Ctenoid Soul

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Colmarh Beiti. She seemed a decent sort of she-dwarf, the kind Roswitha had been before she started turning into a needy nag hag. And she had good fare, the beer not least of all. Bork nodded thoughtfully when she mentioned wanting another brew vat. That would be doable, he thought. Pigeon Spit had plenty of copper, after all. And a smallish brewing vat wouldn’t need a city-sized foundry to fashion. With more capacity, the beer could probably be shipped to other parts. Maybe the king would even appreciate a couple kegs as tribute.

The brewer turned serious and said something to him gravely in dwarvish. She had a message from the abbot? That got Bork’s attention. It must be pretty urgent and important for His Grace to go to that trouble when they both had so many other things on their plates. So, the catlady was dangerous and up to no good? Nelthurin had said the same thing. Everyone wanted to protect the earnest, naive engineer from the big bad thieves who would all use him and rob him and eat him alive. All their patronizing crap was getting old. He wasn’t stupid and could take care of himself.

But the latter part of the message made his jaw drop. Someone had tried to off the scribe? Why? He couldn’t get his mind around the reasons or all the implications. In his preoccupation, he forgot to ask how Drom was doing before Colmarh took her leave. She might be an annoying elf goblin, but she did her job and he had no reason to want to see her hurt. He also didn’t think of the quip that he was sure the beer was thoroughbred pee until afterwards, by which time Kriltra was already approaching his table.

If Catlady had come looking for clever flirting or verbal sparring or some other display of social brilliance and smoothness, she would be disappointed. She would find the engineer a bit subdued and preoccupied, in fact. Fortunately, she wasted no time with any sort of banter or repartee and got right to confirming everything the brewer had just told her.

First, she wanted her help gathering herbs. She would pay well for that. Bork told her he would look into that as he took the plants and pressed them between his folding slates. That wasn’t even guile. After all, Pigeon Spit needed exports. The abbot’s warning had said that Catlady was a drug dealer, and that seemed to be a problem for him. Was there some sort of legal or moral catch to selling the stuff? He would talk to Andrew about that when he showed him the plants. The dwarf had sense enough not to mention that last bit to Catlady.

The second item was much more awkward. She wanted him to steal a valuable bowl, golden and likely magical, from the clerk. Bork eyed the bag of gems and thought about how much Roswitha would enjoy unexpectedly receiving them. He also considered the Catlady’s weapons and thought about how much he wouldn’t enjoy unexpectedly receiving them. Maybe the others were right to fret about his interactions with Pigeon Spit’s criminal element. He hadn’t expected anything more interesting or dangerous than Werli’s rock-tossing. How was he going to handle this, compose his objections to Catlady’s proposal? Well, he was an engineer. He’d handle it like an engineer, by pointing out the logistical problems.

”I can’t do that,” he answered. ”There’s no way I could find, steal, and deliver such a thing to you without everybody in Pigeon Spit knowing exactly what happened and why. And that’s if I pulled it off without a hitch. What’s the phrase you guys use?” He thought a moment. ”It’s too ‘hot’, I think? Count me out.” He nudged the bag back. ”Why all the cloak and dagger stuff, anyway? Why can’t you just go to the clerk or the abbot and talk to them? I can’t imagine they wouldn’t help you if your husband’s life were in danger.”

Bork had his suspicions as to why that was, of course; unbeknownst to Kriltra, the brewer had tipped him off about the Tabaxi who had tried to assassinate the clerk. It wasn’t hard to guess who Catlady’s ‘husband’ might be. Bork sat back and scanned the room. He might have to start thinking about tactical options and resources very soon.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

I have an idea for that.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork sat on a bollard and watched the fishermen go out. Later, when they were done selling their catch and were mending nets, he would talk to them, ask them about what sorts of fish they caught, what other types there were around the island. Once they were gone, he turned his attention to the bay. It was his first good look at the seaboard since the abbot had discussed his ideas for building a break-wall and improving the port. He pursed his lips thoughtfully as his eyes swept the shoreline and nearby waters. It could be done, he was certain, but it would take manpower and skills Pigeon Spit did not currently have. The abbot seemed to have, or to believe he had, the ability to tap whatever resources he needed. It would be up to the dwarf to figure out how much was actually required.

He reached inside the loose sleeve of his cloak to produce what looked like a thick, oblong piece of wood. Actually, it was two somewhat thinner pieces of wood joined on a hinge, which opened to reveal that they each framed a rectangle of slate. Writing on these took harder chalk than the walls; the piece he wrote and drew with now did not powder in his hand. He sketched a diagram of the bay, estimating distances based on angle (measured by scratching marks the chalk itself, which called for his knife) and his memory of the map the harbor master had brought him. He would check again every couple hours to get a feel for the high and low tide lines. He outlined how he imagined the wall to go and then put the slate tablet away. Designing and calculating material for the wall would come later.

It was after he started to move to other parts of town that he noticed his tail. That damned Werli kid. Bork would ignore the oaf for now; he would talk to the Captain about getting a sword to carry. The dwarf had a knife, and owned a spear as well for more adventurous outings, but a visible and good-sized self-defense weapon to carry around town might be in order. Well, Werli would be doing a lot of walking today. See how he liked the exercise.

His impromptu survey of Pigeon Spit brought mixed news, although none was any worse than he had feared and some was better. The craftsmen had adequate and well-maintained tools, and some even had spares. Nothing critical on that front. The farms and gardens had a decent variety of foods growing, and decent livestock. Grinding grain by hand would not do, however. Not if they were to grow; Pigeon Spit needed a flour mill. If he couldn’t site one on the river without conflicting with the sawmill, he would have to design a windmill. That was a challenge; he had never built a windmill before. Bork smiled. He liked those sorts of challenges.

