Notes: Let's dive a little deeper into Lollop, shall we? Not everything is sunshine and bunnies here...
Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards, Ch. 4 Part 1
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Chapter Four, Part One
Greetings and Salutations
The Yew Brew was packed on market day, every table and the entire bar taken up by shoppers who needed respite from the sun in the form of good food, plentiful beer, and loud conversation. It took a few moments for Hiram to orient himself in the dim light of the interior, but he soon honed in on Mistress Tate sitting in the corner, a flagon in front of her and a fixed expression on her face as she looked at the heavyset man with hair styled in a tall, blond pouf sitting across from her.
Hiram’s intent to ask Mistress Tate about the man he’s seen in the tailor’s shop fell back in the light of the interaction playing out before him. It wasn’t a conversation—conversations generally required the input of two people. It looked more like a remonstration to Hiram, and for all that he knew that Mistress Tate was the last person who needed his assistance with anything, Hiram decided it couldn’t hurt to make a nuisance of himself in the name of hurrying things along.
He caught Jonn’s eyes and gestured for a drink, then proceeded to make his way over to the table, being very careful with his rather full bag until he was almost upon them. Then he called out “Mistress!” and swung his bag down to the floor, “accidentally” making contact with the leg of the heavyset man’s chair as he did so.
“Watch yourself, churl,” the man snapped. “Now take yourself away from here before I have you dragged away.”
Dragged away, eh? Hiram took in the fine weave of the linen the big man was wearing, embroidered along the sleeves and neckline with crimson accents across the shoulders as well as the heavy silver chain he wore and concluded that this was a person of relative importance in Lollop.
Luckily for Hiram, he didn’t care. “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” he said politely, moving his back to the side even as he pulled up a spare chair from a nearby table. “My name is Hiram Emblic, I’m new to town, and—”
“I didn’t ask your name!”
“And Mistress Tate has been kind enough to assist me in finding accommodations and learning about my new home,” he continued, sitting down like he didn’t have a care in the world. Mistress Tate looked amused, but her companion glowered fiercely. “We agreed to meet for lunch, but another friend is always welcome.”
“I am the mayor of this town, I’ll have you know,” the big man said. “And you can either remove yourself from this conversation, or I can remove you permanently from the premises.”
“That’s not up to you,” Mistress Tate said, her amusement falling away into distaste.
“Lollop has been in my family’s lands for centuries, and—”
“Lollop was in my family’s land for centuries,” she corrected him swiftly. “You only got access to that title through marriage, and after my father renounced it, it’s available to none of us.”
That certainly seemed to fluster the fellow, enough that he stammered for a moment before getting out, “That hardly matters! The point is that I am the elected lord of this town, and—”
“Lords aren’t elected,” Hiram said with false helpfulness. “They’re born, hence the whole ‘nobility’ thing. Mayors are elected, I’ll grant you that, but that doesn’t give them the right to rule with an iron fist.” He smiled, and it wasn’t exactly a nice look. “Nor does being a lord, to be honest. I’ve seen more than one successful peasant rebellion over the past twenty years—” he’d put down several of them himself, honestly “—and in the uncertainty of our times, I’d say it’s better to rely on the goodwill of your people than the power that comes from a weak inheritance.”
The mayor goggled at him. “Who the hells are you, anyway?”
“Hiram Emblic.” He held out a hand. “Herbalist.”
His hand was swatted away. “I am Uriel Hurst, the honorable mayor of Lollop and the man you’ll need to go through in order to open up a stall on market day.” The look of affront the man wore turned smug. “Which I am highly disinclined to do at present. If you want to spare the remaining shreds of my good opinion, you’ll leave now.”
“Hmm.” Hiram pretended to think about it. “No, I’d rather not. I promised Mistress Tate my presence for lunch, and I’d sooner die than go back on my word to a lady of such quality.”
Mistress Tate cleared her throat. “Let me be plain, Uriel. I will not be giving up my piece of the sigil to you, nor will I encourage anyone else in the family to do so. If my sister complains, tell her to come to me herself. In the meantime, I suggest you leave.”
His face got even uglier. “You’re going to regret this, Tilda.”
“I sincerely doubt it. Now go.”
Mayor Hurst got to his feet, his face flushed red with anger and frustration. As he turned to walk away, he tripped over Hiram’s bag, which was set on the floor between their chairs. He stumbled over it and went down on his face, and a ripple of laughter echoed through the crowd.
