Lysander jolted out of his trance, tears flowing from his eyes.
A weeping woman in white.
A ring.
A chest.
His eyes darted to the box before him. That chest. The whispers sounded almost congratulatory, but eerie nonetheless. The young paladin stood and began pacing his small room. He’d never attempted that ritual before, and hadn’t expected the visions to be so… Vivid. Emotional. Lysander ran a hand through his hair, brushing a few stray locks from his face.
Woman in white. But not all white. There was red. The deep crimson of blood. And a ring? In a chest. That chest. Marriage? A bride, perhaps? What about the groom? Was the blood his? Did she… No, she wouldn’t be crying.
Lysander came to a stop near the chest and placed a hand on it. The whispers got just a little louder. Far be it from him to criticize, but why couldn’t an archangel give more concrete answers? Perhaps he’d have to pray on the subject some more. But not now. He still felt a drained from the ritual. Emotionally, more than anything. Maybe it was time for a walk.
He grabbed his white robe from his bed. Lysander rarely left his room without it. He hated dressing the part of paladin, desperately missing his nice, comfortable peasant garb, but he’d found that he could wear just about anything under the robe, since it covered his entire body when buttoned. Besides, it held sentimental value. His friends back in Woefeldt bought it for him.
Where to first? He could walk into town, he supposed. No, there’d be too many people. He liked that his presence seemed to cheer up the people around him, but he tended to draw crowds as a result. Maybe a walk in the woods? Clypeus had made sure to teach him wilderness navigation during his training as a Nuranihim, may as well use it… But he was still on edge from the ritual. Though his Gift protected him from fear, it did not protect him from the heebie jeebies.
Maybe he’d visit some of the farms. If he was lucky, he might even manage to convince someone to let him lend a hand. That sounded nice, he thought. A tour of the farms it was.
Another whisper came from the box. Lysander frowned before setting his testimonium atop it. The whispers stopped.
Imaginary Roses
Maestro Bastione Montcorbier sits on a tavern stool in the Black Pistol Inn just before sunrise. On the bar before him is a ledger accounting for the tavern’s expenditures. He looks over the blocks of numbers, rubs his eyes and begins to draw musical notes in the margins.
“Good morning, Maestro,” a Gothic boy says. A broom over his shoulder.
“Bonjour, petit homme. How are you, Lev?”
“I am well. I had a strange dream as I slept.”
“Had you? I have strange dreams when I’m awake.”
“In the dream, I was your age, and everywhere I went people threw flowers at my feet.”
“What kind of flowers?”
“They were red. I played a guitar like yours and my feet were buried in red flowers.”
“How did they smell?”
“Like lemon, and cloves.”
“That sounds very nice. And the petals?”
“Thick, like velvet. I laid in them, pet them. It was an odd dream.”
“It sounds wonderful. I’m proud of you.”
“What did I do?”
“You described the scent, the way the petals felt, even their color.”
“So?”
“From your mind you created beautiful things.”
“I suppose I did.”
“Will you make me some coffee?”
“Wait, was that a lesson?””
“With cream. Thank you, Lev.”
Farewells and Sewers
Her ventures in the woods had been fruitless, so now she found herself here.
In the sewers.
The Undying, the Dragon’s Daughter, the child of the Rimelands. Here. In the sewers.
Freydis was slicked in filth, and digging out more with every passing minute. Sneering through the mud and the refuse as she carved out the tunnel that would ensure that the city’s noted sewage problem would finally be tended to. No more disease ridden sewer rats—in theory. No more plague monsters—in theory.
She wasn’t sure she really trusted any of these southerners or their schemes. Especially when their schemes had her waste deep in sloppy shit mud.
It was too easy for her mind to wander. She didn’t want to think about her current situation, and though she didn’t want to think about the rest of it either…
First Jehanne left. Freydis had been surprised to find that that hurt. It hurt had angered her fiercely. “What do you mean you’re leaving?” she’d said, voice hard as she drew her knife, like maybe she could keep Jehanne there by force, or like killing her might be preferable to letting her go. “You can’t go. You’re teaching me to read.”
