NOVGO.NET Chapter 53: The Third Pan
Chapter 53: The Third Pan
"If you buy another sack of grain, we need a second pantry shelf," Jolly said.
She tapped her pencil against the open household ledger, adjusting her round spectacles with a quick flick.
Fin zipped his dark fleece jacket, checking the coin pouch resting inside his coat pocket.
"The porridge pot emptied before seven yesterday morning," Fin noted, glancing toward the stove burners.
"Dock porters eat a lot of food after four hours of continuous physical labor," she countered.
"Standard supply frames burn five thousand calories before noon," Fin replied with an easy grin.
"Then buy thirty kilos of red potatoes and two cuts of cured flank," she instructed.
’She manages our food reserves like a quartermaster preparing for a prolonged siege,’ Fin thought.
Fin stepped through the doorway, descending the quiet flights into the early morning mist outside.
Delivery wagons rolled over the dark paving stones near the edge of the market square.
Fishmongers arranged fresh river carp on tilted crates while oil lanterns flickered overhead in the cool breeze.
Fin walked past the produce stalls, selecting two sacks of potatoes and scallions.
He carried the loaded canvas bags under one arm without slowing his steady, deliberate walking pace.
At an ironmonger stall near the corner, a wide three-liter skillet caught his eye.
The pan featured a thick base designed to distribute heat evenly across open flame burners in the kitchen.
Fin lifted the skillet, testing its balance with a light flick.
"Do you plan to feed a road repair crew, young man?" the merchant asked.
"Something like that," Fin answered, setting forty credits from the household purse on the counter.
"Hungry dock workers clear plates faster than road crews," he added with a chuckle.
Fin stored the third skillet into his canvas sack alongside the cured flank steaks.
Fin turned toward the municipal tea depot where steam drifted from blue tea mugs across the square.
Bram sat on an overturned crate, waving a thick arm.
Jax and Corin leaned against the brick partition, chewing on dried fruit strips together in the dawn air.
Seven older men stood behind them in stained canvas coats and patched boots.
Their knuckles bore the thick calluses of dock laborers who moved bulky freight by hand every day.
"You brought the morning shift with you," Fin said, stopping before the group.
"These men lost their warehouse contracts when the district sealed the lower canal," Bram explained.
"Corporate syndicates only hire porters with registered divine sponsor marks nowadays," Jax muttered.
"We do not carry sponsor marks, and we do not beg for scraps," Corin added.
Fin set the grocery bags down on the stones, meeting the gaze of each worker.
"I spent four years packing protein boxes under foreman quotas," Fin spoke in a level voice.
"I know how corporate teams treat porters when an emergency siren sounds in a breach," he continued.
The oldest dockman, a grey-haired laborer named Orson, leaned forward on his staff.
"We heard you formed a new crew on Halden Street," Orson said, his voice raspy.
"We are registering Halden House as an independent expedition guild today," Fin answered directly.
"Corporate teams lock porters behind blast gates when monsters swarm the tunnels," Bram chimed in.
"Halden House guarantees equal hazard pay and immediate medical coverage from escrow," Fin told them.
"Nobody gets left behind as bait while I draw breath," he declared with quiet certainty.
’An expedition house stands or falls on the reliability of its logistics backbone,’ Fin thought.
Orson exchanged brief glances with the six younger porters standing in the morning chill.
"What is the daily base rate for hauling salvage frames?" Orson asked, eyes narrowing.
"Two hundred credits base, plus five percent of raw salvage value," Fin answered without hesitation.
"That is twice the wage Goldwake pays its junior contractors," Jax pointed out with a grin.
"We also allocate fifteen thousand credits into a locked medical reserve fund," Fin added.
"If anyone catches a claw strike, the clinic bill comes from guild funds," he stated.
Orson extended a callused hand, gripping Fin’s forearm with the firm grip of a dockworker.
"Where do we sign our names, young commander?" Orson asked, a faint smile surfacing.
Bram pulled a rolled duty roster from his coat, spreading it across an empty barrel.
All seven porters stepped forward, pressing inked thumbs against the rough lines of the agreement.
"Welcome to Halden House," Fin said, nodding to each worker as they finished signing.
"Report to the rear yard of Apartment 4B at six tomorrow morning," he instructed.
"We will have forty supply frames ready for inspection by dawn," Bram assured him proudly.
Fin gathered his grocery sacks and skillet, turning back toward the quiet residential street.
The morning sun crested the eastern rooftops, casting golden light across the brick tenements along the boulevard.
[ Auxiliary logistics: 7 veteran porters recruited ]
[ Medical escrow allocated: 15,000 credits secured ]
[ Household asset added: three-liter skillet ]
[ Host balance: 27,000 credits liquid reserve ]
Fin climbed the interior stairs, the aroma of toasted garlic greeting him on the fourth floor landing.
Ruby opened the door, wearing her grey training shirt and holding a hot teapot.
"You took forty minutes just to purchase potatoes and onions," Ruby noted with an amused smile.
"I hired seven reliable porters and bought a third pan along the way," Fin replied.
"Jolly already measured the cabinet space for another skillet," Ruby said, stepping aside.
Maya looked up from the kitchen table where three municipal maps lay spread under bright lamps.
"Our logistics footprint expanded before our guild charter received its official stamp," Maya observed calmly.
"An army marches on full bellies and sturdy boots," Fin said, unpacking the cured beef.
"Those seven men worked the northern canal docks for twelve years without an accident," Bram reported.
"They know every service tunnel and drainage outlet in District Four," Corin added from the doorway.
"That geographic knowledge saves us hours during emergency dungeon deployments," Maya noted, taking notes.
Jolly took the third skillet, washing the surface with hot water and coarse salt.
"This pan holds twelve eggs and two pounds of potatoes simultaneously," Jolly announced after measuring.
"We need every square inch of cooking space for this household," Ruby agreed with a laugh.
Fin sliced the cured flank into thin strips, tossing them into the heated oil.
The meat sizzled with a sharp crackle, filling the apartment with a rich savory aroma across the kitchen.
"The registration office opens at eight sharp," Maya reminded the room, checking her pocket watch.
"Goldwake sent legal delegates to challenge our independent filing," she warned, adjusting her glasses.
"Let them bring their corporate lawyers," Fin said, flipping the beef with a wide spatula.
"We have seven honest porters, thirty kilos of potatoes, and three seasoned frying pans," he added.
"We also have twenty-seven thousand credits in liquid reserves to cover operating expenses," Jolly stated.
She entered the skillet and grocery costs into the black ledger with crisp, dark strokes.
"A balanced ledger is the strongest shield against corporate predators," Maya remarked approvingly.
"When you control your own supplies, nobody can starve you out of an active gate," Ruby said.
"That was the primary failure point during the third district mining collapse," Fin recalled.
"The syndicate cut off supply shipments to force the independent crews to surrender their claims," he added.
"They will not pull that trick on Halden House," Bram declared, cracking his knuckles.
"Eat your breakfast while the skillet is hot," Jolly commanded, tapping the table edge.
’This kitchen feels more like a fortress with every passing day,’ Fin thought with satisfaction.
The morning light streamed through the clean window panes, illuminating the bustling streets of District Four below.