“Really Ma’am? Bellivelles?" Clem squinted his eyes on the cleared patches. On the new and obviously just tiled dark soil. Twenty maybe thirty bell-shaped buds were sprouting. Their silver stems curved almost shyly inside the medlarwood fence.
“And with the red golden pollen, even!” he remarked, almost gasping a full breath. In a distance of course, it’d be a crime to let his expulsion dirty such gems; fragile and young as they were. Half of them just began to grow their first sepals.
“Thank you dear,” she said, laughing —putting down her soil-trodden trowel back into the earthenware bucket. “Very nice of you to say it. That old fogey of mine could learn one or two things from that mouth of yours.”
”Nice, nice, nice. That all he ever said about my flowers!”
“Ah.” he raised his index finger, grin plastered on his face. “I believe that’s because Mr. Miller knows that the flowers are pale in comparsion to the hand that grow them, Ma’am.”
“Oh you! Always a charmer.” she smiled. “Will you also enter the fair this calendar, then?”
“Well,” he paused. “I’ve been growing couple pots of Eanu. But after seeing your Bellivelles, Ma’am” —he pointed at the wind-swayed buds— “I’m not sure why I even bother. And here I thought I’m being clever.” he laughed.
“Eanu is a very fine choice, dear,” she said taking off her leather gardening glove. “Everyone so obsessed with appearance. But we knew that wasn’t all there was, right?”
Clem smiled and nodded, echoing Mrs. Nora sentiment proper. That was why he chose to plant Eanu this year after all, he couldn’t compete in the appearance, not when he had delver’s pay and delver's timeslot. But he knew if he could showcase the other aspect that most contestants tend to ignore, he could at least cinch honorary mention, maybe even third place.
“I’ll tell Don to brought his big blowers. The man never used it anyway. That's way all of us could enjoy your Eanu.” she smiled, taking up her bucket and beckoned him to follow her to the belvedere, just under the hanging Marsi-Grassi vines.
“And what a delight would that be.” she sat, gesturing him to follow suit. “Pareen would score you high just based on that!”
“Not as high as your Bellivelles, Ma’am.” he laughed, thankful at her setntiment. “But thank you.”
“You’re welcome, dear.”
“The Belliveles. Has it began to ring yet?”
“Oh, I wish! But they just arrived two weeks ago. A week before that horrendous, horrendous blockade. Not even my grandfather's letter could cut the fee into sense. Five times the normal, would you believe that?”
“Absolutely Ma’am. I heard” —he lowered his head in conspiratorial whisper— ”Mrs. Carmell grove soil’s shipment got held too. The merchants said it’s ‘too dangerous’ because the blockade cause an increase of bandit attacks.” he chuckled. “But when do we don’t have bandits?”
“Yes, when do we don’t have them? They always around, those vermins. Poor Carmell. She should have just ceded.” she poured a cup of still warm meil, sliding it to him. “True the fee was ...unreasonable, but that’s just that. Unreasonable. Not prohibitive. Still that how it is with that woman —always matter of principle.”
“Yes, it's regrettable.” he nodded, thanking her for the offered cup. “Limallene was lacking without the blessing of the grove soil.”
“Yes, yes. And here I thought we would finally see the famous double rainbow this fair. How unfortunate.”
“Maybe the next one, Ma’am. Mrs. Carmell is principled but even she wouldn’t waste a seed for an obvious failure.”
“Yes.” she nodded.
“Speaking of the soil. Would your Bellivelles be fine, Ma’am? I heard it’s a bit ...finicky?”
“Of course,” she said, smiling. “I already had dispensation for the [Green Growth], a little cut on my point total, but it’s fine. The flowers more important.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“Although,” she paused, taking off her Arpie-adorned cloche, pointing to the bright silvery patches ten steps over. To the little sepals that now spun in a circular motion. Clem shook his head, he swore he could almost hear their light, feathery ring. “It’s unfortunate that we don’t have spring here.“
”If only so, I could grow them into seven blooms!” she said. “Well, fortunately, the end of shower was pretty lukewarm. We could at least witness five blooms.”