“Oh, you silly,” Jehanne had said—in that strange way she had of saying things, with a little bounce on the balls of her feet and a little roll of her mismatched eyes. She’d even reached out and put her hand on Freydis’s hand, re-sheathing the knife with no resistance. “You’ve learned a lot so far. You’re doing great! But there are others that can teach you. No one as good as me, but…” Jehanne looked at Freydis’s bracelet, reaching out to flick the red feather. “For all his faults Balthazar knows a lot. I’m sure he would be willing to teach you.”
For a moment Freydis flushed and thought of reaching for her knife again. Then she deflated and looked at the ground. “I thought you were my friend,” she said, resenting the quaver in her voice.
“Freydis, I am your friend!” Jehanne smiled brightly and cocked her head to the side. Her smile changed for a moment, becoming somewhat flat, dimming a little. “You do know that just because someone leaves, that doesn’t mean they’re not your friend, right?”
“I’m not stupid,” Freydis said, but she looked away and hoped Jehanne didn’t see the doubt in her face.
Jehanne shook her head and her smile shifted back to its usual manic brightness. “I’m just going to work on some things with Bakara. I’ll be back.”
“You could stay with me. And the Blackjacks. We’ll protect you.”
“No silly, I want to go with me husband. Besides, I don’t need protecting.” First she smiled so that her nose scrunched up as she patted the gun in her basket, then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re going to do experiments and blow things up.” Clapping her hands, she gave a little hop.
Freydis tried to smile for her, but couldn’t quite muster it.
She’d mostly cleared this segment of earth, and had to admit she felt good about the work she’d done. She doubted anyone else could have done better. She’d cleared the area efficiently and effectively, and was almost done. The area could use a little widening though, she thought, so she began cutting again into the sides of the tunnel.
Now she wondered if Bjorn would be here working at her side, if he hadn’t left, too. One of the only Njords in town she’d really been able to speak to since arriving here—who had greeted her with a good fight, and warmly. She’d thought they would each other’s backs in this strange place, the only true Njords in Stragosa, at all times.
It was hard to hear the nasty things some of these southerners said about Bjorn—or that he overheard, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow but saying nothing. Smiling as fiercely and insistently instead. She had supposed that, eventually, she and Bjorn would teach some of these soft southern fools a few things about due respect.
But he seemed to value something about these people—or to regard them cautiously. They had almost had him burned once, she had heard, though she’d never spoken to him of it and he had never mentioned it.
And now he was gone, too.
“Do not look so sad, Freydis.” He had set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m only going for a stretch of the legs. I’ll be back.”
She didn’t ask when. She knew he wouldn’t have an answer. He may not even come back—wherever his journey took him, it would be away from Stragosa but it would not be safe from monsters. It may lead him back to his people and a call of war, or some battle elsewhere. Besides, it was a stupid and childish question to ask.
“Even though you’re going,” she said instead, and did her best to say it rather than ask it, “we will still be friends.”
“Of course! How could we not be?” He put his arm around her and pulled her roughly against him, giving her arm a squeeze and a shake. “Look my friend. You will keep an eye on Walt and Borso for me, yes? They are in need of someone to watch their backs.”
Freydis hesitated. There might be a time she couldn’t keep that promise. But she would try, and she would assure him, to make him happy. That’s what friends did, right? Make each other happy? “I will.”
“Good, friend,” Bjorn said, shaking her again, almost hard enough to rattle her bones. “Come! Let’s go to the tavern. One more drink before I go!” He bent down to poke her in the chest, grinning madly. “And we shall sing some of the old songs and watch the southerners quake in terror!”
There wasn’t a proper goodbye for either of her friends. They said they were leaving, and then they were gone, and that was it.
Like she had slipped away and vanished from the cold lands of her home.
