gastronomic empire of Syrn was about to begin.

Dante's Vision at the Central Market

Upon leaving the shop, I looked at Monk Ethan and the heavy-armored guard who were watching me on the sidewalk.

"Eat... food?" I pointed toward the smoke rising from the urban center. "Mar... market?"

The bodyguard consulted the monk with his eyes and nodded gravely.

"We can go to the market stalls, young master. But we will have to pass through the river service district. Please, stay very close to us. The movement today is intense."

I nodded positively. The market was approximately four blocks away. The guard suggested we get into the carriage for the ride, but I shook my head, declining. I needed to walk, feel the texture of the ground, and analyze the biology of the local population.

As we advanced on foot, the urban reality of the medieval era crashed down again upon my modern sense of hygiene. The path went around the banks of the muddy river, and what I witnessed was a true scene from Dante's Inferno. Rustic wooden latrines dumped waste directly into the river water, and less than ten meters away, washerwomen beat bedsheets in the very same current. The sense of basic sanitation and hygiene of those people was strictly equal to zero.

I felt my scientist soul cry out for help.

*Oh, my dear technological soap... where on earth did you go?* I lamented in thought, closing my eyes for a second and imagining a bar of hygienic soap with angel wings flying away from that filth. I urgently needed to synthesize cleaning products for that fortress, or I would die of a bacterial infection before even facing the enemy Baron.

My sanitary laments were interrupted when we crossed the canvas banners of the central market. The market of stalls was incredibly lively today, packed with peasants selling furs, seed merchants, and caravans from distant lands shouting the prices of fabrics.

I felt a wave of renewed enthusiasm surge up my six-year-old spine. I had already secured the primitive sugar in my pocket and astronomical data under my arm. Who knew what other raw materials and physical secrets I could discover exploring those medieval stalls?

I adjusted the astronomy book against my chest and took the first step toward the noisy crowd. The game was just beginning.