“Haha. Come on Ma’am. Fortunately? That might fool Sir Tom, but I” —he flicked a mana spark, shooting it out between the finger-sized, shutters' gap to the covering tarp that shrouded the Bellivelles— “wouldn’t be so foolish to believe so.” he grinned, watching as the weaved cloth burst with light blue shine, displaying the [Dirt Trapping] enchantment, the [Warm Air] rune that fashioned the whole patch to be visible just for a breath
“Ah Clem, must you?” she smiled. “The adventurers’ rough rubbed on you quite thick this season don’t they, dear? We do a little bit more tact here if you happen to forget.”
“It’s simply an honest observation made by an honest man, Ma’am.” he giggled. “Would you fault me on that?”
“Oh, you! I won’t outtalk you, will I? Well, what brings you around this so early? I presume just not to tease this poor woman?”
“Of course not ma’am! How could you label our pleasant conversation to such—such rapscallion thing! Teasing? I would never.” he winked at her.“ But yes, I admit that I do have an obligation to attend this morning.”
“And what would that be?”
“Oh, just some shopping. Grocery for the week.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Right, right. I sometimes forget you still a ...fine young man. But really, I thought I heard that one of yours, what do you say it again? Team, yes, team, one of the girls in your team said to be your beloved lov—”
“Teammates ma’am. Teammates!”
“Yes, yes. ‘Teammates’. Of course.” she winked back, which he fought for a three whole breath before his surging blood overwhelmed his face veins’ defense; the former fell into an abrupt, steaming red.
DANG. DANG. DANG. DANG.
DANG. DANG. DANG. DANG.
Thank you!
”Oh would you look at the time.” she turned her head eastward, toward the town’s bell. “Eighth already? Hurry up then, lest all you got is remains, dear. Don’t let this woman hold you up. ”
“It was a pleasant holdup Ma’am.” he cracked another smile. “See you next moon on the fair, then?”
She nodded.
With a slight tip of his hat, he bade Mrs. Nora goodbye, exiting her front garden, and walked toward the southwest corner before just fifty steps later, looped back to another block of the residential —nodding and smiling along the way.
And like with Mrs. Nora, he greeted and spoke with all the residents there. A bit of enthusiastic laugh, a little exchange of gossip, and of course small talks. After all, even with gravers contraptions and students’ half-bin discounts, all cost-aware Ar’endalian loved to complain about the weather. Especially when the less troublesome showers so close to ending, just moons away before it would be replaced by the damn scorch. While the first one only needed a full warehouse of properly stored dried woods, the second meant spending pebbles upon pebbles every single day just to endure the noon heatwave.
And it continued. He greeted [Coachmaster] Simon who doing his weekly supplies, passed half-running Miss Ellis that once again almost late to the association meeting. He stopped and talked with either a prompt 'hi there', or in length of quarter of bell. He greeted all. From the all polite [Keeper] Beatrice to the avid, enthusiastic Mr. Tren. Often it was at such a length that he was inevitably invited for a meil and snack. Which he accepted of course, since unlike what he said to Mrs. Nora, today was not his grocery day. Oh no. He didn't do his grocery in a day, of course. He mixed that thing up. Sometimes on first, sometimes on fifth, sometimes he even bought two weeks supply in one day, making two trips since he refused to get a coach for such short distance. Regularity was bane for any self-respecting rogue. Especially after that damn ruling. And if his sense didn’t fool him (which was pretty unlikely), he did need to waste a bell or two this morning. Depending on that boy’s persistence.
Waving his hand just around the street block, he walked east, exiting the last medlar-planted streets —an almost invisible border between the residential and the Elm. And as he entered, around maybe a hundred steps in, he was struck by shouts, often and loud. People bargaining, [Peddlers] advertising, or just incidents —young [Coachmasters] and pedestrians bumping on very packed streets. Which made sense. After all it was produce days. And while the newly passed ordinance had banned dumping the fruit and vegetable bits by the roadside, a whole fifty calendars of history was not something that you could wash overnight. Literally. And by that he meant was the wet and goopy street, how the crevice between the stones was still filled with black sticky liquid that the town sewer failed to completely drain. If not for the crowd, he'd slap a clothmask or at least pinched his nose. The stench was permeating. But he was Clem. And Clem that people knew was always unbothered —skipping through the trough with smile. A puddle jump, a sideway pivot, a swallowed retch. It took him only three wicks to pass the busy market and arrived to his destination; the eastern neighborhood.
