People of the Known World

A stout woman in her fifties who runs the Crossroads Inn with the calm efficiency of someone who has managed every kind of traveler and refused to be surprised by any of them.

'Room, meal, or information — those are the three things I sell. Which is it?'

A weathered man who appears to have been sitting in the same corner of the Crossroads Inn for decades. He has the unhurried manner of someone with nowhere particular to be.

'Pull up a stool if you like. I'm not in anyone's way.'

A lean woman in road-worn clothes with a merchant's habit of cataloguing everything she looks at. Her pack sits beside her feet and she has not let it out of reach since sitting down.

'I don't buy and I don't lend. But if you're selling information, I might listen.'

A teenage boy who does whatever the inn requires — kitchen work, stable work, fetching, carrying. Alert and curious in the way of someone who hears everything and is rarely asked anything.

'Did you need something? I'm supposed to be in the kitchen.'

An elegant woman in her sixties who has survived four changes of city government through careful neutrality and excellent information.

She regards you with polite assessment. I do not believe we have met. Should we have?

A small wiry man with ink-stained fingers and the quick eyes of someone who is always calculating odds. He runs a betting operation out of a back room.

He looks up from his ledger. Placing a bet or just looking?

A methodical man in his forties who manages the city's supply contracts and storage with obsessive precision.

He looks up from his inventory sheets. Are you here about a contract or a requisition?

A precise woman in her fifties who manages Thornhaven's civic library and archive with the protective devotion of someone who genuinely believes books matter.

She looks up with controlled welcoming. Are you here to use the collection or to consult the archive?

A gentle old man who tends the city shrine with the unhurried care of someone who has made his peace with all of it.

He folds his hands and regards you with benign patience. Come in. Whatever you are carrying, you can set it down here for a while.

A large, direct man in garrison armour who commands the city gates with the weary competence of a soldier who has done every job there is and ended up here.

He gives you a professional look. Business in Thornhaven?

A young woman in garrison uniform who patrols the market district with alert eyes and a manner that suggests she takes the job more seriously than her rank suggests.

She regards you with professional attention. Anything I can help you with?

A wiry man in salt-stained clothes who seems to have wandered from the harbour district and is spending his pay at the pace of someone with no intention of saving any of it.

He raises his cup in friendly greeting. You look like someone who needs to hear a story. I tell good stories.

A polished young man in house livery who serves as errand-runner and representative for one of the city's merchant families.

He bows with practiced smoothness. Good day. Is there anything I can assist you with?

A meticulous man in his forties with ink-stained hands who operates a small printing press producing pamphlets, notices, and the occasional unlicensed broadsheet.

He looks up from his press. Printing job or are you one of the people I owe money to?

A compact, careful man who runs a currency exchange in a small but well-secured shop near the market square.

He regards you across his counter with professional assessment. Changing currency or assessing value?

A young woman who manages the city's trade registration office with more competence than her position suggests and more frustration than she shows.

She looks up with the expression of someone who has heard every possible question. Merchant registration, contract filing, or permit application?

An elderly man in expensive but slightly chaotic robes who advises the council on auspicious timings and maintains the city's official calendar.

He peers at you over his spectacles. Are you here for a consultation or are you one of the people who thinks my work is nonsense?

A quiet woman with steady hands who runs an apothecary in the professional district. She treats everything from common ailments to difficult questions with the same measured calm.

She looks up from her preparation. Are you here for medicine, advice, or something that requires more discretion than either?

A prosperous man in his fifties with the easy confidence of someone who has built something from scratch and knows its value precisely.

He regards you with open assessment. You are not one of my regulars. What can I do for you?

A scarred veteran who runs the garrison armoury with the territorial protectiveness of someone whose job is to keep expensive things from disappearing.

He looks you over with military assessment. Garrison business or civilian?

A sharp-eyed man who runs a secondhand goods stall that officially sells salvage and estate clearances, and unofficially moves things that were never meant to be moved.

