Book 1 Chapter 6: Copper Cactus' New Employee

Motley lay in bed, the soft mattress a stark contrast to the rough earth he remembered. One week. A full week had passed since Tash had outlined his new life, since he'd agreed to this precarious charade. Turns out, Tash's "errands" that day had been entirely focused on him. She’d met up with a friend of hers named Hugo, who seemed like a decent enough fellow—at least, in Tash’s brief description. Hugo knew a contact, someone deep in the capital’s records section, capable of forging a completely new identity. His new name was Motley Swin, a second cousin to Hugo himself, injuries explained away by an accident at a previous, more dangerous job.

He straightened, sitting up on the bed's soft surface. The muscles in his back, once screaming in protest, now only offered a dull ache. He swung his legs over the side, the familiar movement a small victory. He pulled on the simple tunic and trousers Tash had provided, then walked to the small washroom connected to the trauma room. As he combed his damp black hair, his gaze met his own in the mirror—a stranger’s face, still pale, still marked by the healing gash above his right ear.

He appreciated the lengths Tash had gone to. He truly did. Her kindness, her resourcefulness, and her willingness to risk so much for a stranger resonated deeply. But honestly, the plan itself felt brittle. Two more months? He chuckled nervously, the sound hollow in the quiet room. How long until Zeb Hipgrave, with his piercing eyes and unwavering suspicion, saw through the flimsy facade? Tash expected him to keep this up, to blend into a city he didn't remember, pretending to be a man he wasn't.

One week. He planned to stay for just one week, to help Tash, to repay a fraction of her overwhelming debt. Then he was out of here. He’d heard Hugo might stop by the cafe today or tomorrow. Tash had spoken briefly of him, a quick sketch of a shrewd but ultimately reliable information broker. He trusted Tash’s judgment, and if Hugo truly had access to information, Motley might just talk to him about where a man with no past could go to find a future.

Motley finished combing his hair, his reflection in the mirror a stranger's face. He turned from the washroom basin and almost collided with Tash. She had just stepped into the corridor, moving with purpose towards the door that led to the cafe. She stopped short, her eyes quickly assessing him, glancing up and down his simple tunic and trousers – his new, civilian "uniform." He noticed she was already in her work clothes, her usual apron neatly tied.

Tash feigned a thoughtful pause, her head tilted slightly. "Not bad, kid," she finally said, a playful smirk touching her lips as she handed him a clean, folded apron. Her hazel eyes twinkled with an amusement he was becoming accustomed to. Over the last few days, Tash had shed layers of the stoicism he first encountered. She was still efficient, still pragmatic, but beneath that, a quick wit and a surprising lightness had emerged, making her a completely different person from the grim healer on the battlefield. "Do you need help putting it on?" she called over her shoulder, already moving towards the cafe door, leaving him with the apron and a faint, warm chuckle.

Motley emerged into the cafe, the unfamiliar apron tied around his waist. The main room was still shrouded in pre-dawn gloom, hours before The Copper Cactus would officially open. His gaze roamed slowly over the neatly arranged tables and the gleaming, silent coffee machine. It wasn't his first time in here, but today was different. Today, this space would be filled with patrons, their eyes scrutinising the new employee, their questions probing, their judgment swift for any mistake. Motley, despite his imposing stature, felt a surprising knot of nerves tighten in his gut.

"Oi, name?" Tash's voice cut through his thoughts. He turned to find her already behind the massive, brass coffee machine, her movements efficient as she began the morning preparations. He knew what she wanted to hear; it had become a familiar morning ritual over the last week.

"Motley Swin," he responded, almost automatically.

"Where did you come from?" Tash asked, her back still to him as she checked a steam gauge.

"I'm a local. I worked at the closest mine as a guard," Motley recited, the lie feeling almost robotic on his tongue.

"Good," Tash murmured, her approval brief but clear. A low hiss filled the air as she started the coffee machine, the scent of fresh beans beginning to unfurl. She then reached for two tin mugs, one for herself and one for him.

