Ctenoid Soul

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

When Drom pushed the bowl towards him, Bork’s eyes goggled and his mind boggled. Staring at the bowl, the dwarf’s mouth worked mutely and his head shook from side to side. He stopped and frowned, then looked up sharply at the clerk. ”Wait, kill *me*?! What are you talking about? I never even crossed paths with this Shadowclaw, only the catlady. And she tried to blackmail me, but she didn’t attack me.”

He glared at the unexpectedly proffered bowl as if it had crashed a bridal shower. After a pause he shook his head again. ”I don’t even know why she wants this bowl. Do you? And she wants it bad. I wouldn’t have to negotiate to get a good price; she already offered a ridiculous one. I pushed a bag of gems away that she offered me.” Still regarding the bowl uneasily, the engineer brought his hands up on the table to either side of it. He bunched them up into fists and rapped out an impromptu rhythm while he continued to ruminate. "I don't like this."

Finally, he looked up at the clerk, suspecting for the first time that she was more than just the mundane goblin functionary she presented to the world. ”Do you *want* me to give her this bowl?” he asked, with more than just a hint of accusation. ”You running some sort of game here? One that I’m going to get jammed up in?” There was an old saying that things that sounded too good to be true probably were. Simply being handed a Golden Bowl of Life and Death with which he could enrich himself and resolve all of his apparent conflicts besides certainly fit that description.

Nelthurin

It was even easier to read the elf’s expression than before now that he had heard the abbot speak: he was utterly flabbergasted. The abbot didn’t know? He wasn’t privy to all the guild goings-on? If Nelthurin had been a Gold Tooth insider himself, he might have worked that out, but to him, on the outside looking in, Andrew might as well have been Platinum Tooth. And why would I think that? He asked himself reproachfully, pummeling himself with the armaments of hindsight. His Grace just got off the boat a week or so ago after having been away for years!

The harbor master nodded deprecatingly. ”I may have made some assumptions, Your Grace,” he said, abashed. ”Silverclaw is a tabaxi; something of a freelance crook. The Gold Tooths don’t like him much. He’s involved in some sort of smuggling;” he smirked and indicated himself. ”That’s how I know about them. And I try to keep their rackets and the Gold Tooths apart so there isn’t a turf war in Pigeon Spit. But it’s not up to me now. When I heard about the ‘Cat’s Claw’ or the ‘Red Claw’ or whatever they call themselves, I suspected Silverclaw. And now it appears I was probably right.”

Nelthurin looked down at his thin, nimble fingers and started drumming them on his knees. ”The guild is making some sort of big move,” he said after a moment. ”One meant to squash any sort of turf war in Pigeon Spit. I guess I didn’t figure they would dare such a thing without some serious juice behind them. Like yours. That’s why I thought you knew all about it.” He puffed his cheeks and tried unsuccessfully to blow the awkwardness out. Then he looked up. ”If not you, then who? Who would have the front to just declare ‘That’s it. No more turf wars. Gold Tooth wins, case closed?’”

The elf realized after another awkward pause that he had not answered the abbot’s question about getting the tabaxi on a boat. ”Yeah, I got a note saying Silverclaw and his wife were to be on the next boat out of here. I couldn’t think of many people besides Your Grace with the authority to make that happen.”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork watched Andrew go upstairs, leaving him alone with the Captain and the clerk. Turning to Drom, he said: ”I got a very strange request from that Kriltra catlady. She wanted me to get a golden bowl from you. She said it was magical and glowed, and that her husband’s life somehow depended on it. She seemed really keen to get it, to the point that she tried to both bribe me and threaten me to get me to do it. Could you please tell me what’s going on?”

The dwarf did not in the least like being beholden to the goblin clerk, but he had little choice here.

Nelthurin

The harbor master’s face showed none of his race’s wonted equanimity when he came to Andrew’s room. Worry, frustration, confusion all showed themselves plainly enough that probably even Bork could have noticed them. Perhaps he had.

”Your Grace,” he began, ”thanks for talking to me in private. What’s this about the guild war being ‘over’? It seems to me it’s just begun in earnest. I got this note saying all I had to do was make sure Silverclaw and his wife got on the next boat out of here and not hinder such a thing. What if they don’t? What if the ship’s captain doesn’t *want* to take them? Am I supposed to nail them into a crate or something?”