He gives you an appraising look. Buying, selling, or just browsing? I treat all three the same.

A large, impassive man who tends bar at a working-class establishment near the garrison district. He speaks little but observes everything.

He sets a cup on the bar in front of you without being asked.

A tall woman in formal vestments who leads the city's main temple with the contained authority of someone who has made themselves necessary to every faction.

She regards you with composed assessment. Welcome. What brings you to the temple?

A cheerful man who runs a candle and lamp oil shop and apparently knows everyone in the city through the simple fact that everyone needs light.

He greets you with the ease of a man who genuinely likes people. What can I get you? Candles, oil, wicks, or just directions?

A methodical man who manages Thornhaven's river dock where the inland barges arrive and depart.

He looks up from his manifest. Freight, passage, or information?

A heavyset man with an impressively precise set of scales who certifies the accuracy of weights and measures used in city commerce.

He looks up from calibrating a weight. Something to certify, or a complaint about someone's scales?

A well-dressed woman in her forties who manages commercial arrangements for several of Thornhaven's larger merchant houses.

She gives you a quick professional assessment. Are you representing a house or trading independently?

A methodical craftsman in his fifties who runs the best smithy in Thornhaven. He is expensive, slow, and worth it.

He does not look up from his work. I have a queue three weeks long. If it is not urgent, come back in three weeks.

An older woman who runs the city's poor house with the pragmatic compassion of someone who has seen genuine need for thirty years and is still trying.

She looks at you with practical assessment. Are you here to help, to donate, or do you need assistance yourself?

A lean, precise man who leads Thornhaven's academy with the slightly impatient manner of someone who has to manage politics while wanting to study.

He looks up from his papers. Academy business or city business? I handle both but I prefer one.

A meticulous woman who drafts legal documents, contracts, and letters of introduction for those who need precise written language.

She looks up from her draft. Document work? I specialise in contracts, wills, and letters of introduction.

A serious man in warden's colours who oversees the city's judicial lock-up. He has the neutral manner of someone who processes human misery professionally.

He regards you without particular warmth. Visiting, posting bail, or here about your own situation?

A young person who manages the intake and records for the main trade guild, with the harried efficiency of someone doing three jobs at once.

She looks up with professional readiness. Guild registration, membership query, or dispute filing?

A compact, careful man who manages the river dock's day-to-day operations with the resigned competence of someone who has been managing other people's problems for twenty years.

He looks up. Freight, passage, or a problem?

A calm woman in her forties who serves as the temple's resident healer, treating injuries and illness with a combination of medical knowledge and quiet care.

She looks at you with immediate professional assessment. Are you injured or ill, or are you here for something else?

A sharp-eyed woman in her thirties who runs a busy stall in the main plaza, selling travel gear and practical goods. She has an opinion on everything and keeps it mostly to herself.

She looks up from arranging her stock. Buying or just looking?

A former soldier in his forties who now sells weapons and equipment from a well-stocked market stall. He knows what works and what is overpriced and will tell you the difference.

He eyes you with professional habit. Looking for something specific or just browsing the options?

A broad, weathered man who runs a produce stall at the north end of the market. He arrives before dawn, sells through midday, and is gone by afternoon.

He wipes his hands on his apron. Buying provisions? I have got what keeps on the road.

A capable stablehand in city livery, managing the busiest stable in Thornhaven with practised efficiency. The kind of person who can assess a horse's soundness at a glance.

'What do you need? Buying, selling, or stabling?'

A lean man with sawdust-grey hair and a grip like a vice. He has made every wheel in Thornhaven that has not broken.

'Cart, wheel, or repair? Tell me which and I will tell you what I have.'

A younger smith who works out of a cramped forge near the south market. He does honest work cheaply and asks few questions about commissions.

He wipes his hands on his apron. Looking for work done or something off the shelf?

A heavyset man with a permanent squint and an apron that has seen better days.

He glances up from his ledger. 'Room or a meal? Both'll cost you, but less than sleeping in a ditch.'

