Ctenoid Soul

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Amsgar

The tailor was happy to accept the abbot’s offer of tea and a sit down. He was in no hurry to go back out in that cold drizzle. And he figured the abbot had brought some good tea with him. Amsgar missed good tea and coffee, like he missed warm weather and clothes that didn’t feel like he was wearing one of his family’s rugs. And he hoped the abbot and his new dwarf helper would do something that would bring more of these nice things in.

”My ‘story’, Mr. Abbot,” he repeated neutrally. He peered silently into his teacup, as if the story he was to tell were somehow within. In a way it was; he and the tea leaves had probably made similar journeys to get here. ”I come from far away, from a land where the mountains are cold as they are here, but the seas warm. My family, the Durak family, are famed for the rugs they make there.” Bitterness and pride mingled in his voice.

”Some years ago, my older brothers married, but I had not yet. Neither of their wives liked me, and we quarreled. Fortunately, at that same time, an opportunity had presented itself to do business in another part of the world, farther north. Perhaps to find a new sort of wool to use in making our rugs, perhaps even to start making them in those distant lands. My family sent me to look into it, in the hopes that in my absence things would cool down. Or, failing that, that I could start a new branch of the family business there, and not be around to vex my sisters-in-law.”

Amsgar sighed. ”You know the saying about things that sound to good to be true? We have a saying like that, too, but I did not listen. I could not imagine that my own brothers would act against my interests.” He set down his teacup sharply and glared at Andrew. ”But they did, Mr. Abbot. They did not pay me for the wool nor the live sheep I sent back to them, nor all the samples of locally produced dies and wool cloth. And they never filled the orders I took. They even went to so far as to contact the financiers to cancel my line of credit. I had to sell almost everything to book passage on a ship home.”

He sighed again and shook his head. ”And here again young Amsgar did not listen to the sayings. He thought he had found a reliable ship’s captain, but he turned out to be incompetent. We drifted badly off course in a storm, and had to make landfall here. When the Dragon Wind set sail again, it did so without me. I had left the few valuables I still owned in my berth, thinking it safer than bringing them ashore to Pigeon Spit.” Amsgar laughed mirthlessly and swept his hands about him. ”And thus, I am here, your humble tailor Amsgar. I don’t even bother naming myself Durak anymore.”

Amsgar picked up his teacup and drained it. He peered inside to examine the leaves. ”This is fine tea, Mr. Abbot, whence do you get it?”

Bork

Bork realized with a start that he was still wearing the hat and doffed it before sitting down. ”Well, I wanted to thank you for the hat, first” he began, ”but I also wanted to ask about all the gear that suddenly showed up. What did you have in mind for that?” That had initially been all the dwarf wanted to talk about. The catlady could wait until Nelthurin came by again. Bork had an idea the harbor master knew something more than he let on.

He greeted the news that the patients were doing well with an inward groan, not because he wished them ill, but because it reminded him that he had forgotten to ask. He limited himself to nodding and responding: “That’s good to hear.”

He perked up more when the abbot mentioned looking for ores. ”Is that so? Well, I’m looking for ores for stuff other than copper. Mainly tin and iron ores. Hematite, magnetite, and stannite. They’re common enough, and having our own source of them would help immensely. Make our own bronze and iron tools. Next, I’d be looking for galena. That’s an ore mainly for lead, but it also usually contains small amounts of silver, too.”

He thought for a bit. ”Did I hear cannon go off when you arrived? Because one thing you can usually get out of copper ores and pyrite is sulfur. But only alchemists use it, though. To everybody else, it’s just a smelly fire hazard. But if somebody’s using black powder, then there’s a market for sulfur somewhere, even without a local alchemist.”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

The abbot was talking to somebody in his rooms when Bork returned. A man, didn’t sound like the Captain. Accent he couldn’t place. The tailor, he guessed. He and Talia had passed each other on their respective return trips, and he could smell the food. He went back to his own space to get some work done. He saw all the newly-arrived gear and stopped to look at it.