Freydis shook the thought away. She felt like a pathetic, foolish child. When had she become so childish?
The soft earth gave way suddenly beneath her hands, then the wall itself collapsed into thick clots of mud. Dozens—no, hundreds—of skulls toppled out of the earth. They crashed over and around her, their hard domes battering her as she stumbled back and succumbed to the outlandish wave of them.
Thrashing back against the skulls, she cracked and broke them open, crushing them in return and fighting her way out. When the project supervisors came by to check on her after hearing the screams, they found her standing in the mound of skulls, pounding them into powder with her mace and screaming curses.
Convalescence
The white clad man’s hopes weren’t high. Each time he approached he had heard a muffled dismissal from inside. After the first week, he had started leaving boxes of food on the doorstep. The neighbors reported that the occupant came out some time later to retrieve them. It was some small comfort for the guilt that the Paladin felt.
It had been ten weeks now and Sanguine devotedly approached the door and knocked softly, expecting another terse rebuke. But this time it was silent. Worried, Sanguine knocked again. What if something had happened? What if his friend was hurt, or worse? He turned around looking for someone nearby to see if there was any news- and just then the door creaked.
Whirling around, what met his eyes was a sorry sight. A long and dirty beard with streaks of grey. Grimy lines on the poor man’s face around his eyes, streaked by tears. Torn clothing still stained with blood.
The two men stared at each other for a long moment and tears welled in both their eyes. “We’re even,” the poor man finally croaked with a wry smile hidden behind his beard. Sanguine practically tackled him into a hug with something between a sob and a laugh. “We’re more than even,” Sanguine agreed in a whisper, holding him tight.
That night, Sanguine cooked Connor a hot meal and helped him clean his home and then himself. Connor’s neighbors gave him clothes in true Gothic tradition and they told stories back and forth of happier, simpler times. As the hour ran late, Sanguine poured Connor a cup of wine and the neighbors said their goodbyes.
Connor sipped at it as they sat alone before the fire. “Am I gonna be ok?” he asked quietly, looking down into his cup. His voice betrayed the hurt the hurt done to him and his doubt at his own recovery.
“You are, my friend,” Sanguine answered with determined warmth, watching him. “I’ll make sure of it.”
A Nonna’s Love
“Hekté, come here.”
“But Nonna, the tomatoes-”
“Can wait. Come, sit,” Nonna gestured to the stool beside her with a floured hand.
Abandoning the knife and basket of tomaotes, I sat next to Nonna and watched her knead pasta for a few silent minutes. Her skillful hands worked the dough from a shaggy mess into a smooth ball, ready for rolling and cutting. She paused before she grabbed her rolling pin and turned to me again.
“Boy, you’re a lot like pasta right now.”
“I- What?” I asked.
“You are a crumbly pile of potential, waiting for life to knead you and press you into shape. You could be hundreds of different things in the end, but for now you’re just the beginning.”
I fidgeted with a scrap of dough infront of me.
“So, you don’t think I should go to Stragosa?”
Nonna laughed, “No, no! Between you and me, I think you need it. But don’t tell your Matri, she’ll start crying again. Always a sensitive thing, she was…”
I stood up and wandered over to the fireplace where a pot of cold water sat. Nonna began rolling out the pasta while I stoked the fire and placed the pot over it. I moved back to the cutting board and contined to cut tomatoes for dinner. The summer heat forbade stewing pasta sauce, but that never stopped Nonna from eating tomatoes every day anyway. Diced tomatoes and anchovies with pasta was a good dish.
Nonna looked my way again, “I think I can get your Matri to postpone the marriage proposal for a bit. Should give you time to grow up a little,” She chuckled, “Benalus knows, you need it!”
“Eh? Nonna!”
Nonna cackled at my objection and deftly cut and formed the farfalle. I laughed a bit myself and helped her bring the little pastas over to the boiling pot, where we dumped them in.
“Ti voglio bene, Nonna.”