A lean woman in her sixties with grey-streaked hair and the careful eyes of someone used to weighing words.

'We don't see many travelers this time of year. What brings you to Greenhollow?'

A broad man in his forties, arms like bridge timbers, face reddened from the forge.

He doesn't look up from the anvil. 'Need something made or mended?'

An old man with patient eyes who has worked with animals his entire life. He does not rush and does not explain himself twice.

'Small stable, good animals. What do you need?'

A brisk woman in her forties who runs the Millhaven inn with the efficiency of a quartermaster.

Room, board, or both? I need to know before I finish my count.

A small man with ink-stained fingers who runs the only general goods shop in Millhaven, and knows it.

See anything you need, just ask. I keep a good stock.

A dust-covered man of fifty who smells permanently of flour and speaks with the authority of someone who controls the town's food supply.

He wipes his hands on his apron. You here about the mill or just wandering through?

A prosperous man in clean wool, with the soft hands and hard eyes of someone who profits in any weather.

Are you here to sell, to buy, or to waste my time?

A weathered man in his fifties who smells of river water and cheap tobacco. He has worked this stretch of river for twenty years.

Unless you are cargo or crew, I am busy. Which are you?

A broad-shouldered woman who smells of hay and horse liniment. Her hands are always occupied with something — a brush, a hoof pick, a length of rope.

'Mill road brings a lot of freight traffic. You need a mule or a draft horse, you've come to the right place.'

A solidly built man of forty, permanently dusted with flour. He runs the mill his father built and knows the grain of every farm in a ten-mile radius by its smell.

He wipes his hands on his apron. 'Ford crossing or the mill? Either way, I'm the man to talk to.'

A thin, quick-eyed woman who runs the alehouse with the efficiency of someone who has been doing it for years and has no patience for slow payers.

'Ale, cider, or water. That's what I've got.'

A weathered man in his late forties who has maintained this stretch of road for twelve years. He carries a bill-hook for clearing verges and a short sword he has not needed in ten of those years. He is comfortable with silence.

'Road's clear north and south. Camp's yours if you need it.'

A broad-shouldered woman in her fifties who has run the River Hook since her husband's boat didn't come back. She does not talk about that. She talks about fish, weather, and what you owe her.

She sets a cup down without being asked. 'Room or just a meal?'

A lean man with river-tanned skin and the careful, precise movements of someone who has spent his life on moving water. He does not speak quickly and does not repeat himself.

He looks up from a length of rope he is splicing. 'Something you need?'

A heavyset man with salt-stiff hair who smells permanently of smoke and brine. He buys from every boat and sells to anyone heading away from the river. He is always calculating.

He doesn't look up from his scales. 'Buying or selling?'

A grey-haired man in his late fifties who has been headman for twenty years. He knows every boat, every family, and every debt in the village.

He folds his hands on the desk. 'What brings you to the Landing?'

A soldier in garrison livery with the unhurried manner of someone on a posting where most days are quiet and the rest are extremely not. He logs arrivals without ceremony and has a way of asking 'nature of your business' that suggests he already knows and is giving you the chance to say it correctly.

'Name and purpose.' He opens the duty log.

A soldier with the particular stillness of someone posted to a door that matters. He doesn't lean against the wall. He doesn't sit. He stands at the gate with his back to the bars and faces the compound, which means he can see everything that approaches from the inside and doesn't need to see what's on the other side — the bars handle that.

He looks at you. Not hostile. Waiting.

A woman in her late forties with close-cropped grey hair and the kind of face that makes people recalculate their first impressions. She has commanded the Frontier Outpost for six years, longer than any predecessor. Her desk is almost empty — she keeps her thinking in her head and commits only what needs to be a record. The wall map behind her has more of her annotations than any other commander's combined.

She doesn't look up from the report she's reading until she finishes the sentence. Then she looks up. 'Yes?'