The dwarf grinned. Seeing this hardware warmed his engineer’s heart. He was already thinking of things he could do with such items when he arrived in his well-scribbled room. Those scribbles were part of the reason he was here; he was ready to transcribe some of them into the abbot’s book, then he could clean the walls to make room for new ones.

First into the book were his design and notes for the boardwalk. He had store, office, and warehouse fronts measured out, and had sketched out a right of way extending behind those fronts, enabling them to expand rearwards as the need for their capacities grew.

He put in notes that expanding Pigeon Spit’s fishing would be the quickest route to increasing food production. Unlike farms, fishing would start production right away, and would use hardly any land. Surplus could be dried and smoked and sold to visiting ships for some coin. Even better, catching the right fish would enable the town to produce fish oil, which they could use for cooking and fuel. More lamplight. Safer nights. Safer and more productive mines. And another trade good to sell to visiting ships.

To make oil, one needed a press, and Bork had a design drawn up for one of those, too. One he had cribbed from one of his books: De Re Molarum. And the toolhead could be changed out for pressing different things into oil. Beech nuts (those were beeches he saw in the woods, right?) and, once the farms the abbot had in mind got going, flaxseed.

Until they had a proper wainwright, their transport options would be limited. He next copied a sketch and description for a makeshift wheelbarrow, basically a crate with an undercarriage and a pair of wheels made from reinforced barrel lids. The log boom and timber raft designs he had shown the abbot earlier went in the book as well, and also designs for grading and laying simple roads. These were dirt roads for now, not stone, though they did use rock dust and gravel to stabilize the bedding. He also sketched the tools they would need to grade and tamp the road properly. A well-built dirt road was better than people gave it credit for. And it was easier on horses and mules, who for the time being would be doing most of the hauling on their backs, rather than pulling carts.

In the margins he wrote: “needed professions: fishermen, a presser, a glassmaker”. There was enough sand and wood around here to make glass, he judged. They would want bottles for the oil. They could also add glass beads to the costume jewelry line he had in mind.

Pushing the book back he looked up, and noticed with a start the hat on the table. If it had been a snake, it could have eaten him by now. The Abbot’s idea, perhaps? He examined the hat and then tried it on. It was a bit loose. Probably made for another dwarf, he guessed. One who didn’t cut his hair as close as Bork did. Not many dwarves did. Anyway, the hat would sit fine over his hood, or with a headscarf underneath.

Taking a break, he went up to see if the abbot was busy, and to ask him what all the gear was for.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

That catlady’s approach annoyed him. She bent down towards his ear -at least it was his good one, on his left side- and Bork stiffened, pulled back slightly, turned to glare at her. ”Hey!” he said sharply. ”This may or may not be your table, but it’s definitely *my* face your crowding.” He waited warily to see her reaction, fingers gripping his soup bowl so that he could fling its hot contents into her smirking face if the need arose. He hoped not. He wanted to make a statement, not an enemy.

She didn’t get provoked. In fact, she even…well, she asked him out, more or less. That was odd. Bork considered the unexpected offer for a moment, then nodded. He even ventured a smile. ”All right, you’re on. Been waiting for the right occasion to test his fare, see if it’s up to snuff.”

The girl stood up and did the catlady stretch thing. The dwarf watched. She had the stuff to work it, Bork gave her that. Then she said something to the elf, and he snapped his gaze over to the harbor master and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. Nelthurin’s expression was all smooth-skinned elf blandness as he acknowledged her remark with a barely-perceptible nod.

Bork watched her slink away. When she was out of earshot he looked at the elf again. ”Tell me that wasn’t Talia,” he said. Laughing, the elf shook his head and pointed to the other girl, whom the dwarf had not even noticed up to that point.

She was quite pretty, in that mundane way human girls are often pretty. Not exotic like catlady. But he guessed she’d be breaking a few hearts, especially in this village. After he finished eating he excused himself from Nelthurin and rose to talk to Talia. The elf tugged at his sleeve and bent forward. ”I’d watch myself around her, if I were you,” he warned.

