Chapter 19: The Iron Anchor Bar
Rolls followed the waiter in the red vest into the Labory Restaurant. It was only eleven o'clock, so the restaurant was sparse; he was led to a seat by the window.
Upon first stepping off the carriage, Rolls had felt a twinge of disappointment. From the outside, the Labory Restaurant didn't quite live up to its reputation. The small porch, high oriel windows, and pier walls were all traditional Loen architectural styles. Aside from the magnificent restaurant name written in ornate Intis (Fusac) script above the entrance, it looked no different from any other upscale establishment.
Once inside, however, he found a different world. The floor was covered entirely in crimson carpets woven with golden vine patterns. Huge oil paintings and gorgeous tapestries hung on the walls. Under the glow of elegant gas lamps encased in silver grids, the entire restaurant exuded an air of extravagance.
The oak tables were draped with white linens. Sitting by the window, Rolls could see the foot traffic outside steadily increasing through the ornate oriel windows—lunchtime had arrived.
The waiter in the red vest brought over the menu and wine list, flipping through them as he introduced the fare:
"We primarily serve local Backlund cuisine. Roast cockerel, pan-seared ribeye, fried dragon-bone fish, and stewed lamb. Our most popular desserts are the butterscotch pudding, cream shortbread, and carrot cake."
Rolls listened to the introduction while browsing the menu, which was written in Fusac and lacked any accompanying pictures.
That makes sense, he thought. Even the newest cameras can't take color photos yet, and black-and-white photos would only dampen one's appetite. Better to use text to describe the specific ingredients.
"A serving of cold salmon, the stewed lamb, butterscotch pudding for dessert, and a side of gingerbread."
After noting the order, the waiter continued, "Certainly. Would you like anything to drink? Our champagne, red, and white wines all come from famous estates in the Champagne province..."
Rolls waved his hand in refusal. "No need. I have business to attend to this afternoon."
He was heading to Ken Lister's bar in the Dock District this afternoon, and he had to visit Saint Samuel Cathedral in the evening. Both matters required his full attention, so he didn't dare consume any alcohol.
"Very well, please wait a moment."
Not a hint of displeasure showed on the waiter's face; he maintained his polite smile and departed.
The lunch cost Rolls nearly 8 pounds, but the experience was excellent—nothing too gaudy. Even with its "aristocratic style," it was still just a restaurant; it couldn't truly replicate the decadent excesses of the nobility. However, the fact that all the tableware was gold-rimmed still shocked him; he had only seen such sets in the homes of certain high-ranking nobles.
Walking out of the restaurant, Rolls signaled Fitch to bring the carriage around. Since he wasn't going to the firm lately and didn't want to interfere with its daily operations, he had simply hired Fitch as his private driver for a few days at a rate of 2 pounds per day.
He was definitely overpaying. In Backlund, if a hired carriage was calculated by time, it should be about 3 shillings per hour. Anything under an hour counted as one; anything over an hour added 9 pence per 15 minutes. Prices would fluctuate for bad weather or emergencies requiring speed.
Of course, those were the rates for customers who knew the market. If you looked clueless, those drivers would dare to ask for 5 shillings an hour. Even at the standard rate, it was nearly 1.5 times the price in Tingen.
As for when he'd stop employing Fitch, that depended on when his future butler was ready.
Fitch was thrilled. A generous gentleman had hired him for 2 pounds a day for three days, with a possible extension. For him, this was easy, high-paying work.
With a crack of his whip, Fitch skillfully brought the carriage to a halt in front of Rolls, jumped down, and opened the door.
"Sir, where to next?"
"The Dock District."
After getting in, Rolls asked, "Have you eaten yet?"
"No, I've been waiting here for you, sir!" Fitch shook his head quickly, terrified that Rolls might think he had abandoned his post and stop hiring him.
Rolls smiled, took out his pocket watch, clicked it open for Fitch to see, and laughed. "Look, it's past noon. After you drop me off at Silver Mirror Long Street in the Dock District, go get something to eat. You can even pick up other fares, just remember to pick me up at Silver Mirror Long Street at 5:30."
"No, I'll wait for you at Silver Mirror Long Street as soon as I'm done eating," Fitch replied firmly.
"Suit yourself, then."
Rolls didn't insist and closed the carriage door. He didn't care if Fitch's answer was a lie; he was simply giving him a polite out so the man could earn a little extra if he wanted.
The carriage wove through the midday crowds. The pedestrians outside looked to be in good spirits, mostly office workers on their lunch breaks wearing similar suits, walking in small groups with laughter and conversation drifting through the air.
This was Hillston District, after all—the economic, commercial, and financial heart of the Loen Kingdom. It housed the Backlund Stock Exchange, the clearinghouse, the futures center, the headquarters of the seven major banks, various trust funds, railway companies, and bulk commodity trading firms.
The employees here generally earned a weekly wage of around 3 pounds. They were the solid middle class, the backbone of the Kingdom. If this area began to decline, the Loen economy would suffer a devastating blow.
After watching for a while, Rolls closed the carriage window, pulled the curtains, and shut his eyes to try to meditate. To get from Hillston to the Dock District, they had to cross through Cherwood, the Backlund Bridge, and a portion of the East Borough.
"Sir, we're almost at Silver Mirror Long Street. Which number are you headed to?"
Fitch's voice pulled Rolls out of his meditation. Rolls opened his eyes, pulled back the curtain, and saw the street ahead. "Alright, just stop here."
Fitch pulled the reins, stopped the carriage, and looked back. "Sir, Silver Mirror Long Street is quite long. You don't need me to..."
"No need. I'll get off here."
"Very well." Fitch jumped down and opened the door.
Rolls stepped out, pulled his soft felt hat low, and said with his head down, "Remember to pick me up here at 5:30."
"Understood." Fitch was wise enough not to ask questions. He simply did his job—the wisdom of a small man in a big city.
Rolls turned up the collar of his trench coat. Between the collar and the shadow of his hat, his face was completely obscured. He strode into Silver Mirror Long Street.
By the time Rolls appeared at the Iron Anchor Bar at No. 112 Silver Mirror Long Street, he looked like a different person entirely.