The Highwayman and the Quill
The Black Pistol Inn.
The bells struck twelve as former Highwayman Bastione Montcorbier agonizes over a small drop of blue ink. To compound the problem he realizes his wrist has smeared it over the last stanza. He spears the quill back into the pot in frustration.
“Lev! Bring me a rag, please.”
In moments the boy arrived with a handful of them. “This be enough Maestro?”
Bastione regards his assistant with a smile. “Quite enough monsieur.”
Had Bastione been half as decent as the boy before him he would’ve never struggled those years in Cappacione. If he’d had a patient and tolerant teacher what could he have accomplished? He was exhausted and a tremendous yawn escaped his lips. Bastione wiped the ink from his wrist, through away the ruined manuscript and started fresh.
“Since you’re here, Lev. Would you mind going to the bar for me? I’m falling asleep without something to chew.”
“Course. Want a cake?”
“Do you?”
“I wouldn’t mind…”
“Two cakes then.”
“Yes, Maestro!”
Lev sped from the room and seemed to float on air. Bastione, for his part turned his attention back to his work. Taking up a rule he traced several staves, and clefs onto the parchment on his desk. He rinsed his quill and, dipped it in red ink and with painfully slow movements began a new illuminated manuscript. If his father could see him now. A far cry from the life the two led well into Bastione’s thirtieth year.
“Discovery…” It was a subject that intrigued the Cappacione Bard, in another life he would’ve liked to have been one of those people who dig up old castles, and find pottery. But for now, the man is content with his work. He fought back another yawn and slapped his face. “A single stanza before bed…”
His first letter T was absolutely beautiful. Well balanced, steady, bright. If he kept it up the whole manuscript would be stunning. The quill snapped in his fingers.
“Merde.”
He tossed away his second quill of the late evening. Luckily the break wasn’t a catastrophe. The page remained unmarred.
He pulled another feather from his desk, drew a small pocket knife and began to shape it. His fingers were built for playing strings, the delicate task of calligraphy was still foreign to them.
It was then that Lev burst through the door causing Bastione’s knife to hack the feather in half.
“Tue moi maintenant!” Bastione tossed the halves on the ground.
“I brought the cakes. You look like you could use two.”
“Ah, no. Just one. Wont you tell me a story while we eat?”
“Me, Maestro? Tell you a story?”
Bastione took his cake and began eating. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Lev took a seat on the floor, Bastione joined him.
“I can make something up,” Lev offered.
“All the best one’s do.”
“In the land of Cappacione there lived a man who by his birthright roamed the less traveled roads, robbing those he came across. It was said the man was a gentleman in all but title and that he had always made an effort to demand his tax without bloodshed. It happened one day that a poor wanderer crossed the gentleman’s path.
“Stand and deliver!” the highwayman commanded. He drew a pistol and leveled it plain at the beggar.
“Please sir, I haven’t two copper to rub together and I’m awfully tired. Surely you can let me pass?”
The gentleman approached the old man, with his pistol still aimed. “If you have no coin to pay my tax, how do you expect to cross my path? Turn around and come back with coin.”
The old man looked surprised at the demand. “Sir, I have heard you are a gentleman of the road, that you are fair, and shed no blood in your acquisitions. The man I see before me seems a brigand. Are you not the man I have heard of?”
The highwayman lowered his pistol and smiled. “Look sir. If I let you pass untaxed, words gets around that anyone dressed in rags can travel my roads without compensating me. You see the position that puts me in.”
“It’s your reputation that concerns you? You must be feared, as the cutthroat that sails the seas from Hestralia?”
“You’re catching on, sir.”
“Well I have no coin but if you must charge me, will you take this?” The beggar pointed at his temple and tapped.”
“I’m not following, sir.”
“I am poor in coin but rich in wisdom. If you must charge me for my passage I will pay with that.”
“What wisdom do you offer? I know how to live off the land, hunt, shoot, rob and speak with annunciation. I know how to ride horses, and I know the location of every cave within twenty miles. I ask again, what wisdom can you offer?”