When Bork went to look up Findir, the farrier, he learned that he was at the inn, partaking of the free beer and census. Bork decided to avoid the crowds and eat his lunch elsewhere. Then it was off to meet catlady.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Nelf

Firs thing the morning, Drom would hand Andrew a note left by the harbor master. It read:

“Your Grace,

I had intended to speak to you last evening about a development, but got sidetracked by the news of an incoming ship. I believe our new dwarf friend may have inadvertently made contact with the Cat’s Claw. I went to the tavern to find him talking to Kriltra. She approached him and then me, wanting to talk about something. Supposedly she is to meet Bork for a beer this coming afternoon. He may or may not have mentioned any of this to you, as I don’t think he realizes the potential import. But I did warn him to be careful with her.

Regards,

-N.”

Bork

After his meeting with the abbot, Bork spent the rest of the evening working on his plans. Further work on the seawall and harbor scheme would wait until after he’d examined it. In the meantime, he would work on estimates for the amount of wood and labor needed to build his waterfront phase one. Pigeon Spit currently only had one skilled carpenter, which suggested that its woodcutters would have little trouble delivering lumber at least as fast as the town could do anything with it. He worked some equations in chalk on the wall and, once he was comfortable with them, noted them in his book. Next to that notation he would put down a figure for nails. He had a guess on man-hours, but was not yet ready to finalize them on paper yet.

He pursed his lips. Heavily-used tools broke, even with good maintenance; they would need more, in addition to the nails. A conversation for an ironmonger. But more than anything else they needed at least one more skilled carpenter if they wanted to grow at all.

If Andrew really intended to go out to the mines day after tomorrow, then Bork would want to spend time tomorrow finding out what he could in town. A census could get you headcount, but to get a feel for Pigeon Spit’s capacity, the dwarf wanted to see it in action. He would go out to the docks first thing in the morning to watch the fishermen work their morning catch, then ask the harbor master about getting things like barrel lids, used crates, and other scraps to test out his makeshift wheelbarrow idea. Then he needed to talk to various artisans, to learn about their supply situation, the state of their tools, and their plans for succession. Even dwarf stonemasons eventually got old and died, after all. He would take a peek at people’s gardens to see what they were growing, and how well they were growing. And he would ask the taverner and innkeeper about their businesses. How patrons paid. Did they barter or sell their produce? And if so, what sort of produce were they seeing the most of?

The two people he most wanted to talk to today were Findir, the dwarf farrier and ironmonger, who also reportedly smelted soft metals like silver on the side, and the catlady he apparently had a date with later this afternoon. So many people to see and talk to, for someone who wasn’t social at all.

He rose and headed out early, noting as he did that there was a note for the abbot on the front desk. Stepping outside, he looked up at the once-more clear sky and smiled. That was one less thing to make his rounds an ordeal. Bork was not yet in the habit of wearing his new hat, and had gone out bare-headed; the sea breeze stroked his short, prematurely-gray hair. Walking past his nascent moat, he headed for the docks. He had watched the activities before, but he had so far not watched the harbor master or the fishermen plans with numbers in mind. Then he had been a mere spectator; now he watched as an appraiser, a planner, a…master builder? He liked the sound of that, and smiled again as he looked out over the ocean. This was the best mood he had been in since leaving Roswitha at home to come here.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork’s eyes lit up as the abbot explained what the stuff was for. Finding a use for the hat was trivial. Finding a use for all the other things? Quite a few possibilities. ”Once we have a couple days of good weather in a row, I can probably come up with something,” he said. It was more than just a stall. The rain made outings unpleasant, and also limited visibility.

The engineer turned his eyes next to regard Andrew’s mural scribblings, and thoughtfully scratched his short, grizzled beard. ”How to scale up an operation is always tricky,” he mused, without taking his eyes off of the writing. ”And a village even more so. What Pigeon Spit needs first, in my view, is a *reason* to grow. Give people a *reason* to move here, and they’ll build their own houses if you let ‘em.”

The dwarf peered up thoughtfully at the ceiling for a moment, then lowered his eyes to face the abbot. ”If word got out that we had struck gold, or cleared a bunch of farmland that turned out to be fertile, or started bringing in a bunch of narwhal ivory from our fisheries, or found a big colony of martens in the forest to trap, people would come. They would figure out for you how to make that happen.”

He glanced back at the chalk-festooned wall. ”So we need something that promises people wealth. That’s why I’ve been thinking of trying to make the mines more profitable, by finding better stuff to mine, or figuring out how to make the current operation more efficient. That’s why I think your idea of having the farmers plant flax is a good one. And why I think we need a better handle on what kind of fauna we have out there. Are there otter or beavers or martens to trap? Seal or walrus or narwhals to harvest? Mackerel and tuna we can press into oil?

“So that, Your Grace, is where I want to start. As soon as weather permits, let’s get out there and figure what are the best reasons Pigeon Spit has to grow. Then we can figure out the best way to build a town for it to grow into. I have plenty of designs and brainstorms I can scribble into that book you gave me to fill. But if you want a *plan* we need to go get those answers.”

He exhaled slowly and turned his regard back to the abbot. ”Those are generalities. To be more specific, we should start with a census. With less than eight-score people, figuring out what we already have in terms of manpower shouldn’t be too hard. We can do that now even before the weather breaks, since we’re basically just going from door to door. Heck, set up at the inn and offer them free beer if they come to *you*. For a bit of free beer you’d save yourself a lot of work. And while they’re enjoying that beer we can ask other questions. How is their trade going? What’s holding them back? What would make them more productive and profitable?”

Bork paused. ”So, what does the abbot think?”

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.