"How did you end up working here?" Tash continued, her voice even.

Motley walked over to the coffee machine, the warmth of its steam a stark contrast to the cold lie he was about to deliver. "I was working when the battle started," he recited, his gaze fixed on the gleaming brass. "The camp I was living at, bordering the mine, was swept up in the conflict. I was able to defend myself, but I got severely injured." He paused, reaching for a tin mug Tash had already placed for him. "I turned up here seeking help. Tash offered me a safer job working for her, and of course, I accepted."

Tash nodded, a brief, satisfied smile touching her lips. "Good," she said, her approval clear. She glanced over his form, assessing him. "Ready for your first day then?"

Motley's reply almost caught in his throat. He felt a knot of hesitation, not for the work itself – he felt his strength returning with each passing day – but for the fragile facade he was about to present to the city. The plan felt like a house of cards. How long until it crumbled under Zeb's piercing gaze? He took a breath, forcing his worries deep down. "Ready," he lied, his voice firm, meeting her gaze steadily.

Tash gave a quick, decisive nod, her attention already shifting to the workings of The Copper Cactus. "Alright. The cafe opens in an hour, but there's plenty to do before the rush." She gestured with a practised sweep of her arm. "Your main job, for now, is keeping this place spotless." She pointed towards the gleaming tables on the far left. "Tables first, make sure there's not a speck of dust." Her hand then swept across the worn floor. "Then the floor, from front to back." She moved towards the deep industrial sink. "And these mugs." She indicated a towering stack of tin mugs, waiting to be washed and hung. "They'll be your constant companions."

Motley simply nodded, already reaching for the clean cloth that lay draped on the serving counter beside the coffee machine.

"During opening hours," Tash continued, her voice firm and practical, "you'll just keep on top of these tasks. Make sure spills are cleaned up as soon as possible. Customer safety and satisfaction, Motley, that's above everything else."

Motley began inspecting the tables and chairs, meticulously wiping away invisible dust and crumbs. The continuous, repetitive motion of cleaning and the quiet satisfaction of seeing his work transform the cafe's already pristine surfaces was oddly calming. He then moved to the sink, where a dedicated cloth lay waiting, and began washing the stack of tin mugs in the warm, steaming water. He was halfway through the collection when a soft knock sounded on the front door.

Beside him, Tash, drying a freshly washed mug, murmured, "Right on time," and walked towards the door. Motley watched as she pulled in two stacked crates, their contents rustling softly. "Thank you, Feechest!" Tash called out, her voice carrying a friendly warmth, as she placed the crates on the table closest to the front door.

"Motley, over here," Tash called. He walked over, his eyes widening at the assortment of food within the crates. There were almost-baked pastries, alien-looking fruits in vibrant hues he'd never seen, and glass jars filled with a bright green juice Tash explained was "Cactus juice." Different savoury and sweet breads, still warm, filled the remaining space. Motley found himself admiring the sheer variety and abundance. Tash, observing his fascination, explained, "Since the cafe can't freshly cook its own food, we have it delivered daily by the local bakery, just down the road." Tash looked over her delivery, inspecting her new goods and nodded in approval. “She never fails to give me the best. Ok Motley, help me out here” 

Motley nodded, accepting the task. Tash began to direct him, "Okay, baked goods on the bench to the right of the coffee machine. The jars of juice and fruits go on the shelf above the sink."

Motley lifted the first crate, containing the warm, fragrant pastries, and carried it to the working area. Tash followed, effortlessly carrying the second crate filled with jars and fruit. As Motley gently retrieved the breads and laid them neatly on the counter, he asked, "How often do you get this delivery?"

Tash placed her crate next to the sink and began packing its contents. "Twice a week," she replied. "I only had the fruits and juice delivered initially, as an alternative to coffee." She paused, a faint smile touching her lips as she observed Motley's surprisingly delicate touch with the baked goods. It was almost comical to see such a big, muscular man being so gentle with something so fragile. She continued, "Then my regulars started coming in with the pastries they'd already purchased, eating them with my coffee." Tash chuckled softly. "I didn't want to steal customers from Feechest; she's such a lovely lady. So, I charge double what she does for her baked goods here."

