Chapter 59: Got Scammed, Damn

Orlando walked out of the inn alone in the evening.

Zijiang was still in the room cutting video.

She said she had to go to the media center tomorrow to pick up her credentials, so tonight she needed to rough cut the footage from the airship, otherwise the platform would start pressuring her.

Orlando glanced at her crouched on the edge of the bed, gritting her teeth at the laptop, and decided not to ask what she wanted for dinner.

The sky in the outer district darkened faster than in the inner district.

The buildings were low, the shadows short.

As soon as the sun sank behind the city wall, the whole street was steeped in gray-blue twilight.

Puddles in the stone road still held water that hadn’t dried during the day, reflecting scattered lights.

Shops along the street were closing up—

The blacksmith’s apprentice was taking down horseshoes one by one from the hooks by the door, the baker’s wife was bending over to retract the awning, the cloth roller creaking with each turn.

The smoke of roasting meat drifted from deeper in the alley, a pale blue-white column rising from wood burned to red embers, mixed with the scorched scent of fat dripping onto charcoal.

Orlando’s stomach tightened.

He followed the smell into the alley.

At the end of the alley stood a grill.

The grill was made from a cut-down oil drum, topped with a wire mesh so black its original color was unrecognizable.

On the mesh sat several sausages split lengthwise, their casings bulging and splitting, grease oozing from the cracks.

An old canine man crouched beside the grill, ears drooping, holding a palm-leaf fan in his hand, fanning the flames with lazy, uneven strokes.

Behind him was a modified cart.

On the cart were sliced bread, a few jars of sauce, and a small bucket of pickled cucumbers.

A piece of cardboard hung from the cart’s handlebar, with “Wolfgang Hot Dogs” written in four languages.

Orlando walked over.

“Two orders.”

The old canine’s ears perked up for a second, then drooped again.

He picked up two sausages from the grill with tongs, flipped his wrist to drop them into split buns, then fished out a few slices of pickled cucumber and arranged them beside the sausages.

He squeezed the sauce bottles with a squeak, drizzling yellow and red in crisscross patterns over the sausages.

Finally, he wrapped the hot dogs in wax paper and handed them to Orlando.

Orlando took them and put the hot dogs into the cloth bag he carried.

Then he fished three silver coins from his pocket.

The old canine looked at the silver coins in his palm.

He didn’t take them.

“Young man.” The old man rested the fan on his knee. “Vouchers.”

“What?”

“Vouchers. The ones the Commerce Guild issues.”

Orlando’s hand was still extended.

Three silver coins lay in his palm, flickering in the firelight.

“Silver won’t work?”

“In Genitswa, we’ve been using vouchers since last year.”

The old man pointed the fan at the cardboard sign hanging on the cart handle.

Only then did Orlando notice the small line of text beneath “Wolfgang Hot Dogs,” written in the canine script of dots and circles, the strokes cramped together like a swarm of startled ants.

“Silver’s not accepted.”

“Then how do I get them?”

Orlando didn’t pull his hand back.

“I haven’t had dinner yet.”

The old man looked at him for a while.

The canine’s pupils were amber in the firelight, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deep.

He fanned twice more, then tucked the fan under his armpit.

“Tell you what, young man.” He reached out and plucked one silver coin from Orlando’s palm, held it up to his eyes, turned it over, and rubbed the edge with his thumb. “You can pay silver this time. Next time, remember to bring vouchers.”

He took the other two silver coins from Orlando’s palm.

Orlando blinked.

“Three?”

“Three silver a piece.”

The old man pocketed the coins into his apron, picked up the fan again, and fanned the grill unhurriedly twice.

“You bought two.”

Orlando opened his mouth.

The old canine’s ears drooped all the way down, his eyelids lowered.

He shrank behind the grill like an old dog dozing by a fire.

The wind from the fan made the charcoal glow dim and bright.

The sausages sizzled on the wire mesh.

Orlando picked up his cloth bag and turned away.

A gray cat crouched on the flagstones at the alley entrance.

It flicked its tail at the sight of him, then jumped onto the wall and ran.

The main street in the outer district was hardly brighter than the alley.

The streetlamps were spaced far apart, the posts made of cast iron, with a pale blue runestone embedded at the top.

The light was weak, barely illuminating the ground two or three steps around each post.

Orlando walked through the darkness between two lamps, the cloth bag in his hand.

The hot dogs inside seeped heat through the wax paper, turning his fingers red.

He reached a street corner.

A wooden bench sat in the shadow of a wall where the lamplight didn’t reach.

Someone was sitting on it—

Dark coat, collar turned up.

On the ground beside the bench was a small lantern, its wick turned low, the flame no bigger than a soybean.

The person was looking down, holding a newspaper spread wide.

The newspaper was open so broadly that it hid the entire face, revealing only a sliver of golden hair above the top edge—

And horse ears.

The newspaper still carried the portrait of Masiweiluo.

“Young man.”

The voice came from behind the newspaper.

Not loud, like a cup of tea that had gone cold.

Orlando stopped.

The hot dogs in the bag seeped another patch of oil, leaving a dark ring on the bottom of the cloth.

“What’s up, old man?”

The newspaper lowered a bit.

The horse-eared man’s face emerged from above the top edge.

Golden hair combed back, forehead clean.

Dark brown eyes, sockets slightly deeper than average, the shadow of his brow ridge pressing down on his eyelids.

His face wasn’t exactly old, but not young either—

Around thirty, with lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

Not wrinkles, but marks left by holding the same expression for a long time.

He wasn’t smiling.

“New to Genitswa, huh?”

“What of it?”

“Do you know the exchange rate for one silver coin into vouchers?”

Orlando’s fingers tightened a little on the cloth bag’s handle.

The wax paper crinkled softly.

“How much?”

“One silver coin.”

The horse-eared man lowered the newspaper a little more, revealing his full face.

“One hundred vouchers.”

Orlando didn’t speak.

One hundred vouchers.

Three silver coins for one hot dog.

He had paid three silver coins.

Three hundred vouchers.

The actual price of one hot dog was—

‘I got ripped off, damn it.’

His fingers tightened further on the bag’s handle.

The oil stain on the bottom grew a little bigger.

He switched the bag to his left hand.

Turned around.

“Alright.”

The newspaper lifted back up, hiding the horse-eared man’s face again.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m going back to ask him.”

“Go and he’ll probably be gone by now.”

The newspaper turned a page.

The ink glistened wet black in the faint lantern light.

“Even if he’s not gone, he probably won’t explain it clearly.”

“Won’t explain clearly, and you’ll probably get an earful.”

“Don’t get an earful, and you’ll probably end up losing even more money.”

A pause behind the newspaper.

“Lose the money, and you’ll still end up hungry.”

The lantern flame flickered.

A breeze lifted the edge of the newspaper for a moment.

“Then what do you suggest?”

Orlando’s voice squeezed through his teeth.

“Nothing.”

The man behind the newspaper turned another page.

“This is Wolfgang.”

“So what do I do?”

“You bought it. It’s done.”

“Alright, alright.”

Orlando adjusted his grip on the bag.

“Forget it, old man.”

“Fine.”

The newspaper finally lowered.

The horse-eared man folded it in half, then in half again, and tucked it into his coat pocket.

He stood up from the bench, bent to pick up the lantern.

When he straightened, he was nearly a head taller than Orlando.

His golden horse ears stood out from his hair, outlined in pale gold by the lantern light.

“Go on, nothing to worry about.”

He walked off down the street, lantern in hand.

The hem of his dark coat fluttered in the wind, his footsteps growing fainter on the stone road.

“Don’t bother me.”