“I know the secret of immortality.”
The highwayman laughed. “And you can teach me that secret?”
“I can. It is more valuable than any coin, don’t you agree?”
“Well of course. Well, let’s have it then.”
The old man reached for the feather in his cap, plucked it held it to the sun. “It’s a fine feather, isn’t it?”
“It is very fine, yes. And?”
“Do you see the lichen, growing on that tree there?”
“Will you start making sense, sir? No, I didn’t notice the lichen.”
The old man walked to the tree, gathered a handful of the vegetation and peeled bark from its trunk. He placed the lichen inside and then, began to micturate into it.
“What are you doing, sir? I don’t approve.”
“Let it ferment. I’ve given you the secret to immortality. An ink and quill.”
“But I don’t know how to write.”
“Then accompany me to the next village and I will teach you the alphabet.”
“You’re comfortable traveling with a highwayman, sir?”
“I can think of no better protection than a man who can hunt, ride a horse, fire a pistol and knows every cave within twenty miles. Shall we?”
Lev nodded as if to bow and noticed that Bastione’s head drooped at his chest. The Maestro had fallen fast asleep…
My Life Truly Begins
I could hear them gossiping. Oh Benalus, the gossiping.
Matri and Nonna were chatting up a storm over tea and pastries in the kitchen like they do every Sunday morning. I was trying to slip past unnoticed to go run amok for the day. Obviously I don’t spend enough time with Papà, as Matri heard me trying to creep to the door.
“Teté, come here!”
“Matri, please call me Hekté…” I begged.
“Oh Hekté, give your Matri a break!” Nonna chimed.
“I just came of age! Can’t you let that silly nickname go?”
“I know you’re an adult now,” Matri chided, “Let me hold onto the nickname.”
“Fine,” I conceded, “But do you HAVE to be talking about… y’know…”
“Marriage?” Matri asked.
“Si! Yes! Why?!..” I cried, exasperated.
“Well,” Matri explained, “We may not be a super wealthy family, but we can afford to arrange you to marry into a richer family. You have the brains to work in the ports! Think of where that will get you! Plus, Nonna will kill me if I don’t get you a nice girl.”
Nonna chuckled and sipped her tea.
Matri continued, “The nice Capacian girl in the port is still single, and I was considering sending a proposal soon. There’s also the Bookkeeper’s daughter – you remember her, right? I’ve also been looking at some of the available gentry, but I don’t think I could buy off anyone’s fathers yet…”
Matri kept rambling on about prospective partners to Nonna. I had my hand on the door handle when Nonna caught my eye. She smiled, and then winked. I smiled back, a little uncertain and fled the house before Matri started asking questions I couldn’t – or shouldn’t – answer.
I took a quick pace to Aquila’s rookery, in need of some work to keep my mind busy. The cobblestone sidewalks were full of people bustling to and fro on their morning errands, and the canals were alive with gondolas of goods. I turned toward the capital buildings, where the rookery resided and where the wealthy and the gentry chose to live.
The Mistress waited within the rookery, flowing robes showcasing her insane wealth. A number of well-kept ravens stood tall and haughty around her as she looked through a ledger.
“Buongiorno, Mistress,” I greeted. She looked up, long dark hair spilling over her shoulders.
“Buongiorno Hekté. What brings you here on your day off? Is your family gossiping again?”
“Si. You know I’d rather take the Sunday shifts. It gives me an excuse to leave the house.”
The Mistress laughed, “Hekté! I’ve told you that we don’t send anything out on Sundays! I’m sorry, there’s not anything I can do right now.”
“Well, it’s getting out of hand!” I exclaimed, “I’m not interested in girls or marriage! I just need to get out of that!”
The Mistress glanced at her ledger, then back to me. She smiled shrewdly, “Of course, you could always tell them that. Or maybe not. I remember being your age and wanting to be my own person.”
