Korsen’s jaw remained slack, his eyes fixed on the stiff scroll Borin still held. The words, “one hundred thousand labor points,” echoed in his mind, stripping the air from his lungs. It was an impossible sum, a cruel joke. His gaze drifted to Tamsya, serenely blinking, a faint smudge of dirt on her cheek from Barnaby’s earlier rescue. She looked peaceful, oblivious, like a prize winning squash at a harvest fair. She deserved the quiet, the cool silica slab, the soft life he had promised. And he, Korsen Dael, had failed her. He remembered the bitter tang of failure from years past, sharp and unyielding. The sting of it hadn't dulled, merely receded into the shadowed corners of his mind, ready to spring forth at any perceived inadequacy. Seven years ago, on the sweltering Midsummer Market day, the air had shimmered above the cobblestones, thick with the scent of sun-baked dust and roasting pork. Young Korsen, barely out of his apprenticeship at Old Man Grungle’s ironworks, stood before the annual Innovations Showcase. He wore his finest, if slightly oil-stained, work tunic. His contraption, ‘The Perpetual Spooler,’ gleamed under the midday sun – a complex assembly of gears, springs, and polished hardwood, designed to wind yarn endlessly without human intervention. He’d spent a year perfecting it, fueled by daydreams of his name whispered with respect, of being a *contributor*. “Observe, esteemed judges!” he’d declared, his voice cracking with nerves but brimming with pride. “This device harnesses the subtle air currents, converting them into rotational energy to spool the finest fleece!” He’d gestured grandly at the slowly rotating wooden arm, which spun a thread of raw sheep’s wool onto a waiting spindle. The judges, three portly elders from the Loom Guild, exchanged bored glances. Elder Pimm, his beard flecked with lint, tapped a thick finger on the contraption. “So, it spins yarn, eh, Dael? Just like a child with a hand crank, only slower?” “But it requires no labor points!” Korsen insisted, his face flushing. “It frees the worker for more strenuous, valued tasks!” Elder Rorick guffawed, a wheezing, phlegmy sound. “The boy thinks we’ll replace nimble fingers with a glorified weather vane! What’s next, Dael? A machine to peel your potatoes while you nap?” The crowd, mostly farmers eyeing each other’s produce, snickered. A few outright laughed. Korsen felt the heat of shame creep up his neck, burning his ears. They didn’t see the ingenuity, the potential. They saw only a boy wasting time, creating something useless. The Perpetual Spooler was declared a “quaint folly,” its inventor “eccentric and unproductive.” He hadn't bothered to bring another invention before the public since. Now, Borin’s words sliced through the stale air of the Board, threatening to seize the one thing that could secure Tamsya's quiet life. Korsen felt that familiar, hollow ache of worthlessness begin to spread, cold and slow. Jolya, meanwhile, was slowly, meticulously scrubbing fertilizer from her hair with a handful of rough-spun cloth. The reek of potent manure clung to her like a second skin, turning the usually bustling room into a wide berth around her. She caught Borin’s gaze, a flicker of triumph in her eyes. The deep-mining division. Perfect. Tamsya would be hauled off to chop timber or hack rock, and Jolya could finally pursue Alistair Groat without interruption. The mineral ledge would be repossessed by the Collective, making her own meager landholding seem all the more valuable for its simplicity. A sharp, decisive rap echoed through the Board, cutting through the murmurs and Jolya’s internal musings. Everyone turned. A man stood framed in the doorway, a stark contrast to the rough-hewn locals. His suit, a shade of deep charcoal, was impeccably tailored, his boots gleaming with a mirror polish. A neat, pointed beard framed a hawkish nose, and his eyes, a startling pale grey, scanned the room with unnerving precision. He held a slim, leather-bound satchel, not a single speck of dust marring its surface. “My apologies for the intrusion,” the stranger’s voice was crisp, educated, devoid of any regional accent. “I am Theron Velle, representing the Pan-Continental Microsystems Corporation. I understand the Morndell Agricultural Cooperative has recently legalized private enterprise?” He paused, his gaze sweeping over the assembled, lingering