Chapter 59: The Contract

The curator flashed him a beaming smile, and despite his eyes being covered, Charon had the sense that he was looking him over. "The oddities of Oliver’s Oddities are not purchased through monetary means, but rather through favors. A contract accompanies each acquisition, backed with the full faith and trust of the High Elders. Breach of contract often results in extreme punishment, so take care not to violate the terms." Charon’s forehead creased. "You don’t take any kind of money at all?" Oliver shook his head, reaffirming his statements. ’I’ve never seen a system like this. I don’t have any credits right now, so this could be the method I need. The mask does seem interesting.’ "What kind of contract would you want, then?" The man turned and walked across the shop, wrapping his arms around his back and flexing his fingers in a "come here" motion, prompting Charon to follow. They passed through a door of beads that led into a small office. A desk lined one wall, and a long table sat on the opposite side. Various pieces of paper were hammered into the wall, written in red ink. Pausing to give one of them a look, he realized he couldn’t read any of the words. Pointing to the pages, he spoke. "What’s up with these?" The man spun around mid-step to face Charon directly. "Previously signed contracts awaiting completion. They are only able to be read by the two participating parties for client confidentiality. I keep them here in proper order so that any forgetful customers may return and re-enlighten themselves as to their tasks." Releasing a short breath, Charon attempted to read them again, hoping to find some kind of hole in the magic, but nothing worked. They might as well have been written in Elvish. Estimating the total number of contracts, he gave a quick scan of the walls and arrived at the nice neat number of one hundred, give or take a few he might have missed. ’There are a lot of pages, every single one is incomplete?’ It was odd how many were ongoing, and it made him a little wary. ’No one else has entered since I got here. Do the locals know something I don’t?’ Oliver moved behind the desk and opened a drawer before pulling out a fresh piece of paper and a quill. Dipping it in a red ink pot, he scribbled out a few words on top of the page, the rest filling in on its own. Stepping closer to study it, Oliver spun it so Charon could read. [Contract Between Oliver and Charon] [Item: Mask of the Jester] [Item Tier: Soul Bound] [Stipulations: Oliver, owner of Oliver’s Curiosities, shall supply the agreed-upon item at the moment of contract signing. In return, Charon shall fight in the Stadia of the Fort until he reaches the position of "Tenth" or above. Once he accomplishes this, he is to enter The Lounge and take the item known as the "Orb of Vitriol." The "Orb of Vitriol" is to be presented to Oliver, owner of Oliver’s Curiosities, within twenty-four hours of retrieving it.] Charon’s eyes traced the scarlet script, the letters flowing like water to become intricate runes while still being legible. The terms were easy to understand, if a little complex. ’So I’ll need to fight in something called the Stadia, and be good enough to rank in the top ten. That will give me access to a place called The Lounge, where I need to steal an orb for Oliver.’ It all boiled down to an item for an item: Charon getting the Mask of the Jester and Oliver getting the Orb of Vitriol. Tapping it with his index finger, he glanced up at the curator, trying to gauge his emotions. "What’s the Stadia?" "A pertinent query. The Stadia is what many of the locals refer to as a ’fighting pit.’ Anyone is allowed to enter and fight for both gold and glory. A great many laborers have chosen to enter the Stadia as a last resort, proving their merit in combat to ascend to the higher echelons of society." Charon scowled. ’I’d become entertainment for the entirety of the Fort, sent in to fight for the pleasure of the viewers.’ It was the kind of job he disliked from the outset, preferring to have a little more control over his actions. By entering the Stadia, he would be risking his life. In the land of powerful souls, did he really want to bet on facing weak enemies? ’Except I wouldn’t be facing them alone.’ The realization struck him like lightning, his eyes widening ever so slightly as he considered it from another angle. ’I could send my summons in to fight for me, with every kill earning me fresh summons to add to my army!’ The contract could serve two purposes: gaining the mask, and giving him a convenient excuse to fight in the Stadia. ’I’d get a cool relic for free, while being able to grow my power. I might even wear it during the fights like some kind of calling card!’ His eyes danced as he imagined himself wearing the creepy headpiece. All of the best heroes had flashy costumes and identifiable signatures, allowing people to recognize them on sight. ’The Mask of the Jester could be mine!’ "How difficult would it be to reach the Tenth in the Stadia?" Oliver leaned forward on the desk, his fingers pressing into the wood as he offered a pleasant smile. "For a Novice such as yourself, it will be an endeavor, but not impossible. The Stadia is split into multiple divisions, with Novices and Acolytes making up the First Division. Your first few opponents will be other Novices, while the last ones will be Acolytes." "How do you know my rank?" The man huffed, standing up straight and crossing his arms. "I am a collector of the most incredible oddities in the land. My knowledge extends beyond simple understanding. Discerning a customer’s rank is a skill all good salesmen possess, of which I consider myself." Nodding his understanding, and wanting to forestall any more inferred insults, Charon asked the other pertinent question. "What about the Orb of Vitriol? Will that be difficult to obtain?" The man’s smile turned slightly predatory. "Only to the extent of difficulty it would be to acquire the Mask of the Jester outside these splendid walls." It was a non-answer, and a foreboding one at that, but it also inferred something else. The deal wasn’t a bad one for either side. ’Unless he is lying to me, and I later learn the item is useless.’ He couldn’t help glancing back the way he came. His greed warred against his better judgment, which was pleading with him to forget the mask and leave. ’I need more information first. It might not be worth it in the first place.’ "The mask is a relic, correct?" Oliver nodded. "What rank is it, then? Novice? Acolyte? Something better?" The curator gestured down at the contract. "As was stipulated, the Mask of the Jester is a soul-bound relic; therefore, its rank matches that of the wielder. As you are currently Novice, the mask will also be Novice. Once you ascend to Acolyte, the mask will ascend to match." Although he knew it was a gamble, Charon figured it was worth testing at the very least. Now that he knew what the Stadia was, it made a lot of sense for him to test his skills in it. ’Worst case scenario, I quit during the fights and return the mask. No harm, no foul.’ With that in mind, he grabbed the quill resting beside the page, dipping it in the ink and signing his name at the bottom. His penmanship was sloppy, the letters barely recognizable. In truth, it was better than most people alive could do. Physical writing had been phased out millennia ago, with only a few preferring it over digital records. The Mistress, however, was one of those few and had taught all of the orphans the skill. ’I hated those lessons, yet here I am applying them all the same. I’ll have to thank her for everything once I see her again.’ As he finished, the curator inspected his signature before applying his own, the word "Oliver" being written with perfection. "Beautiful. A deal well struck, with a goal to be attained. I eagerly await your completion of the terms, Charon. In the meantime, I shall finish my half of the bargain." With exaggerated movements, the man walked around the desk and made haste for the display cabinet, soon returning with the mask in hand. Like he had said, it was now a singular item, the face set into a wide smile. Taking the offered relic, Charon flipped it over and inspected the inside, finding nothing but blank porcelain, the eyeholes barely large enough to see out of. Turning it back to the front, he let out a short gasp as he noticed the expression had changed, now being a far more subdued grin. "If that is all, I do believe I have other customers to attend to." Leaning back to peer through the bead door, and seeing no one, Charon gave Oliver a confused look before the sound of a bell jingling echoed through the cramped shop. "Please do excuse me." The strange curator then left him with the mask, speeding off to greet the newcomers.