I shuffled my feet, “If I may ask, what are you getting at?”
“Hekté, I think I have an assignment for you.”
The Mistress picked up an envelope, and passed it to me. It was fresh and smelled of ink still, so I knew it had just been written. She placed her hand on mine, and said:
“That letter needs to get to Stragosa”.
A Moment in the Conservatory
One time highwayman, Bastione Montcorbier sits upstairs in the Black Pistol Inn’s music conservatory. The room is lit only by a small crackling flame in the hearth and a handful of floral scented candles throughout.
The interior is sparse save a broad window which looks out into a night sky , a couple of guitars, two stools, and a Gothic child named Lev. Bastione plays a series of simple chords, and instructs his young student to do the same.
You’ve learned the eight elemental chords in little time. You’ve made your first break through in simple melodies, and I think you’re ready to perform something downstairs, Lev. What do you think?”
“I could, Maestro, but I don’t know what to play. Do you have an easy song I might try?”
“Of course I have, but the point of your instruction is to teach you to write songs and perform them. Happy to offer some guidance, chlapec but the performance is yours alone.”
“But what chords shall I play, and which order?”
Bastione leaned back in his chair and hefted a huge mug to his lips. The water was cold and Bastione half expected it to be ale, which made the first sip off putting.
“Choosing chords, and putting them in order is a song, isn’t it, Lev?”
“Yes, but…”
“G major, A major and D major are good places to start, non?
“I know them well enough.”
“You know them better than well enough. That’s enough for today. You have work to do and I need a drink.”
“I will fetch one for you.”
“Kind. No need, I’m going downstairs to the taproom. Let’s see if we can’t find you some bread to take home, non?”
“Thank you, maestro. Might there be a tart or two available?”
“What!?”
“A sweet biscuit.”
“Oh, yes, a biscuit. Of course.”
The Black Pistol Inn – A Night of Poetry
The Black Pistol Inn rumbles with a bright and cheerful crowd. Poets take the stage and give their best prose in hopes of landing the five silver pay off the Pistol has offered as a prize. A darkly clad Gothic man takes the stage. He glowers at the audience, pulling his hood and veil tightly around his gaunt face. His words are slow, dour, and hold the barest emotion.
“dreary death
shadows morbid in the flame
unrestful corpses are to blame
knife the eyes of pumpkin shell
to ward the gate of those that fell
the ancient rotting people rise
darkness crushes once blue skies
skin to flesh and bones to powder
brains to munch to brainy chowder
drowning sadness boils hearts
tearing bodies rending parts
smile for he who on this day
has no soul for he to pay”
The Gothic man bows deeply, rises, and awaits for an applause that comes in small bursts. The Gothic folk in the crowd just glower back, and he steps away from the stage.
The next poet, a well dressed Cappacian bard, and owner of the Black Pistol steps on stage. “I have a poem to share, though I am fully disqualified from entering the contest, I thought my Cappacian patrons would find it amusing.” Bastione clears his voice and takes on a sad countenance.
“There was a desert in time gone by
Where widowed men went to cry
And as their tears struck the sand
The salty drops drowned the land
And those who couldn’t stop the flood
Began to cry a salty blood
And in this way they died forlorn
And from the muck a wolf was born
The wolf was made of man’s harsh sorrow
It found no leader for it to follow
Along it starved to city near
No food was given out of fear
Its eyes fell on a forest maiden
With ample meat her bones were laden
But something exploded from her hand
As she gave a clear command
“Eat them all!” she screamed with rage
“Show them nature wont be caged.”
The wolf’s back began to twist
Paws stretched to rending fists
Its muzzle shrunk into a nose
And on each foot grew five toes
And that nightmare creature did obey
And that whole town the wolfman slayed.
The forest maiden became a tree
As she cackled merrily.”
The poem does seem to sit well with a number of Cappacian patrons. It is also causes a number of Rogalian’s in the audience to double check that their neck are covered.