From a high shelf above the sink, Tash then retrieved a large glass jar filled with a thick, amber liquid. She placed it on the counter, its contents glinting under the cafe's soft light. "This," she said, her voice dropping to a confidential tone as she indicated the jar, "is why I can charge double for the pastries." She explained that they would apply this liquid to the top of the baked goods before placing them on display. "It's my special glaze," she said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Made from local fruits and sugars. I make it myself."

From a drawer below, she produced a small, fine-bristled brush. Dipping it into the rich amber liquid, she then pointed to the assorted pastries. The savoury breads, still warm, were left untouched. It was only the sweet pastries, the rolled ones and the flaky tarts that received a thin, shimmering coating. Tash explained that the glaze had a strong, concentrated taste, so a small amount went a long way. "Just watch this time, Motley," she said, her voice soft but firm. "But from tomorrow onward, this will be your job when we get a new delivery of goods."

Motley watched, mesmerised by her attention to detail. She worked with a quiet intensity, her hand moving with a fluid, practised grace, her eyes focused entirely on her task. She brushed the amber liquid onto each pastry, the brushstrokes even and precise. The pastries now glistened, their surfaces reflecting the soft light of the cafe. It was a simple task, yet Tash performed it with the same dedication she applied to her healing, the same meticulous care she gave her coffee. It was her art, and in that moment, Motley understood.

Motley finished unpacking the baked goods, meticulously arranging the assortment of breads and pastries on the polished counter. He stepped back, observing his handiwork with a quiet sense of accomplishment. He turned, intending to ask Tash if she needed help with the remaining crate, but found the space beside the sink empty. He looked around the cafe, a familiar quiet now settled in the air, but Tash was nowhere in sight. He glanced back at the freshly arranged counter of baked goods, their warmth a subtle invitation. Leaning in, he inhaled deeply, a comforting mix of sweet pastries and savoury breads filling his senses.

The back door suddenly opened, and Tash walked through, surprising him. She saw the way his gaze lingered on the food. "Are you hungry?" she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips. From behind her back, she produced two plates, one in each hand, and walked over to the table closest to her. "Come, have some breakfast with me."

Motley quickly walked over, murmuring his thanks. On each plate lay two slices of savoury bread, a rolled pastry with an unknown filling, and a fruit cut precisely in half. The fruit had a dark green skin, almost reptilian in its texture, hinting at some ancient, terrestrial origin, while its bright yellow flesh gleamed softly in the cafe's light. Motley sat down, immediately drawn to the peculiar fruit. He picked up his half, inspecting it closer, and noticed a dusting of small black seeds embedded within the soft flesh.

"That's emerald snake fruit," Tash said, her voice a calm explanation. "A local delicacy found on the cacti growing around Dustfall."

Motley took a hesitant bite, skin and all. A surprising burst of intense sweetness exploded on his tongue, utterly unlike anything he'd ever tasted, yet deeply satisfying. The flesh yielded effortlessly, dissolving with a soft, moist sensation. He heard Tash’s soft inhale, and glancing up, saw her staring at him, her hand cupped over her mouth, shoulders shaking slightly as she desperately tried to hold back laughter. Motley continued to chew, the initial sweetness gone, replaced by something tough and fibrous. It was like chewing leather, utterly inedible. Tash could no longer contain herself. A peal of unrestrained laughter burst from her, loud and clear in the quiet cafe. Between gasps, she managed, "You can't eat... the skin!"

Motley and Tash finished their breakfast, the last remnants of the emerald snake fruit's unique sweetness lingering on Motley's tongue. Tash, regaining her composure after her laughter, had patiently explained each item on their plates. Motley, much to his own surprise, found himself preferring the sweeter pastries and fruits over the savoury breads, though he enjoyed them all. As they ate, their conversation flowed more easily, each question and answer weaving a new thread of familiarity between them. The initial awkwardness had faded, replaced by a tentative openness.