Bork frowned. ”Around whom? Bar girl or cat lady?” The elf rolled his eyes. Realizing he was being slow on the uptake, the dwarf filled in his own guess. ”Yeah, you’re right. She wants something. That’s why she was so nice even when I wasn’t. I’ll be careful, thanks” Then the dwarf walked over to ‘bar girl’ and explained his business, placed the abbot’s order.

Nelf

The elf ordered some food for himself and seated himself at a different table from the dwarf. He watched the proceedings between Bork and Talia. He was all business without the slightest bit of flattery or flirting, or even small talk. They probably weren’t going to be friends, either, Nelthurin realized. He chuckled to himself as Talia left. ”You managed to clean the place out of girls almost immediately,” he observed.

”It’s a gift,” the dwarf shot back wryly, as he walked back to his table to gather his things. Occasionally Bork could keep up his end of banter. Though not usually. He walked out, leaving Nelthurin to his thoughts. The harbor master was thinking about Kriltra. Could it really be that simple? He wondered. That literal? He’d speak to the abbot some time this evening and suggest a change to their earlier plan. They might have a much better “in” to the Cat’s Claw than Werli.

Amsgar

The tailor grumbled as he walked towards the abbot’s place. So cold and wet. And muddy. And poor. Not at all like home. Why had he come to Pigeon Spit in the first place? He knew all too well why; it pained him every time to think about it.

His brothers had sent him north, ostensibly to secure a supply of wool for their family’s famous rugs. But the funds for the shipments he sent back never came, and soon he realized the truth: his own kin had tricked him away to cut him out of the family business. He had booked passage home, using the last of his own money, but the ship’s crew ripped him off, and dumped him here, in Pigeon Spit, with no money and no prospects. To this day he remembered the name of that ship as vividly as he remembered the names of his treacherous brothers: Dragon Wind And the revenge he conceived in his rage-filled fantasies fell as heavily on it as it did on them. The only saving grace had been that Pigeon Spit had needed a good clothier.

His reverie was cut short by a water-filled ditch, into which he had very nearly just walked. Muttering he corrected his course to take him safely to the front door. He knocked and waited just a moment before trying the door of his own volition. ”Mr. Abbot?” he called in, unsure of the styles and courtesies required. ”I am Amsgar, the tailor. The harbor master told me you wished to be measured for something?” He hoped the abbot would have a good order for him. Maybe he could even interest him in some imported rugs. From his family’s competitors.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork nearly spit out his soup when he heard the woman’s voice. He had not heard her coming. Then again, she had come around his bad side. He put down his spoon and glared at her. ”Must’a missed the sign,” he grunted unapologetically at her claim that he was at her table. He peered about at the empty tables, then up at the woman. She was the oddest thing he’d seen in a while, he’d give her that. Looked part cat or something. Perhaps it was some sort of disguise or glamor; he really didn’t care.

The dwarf started to go back to eating his soup when he noticed the weapons, not to mention the fact that she was still hovering over him expectantly. He was aware of the fact that he was not armed apart from his dagger, and the measuring rod leaning on the wall behind him that doubled as a walking-stick. So he wasn’t about to pick a fight, but neither he was in the mood to let some half-critter freakette push him around. ”You think you could bear to share your table for a bit?” he asked, as placatingly as he could manage through his irritation. ”Seems to me there’s room.” He looked at what the woman was holding. ”That’s a nice hammer,” he said. That bit of compliment was actually sincere.

Nelf

Nelthurin realized he had made a mistake as he entered the tailor’s shop: he should have offered to switch jobs with the dwarf. Dealing with guild contacts, even if under an innocent pretext, should be left to those who knew what they were doing. Bork had a touch as light as a stamp mill. He grinned crookedly, a thin ray of amusement shining through his misgivings. The engineer would probably like that comparison.

