Notes: Let's see where the market day takes us, shall we?
Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards, Ch. 7 Pt. 2
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Chapter Seven, Part Two
Market Day
It was very convenient, having your own horse and cart. Well, mule and cart. Well, unicorn and cart, but no one knew about that but their little cabal. Hiram was able to pack himself up early, before the sky was beginning to lighten, and get to the market as one of the first vendors to arrive. He figured it was in his best interest to arrive before Mayor Hurst did; far easier to ask for forgiveness than permission and all that. It was an attitude that had taken him far in life.
All the way to Lollop, Hiram mused as he found an unmarked section of the square and began to set up. Judging from the chalk outlines beside him, he was going to be between a baker and a tinker this time around. Excellent company, excellent. It was the work of just a few minutes to erect his stall, finishing by putting out the sign that Tilda had commissioned for him as a welcome gift—MASTER EMBLIC’S HERBAL ELIXIRS on a piece of wood cut in the shape of a multi-petaled flower, painted in white, pale yellow, and orange. It was pretty, almost delicate, and was probably the journeyman Karla’s work.
Hiram took a last look at it as he rubbed his hands together, then set a silent alarm over the entire little stall to warn him if someone bothered it and began to wander the square. He idled from booth to booth, greeting people he remembered from before and introducing himself to the ones he’d yet to meet. Most of them were quite friendly, but there were a few who treated him with open hostility, including—
“I’ve been told you think you have skills that match those of a temple priest,” a man in the bright red robe of a High Cleric of Melemor said stiffly as he looked down at Hiram from the other side of the stone altar he and his acolytes had set up.
“I don’t know where you’d have heard such a blatant lie,” Hiram replied affably. “I would never compare any of my skills to a cleric such as yourself.”
The cleric’s eyes flashed for a moment, and Hiram was reluctantly reminded of the fact that Melemor was more than just a god of healing, he was a god of truth. “You know exactly who told me of your blasphemous ways.”
Hiram shook his head. “Oh, hardly blasphemous. I hail from a region where Melemor isn’t commonly worshipped, that’s all.”
“Yes. A northern barbarian. But you’ve chosen Lollop as your new home,” the cleric said, sounding like that was the most unfortunate thing ever. “And that means you must adapt to new ways if you’re to be accepted in our community.”
Uh-oh.
“Which means attending services this Lares and allowing me to perform a ritual cleansing on you.”
Big fucking uh-oh.
“So that we all may know the truth of your heart and fully bring you into the fold of Lollop.”
Holy torture chamber of Belitune. “That’s far too much trouble to go to for me,” Hiram said, careful to keep himself as calm on the outside as possible even as his heart raced. “I would never dream of inconveniencing the temple in such a way.”
“As I am the High Cleric of the temple, and my word there is law, there is no inconvenience,” the ascetic man said, an uncomfortably smug smile on his face. “I insist, in fact.”
“I will consider it,” Hiram said, returning the smile as he tried to move on.
“A refusal would be tantamount to an acknowledgement of spiritual guilt, a plague capable of spreading throughout our beloved town. The good mayor would have no choice but to oust you from your dwelling, for the good of the people.”
Oh. Of course, of course that fuck was behind this. Hurst had tried outright intimidation, he’d tried bending tax law to his will, and now he was going the religious route. Hiram was mildly impressed; that was a lot of work to undertake for a single newcomer to Lollop. He must have made more of an impression on the bastard than he’d reckoned on.
Fine. There were ways around the rituals of every god. Not all of them were nice, but Hiram was certain he could come up with a remedy for his newfound straits before Lares. He had…what, five days? Five days. “What a wonderful temple you run,” he said with a smile that was just a bit too bright. “To be so concerned for the well-being of every person in Lollop. I’ve never heard of such diligence before, and I’ve traveled from one side of the continent to the other in my quest to better my craft. Tell me, High Cleric, what’s your name?”
“Ismaen Velagros,” the man said after the barest hesitation. “But you may address me as Holy One.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hiram said, and when he went to move on this time the priest let him go.
He wandered idly, mind mulling over the prospect of a public investigation of his cover story with the power of a god behind it, until a hand on his arm finally brought him out of his reverie. He turned quickly, startled, but it was just Letty. “The market opens in five minutes, Master Emblic,” she said, a bit of concern in her face. “Shouldn’t you get back to your stall?”
“I should indeed,” he agreed. “Thank you for getting my head out of the clouds, Letty.”
“You’re welco—Rickie! Go back to Da!” But Rickie had already found Hiram, and was clutching his leg with a yearning expression.
“Esme?” he asked.
Letty sighed. “He’s been asking after his imaginary friend every single afternoon once we get home, it’s driving Mama spare. I told him he could play with her just as easily at our place as at yours, but he doesn’t want to.”
“Can’t,” Rickie insisted, a truculent expression on his little face. Hiram felt for him. It was never nice to be separated from a friend, but it was also too risky for Esme to follow the child to his house every evening. Besides, as a sphinx she needed time to herself for vital pastimes such as napping, eating, and thinking up inscrutable riddles for terrified passersby.
