Notes: Let's get cracking to the market, shall we?
Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards Ch. 7 Pt. 1
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Chapter Seven
Nest Feathering
Over the next several weeks, Hiram’s home went from ramshackle to resplendent. Or, well, perhaps not resplendent in the way he’d once been used to. He’d spent the majority of his adult life that wasn’t on the battlefield living in a palace, after all—not just a palace, the palace.
Vordure Palace, the home of the emperor of Galenish, once the home of the kings of Galenish before the last few generations got imperial ambitions. It was the largest royal palace on the continent, with five levels stretching across a mile of land in the middle of the city, over five hundred rooms and more than a thousand servants to maintain them and their occupants. It was a study in luxury, some chambers made entirely of blue marble contrasting with red lanterns in the ceiling and walls, white gold fixtures and roc-down stuffed cushions. And somehow, despite all its excess, it had managed to be elegant. Beautiful. Home, to Hiram.
Now he was in Lollop, in the former home of Mistress Shore, and he was finally starting to feel like the place truly belonged to him. The few items he’d brought with him were no more than a hint of flavor; no, Hiram was a pack rat through and through. Comfort for him meant coziness, the feeling of being ensconced in reminders of the good—and occasionally bad—things in his life, a warm fire and warmer company. It was more than a few show pieces and clean corners; this house wouldn’t feel right until he’d associated a memory with every cup, every fork, every piece of furniture.
It really wouldn’t feel right until he began to ply his trade, but that was going to take a bit longer to pull off. After all, he couldn’t “assist” his plants in their growth until his time with Letty ran out.
At least she’d stopped bringing her brothers once the heaviest work was done. Jem, for all that he was a snarly teenager, was good at building, and he’d done such a good job on the rabbit hutch that Mercury, the troll Hiram had hired to fix his chicken coop and Mule’s enclosure, asked the boy if he was interested in an apprenticeship.
“Good hands,” Mercury had said in a rare moment of Trollish ebullience. “Good eyes.”
Jem, after a “talk” with his father about how much money he’d be saving the family once they didn’t have to feed him anymore, accepted the offer, and by all accounts seemed much happier living with the trolls. Rickie kept coming, but after a brief chat about responsible child-watching with Esmerelda, she’d agreed to covertly keep the child close to the house while they played their games of cat and mouse. It made Letty happy, since she could keep an eye on her brother, and Rickie was thrilled to spent more time with his “Esme.”
That left Letty, who Hiram was more sure than ever now had a frustrated desire concerning her spark of magic. It was all the more frustrating since she refused to confide in him, instead putting herself to work every morning with a vengeance and going home in the afternoon after discussions that were limited to which plants to put where, for the most part. She’d written off Hiram as unable to help her, and therefore she wouldn’t tell him anything at all. Which—seven gods, what a teenager thing to do. Had he ever been this unreasonable? Surely not.
Well, he still had a month of her labor left. That should be enough time to get some idea of what bent her touch of magic took and whether it really was worth training up. In the meantime, he had plenty to do getting ready for his first Market Day. Just because Hiram’s own herb garden wasn’t up and running didn’t mean there wasn’t plenty of opportunity to make concoctions for selling.
The tinctures came first, because those had to steep in alcohol for a while to make the most of their properties. He collected dandelion and burdock root, black walnut husk and echinacea, feverfew and valerian root and half a dozen others and combined them in various measures to get liquid remedies for everything from headaches to parasites to menstrual discomfort.
Next were the salves: salves for dry skin, for infection, for inflammation and pain. Salves for spots and for stress, for hair removal and hair growth, for bunions and boils and bruises.
Finally, he whipped up a few exotic combinations for common household items, just in case people were looking for something different: lavender and ginger shampoos, drops to soothe the eyes before sleep and upon waking, and a batch of soaps with a goat milk base mixed with candied violet and nasturtium petals. They lathered up so fast the bars probably wouldn’t last more than a few weeks, but they smelled divine and left the skin feeling exquisite.
The night before his first Market Day, Tilda came over with a bottle of Jonn’s best cider and a basket full of odds and ends of fabric to help him spruce up his wares. “It’s the least I can do,” she said as she settled in next to him at his new table. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to see Raileene’s home look so warm and welcoming again. This was a place I cherished for many years, and you’re a good fit for it, Hiram.”
“Am I?” he asked with a little smile, hands already wrist-deep in the basket as he searched for the right texture to wrap around the square-cut bars of soap. His labels were adequate for the jars and bottles, but the soap needed a special touch. “I don’t think many people would agree with you.”