“You think that’s funny?” the mayor snarled as he got to his feet. “You’re a bunch of fools! And you,” he turned back to Hiram, “are the biggest fool of all.” He reached down and grabbed the bag, then hurled it at the wall. Produce flew everywhere, and a fine glass jar of honey shattered, leaving a terrible sticky mess dripping down onto the table. And Hiram—
“Steady on there,” he said, reaching out and wrapping his hand firmly around Mayor Hurst’s left wrist. As he gripped, he squeezed, putting the slightest hint of magic into his grip. The mayor gasped and staggered as a shock of pain ran from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. “You’re overwrought, sir,” Hiram said quietly. “You’d best leave without any more fuss and spend the rest of the day relaxing at home, hmm?”
“You—let go of me—”
“Of course, sir.” Hiram let him go and Mayor Hurst gasped as clutched at his wrist, staring at Hiram with slightly wide eyes before turning and barreling his way through the crowd like a drunken troll.
“What a mess,” Mistress Tate said. Her voice was soft but her eyes clearly transmitted her irritation. “Jonn, I’m so sorry.”
Hiram turned to see the proprietor of the Yew Brew standing behind him. “Not your fault, Mistress,” he assured her. “I ought’ve known he’d cause trouble for you and given you some sort of warning. I’ll get this lot tidied up.”
“And I’ll replace your lost stores, Master Emblic,” she said, getting to her feet.
“That’s not necessary,” he insisted.
“Nonsense. You’ll go hungry at this rate, and the next market isn’t for another week.”
Hiram would have put up a bigger fuss, but he was pretty sure his friend was looking for an excuse to get out from under the public’s eye. He checked his bag and was heartened to see that most of his supplies were fine, but followed Mistress Tate out into the square again. “How about a pasty?” he asked. “They smell divine.”
The fine lines around her eyes eased, and her smile became more genuine. “They should, they’re sold be the devotees of Elishia.”
Ah, the patron goddess of crops, livestock, and the methods for turning them into various foods. “Then we absolutely must try them.”
They did, and the pasties were in fact delicious, full of potatoes and minced meat and a rich gravy that nearly soiled his shirt when a bit of it escaped his mouth. They drank more tea, and Hiram let Mistress Tate—“You may call me Tilda”—replace the honey before deciding to head home.
“One more stop before you go,” Tilda said, gently turning him toward the livestock section of the market. “You might as well see some of what Lollop is so famous for, after all.”
“I really don’t care for rabbits,” he protested, sure he’d see Misha’s in every one of them. He didn’t need a reminder of how that had worked out in the end.
“They’re very cute, and it will give you a chance to better know your neighbors.”
Ah, she had a point there. They headed into a veritable warren of tight paths, stalls on either side packed with cages of Lollop Grands. Hiram did genuinely admire some of the morphs—there was one that looked like it had silver flames along its sides, and another that was a deep bluish-violet except around its eyes, which were white.
His neighbor’s stall was much like the others, except for the fact that it had the biggest Grand that Hiram had ever seen out in front of it on a little string. The rabbit, whose head came as high as Hiram’s knee, was calmly nibbling a carrot as the girl behind the stall fed the rest of their stock. The big one had a strange morph, with alternating splotches of bright orange and dull gray. Fire and ash, Hiram thought fancifully, then smiled at the girl when she turned around and saw him.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
“Afternoon, sir.”
“Hello, Letty,” Tilda put in. “How is your family today?”
“Fine, ma’am.” The girl bobbed her head. She had shorter hair than most of the girls Hiram had seen so far, and was a tall, sturdy build. Five younger siblings swarmed behind her, most of them playing a game incomprehensible to an outsider, but the littlest one pulled at her skirt. Without even looking down, she picked him up and put him on her hip. “Looking for a rabbit, sir?” she asked Hiram.
“Just admiring your stock,” he said quickly. “I’ve no use for a rabbit, I’m afraid.”
“Why not? They’re wonderfully useful creatures,” she said, sounding a bit affronted. “And I know your home has a hutch.”
Useful how? “I’m not in a position to repair it yet,” he said. “So I really can’t have a rabbit.” But if he could… “I like the big buck you’ve got out front, though.”
Letty smiled. “That’s our Knight.”
“Night?” Nothing about the morph looked like nightfall.
“No sir, Knight. Like the men in armor. He’s a good rabbit, sir, always looking out for the babies.”
“Exemplary of him.” Hiram bent down to stroke a hand over Knight’s head, and…oh, he was soft. So amazingly soft. It was almost enough to make him want the rabbit just so he could nestle his toes against it when they got cold. “Thank you for the introduction.”
“Easier to thank you back after you buy,” Letty said leadingly.
“Not today, I’m afraid.”
She sighed. “No sales since Da went in to drink.”
Oh lovely, her father was off drinking while his children ran the stall. “Best of luck to you, Miss.”
“Have a good day, Master Emblic.”
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