A broad-shouldered person of indeterminate age with hands that are simultaneously the most calloused and most precise you've seen. They maintain the garrison's entire inventory of ironwork, from blades to gate hinges, and take outside work when the military queue permits. They have been at the outpost longer than Commander Reth and do not seem to want to leave.

They look up from the work. 'Military or civilian?' The forge does not stop.

One of the outpost's garrison soldiers, off duty and eating. They have the weathered look of someone who spends most of their time outdoors in changeable weather and has stopped complaining about it.

They nod. Not unfriendly, but not looking for conversation.

A stocky ex-miner who runs the Stoneford inn with the directness of a man who spent twenty years underground and has no patience for indirection.

Bed? Food? Drink? Pick one, I will sort the rest.

A huge man with burn scars on both forearms and a voice like a bellows. He runs the smelter floor with absolute authority.

You are not one of mine. State your business and state it clear.

A trim, careful man in company colours who moves through Stoneford with the confidence of someone backed by money.

He gives you a professional smile. Are you affiliated with any of the ridge operations?

A broad man who sits at a permanent table near the inn entrance with a ledger, hiring day labour for the mines and smelter.

Looking for work? I have work. Looking for something else, I have less patience.

A slight woman with extremely clean hands for someone who works with raw ore all day. She has the focused patience of someone who spends her life making precise measurements.

She glances up from her scale. Ore sample or appraisal?

A precise young woman in company livery who manages the administrative side of Consolidated's Stoneford operation.

She looks up from her ledger. Do you have an appointment or a referral?

A jovial man in his sixties who has run the workers' tavern for thirty years and knows every miner in Stoneford by name and drink preference.

He spreads his hands in welcome. What is your pleasure? We have ale, strong ale, and something a man brought in from the coast that I am still not sure about.

A weathered woman who smells faintly of hay and horses. She moves with the unhurried competence of someone who spends more time with animals than people.

'Here for an animal? I've got horses, mules, and oxen. All working stock.'

A compact woman with a methodical manner and a duty log she updates with the thoroughness of someone who has been doing this long enough to know records matter.

'Garrison office. What do you need?'

A broad woman with grey-streaked hair and hands that have done every kind of work the ridge offers. She runs the Broken Seam with the practical authority of someone who has been doing it for fifteen years.

'Bed or drink? Both are available. Neither is fancy.'

A small, precise woman in her forties who has assessed more ore samples than she can count and whose opinion on a sample's grade is the one that matters in Ashwick.

'Sample or registration? Either way, I'll need to see what you have.'

A lean, weathered woman in her fifties who has worked the Ashwick ridge since her twenties. She owns the two most productive shafts and runs them herself with a crew of seven.

She looks up from a shaft diagram. 'You're not one of my crew. What do you want?'

A broad man with a carter's build and a carter's habit of assessing loads at a glance. He drove ore wagons for twelve years out of Ashwick, parked his wagon in the valley four years ago, and built the Pale Bear instead of leaving. He knows every face that has come through the pass since.

'You just came down the pass. I can tell — you've got that look. Drink first or bed first?'

A lean, quiet woman who sits with her back to the wall and her eyes on the door. She has been mapping the deep north for someone she does not name. Her kit is well-maintained and trail-worn in equal measure.

'You're not from here. Sit down or don't — I'm not particular either way.'

A precise woman in her thirties with ink on her fingers and the measured calm of someone fighting a losing battle by the numbers. She was sent here to map and register claims. There are more claims than she has time for and half of them overlap with each other and with the informal stakes that went in two years before she arrived.

'If you have a claim to register, take a number and wait. If you don't, I still have paperwork, so be brief.'

A man of fifty with a face that has spent a decade in high-altitude wind. He has been in the Territories longer than anyone and knows the ground the way people know their own houses. Mostly keeps to himself. Has opinions but does not share them without prompting.

'You're not a prospector. You'd smell different.' He says it without malice. It is simply an observation.

