Notes: More of Hiram and Lollop, coming atcha!
Title: Quaint Escapes for Traitorous Bastards: Chapter One, Part Two
***
Herbalism Isn’t Magical, Damn It
Photo by Yesmore Content
“Oof,” Robard said after a minute. “Bit hard to talk to Raileene
these days, eh? Unless you’re a necromancer.”
“We don’t talk about that kind of magic around here, you know
that,” Jonn snapped in an undertone to him. “Pardon him, sir,” he added
apologetically to Hiram. “Once he’s gotten a few drinks into him, Robard
forgets all his niceties. What he means to say is, well, the Widow Shore was
getting on in years, and last winter was a real bad one. Real bad.” He was
wringing his hands in the edge of his apron. “And she’s had an ache in her
bones ever since surviving the plague back in her teens, and, well…she’s passed
on, sir.”
“Ah,” Hiram said. Well, this is going to make things a
bit more complicated. “I see. Clearly, the home that I was told about won’t
be available anymore, but—”
“Ah, not so fast, not so fast,” Jonn said, making a let’s-not-be-hasty
gesture. “I know the house you’re referring to, sir, and it’s, uh…well, let’s
just say it could benefit from some tender, loving care now that the Widow
Shore is gone. It’s being looked after by a friend of the lady’s, and we can
fetch her for you if you’d like.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Hiram said bemusedly. It wasn’t like
he had anything better to do, and he certainly didn’t have anywhere better to
go. “Shall I accompany you?”
“Oh, Robard will bring her to you, sir. Not a problem,” Jonn
said.
“Eh?” Robard scratched at his thatchy hair. “Who said I’d do
that, hm?”
“I said it,” Jonn replied, his little hands on his hips. For
all that some of the most dangerous people Hiram had ever met in his life were
gnomes, it was hard for them not to look cute when they got angry. “I’ve been
standing you drinks all day, so the least you can do is get this gentleman a
meeting with Mistress Tate.”
“Ah, fine, fine,” Robard said, using one hand to sling his
sagging pants a bit higher on his hips. “Usually good for a hangover cure too,
she is. I’ll be back.” He waddled out the door and into the bright light of
day. Almost immediately thereafter, there was a braying sound and a “Whoa, who
put this mule here, eh?”
Jonn closed his eyes, as if praying to one of the higher
deities. “Would that be your mule, sir?” he asked.
“Sure is,” Hiram said. “But don’t worry, Mule can take care
of himself.”
“And so can Robard,” Jonn said. “He might spend more time
drunk than not, but he’s a tough old dwarf. Now.” Jonn rubbed his hands
together in an effort to seemingly rub his nerves away. “How about that drink,
sir?”
“Much obliged,” said Hiram.
“Excellent, excellent. This way.” Jonn led the way over to
the bar where, after rounding the far corner, he climbed up several steps to
put himself on an equal level with whatever patron happened to sit across from
him. Almost the entire back of the bar was raised with the exception of a
narrow space just behind it where Hiram presumed they stored glasses and such.
“One of our most popular brews for you, sir,” Jonn said,
taking down a tall, thick glass mug with a heavy handle on the side and
propping it under a spout attached to a keg by the wall. “Just opened this one
up,” he promised. “It’ll be fresh as a daisy and smell twice as nice.” He
slowed the pour at the end, so as to keep the foam from overflowing the top of
the glass, then set it down in front of Hiram. “There you are,” he said,
beaming. “Go on, try it.”
“Thank you,” Hiram picked up the mug, raised it to his
mouth, and took a sip.
His first reaction was “gleh, warm.” His second reaction was
shame for the first one. He’d become spoiled back in Galenish, where every bar
had an icebox spelled to keep the mugs cool. Cold beer was a luxury, and one he
hadn’t sipped from in the past week and a half of travel.
Apart from the temperature, it was an inoffensive enough
drink. Too light for his taste, tending toward crisp and sour rather than dark
and malty. But he smiled gamely at his host. “It’s good, thank you,” he said.
“Only the best at the Yew Brew,” Jonn patted the countertop
proudly. “All the recipes I serve here were passed down to me from my father.
They came to him from his father, and to him from his father, and to him from
his mother, because his father died when he was a very young child. But
that’s a tale of woe that only my great-grandfather could really tell you. And
then she got it from her father, and—”
“Clearly they’re old family recipes,” Hiram interjected,
knowing that gnomish lineage recitations could go on and on and on if he let
them. “Truly time-tested, then.”
“Indeed, indeed. Now, sir,” Jonn looked at him expectantly.
“Tell us a bit about yourself, hm?”
A bit about himself. Well, if that wasn’t one of the most
unintentionally loaded questions Hiram had heard in his entire life. Up until a
year ago—hell, even six months ago—he had known who he was. The entire empire
had known who he was. He had been Xerome, Wizard of the First Order, greatest
of the emperor’s spellcasters, warrior-general, wielder of fire, and protector
of the Commonwealth. And now…
“My name is Hiram,” he said, “Hiram Emblic. I’m an
herbalist.”
“An herbalist?” Jonn’s eyes widened a bit. “Goodness, that’s
not what I’d have pegged you for, sir, but it just goes to show there’s no
judging a book by its cover, hm? Where are you coming from, then?”
Hiram was half tempted to ask what Jonn would have
pegged him for, but decided at the last second that he really didn’t want to
know. “I plied my trade up north for many years,” Hiram went on, “mostly in
larger cities, but things have been getting a bit hot up there lately, so I
decided it was time for a change.”
