Ctenoid Soul

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

In response to the clerk’s question Bork shrugged. Not his idea, not his fight. He would simply mention the Captain’s request to the abbot later. Andrew was Drom’s boss, after all. If he said she belonged in a hole in the ground tomorrow, she’d better grab a lamp and a mining helmet. And if he didn’t, well, the Captain would just have to deal with it. And Bork would be fine either way.

He would not, of course, tell the abbot more than he had to about the bowl, only that that the cat people had thought it important enough to their well-being to offer a bag of gems for it. Basically what Kriltra had told him. The two items interested him from the meeting were the fate of the glassblower and of the drug business. He had shown Andrew the plants, and apparently the abbot was alright with allowing the trade to go on. Perhaps that Wehrli lout would be more amenable to picking drug plants for his buddies than he would building a wall for the dwarf and the abbot? The only thing the engineer would want is to make sure that Pigeon Spit got its “cut”, the one Kriltra had offered him.

Why did the glassblower interest him so? His costume jewelry idea for one thing. But more importantly, he had plans for an oil press. And glass bottles were the best for oil; they could be reused and even repurposed, whereas a clay, wooden, or skin vessel that had once been used for oil could not be safely used for much else afterwards. And they sold better, too, because they looked better and because people could more easily see what they contained.

And all this gave him ideas for more designs: a lamp with a reusable glass reservoir, a bottle of a standard size, that fit into the base. And there could be a peg that one turned to adjust the length of the wick for the kind of oil being used at the time. This was followed by a sketch of stocks, and leg irons that attached to a staple bolted to a suitably solid stone wall. Although he did not actually draw it, he amused himself by picturing Werhli locked into them.

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork nodded as the Captain pointed out the pros and cons of his proposals. ”Yeah, I can see people not wanting to just let us in their houses,” he agreed. ”I still think we could make the rounds in the evening, checking whether front doors have locks and places for lights.” He shrugged. It was a brainstorm, not a cause. ”As to the stocks inside the constabulary, sure. Won’t be as much public shaming as if they were outside, but maybe that’s just as well.”

The engineer and the captain didn’t have much time to discuss matters further because Drom wanted to talk, apparently. He grumbled a bit, in spite of the free warm soup, since he was coming to prefer the captain’s company and way of thinking to the goblin’s, but the clerk sometimes had shown she could be useful, so listening to what she had to say might not be totally worthless. The dwarf listened to her proposal with a frown at first while he tried to puzzle out her cryptic references, then with a growing realization and an equally growing grin. By the time she had finished, he was nodding and almost laughing.

”That’s actually a good idea. I bet the abbot would love to make that deal, and he’d be good at it.” Best of all, they’d win practically every prize: a bunch of gems for a relatively low-value bowl, a rapproachement with some tough customers who might otherwise make trouble, and his own integrity and reputation would be intact; no one would be able to say they’d bought Bork Valding with those gems when he hadn’t even received them. And Pigeon Spit -and therefore himself, indirectly- could still benefit from their use. And apparently the elf actually still retained whatever leverage she needed to keep the cat people in check.

He was even more pleased with the note the clerk handed him. It’d be nice to have some farm lads about who weren’t afraid of honest work. He pocketed the note and thanked the clerk. He might actually have to rethink his opinion of Drom, he thought grudgingly.

And then it was back to the Captain. He groaned when the Captain mentioned taking him and the abbot’s taking the clerk with them to the mine tomorrow; not because he didn’t care for the idea, but because he had just finished talking to her not one minute ago. ”I’m fine with that if she is,” he said. ”Wish you’d told me that ten minutes ago, though.”

He shook his head disapprovingly at the Captain’s story about the girls. ”This town is too small to have those sorts of problems. That’s what comes of folk not having enough to do.” That might also spell trouble later: if people were *used* to not having much to do, they might not appreciate the work chances properly when they came; they might see opportunities and encouragement as whip-cracking or something. People could be fools.

As to his question about why the clerk took the younger girl? Maybe she needed an understudy or something. How was he supposed to know what the goblin had in mind?

Suddenly, he remembered the note Drom had handed him and pulled it out of his pocket to show the Captain. ”Speaking of giving young people something to do, Drom recommended these lads to me. What can you tell me about them?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork listened to the Captain pointing out the complications of his idea about seizing the gems. His throat emitted a slightly annoyed growl. People were so much messier than machines. After a moment he waved dismissively. ”Forget that idea, then. More trouble than it’s worth.”