He broke from his reverie when he realized the tailor was looking at him expectantly, waiting for the answer to a question the harbor master hadn’t listened to. He guessed what the question was: ”Good day. I come from the abbot. His Grace would like to be measured.” The tailor frowned at first, and the elf briefly wondered if he had guessed incorrectly at the question, but then the man nodded. ”Just a moment,” he said. He vanished into the back of his store, and Nelthurin could hear him talking with somebody with a higher-pitched voice, most likely a woman. Then the tailor returned. ”I’ll have to get some things together. Tell His Grace I’ll be on my way.”

”I have another errand to run immediately after this,” the harbor master said, ”can you find they way on your own?”

”I ain’t blind or cripple,” the tailor grumbled, slightly irritated at the implication that he might be incapable. ”And I know where the abbot is. Go and run your errand in peace.”

Nelthurin thanked him and headed back out. He wanted to hurry to the tavern in case Bork needed rescuing from his own social skills. And he wouldn’t mind a warm bite himself.

He opened the door to see Bork talking to somebody standing over him as he ate. Recognizing who it was, Nelthurin thought: “Just in time”. Walking in towards the pair, he called out: ”Master Bork! I’m done with my errand. How are you faring with yours? -Oh, hello!” He put on his best fancy-meeting-you-here for the catwoman.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Listening to the exchange between the harbor master and the abbot, Bork sensed there was some sort of joke he was not in on, one of which he was somehow the butt, especially when it came to the wall. He would get to the bottom of this, he vowed silently, when he had time. Which wasn’t now. The abbot was sending him off to order food like some gopher? What was he-oh, the girl, right. The range of emotions from puzzlement to annoyance to insight to acceptance flashed across his face in the space of a few seconds, at the end of which he nodded.

”The harbor master and I have a few things to talk about first,” he answered, ”but right after that, I’ll see to the…midday meal. Should I tell them there’s to be soup or something for the patients upstairs?” He would have to ask Nelthurin which tavern Talia worked at, although he thought he could guess, just based on what he’d managed to glean about the town so far.

The elf next to him nodded understandingly as the abbot asked him to fetch the tailor. Another inside joke Bork wasn’t in on. Yet. ”Of course, Your Grace,” Nelthurin said smoothly, ”I shall get on it once Master Bork and I have concluded our business.”

That business consisted of the harbor master dropping off a map of the port and surrounding coastline, and taking a few minutes with the dwarf going over what he thought the port needed to make it worthy of greater sea traffic. The elf was able to point out where the abbot was thinking of putting a barrier wall. Also he explained to Bork the tidal patterns, and also the lay of the sea floor as he knew it, around the port. Bork gazed at the map intently as the elf spoke, and slowly started to shake his head. ”The abbot’s ideas are grandiose,” he observed, his tone making it clear that this was not meant as praise. ”So far, Pigeon Spit hasn’t even shown me that it could build a simple garden wall, and now His Grace wants dry docks and a sea wall?”

He shook his head again. He knew how to draw up designs for exactly what the abbot had in mind, but he also knew such a thing would never get build unless the bowels of those two ships anchored offshore concealed an army of builders in their holds. Maybe he should just draw up what the abbot wanted to impress him, worry about what could actually done later. Having to humor a dumb boss chafed him something awful, though.

Once he had gleaned what he could from Nelthurin, Bork thanked him. ”Alright. That should be enough for me to start with. Leave the map with me and I’ll get to work. Shall we run our errands now?” An edge of bitterness crept into his voice as he asked the last question. With a sigh, he retrieved his still-damp hooded cloak and headed outside with the elf, after which they parted ways, he to go to the tavern to order Talia take-out, the elf to order tailor take-out. While he was at the tavern, he would take some time with a mid-day meal of his own. It was probably a breach of etiquette for Bork to make the abbot wait while he took time to enjoy his own lunch, but given his current mood, that was actually a selling point.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Nelthurin pondered Andrew’s question a moment. ”That’d be Talia. Blacksmith’s daughter. Works at one of the taverns.” He grinned. ”You’ve been away awhile. A lot more of the gear’s homemade nowadays than you realize. Blacksmith himself is in on the business indirectly, but he’ll only take orders through his daughter. If you want an import, she’ll pass word to whoever her contact is. Couldn’t tell you for sure, but I’m pretty sure it’s Findir, the farrier, who is also what passes for the ironmonger in Pigeon Spit. He’s also your smelter. You know…for turning identifiable jewelry and plate into something less compromising.”