Bastione steps down from the stage as a tall, well build Njordic woman greets the audience warmly.
“This is an old song, better left to competitions like this, but its sentiment has been central to my family since our axe’s crushed our foes.” She begins to sing a song, its rhythm aged.
“Ancient Ones, guide my spear so that we may feast
As we drain the blood from the beast
Our foes deceased
Sanctify our souls in the blood of our enemies
The new ways hold no sway
when the leaders bleed from their hearts
your will to be appeased
bring a storm of bloodshed
bring a storm of disease
Bring our foes low, low, low.”
The song inspires a number of patrons to howl, slam their tankards and order more drinks.
Standing in the corner, Bastione shares words with a Njordic man. The Cappacian pats his friend on the arm and wipes a tear from his eye. “Arnorr, marry that woman immediately.”
A Visit to the Vinyard
The vineyard, still young in the old bones of Stragosa’s hills, rolled out over acres of trellises and green vines. A few people moved through the rows, carefully trimming extra buds off of the fresh creepers. Allegra trailed behind, checking the work of these inexpert helpers, pointing out mistakes when necessary and swallowing her impatience when possible.
Just before the perfectly warming sun peaked overhead, she shouted for lunchtime and the small band disbursed. Sitting in the little shelter by the edge of the fields, hardly more than one wall with a roof and stacked high with crates, she sipped her wine and considered her tiny empire.
A rustling in the nearby bushes and Luca’s head popped up, shaded from the sun by his extravagantly wide-brimmed hat.
“Eyyyyyyyyyy, Allegra! Excuse the entrance–when I got here you seemed hard at work, I didn’t want to get in the way!”
Allegra grinned widely and stood up, arms outstretched in invitation. “Luca! Welcome! I’m so glad you made it.” She motioned to the shelter, where a tapped barrel stood propped on the crates. “Come, have a drink!”
“That is an offer, my friend, that I will never refuse!” Luca embraced his friend and snuggled himself down in the shade of the shelter. “Seriously”, between drinks, “what is with this hot hot heat? It’s so pleasant right now in the shade of the forest!”
Allegra refilled her cup and settled back against the crates. “I am not going to complain. It reminds me of home. Hopefully it will remind the grapes of home, too- with all of these clouds and this soil, I’m surprised every harvest that doesn’t shrivel up before it even ripens.” She glanced over at Luca, and then back out to the fields. “How was the trip? You are not too burned, I hope?”
“No, no, my cloak and hat ‘cover the action’, so to speak.” Luca’s cloak had been rolled up and tucked into his downed hat as soon as he achieved the shade. Sweat marked his bald pate where the felt of the hat had graced it. “But they in themselves are their own irritants. Oh for the forest shade! Of course it is fine for you and your grapes. But I’m a man of Etruvia, land of cool mountain breezes and gentle morning mists! In matters of climate, we’re hardly Hestrali at all you know!”
Allegra smiled wistfully. “I was born in Etruvia. I remember it, sometimes. That is where most of this stock comes from, in fact,” she waved her arms out over the fields. “A land of grapes and rocky hills and quiet trees. How does the wood here compare with the forests of your home?”
“You know it’s not that bad! The forests of Etruvia are higher up, altitude wise, and farther from the sea, but we’re so much more northerly here. Snow this far down in the lowlands. Outlandish!” Luca fished some bread and dried apples out of his pouch. His eyes twinkled. “I know it’s a matter of pride with you only to eat grapes, but if you’d like….”
She grinned and accepted some of the offered food. “Ah, but if I eat all of the grapes, then there will be no wine,” she indicated the contents of her cup with a little shake, “and that would truly be a tragedy.”
She popped a piece of apple into her mouth and said around it: “How was your market?”