As for the rest, law and order and such, the engineer had more to think about. He wasn’t going to have any trouble filling that book with drawings, provided he had time to make them. ”I’ve already got schemes for an oil press,” he told the captain. ”That means more lamp oil, and more light after dark. A proper jail might be premature. We don’t have the money nor the scale nor proper courts yet. But building a couple suitable sturdy rooms, with chains stapled to a wall for holding, might be workable for now. Some stocks might not be amiss, though, and some strongboxes for seized goods and collected fines.”

The dwarf’s thoughts ran to a whipping-post and a chopping-block as well. But one needed a proper knouter or headsman for those. Nothing uglier than a beheading botched by an amateur. Any guard could lock somebody into stocks.

He nodded. ”One thing this town will need is a proper locksmith. You and I, Captain, maybe one of the things we should do is survey the town’s physical security. Which houses have locks. Internal locks on secure rooms. Who has strongboxes, that sort of thing. What’s the lighting like at night. Which neighbors look out for each other. Which neighbors have it in for each other. Could a neighborhood watch be organized. I wasn’t looking for any of those things specifically when I went through yesterday, and you probably have a better eye for that than I do.”

More things to do. More things to see. Bork smiled. He liked having things to do. He glanced meaningfully around the inn. He understood why he was there, but that did not make the frustration of inactivity any less galling. ”If I’m going to be doing that with you, would I be safe enough in the open in your company, you think? Something I could do while we’re waiting for this…protective custody to be over?”

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork smirked. If there was one subject a dwarf didn’t need a lecture on, it was the possible uses for a bag of gems. ”Not gonna lie. That hurt to do that,” he answered. He nodded as Drom commented on the state of the town. ”A place has eight score people and at least two criminal outfits?” he asked rhetorically, ”Yeah, I’d say there are some problems that need to be fixed if Pigeon Spit is to prosper.”

Finally, he looked up at the Captain. ”I don’t think so,” he answered honestly. ”But I haven’t been to the mines yet to ask Rorik about that. His Grace and I were supposed to go up tomorrow, but I’m not sure that will happen on schedule thanks to this recent nonsense. Until it does, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what if any gems we *could* mine here.”

A thought occurred to him. ”I wouldn’t mind getting a closer look at those gems, though, and asking Catlady where they came from. Perhaps we could simply confiscate them. I mean,” he gestured towards the clerk, ”you mentioned this Shadowclaw has committed treason, and she tried to extort something that would help him escape the consequences of it, right? I’m sure there’s some legal pretext for doing that, eh?” He looked back and forth between the Captain and Drom to see what they thought. Why negotiate for something they could rightfully just take?

Pigeon Spit: A medieval fantasy story.

Bork

Bork’s forehead creased as he listened to Drom. The dwarf didn’t know much about magic; he hadn’t cared to learn, in spite of the fact that it would probably have made his life easier in all sorts of ways. ”So, are you saying that the bowl isn’t actually as valuable as Catlady and Silverclaw think it is?” he asked. He scratched his beard and thought. He was hanging by a thread here. These sorts of problems weren’t the kind he had come to Pigeon Spit to work on, yet they seemed to be piling unbidden into his lap.

”Treason, eh?” he asked. ”Seems a bit harsh.” He scratched a bit more. If Silverclaw had intended to harm him, that made him an enemy. Period. His reasons, and whether those reasons still held, were irrelevant. Working with him was out of the question. But did Bork want revenge? He didn’t feel that, as he had never actually seen the alleged attack. Nonetheless, this Silverclaw was bad news, and Bork preferred the idea that he still thought he was in danger.

Shaking his head, he pushed the bowl back to Drom. He heaved a regretful sigh as he did; Roswitha would have really liked those gems. ”I don’t want these people as allies,” he answered. ”I want them to go away, one way or another.” He shot the elf a grim look. ”I guess I’ll have to design a scaffold now.”

Nelthurin

Nelthurin shrugged. ”I’m all in favor of sitting down and talking. Not sure our engineer is a suitable principal, though. He neither knows nor is comfortable with this sort of business, from what I can tell. He’d probably also prefer to spend the time with his designs.” The elf smirked and shook his head. Bork could draw, he’d give him that. He hadn’t seen the dwarf build anything yet, but he was sure he could. He was a dwarf, right?

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.