Bork perked up at this. Remembering his own note about costume jewelry, he commented, ”Sounds like somebody I should get to know.”

The harbor agreed. ”Indeed. You’d like him. He’s a dwarf, too.” Because, the Nelthurin’s mind, all dwarves got along.

sorry

Little stale at the moment. I'll post something more detailed with Bork tonight.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Nelf the Elf Himself

Next to him the dwarf’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. It was a lot to process, Nelthurin thought, with a mixture of amusement and pity. ”As to the Captain,” the harbor master pointed out, ”he has no reason to think I know anything about his sword and dagger, nor has he asked me about them.” His elf eyes saw the sword and glanced at it meaningfully. ”As to your plan-”

”You have to cut those miscreants down to size,” the dwarf burst out angrily, cutting Nelf off: ”let them know Your Grace is not playing that game anymore! I’ll help you capture this ‘Cat’s Paw’ guy, sure. I’ll help you skin him, too!”

Nelthurin waited until he was sure Bork was finished before continuing. At first he was annoyed at all this insufferably square self-righteousness, but then he realized that it could be a resource. ”To capture this Cat’s Claw leader,” he suggested, stressing the name slightly for the sake of the street-lingo-challenged dwarf, ”we first need to find out who and where he is. I think we know who at least one of the members is, don’t we, Master Bork?”

The dwarf gave the elf a sharp, surprised look. ”You mean that miscreant who threw a rock at me? Could be.” The elf nodded. The dwarf was a bit slow on the uptake, perhaps, but not hopelessly dumb.
”Do you know who it was?” he asked.

”I think it was that Werli kid,” Bork answered. ”Tall for his age, thin, upturned nose, kinda pretty-looking. The sort who’d feel like he had something extra to prove to the guys.”

Nelthurin nodded knowingly and looked at Andrew. ”The sort who’d come up short in an established guild, but feel like he could make it big in a new, upstart outfit. A useful idiot.” He looked between the engineer and the abbot. ”We could lure him, capture him, question him.” He shrugged. ”You and me, Your Grace, probably no one in town would think we’d do anything drastic, but him…” he head-nodded towards Bork. ”I reckon he and the Captain could convince the Cat’s Claw they’d do whatever it took to get to the bottom of things, find out who CinC CATCOM is. Someone who could convince Werli that he might end up short a few fingers if he didn’t talk.” He looked at Bork. ”Would you be up for that?”

Bork gave the elf a sharp, puzzled look. Nelthurin gave him a few breaths. Slowly, insight dawned in the dwarf’s eyes. ”You reckon I should lure him,” he said. ”’Werli, I think you and I got off on the wrong foot. I tell you, working for the abbot ain’t easy, so I think I know where you’re coming from. Let’s have a drink?’” He looked expectantly back and forth between the elf and the abbot.

Nelthurin looked at the abbot as well, perhaps with a touch of smugness. You’re not the only one who knows how to work a mark his look said.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

Bork’s face wrinkled like an ill-used rag as he hung his cloak up to dry. ”I don’t think you’re takin’ the right attitude here…Your Grace” he growled, only adding the style as an afterthought. He turned back towards the abbot and stomped irritably towards the table. ”I just had some ne’er-do-well throw a rock at me because I offered to pay him to do a job for *you*.” The dwarf paused to let the import of that sink in. At least, the import he thought it had. ”Not wanting to work is one thing, but why would he turn hostile and throw rocks the moment I mention it’s for *you*? There’s something you’re not telling us!”