Tash glanced at the heavy brass clock mounted on the far wall, its steam-driven mechanism ticking softly. "Alright, time to open up," she declared, rising from the table.

Motley began clearing their breakfast plates, stacking them neatly before heading to the sink. Even before Tash could unbolt the front door, a light rap sounded from outside. She pulled it open, and the four familiar figures of her morning regulars stood patiently on the stoop: Elara, the textile merchant; Joric, the gruff metal-smith; Kael, the baker; and Lyra, the ceramist.

"Morning, Tash!" Joric rumbled, a grin splitting his face.

"Right on time, as always," Elara added, her voice carrying a friendly lilt.

They exchanged pleasant greetings, their warmth filling the cafe's cool interior as they made their way to their usual stools opposite the gleaming coffee machine. The stool closest to the machine was Elara's, and as she settled onto it, her gaze fell upon the new, unfamiliar figure at the sink. Motley's back was to her as he meticulously scrubbed their breakfast plates. He turned just as she was about to call out, revealing the apron tied around his waist.

Elara's eyes widened slightly, and she turned to Tash, who was already on her way from the door to the coffee machine, ready to start their orders. "You finally found some help, have you, Tash?" she asked, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

Tash returned her smile, a genuine warmth in her eyes. "I certainly have, Elara. Everyone, this is Motley. He'll be helping me out around The Copper Cactus." She then gestured to each of the merchants in turn, "Motley, that's Elara, she makes the best fabrics this side of the desert. And that's Joric, the strongest smith in Dustfall. Over there is Kael, who bakes those delicious pastries you just sampled. And finally, Lyra, whose ceramics are beautiful enough to make you forget your troubles."

Motley observed them in turn, trying to quickly spot any sign of questioning on their faces regarding his sudden presence in the cafe. To his surprise and delight, they all offered him genuine smiles and a chorus of "Hellos" before their conversation instantly turned back to their upcoming day, almost forgetting his existence. As Tash got their coffee orders ready, the delightful scent of freshly pulled espresso and steaming milk filled the cafe, a rich counterpoint to the baked goods.

"Motley," Tash called, gesturing towards the table where they had eaten breakfast. "Could you wipe down our table and clear the rest of the breakfast things?"

"Of course," he responded, grabbing the correct cloth—the one he’d used before for tables—from the serving counter. As he walked over, he could overhear the merchants’ casual conversation, punctuated by the rhythmic hiss of the coffee machine, drift from the usual friendly updates on the morning’s trade to a more competitive hum.

"My new silk scarves are flying off the rack today, Joric! Already pulled in a dozen silver," Elara declared, a hint of smugness in her tone.

Joric grumbled good-naturedly, "Only because the morning's cool air has folks wanting more fabric. My smithy's ovens are warming up slower, but I'll make up for it by midday with a custom order of rivets."

Kael chuckled. "Hard to beat the smell of fresh bread, though. Already had three folks buy a whole loaf on their way to the market, claiming it's for 'lunch' but I know they'll be gone before noon!"

Lyra sighed dramatically. "My ceramics are too beautiful to rush off the shelf for a mere bet. They need appreciation! But I did sell that painted urn this morning for a fair price."

As their casual banter turned to the specifics of their bet, Motley, still wiping down the cleaned table, let a faint, almost imperceptible smirk play on his lips. He was enjoying this, the simple, honest competition. He even found himself leaning in slightly, his movements slowing just a fraction, curious about who might be winning. It was a natural, human reaction, one he didn't realise might draw attention.

One of the merchants, Elara, broke away from the conversation. She turned to face Motley, mug in hand, her eyes sharp but friendly, a slight, amused glint in them from noticing his subtle reaction to their bet. "So, boy," she asked, a challenge in her voice, "at the end of the month, the winner of our bet gets the best stall in the city. Based on our brief greeting and our specialties, who do you think will win?"