She frowned. “Has someone been giving you trouble?”
“Not…exactly.” He pulled out a length of lilac ribbon and nodded to himself, then reached for the scissors. “I enjoy having guests, and the deliveries have gone quite well for the most part, but everyone who steps foot in this room seems to react the same—wide eyes, dropped jaws, and mumbling. I fear I’m not doing a very good job of making it homey.”
Tilda shook her head. “On the contrary. You’ve made a beautiful home, it’s just not one that a native of Lollop would make for themselves. I daresay you’ve had a sight more visitors than you expected, hmm?”
“I have.” He’d had deliveries he hadn’t ordered—milk and cheese, raw wool in case he wanted to spin and dye it himself (which of course he did) and half a dozen other little things from town that various shopkeepers wanted him to sample. Not to mention the visitors who had no proper business with him but came with food to “welcome him to town” and left with hands over their mouths and glassy eyes.
“Mm, well, you’re the first person to come to this town with a sense of style in ages. Word of your rather unique furnishings has spread, and everyone wants a chance to see it for themselves.”
Hiram frowned. “There’s not much of furnishings here, really. Just the rug and chair.”
“And the rather colorful table. And the tapestries on the wall.”
“Oh, those are hardly noteworthy,” he protested. “Just a few old battle scenes.”
“And the map over the fireplace.”
“A map of the continent! It’s educational!”
“It lists kingdoms that don’t exist anymore,” Tilda pointed out. “In a language very few people in Lollop could speak.”
“It’s a mountain language,” he defended himself. “I grew up speaking it.”
“Yes, in a land so far away most Oribellians have never heard of it.” She shook her head. “Just accept that you’re going to be exciting for a while, and that you didn’t help your cause any by handing out flowers to all your admirers. I’m sure your stall will be absolutely packed tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” Hiram allowed. “But perhaps not. I’m not entirely sure that the mayor will allow me to set up shop, to be honest.”
Tilda’s gaze sharpened. “Has Uriel threatened you again?”
“Not in so many words, but I’ve received several notices about city taxes that seem to contradict each other,” Hiram said. “I think I’m being set up for problems by not charging the right amount to cover my costs and the taxes that are to be assessed.”
“There’s no city tax levied in such a manner,” Tilda said. “A portion of all proceeds from market sales is collected at the end of the day, but it’s the same ten percent for everyone. Simply keep track of your orders and set aside enough to cover it.”
“That’s not what I was told,” Hiram replied, pausing in his wrapping to fish the notices out and hand them over to Tilda. She took them and began to read, her calm slowly giving way to a scowl. Hiram took a moment to dangle the end of the lilac thread over Knight’s face, tickling his long ear with it. The enormous rabbit, who had apparently decided that being more than a foot from Hiram whenever he was in the house was unacceptable, batted at it lazily with a paw before settling between his legs with a little sigh. “Lazy thing,” he chided the rabbit without heat.
His efforts to get the rabbit to play were forestalled by Tilda’s affronted huff. “This is ridiculous. You’re not representing yourself as a healer, simply an herbalist.”
“And yet I’m said to be selling concoctions that will ‘affect body and mind,’ hence delving into the healing arts,” Hiram said. “And to be fair, he’s not wrong.”
“You’re not associated with a temple!” she protested. “Temples are taxed differently than individual proprietors!”
Hiram shrugged. “I don’t know what to make of it, myself. I was going to ask you about it earlier, but time got away from me.” That and the fact that he really didn’t want to think about it. Numbers irritated Hiram; he was far less interested in the quantitative aspect of running a business than the qualitative.
Tilda glared at the papers like they’d insulted her. “I’ll take this up with the city council,” she said firmly. “If you’ll let me hold onto these, that is.”
“I would appreciate any assistance you can give me,” Hiram assured her as he finished tying a knot around the bar of soap. “What do you think?”
She smiled. “It’s quite lovely. I told you, your shop will be quite popular. Do you already have a ledger for keeping track of sales?”
“Um. Ah.”
“Hiram.” Tilda rolled her eyes. “How did you ever make a living from this before?”
I’ve never had to earn a living like this in my life. I’ve never counted pennies or slips, never had a tax levied on me, never prettied up my wares to give them allure. The things I did for my living changed the fates of nations, and it’s all I can do to look myself in the mirror at times because of that. Yet part of me wishes I’d never left. “I had help before,” was all he said. “But now it’s just me.”
Tilda’s demeanor softened. “Well, then. I’ll assist you tomorrow, if you like. Just this once.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Hiram said softly.
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