“You’ll just have to come by again soon,” Hiram said to the little boy, stroking the top of his pale head before detaching him and handing him over to his sister before ambling back toward his own little stall.
He found Tilda waiting for him, elegant as always in the coolness of the morning, a thick purple shawl wrapped around her shoulders and a steaming mug of tea in each hand. “Is that for me?” he asked winningly as he quickly popped open the second chair and pulled it into position for her.
“No, it’s for your mule,” she said easily, and Hiram laughed. “By the by, where…”
“I got permission from Jonn to put her in a stall at the Yew Brew,” he said. “She’s got oats and fresh water and will no doubt not want to leave by the time the day is over.”
“Lovely.” Tilda smiled as she pulled the ledger over and, after dipping the quill pen in the bottle of ink Hiram had provided, wrote out today’s date at the top of the page. “I didn’t know you two were such friends.”
“I think he appreciated me taking the heat of Robard, to be honest,” Hiram said as he heard the cowbell by the market entrance begin to ring. The day had officially begun. He ignored the frisson of excitement that rolled down his spine and sat back in his chair, as relaxed as he could be after the start he’d had. He debated telling Tilda about his altercation with the High Cleric, but eventually decided against it. He couldn’t go to her to handle every muddle he got into, after all.
They chatted lightly as they sipped their tea, and it wasn’t long before the first potential customer sidled up. It was an older woman, thin-faced, one hand on her midsection and a look of doubt in her face. “Herbalism?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hiram said, putting on his most professional demeanor. Some people could be jested with, others responded well to softness. This woman looked like she needed something trustworthy. “Is there anything I can help you with today?”
Her lips worked for a moment before she finally said, “Got anything for bindings?”
Bindings? Who would bind a farm woman’s soul to a—oh. Bindings. “What have you tried so far?” Hiram asked, gesturing for her to step up as he pulled another chair out from behind the table and opened it for her to sit in.
“Oh, the usual,” the woman said, setting her hand on the back of the chair but not sitting. Skittish. “Dandelion weed tea, burnt bean infusions. Nothing’s moving down there.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Nearly a week,” she admitted. “I don’t know how much more I can take.”
Oof. No wonder she didn’t want to sit. Hiram smiled sympathetically. “I think we can do something for you, ma’am.” He asked a few more questions about her diet, how things usually were for her, and finally handed over three sachets of senna and diced prune tea. “Make all three today and drink them two hours apart. Take them with a lot of honey,” he advised. “By tonight you should be feeling much better.”
“Lord, I hope so,” she murmured. “How much for the lot?”
“One and a half bits.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “That’s not much.”
“An opening day bargain,” Hiram said before the woman could accuse him of selling fraudulent products. “Since it’s my first time doing business here.”
Her face cleared. “Ah. Well, that’s happy for me, then. If it works.”
“Oh, it will work.” All of his products would work, Hiram had made sure of that. Not…magic, just a little touch of aura that guaranteed results. “Make sure you drink a lot of tea and small beer afterward. You’ll need the liquid,” he said as she handed over the little pieces of copper.
“I’ll do that.” She left, and was soon after replaced by someone else, then another, then another… The rest of the morning flew by in a series of salutations, conversations, and in one particular instance a woman who he directed to the clerics immediately after listening to her heart. That rhythm wasn’t normal, and an acute symptom deserved acute treatment.
“I’m famished,” Tilda declared once the sun was high in the sky. “It’s been hours since breakfast.”
Hiram nodded, not looking up from the pages where he was making his own notes about the problems and queries people were coming to him with. His basic potions were doing quite well, but there were a few things he hadn’t prepared well enough for, including the large number of digestive issues going around.
Something in the water, perhaps? An issue with the river? What was upstream of this town, anyhow?
“Shall I get us something?”
“Please do.” Hiram pushed the jar they were keeping the money in toward her. “Take whatever you need out of this.”
“Hiram.” Tilda shook her head. “At this rate, you’re not going to make any profit from today’s market at all once you pay out the ten percent tonight.”
He shrugged. “Today is more about building my reputation than making a pile of money.” He added, cheekily, “I’ll save that for next week.”
She rolled her eyes but took a small amount of copper with her before walking away, leaving Hiram to himself for the moment. He took a quick inventory of stock—good on tisanes, running low on the sachets and barely halfway done, but he’d hone in on the proper amount before long—and made a few more notes before a shadow fell over his table.
Hiram looked up with a smile. “Greetings,” he said, but his voice trailed off a bit at the end of the word as he found himself looking at none other than the handsome man he’d nearly run into at Master Spindlestep’s shop. He looked different in the full light of day. A touch haggard for a man so young, but those bright blue eyes were as penetrating here as they had been then. After a moment, he smiled in return, and Hiram had to remind his heart that galloping was absolutely inappropriate at a time like this. “Will you sit?” he said.
“Thank you,” the man replied, and sat down so close their knees almost touched beneath the table. There was nervousness in his expression, but liveliness too, and Hiram fought to keep his grin from appearing.
Whatever happened next, it was sure to be interesting.
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