Nelthurin paced miserably as he talked. He had good reason to be unhappy with the situation. For years he had played both ends to the middle, playing nice with the guild while also doing business with the freelancers, and even with would-be successors like Silverclaw. Now it seemed like the abbot was going to set up the Gold Tooth to be the only game in town. That might well be a good thing. But could Pigeon Spit get there in one piece? Could he?

”I feel like I’m being asked to show my loyalty to a guild I never wanted to belong to,” he complained. ”I’ve maintained a reputation for somebody anybody can work with. This isn’t my crusade, it’s my life and my livelihood!” He threw up exasperated hands. ”Now I’ll have a target on my back regardless of what I do.”

He took a breath and willed himself to calm down. He sat across from the abbot and looked down at his fingers for a moment. ”Why all these big moves now, Your Grace? What have you got that makes you think you can pull this off without a bunch of bodies floating in the harbor?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Nelf

Outwardly, the harbormaster was all calm and goodwill; underneath he was a maelstrom of frustration and worry.

Gods damn that Silverclaw! Why why did he have to make such a rash move and force a crisis?! Why not just let Kriltra do her thing, try to smooth Bork, ease him into the business? There’d be winners all around. But no! The fool just had to wave his blade around and show everybody who Alpha Idiot was around here. This meant war, and now Nelthurin Sebheon was stuck in the middle.

Willing himself to smile he talked his way past the captain and sat down at the ‘head table’. He acknowledged Bork with a nod and the abbot with a quiet ‘Your Grace’ before turning to the scribe. ”I’m glad to see you are alright, Ms. Drom,” he said, with at least some sincerity. He didn’t like or trust the clerk; he still had no idea what the other elf’s game was. He wasn’t entirely sure about the abbot, either. At least with the engineer you knew where you stood. You could do business with him as long as you were careful.

For all that, though, mayhem was not something Nelthurin wanted to see in Pigeon Spit. Especially not mayhem that would start a war. He needed to talk to the abbot alone at some opportunity, but that was not possible at the moment, so he confined himself to making a hand-sign indicating his wish for a private meeting. After that, he passed time discussing with the dwarf the troubles with salvaging operations. They needed bigger boats and better cranes. Bork nodded, wrote something down on that slate tablet of his. That was all Silverclaw and his wife needed to do, he thought ruefully: give the dwarf an interesting problem to work on and convince him it would be good for the town to solve it, and he could have told them that if they’d asked.

Gods damn that Silverclaw! he fumed inwardly once more.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork had questions. Oh, boy did he have questions. Not to mention a few observations.

The guards at least hadn’t misled him about the abbot and everybody else being at the inn. And the abbot seemed glad to see him, so this wasn’t some trick to jam him up. None of this, however, lessened how annoying this whole thing was.

He plunked down at the abbot’s table with an exasperated look. ”The guards told me something had happened. Someone attacked Drom? She alright? What’s going on?” It took a moment to process that Drom was there in the room. ”Oh! There she is!” he noted astutely. He would want the details. He would in return tell Andrew about his meeting with Kriltra, about her two propositions, and about her threat.

He showed the abbot the herb samples the catlady had given him. ”She said these grew around here, and she’d pay good money to get the stuff shipped out of here. I wanted to show you because you know more about herbalism than I do. What are these? Why would she want to pay so much money? Are these valuable?”

Bork had mixed feelings about helping out with the herbs. If it could bring in money, wasn’t that a good thing? It was just a question of who they had to do business with to make it happen.

The bowl business, on the other hand, stank to high heaven. Kriltra had threatened to spread rumors that *he* had had something to do with wanting the scribe offed. He made sure he told the abbot everything about how that interview went, what Kriltra had said, what his response had been. He had no reason to lie, and every reason to make sure his few allies here knew everything and were clear on where he stood. As an afterthought, he said to Andrew: ”Oh, thanks for warning me. That made a difference.”

The dwarf looked at the bowls. ”I’ve had a lot of trouble on account of those bowls,” he observed to Drom. He tried to make his tone joking, but a sour note crept into his voice in spite of himself. ”I was supposed to get it for her.” He shrugged. ”I told her I’d ask the clerk to ‘do the right thing’. I think those were my exact words.”