A compact man in his mid-forties who has been asking Thornhaven for reinforcements for two years without result. He is not bitter about it. He has simply adjusted his understanding of what is enforceable in the Northern Territories and works within those limits.

'You've come a long way. Sit down if you have business — I don't require formality up here.'

A weathered woman in her fifties who runs Harrowport's docks with the calm authority of someone who has seen every kind of disaster and is no longer surprised by any of them.

She does not look up from the manifest. Name, business, and how long you are staying.

A young man drowning slightly in administrative responsibility, managing docking fees, manifests, and the harbour master's filing system.

He looks up with the expression of someone who has seventeen things to do. How can I help you quickly?

A neat man in official dress with a practiced smile and the particular ease of someone who has learned that looking busy is almost as good as being busy.

He spreads his hands welcomingly. Anything to declare? Honesty makes the process so much simpler.

A tall woman in salt-stiffened coats who captains the Crane's Wing, an oceangoing merchant vessel that works the southern sea routes.

She looks you over in one practised sweep. You looking for passage or just being curious about my ship?

A sharp-eyed woman who manages commercial arrangements for half the ships that pass through Harrowport. She knows cargo, she knows captains, and she knows prices.

She is writing and speaks without looking up. If you are buying, selling, or shipping, I can help. If not, I am very busy.

A stocky man with a full beard who works the sailors' bar near the waterfront with the practiced efficiency of someone who has broken up exactly the right number of fights.

He sets a cup down in front of you before you have spoken. Ale is two copper, food is a silver, trouble costs more than that.

A practical woman who runs the ship provisioning shop near the harbour, supplying everything from rope and canvas to salted provisions.

She is inventorying stock. Tell me what you need and I will tell you if I have it.

A cheerful, rotund man who runs the Saltwater Tavern near the harbour, catering to a mixed crowd of sailors, merchants, and anyone else who finds their way to the waterfront.

He waves you in broadly. Come in, come in. Sit anywhere. Food is on the fire, drink is behind the bar. What do you need?

A lean man with sun-darkened skin who looks at animals the way merchants look at ledgers — appraising and comfortable.

'Looking to buy? Come in, take a look at what I have.'

A composed woman in her thirties who manages the Trading House's inland consignments. She has the professionally pleasant manner of someone who has learned to ask no questions and remember nothing specific.

She looks up from a ledger. Here about a consignment?

A weathered man who runs the legitimate side of The Nets — rope, tackle, and hardware for working vessels and anyone who needs to haul things. He does not discuss the back room.

'Buying rope or tackle? I have both.'

A lean woman with grey-streaked hair and the kind of stillness that suggests she has heard everything at least twice.

She sets a cup down without being asked. 'Traveling through or staying? There's only one road, so I'll know the answer soon enough either way.'

A stocky man with a permanent squint and hands that are perpetually dry and white-edged from the salt. He talks the way he works: direct and without ornamentation.

He looks up from his ledger. 'If you're from Harrowport, Vael handles the buying. If you're not, what do you need?'

An old man, weathered to the colour and texture of the clifftop stone, who has watched the sea from this tower for longer than most of the village has been standing.

He doesn't look away from the small window. 'Come in if you're coming. Close the door. Wind takes the heat.'

A young man in better clothes than the weather warrants, with a ledger under one arm and the manner of someone who considers their time a resource others have no right to waste.

He looks up from his tally sheet. 'If you're selling, speak to the saltmaster. If you're buying, I handle Harrowport accounts. If you're neither, you're in my way.'

A broad-shouldered man in his forties with salt-dried skin and an unhurried way of moving that suggests he has learned not to waste energy on land.

'Waiting for the tide.' He doesn't elaborate.

A weathered woman of indeterminate age who has fished this stretch of coast for decades. She keeps a boat in the main cove and maintains the fire kit and rope chest. She does not ask questions about why people are here and expects the same courtesy in return.

She doesn't look up from mending a net. 'Shelter or passage? Those are the two reasons people come here.'