for a fraction longer on the lingering scent of Jolya. His nose wrinkled almost imperceptibly. Jolya, despite her pungent state, saw her chance. She smoothed a damp hand over her mud-caked tunic, attempting a seductive smile. “Indeed, Master Velle! Welcome to Morndell. A fine new era for industrious folk such as myself. Perhaps you’d be interested in my family’s ancestral homestead? Prime arable land, excellent for… specialty crops.” She gestured vaguely, imagining fields of some high-value, non-existent plant. Theron Velle offered a polite, almost practiced, half-smile. “My immediate interest, Madam, lies in mineral extraction. Specifically, large, pure deposits of high-grade crystalline silica. My corporation requires substantial quantities for early-stage microchip manufacturing. We understand there may have been a recent discovery in this region?” Jolya perked up instantly. High-grade silica! If she could just divert him to *her* land, perhaps she could claim a discovery, or at least leverage his interest. “Oh, yes! Why, just yesterday, I heard tell of some rather… common rocks, near the old Blitherby’s Gulch. Utterly worthless, of course, but perhaps if you have a look at my property, I could point you toward the general direction of this… rockiness.” She began to sidle towards him, a faint trail of muddy water following her. Theron Velle, however, had stopped moving. His pale eyes were fixed not on Jolya, but on a corner of the room where Barnaby, oblivious to the drama, had settled himself for a nap. Korsen, with a nervous fidget, had just activated a small, intricately carved wooden paddle he’d placed by the dog’s side. It was a flat, oval block studded with smooth, polished crystalline pebbles. A tiny, glittering solar panel on its back caught the light from a high window, humming softly. The paddle vibrated gently, kneading Barnaby’s shaggy flank with a rhythmic, soothing motion. Barnaby sighed, a low, rumbling sound of pure contentment. “What… is that?” Theron Velle breathed, his practiced composure completely gone. He strode past Jolya as if she were a piece of furniture, his gaze glued to the device. “Is that a… solar-powered, piezoelectric canine therapeutic apparatus?” Korsen, flustered, stepped in front of Barnaby. “It’s just… a back-scratcher. For Barnaby. He gets stiff after a long nap.” Theron Velle knelt, ignoring the lingering whiff of fertilizer, his eyes glinting with scientific fascination. “The internal resonant frequency. The crystal purity. The efficiency of the photo-voltaic cell! This is… exquisite!” He pointed at the contraption. “And those crystals, they match the geological reports we’ve been tracking. You found a deposit, didn’t you?” His gaze snapped to Korsen, then to Tamsya, who remained seated, watching Barnaby’s blissful expression. “Madam,” he addressed Tamsya directly, his voice suddenly sharp with urgency. “Is that your land the reports indicated? The Crag of Oakhaven? With the exceptionally pure bedrock?” Tamsya blinked, slowly. “Yes. That’s where Barnaby naps now.” “Excellent!” Theron Velle practically vibrated with excitement. He fumbled in his satchel, pulling out a thick, official-looking document. “My corporation would like to offer you an immediate, exclusive, multi-million-dollar extraction contract for the mineral vein on your property. We can mobilize equipment within the hour, begin operations by dawn tomorrow. You’ll be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams!” He extended the document, a pen clipped to its side, towards Tamsya. Tamsya stared at the contract, then back at Barnaby, who let out another contented rumble. “Equipment?” she asked, her brow furrowing slightly. “Heavy equipment?” Theron Velle beamed. “Indeed! Enormous drills, sonic extractors, transport barges. We’ll be running a 24-hour operation, seven days a week, to meet demand. It will be a symphony of productivity!” Tamsya’s gaze hardened, a flicker of something close to alarm in her usually placid eyes. “Twenty-four hours?” she repeated, her voice remarkably flat. “Seven days a week?” She looked at Korsen, then back at the smiling corporate scout. “That would be… entirely too noisy. It would disturb Barnaby’s afternoon sleep schedule. And mine.” She pushed the contract back towards him, not a single line of her face betraying any desire for millions. “No.”

The Tinkerer's Valuation