“Well, you know, it was pretty good! I got a lot of stuff done, saved the city from a plague of rats, wrote up some contracts for Borso. Spent some quality time with a variety of young ladies…” Luca got a brief, dreamy look in his eyes and subconsciously fingered a woven bracelet around his wrist. “Anyway, profitable and enjoyable! My logging proceeds are starting to pile up, I’m looking around for a good way to invest. Bishop Celestria gave me the business about hoarding wealth, I need to find a way to put it to work to benefit the community!”
“Ah yes… hoarding wealth… There needs to be more opportunity for people like you and me to spend what we’ve earned here. If this were Aquila, I’d hire children to run messages, street toughs to guard the tavern, people to cook land clean and serve and run errands… But there are no people for that here. It seems we have more jobs than people to do them.”
“You say that, but have you spent any time in the outer districts? Full of ne’erdowells, widows, orphans, general criminals. All of those people could be turned into useful members of society with the right care and backing! Bishop Celestria talked to me about those orphans too–she sort of objected when I offered to take them all out in the woods and stick axes in their hands, but only sort of…”
“You definitely are not from Aquila, my friend,” Allegra laughed. “And apparently neither is the Bishop. Those criminals are a necessary part of life in a city, and giving work to an orphan is the only opportunity they have to better themselves. Do you have enough means to feed and house these children, if you can pin them down?’
“I mean, what’s housing? I’ll just bring out a bunch more canvas with me to string up between the trees! As far as food, we pick our own food out there and do very well. I foraged 75 units of vegetables last season–how much can each kid eat?
“I was going to see if I could get somebody to come out with me to care for the little rascals, though. I’ve got no experience parenting.”
“Eh…” she waved her hand dismissively. “That will take care of itself. They will form their own hierarchy, and as long as you can show them which part of the axe to hold and keep them from mutinying, they will do what you tell them.”
“See, that’s the can-do attitude I like! The Bishop said *somethingsomething*childlabor*somethingsomething* when I proposed it! But really, if you want kids to grow up strong you need to teach them a trade! Are you really sure they don’t need a woman’s touch? I mean some of these kids grew up pretty rough, they could use some love!”
She shrugged lightly, but there was a brief moment of bitterness in her face. “That is a luxury. Give them the things they need to survive, and they will survive.” She reconsidered Luca’s words again for a second and then eyed him suspiciously. “Are you looking for a wife, Luca? Is that what you are thinking about?”
“Woah woah woah woah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves! I was just saying these urchins could use a mother, not that I need a wife! I mean I’ve got my hands plenty full of all the women in my life already without adding somebody else on top of it!
“I’ll admit it was a bit lonely up in Ebonvoss Hollow, but now that I’m staying closer to Portofino and all the Hestrali girls, the company is much more plentiful and pleasant!
“When I want kids of my own, then I’ll get a wife. No need to rush things!”
Luca gave Allegra a suspicious look. “But so I noticed what you said there, calling love a luxury. We’re not poor here in the valley–if it’s a luxury it’s one we can afford!”
She shrugged again. “There are so many more important things. You can get them love, but if it’s extra coin you have, get them meat instead. Make sure they have shoes. If what you have is time, lay boards for them to sleep on and raise walls to keep the rain off. Children need things they can touch and eat, and softness won’t teach them the lessons they’ll need to survive. Especially not here.”
“Oh, Allegra! Even here in the idyll of your vinyard you’re so grim! Sure, there’s hard work in plenty out here, and night terrors and whatnot, but really! If we built up our stockpile of love, we could build all those things you mentioned and to spare!
“I mean obviously I’m being fanciful. But there’s enough earnest, hard-working God-fearing people in this valley that nothing should be beyond our grasp!”
“You are a strange man to believe these things,” she laughed, but affectionately. “I find the more God-fearing people that gather in one place, the harder it is to get any kind of honest work done. But we can only hope that you are right.”
“I’ve got a lot of faith! Faith in God, yes, but also faith in us.” Luca drained the last of the wine from his jug with relish. “Ok, so what’s the agenda? I’ve been dying to get a look at that tower of yours, but I can see that it’s nearly nap time! Guide me, Allegra!”