Nelthurin Sebheon

The elf beside Bork sighed. ”You can probably thank the goings on with the Gold Tooths and Cat’s Claw for that rock, Master Bork,” he pointed out.

Bork shifted his mistrustful glare to the elf. ”What’s the thieves got to do with this? People are mad because they think the abbot is ordering martial law and shutting down the port. Why do they think that?”

Nelthurin sighed again, exchanging a knowing look with Andrew. He really doesn’t know, it said. ”There is reason to suspect,” he explained to the dwarf patiently, ”that it’s this new splinter group, this ‘Cat’s Claw’, spreading these rumors. They’re the only obvious ones who stand to gain by shaking things up.”

”Well, then, we have to put a stop to them!” barked Bork. The elf nodded indulgently and looked at the abbot.

”Easier said than done, though” he observed dryly. ”Is there anything you know about the Cat’s Claw that might help, Your Grace? To anticipate a question: No, nobody new has come to me offering ‘protection’ yet. That would be too easy. So I guess the question is, what is to be done about this situation, Your Grace, and how can we help?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork Valding

The young layabouts in town seemed uninterested in work; in fact, to the dwarf’s surprise, they turned actively hostile when they found out the job involved a stone wall for the abbot. ”The guv wants a pile o’ stones, does he?” called out one particularly rowdy oaf. ”Here, he can have one!” A rock big enough to fill the palm of Bork’s hand narrowly missed his head. Bork happened to be holding a long measuring stick, and with a litany of oaths that would probably have made His Grace’s ears fall off, launched off in angry pursuit after the brat, who fled quickly, cheered on by a small group of his friends, who, however, kept their distance. Just as the malcontent ducked into a shack, the rain erupted once more, causing dwarf and kids alike to break off the altercation and retreat to their respective lodgings.

Bork’s mood was as black as the clouds overhead. His face scowled deep within the folds of his hood as he reached the shallow trench, which now resembled a tiny moat, marking the planned course of his wall around the abbot’s house. His boots squished in the mud, making a sound that only his good ear could pick up. The dwarf was not actually upset about the delay; he had not intended to finish the wall on time, anyway, preferring instead to concentrate on his plans. His work ethic, however, compelled him to monitor the situation, chafed on principle at the lack of progress, and took offense at the local youth’s hostility to a chance for honest labor.

What was wrong with this town? He fumed as he watched yesterday’s accomplishments fill with soupy water. Did it not want to grow? Become something other than a small, run-down pirate’s nest? ‘Spitters (that was the demonym Bork had assigned to them) were fools, with no vision, and a comfort zone that languished in a disorderly heap of squalor.

Nelthurin Sebheon

Bork did not look up when the harbor master first greeted him. Bad ear, the elf remembered. ”Master Bork!” he called out more loudly, ”I see you’re making fine progress on your canal” This time the squat cloaked figure turned sharply towards him. Nelthurin could not see the dwarf’s expression, but judging from the silence that greeted his attempt at banter, he guessed that it was unpleasant. And he could guess some of the reasons for that. Walking around to the opening in the trench where the front gate was to be, he came alongside the dwarf.. ”We need to talk to the abbot about this port closing nonsense,” he said more seriously.

He was close enough now to see the frown on Bork’s face. ”I thought that was just a rumor,” the dwarf said.

Nelthurin nodded. ”It is rubbish,” he confirmed, ”but it is rubbish that has spread all over town, and that is as worrying as the restlessness the rumor is causing.”

The dwarf nodded and started to walk towards the door. ”His Grace was resting earlier,” he said glumly. ”Up all night treating night coughs, but let’s hope he’ll see us.”

A couple moments later two dripping cloaked forms walked into the lobby. Facing Scribe Drom they both pulled back their hoods to regard her with stony expressions. Bork spoke up first, although he only said what was on both of their minds. ”We really need to talk to the Abbot. The village is turning as nasty as this weather. Is he up yet?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Good Work, @Meleck! Bork now must start saving up for his masterwork didjeridoo.