Contrast with the un-fun of Elm, the eastern inner was better. Way better. The road was paved and hummed. The first with carved river stones, the seconds with grand of magical intones. It was always a wonder wasn’t it, he smiled. Visiting the academy. The air smelled of leatwood spring and the road to it was drowned in manalights. Almost as if it was middle noon of a scorch and not a cloudy morning. A bell after the rain.
He spared a lookie to the left, to the right, and as inconspicuously possible, to the back. The pedestrians were few and mostly consisted of students —recognizable by their gilded robes. No sign of the boy. Which was promising, since it meant that the damn brat was either bored, tired, or decided that his running around wasn’t worth the bell. At least he hoped that was the case. Since there a real chance that the boy was just a distraction and he was followed by a higher agent. He shrugged at that thought, though. That was how it was, you knew, being outleveled and all. Not much could be done about it.
While it true that he was a rogue, he specialized in traps, not spying. 9 out of 10 who did basically get recruited at fifteen —a whole calendar before the minimum sixteen of the guild. Although if it only indeed the boy who followed him, he should only be a riser. Higher riser, all right, but still a riser. He meant it was kind of obvious, the brat followed him in thirty-forty-thirty downwind maneuvers. Which was just two level above ‘follow from behind and don’t get caught’. If it was him, he’d at least add roof jumping or looping-bumping to the mix just to throw the other side off.
He kept walking, three-quarters slower, pretended to be hit and almost hit by another passerby. Standard slow yourself down and observe. And true to that, by two streets and five unwitting victims later, he didn’t saw any sign of the boy. Or anyone following him in fact. Well, some of the passerby —mostly those who he almost hit— gave him either an annoyed stare, a heckle, or for one really angry woman, a raised fist. But that was that. He sensed no movement. No pause. No shift in the crowd behind him. He bet the boy did give up, he smirked. After all he had been running him dried for at least three bells, talking to like ten people. staying in their houses —snacking. Who wanted to hear people talking about the weather over and over?
Smiling, he continued to walk, avoiding puddles and running water from the rain he barely managed to half-avoid by timely taking shelter on Mr. Tren. Not the same could be said to his shoes though, the things were soaked, sounding a sequence of weird squee-splish-splash-splosh, dripping their bits of water on the dried pavement. It continued for a long long steps, until all of sudden, it wasn’t.
Climbing the raised bridge, he felt the bits of water on his wet cloth dried. One moment he was damp, his clothes sticking, his feet itching. Then, a moment later, he wasn't.
Carved on all surrounding street limestone, the steady glow and ebb of spellwork rune shielded each nook. It was nothing grand. Or so his party enchanter claimed. Just a tier-1, cantrip-bordering [Repel Water]. However, even he, a non-spellcaster could attest to its resplendence. It immensity and swathes that all-encompass. Those were not stuff to be dismissed.
The water; the brackish rain, his clothes wet, all were pooling together. Forming a temporary web of puddles before slant of the sloped road drawn it to the roadside drain. It was quite pretentious, but as his party enchanter said, no surface water touch Everlight by chance alone. Not damp of your clothes, nor fall of the showers. All must glide down before the bubble border.
This of course was a far cry from the awe of true [Weather Control]. Few things were. Mr. Tren once said, laid inside the innermost keepheart of the empire's glace, the glistening stone shone like starry night. The gem was wrought from the lower floor of River Deep, pulling the whole north freezing gale to its core, allowing the Empire's southernmost cities to grow even most finicky Owsh on their biting field.
Yet the bubbles did mean something. Not that he was into it. But as a good rogue, at least those who want to get employed as [Trapmaster] delver, he attended a few classes on enchantment and spellwork here.
Most of the theory stuff went over his head. But he remembered this one in particular. Either because it plastered big on the library or that his introductory professor insisted his student to remember by repeating it once before each and every class. Both more likely.
It signified as the old man said, that Everlight was a conservatory. Unlike Caelfall or Lerwick, Everlight took a further step in preserving the ancient spell and old working, chiefly the yet to be understood ones, spawned from dungeons or old ruin.
After all, like stones and dirt, from desert to grassy hills, water did sweep all.
Even magic itself.