If possible, Jonn’s eyes got even wider. “Were you involved
in the War of the Burning Sands?” he whispered.
“On the fringes of it,” Hiram replied. “Too close for
comfort, to be honest. And fire’s not a friend to the plants I grow, so.” Actually,
fire was a necessary component for a few of the plants he planned to
grow, the special ones. Growing magical plants wasn’t the same as doing magic,
after all. But he didn’t need to get into the details with an innkeeper he’d
just met.
“Does this town already have an herbalist?” he asked, deftly
changing the subject. “I’d hate to be stepping on someone’s toes.” Liira had
already assured him that there wasn’t any competition for that particular skill
in Lollop, but that wasn’t something Hiram figured he should know yet.
“Oh, no, no. No herbalist to speak of. Well, not exactly,” Jonn
amended. “Mistress Tate is something of a wise woman for these parts,” he said,
with that particular delicacy that intimated the mystery of “women’s issues.” “But
I’m sure she’d be happier to work with you than without you.”
“That’s a relief,” Hiram said with an easy smile.
“Speaking of the good lady herself!” Jonn’s beaming smile
came back as he looked over Hiram’s shoulder at the door. “Mistress Tate, you
came faster than I’d imagined you would.”
“Your friend happened to run into me on the road,” the lady
said as she stepped deeper into the inn. “Quite literally, in fact.”
Hiram’s eyes were fairly well adjusted to the low light at
this point, and he looked at the newcomer with unabashed interest. She was a
tall woman, older than him but not elderly, and in no way stooped. Her hair was
that peculiar shade of platinum blonde that could edge into silver without
anyone even realizing it, and her face, though weathered, bore the lines of
what was likely once immense beauty. She was wearing a simple green dress with no
sleeves and a scooped neckline, as well as a shawl that preserved the modesty
that seemed so important to people in these middle kingdoms.
“Ah.” Jonn’s smile turned apologetic. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s no matter,” she said. “I sent him back to his
apartment with a tonic that should help him sleep through the night.” That
business settled, she turned her gaze on Hiram. “So,” she said, “you’re the one
that Liira sent our way. I’ve been expecting you for some time now.”
Just how much had Liira told these people? “I am,” Hiram
said, continuing to affect the same ease with which he’d entered the inn,
although he was starting to wonder if this place was such a good idea. “But I
don’t want to put you out over it, Mistress.”
“No one would be put out were you to take possession of the
house,” she said briskly. “Although legally speaking, it could only be
temporary. Raileene, the gods rest her soul, willed that property to her
daughter, Jessamine. But Jessamine lives a large life in the city of Orivode
these days,” she continued, “and apparently can’t be bothered to handle little
things like her mother’s last effects, or even come for her funeral.”
Ah, there was bad blood there, then. Normally Hiram wouldn’t
want to take advantage of that sort of thing, but he did need a place to stay,
and Mule needed rest. He’d been on the road now for almost a month, and as
hearty as he was, hauling a wagon wasn’t the same as riding into battle.
“What would be entailed in my taking possession of the
place?” Hiram asked.
“You’d be responsible for its maintenance.” Mistress Tate
said as she sat down on the stool next to him. Jonn immediately padded off to
get her a drink, which she accepted with a gracious nod. “I’m afraid it’s gone
a bit to the elements since Raileene moved in with me several years back. But
the bones of the structure are good, and there’s plenty of space to ply a trade
on the grounds.” She looks him up and down. “Hmm…hedge wizard?”
Hiram almost choked on his drink. He’d gone out of his way
to abolish almost every trace of his original calling from the way he looked
now. How had she come that close in less than one minute of his company? “Ah,
no magic for me,” he said, wiping a bit of foam from his mustache. “Herbalism, Mistress.
I’m an herbalist.”
“Ah.” She nodded her head. “Well, there’s plenty of space
for an expansive garden at this house, and a pasture for your mule.”
“And the rent?” Hiram asked. Not that it actually mattered
to him. He had a purse of unending wealth thanks to a particularly dangerous
dungeon crawl from his youth, but haggling, he constantly reminded himself, was
a thing for most people. They couldn’t throw money at their problems and
expect them to disappear. And now that he was Hiram Emblic, neither could he.
“Oh, there would be no rent,” she said.
Hiram narrowed his eyes. “This seems too good to be true,”
he said bluntly. “What’s the catch?”
“The catch,” Mistress Tate said, “lies in the uncertainty. Raileene’s
daughter hasn’t been back to this town for close to ten years now, but that
doesn’t mean that she never will come back. And if she does, legally
speaking, the house belongs to her. It was her mother’s wish and one that I
can’t gainsay, however much I might like to.” She added the last part under her
breath. “But it was a beautiful home once. Raileene was born there, she raised
her family there, and if things had gone a bit differently, she would have died
there. But.” Mistress Tate shrugged. “Not even the Emperor can control the
vagaries of fate.”
Hiram raised his glass in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”
“And will you take the house?” she pressed.
“I feel I should see it before I say yes,” Hiram replied.
“Of course. I’ll take you there myself.”
That was not what he wanted. Mistress Tate saw a great deal
more than he was comfortable with. To spend more time in her company, with her
in the presence of Mule, of Phlox, of his rather suspicious amount of baggage…
And yet there was no elegant way out of it.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m much obliged to you, Mistress. Allow
me to pay for your beer.”
She smiled at him. “Cheers,” she said. “Now drink up. The
sooner we get there, the sooner you’ll begin to start cleaning.”