The engineer gave a curt nod of acknowledgment to the harbor master when he came in, frowned when the Captain shooed him off. Apparently Nelthurin wasn’t on the list of people the Captain or the abbot trusted on this. Bork turned back to Andrew. ”What do we do now?” he asked. ”Why are those people moving on *me* so fast? They started making threats before they knew enough to know what might actually scare me. I’m no criminal mastermind, but to me that suggests they’re in some sort of rush. Do we just wait here to see if they make another move?”

He looked glumly around the common room. The census thing was proceeding apace, albeit with a tension you could chop with an ax. And he was stuck here. He had an idea. ”Did you bring my book?” he asked the abbot. ”There’s work I could do.” He had notes about Colmarh looking at extra brewing capacity, and he realized he should tweak his waterfront to include a cooper. He also looked to see if Findir the farrier would show up. He wanted to talk to him.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork snorted at the threat. It was ridiculous. He hadn’t even laid eyes on the clerk but a few days before, and now he was hiring an assassin to murder her? For reasons? It had not occurred to him that anybody would believe he could do such a thing. Nor, being room-illiterate, did he pick up on any of the tenor of people watching them. He did appreciate one aspect of the situation, though: he needed to get out of this common room, away from Catlady, and find the abbot right away. And for that he needed to stall her.

The dwarf glared at her and shook his head, biting back all the things he wanted to say while composing the things he needed to say. Finally he sat back and exhaled sharply, pushing his remaining food and drink away. ”Sure, I’ll talk to her,” he said at last, trying to sound placating. ”See if I can persuade her to do the right thing. She’ll want to save your husband’s life, I bet, if only so she can question him. I’ll sell it that way.”

There was movement at the window. Bork saw it and realized who it was. He didn’t bother to try to hide his noticing the guard from Kriltra. ”Looks like I have other company,” he observed, gesturing with his head towards the window. ”Like I said, I’ll have a go at Drom, see if she’ll give me the bowl. I can’t make any promises, though, so keep your gems until I deliver. And I haven’t forgotten about the other thing,” he concluded, patting the wooden folding tablet with the plant samples in them before putting it back into his pocket.

He took his leave and went outside to find out what the guards wanted.

Mellard Hogni

”Is he with her?” the dwarf asked, peering up at his partner who was looking through the window; the human was gesturing to somebody inside, presumably their target. Judging from his manner, he was having difficulty getting said target’s attention.

”Maybe we should just go in there and get him, Carlson,” Mellard Hogni suggested.

The human guard shook his head. ”Captain said no. Not sure why, but he was emphatic.”

”He with Kriltra?” Hogni asked again.

”Yep, and they’re talking pretty serious, too, looks like.” Adlar Carlson was young, muscular, and tall, even by human standards. He peered down at the dwarf and grinned. ”Shall I describe her to you, or should I find you a box?”

Mellard groaned. Another short joke. ”Bite my arse, Carlson,” he growled. The retort might have been more effective if the pair hadn’t been keeping their voices low.

”Bit short-tempered, are we? And no thanks, I’d have to get dirt on my chin, -oh, wait, he sees me. Looks like he’s coming.”

The two guards stood back and slightly to either side of the door. They weren’t sure what to expect from the engineer, mainly because they weren’t sure how much of Colmarh’s brew he’d had. They’d had to pull him off of that Belloc character that one time he’d gone on a bender. Some of the guys had wagered that there’d be trouble. Hogni and Carlson had both put a couple coppers down that there wouldn’t be. They suspected that was why the Captain sent them.

Bork emerged and blinked at the two guards. ”What is this?” he growled. He was grumpy, but sober. Hogni spoke first. ”Bork Valding, you need to come with us,” he explained, ”to the Inn. Something’s happened.”

Bork scowled. ”Am I under arrest? If not I got other things to do. I need to talk to the abbot and the clerk.”

”Both of whom are at the Inn,” Hogni responded, gesturing for the other dwarf to follow him. Carlson maneuvered to the other side of the dwarf.

Bork was still being stubborn. ”You didn’t answer me. Am I under arrest? And what is it that happened?”

The big human loomed over Bork and laid his hand ever-so-gently on his shoulder. ”No, you aren’t, unless you keep being difficult. And we’re not at liberty to say. Everybody you could possibly talk to is at the Rusty Peg. Let’s move.”

Grousing but otherwise cooperative, the engineer went along. He had a lot of things to tell the abbot. And even more things to ask him.

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?”