The conversation between Tash and the merchants died down, all eyes now fixed on Motley, waiting for his answer.

Motley turned from the table, a little shocked to be put on the spot. His gaze instinctively flickered to Tash, hoping for some lifeline, an unspoken hint. But she simply offered a slight shrug, a subtle gesture that seemed to convey: No big deal. Just answer. You’ve heard me talk about them enough. And she had. Over the last few days, Tash had filled the quiet hours with anecdotes about her regulars, describing their eccentricities, their daily routines, even their ongoing bet – a quiet, almost unconscious effort to prepare him for this very job. She'd often recounted her strategy when asked for predictions, a vague, almost sarcastic response that was rarely satisfied.

Motley took a moment, letting the silence stretch, forcing his mind to sift through every piece of information he possessed about Dustfall and its inhabitants. His knowledge of selling goods was nonexistent, his grasp of the city's economy a complete blank. But he had listened. He had observed.

His eyes swept over the four merchants, his gaze landing on Elara. In an instant, a voice boomed in his mind, clear and direct: 

Target: Elara Vane. 

Age: 38. 

Race: Human. 

Power: No. 

Memories: None to access. 

The information was gone as quickly as it came. He shifted his gaze to Joric, the same voice echoing: 

Target: Joric Dexler. 

Age: 42. 

Race: Human. 

Power: No. Memories: None to access. 

Then Kael, then Lyra. The response was identical for each. No power. No memories.

Target: Kael Dexler. 

Age: 45. 

Race: Human. 

Power: No. Memories: None to access. 

Target: Lyra Marlowe. 

Age: 36. 

Race: Human. 

Power: No. Memories: None to access. 

His mind, now clear, returned to Elara's expectant face."Well," Motley began, his voice steady despite the nervousness that still coiled in his gut, "in times like these, with the recent... unpleasantness outside the walls, people seek comfort. They seek things that last, things that remind them of beauty and stability." He glanced at Lyra, then Kael. "Kael's bread, fresh and warm, is an immediate comfort, yes. And Lyra's ceramics are beautiful, a lasting testament to artistry." He paused, his gaze settling on Elara. "But when people are on edge, when money is tight and resources strained, they often turn to the practical. Elara, your textiles offer that. They provide warmth, comfort, a sense of home, and can be remade or traded. They are a fundamental necessity, adaptable to changing times." He looked back at Elara, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "You already admitted your scarves are 'flying off the rack,' while Joric's smithy is 'warming up slower.' Basic needs often win out when times are uncertain. So, I'd wager Elara will take the lead this month."

Silence hung in the air for a few strained seconds after Motley's pronouncement. Then, the merchants let out small, dismissive laughs, shaking their heads as they turned from him. Motley overheard Joric mumble, "The boy has no idea what he's talking about." Yet, Elara remained, her gaze locked with Motley's. She wasn't smiling in amusement like the others; instead, her sharp eyes genuinely seemed to ponder his remarks. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips before she, too, turned and rejoined her friends, leaving Motley to his thoughts.

That exchange marked the last truly interesting event for about an hour. Motley busied himself, cleaning up after the merchants, then helping Tash wave them goodbye as they departed for their stalls. A few other patrons trickled in, taking up tables, but their conversations remained hushed. They took little notice of Motley, merely ordering their drinks, and left the cafe as clean and orderly as they found it. Motley appreciated that; his cleaning tasks were minimal after their departure. He started to fall into a quiet rhythm: washing dishes, wiping down tables, and restocking mugs. The familiar hiss of the coffee machine became a comforting backdrop to his methodical work.

Then, the front door opened again. It happened often since the cafe had officially opened, and Motley barely registered the sound, his movements fluid and automatic. But this time was different. A tangible feeling, a sudden chill in the air, rippled through the cafe, pulling Motley sharply from his rhythm. He was in the motion of wiping down the table closest to the door when he instinctively looked up. His gaze instantly locked with a tall, imposing man in the doorway.