Gostahof proper could barely be said to exist beyond a notion of where the most homesteads gathered around a rough indication of a public square, not too far off from the River Stir. Outside of these ten or so moderately sized hovels the population was spread out over the low hillocks further toward the Great Forest.
There was certainly a road leading to the square, but the thick layer of snow made the landscape’s manmade limitations unclear and hazy.
Von Bolstedt stumbled through the snow, further toward the square, where a few people huddled in the protection of a long but poor building, the smoke escaping from the thatched roof betraying it not as a living space but as a communal hub.
As Adebar drew closer he saw that most of the people gathered around the building were women. Among them stood a man of unguessable age, with a short beard and thinning, gray hair. The chilly air was punctuated now and then by a familiar scent, carried by the slight wind. Bread. The building seemed to be the communal baking house.
The thought brought a slight smile to Adebar’s lips. Village life often had a bad reputation in the grand cities of the Empire, not only among the high and mighty but also among the lowly tradesmen. ‘A baking house,’ they said, ‘how barbaric!’ In the last few weeks Adebar had come to realize that getting one’s daily bread from a bakery in exchange for a few coppers was, in effect, not so different from sharing an oven with one’s neighbours. Before he could continue his musings on the agrarian lifestyle of the peasantry, however, the elderly man addressed him with a voice that was at the same time raspy with age and bubbly with the phlegm of a day spent in the cold.
“What ‘ave we ‘ere? ‘aven’t seen you I wouldn’t think.”
The peasant’s tone was the same, slurred drawl that was so common in Talabecland, and though von Bolstedt would once have had trouble understanding the words as they trickled out between the handful of teeth in the Elder’s mouth, but after having spent a good part of the season among these people comprehension came easily.
“I am Adebar von Bolstedt.” He declared matter of factly, enjoying the expression of the peasant shifting from surprise to alarm, before the Elder bowed visibly uncomfortably.
“Apologies, Herr, I am an old man, my eyes don’t see as well as they used to.”
Given, Adebar, covered from head to toe in a thick fur cloak, did not look the part of the highborn nobleman, but social norms were dependent on blood, not appearances.
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“All is forgiven if you could help me with something important.” Adebar looked around, kicking some snow with a thick boot. “This weather is harsh, and I fear I have caught an illness of the lungs. I have heard tales of a woman from this village, said to be very wise in the ways of healing.”
Adebar had thought his deception simple, yet effective, how could the peasant think to disappoint his betters, after all?
It seemed he was mistaken, for the Elder looked at him with a look of unmasked suspicion, his milky gaze wandering up and down Adebar’s body.
“You ‘eard tales, Herr? Whereabouts are you from, Reikland? They tell a lot of stories over there, all due respect, Herr…”
“My sources are quite dependable. Locals, from Missen.” Von Bolstedt intervened quickly. So easy a ruse wouldn’t do to throw him off the trail.
“Missen, eh? ‘ow’d you come ‘ere, then? The road’s chock full of Beastmen, last I ‘eard!”
The Elder looked ever more suspicious, taking a few steps back, looking between von Bolstedt and the castle on the hill behind him.
“Can you take me to the woman or not?” Adebar demanded, trying to get a foot in the door, but the features of the Elder turned to a mask of feigned ignorance.
“I’m sorry, Herr. I don’t think anyone ‘ere is wise in that way, you’ll ‘ave to try somewhere else.” Adebar snorted in derision, unable to calm the little sting in his chest at being so clearly lied to by a peasant. The Count had said his people hid the crone. Still, it had been worth a shot, though he feared he had just alerted his quarry.
“What do they call you, old man?” The peasant seemed a bit stunted at the question, but answered almost out of reflex. “Stubner, Herr. Mannfred Stubner.”
“Very well then, Stubner,” von Bolstedt made sure to speak loud enough so the women in the baking house could hear him, “tell your people that I am willing to compensate anyone that can tell me where to find this fabled wisewoman.”
Von Bolstedt had not gone ten paces when a meek voice addressed him from behind.
“Herr, a moment?”
He turned to regard the woman that had spoken, finding a moon-faced, pale matron, in a blue woolen gown, holding a basket of fresh bread under one arm, trying to keep the hem of her skirt out of the snow with the other, all the while shuffling about miserably.
It took a few heartbeats for Adebar to realize that the peasant was seemingly attempting a curtsy, wherever she had learnt of such things.
“You are from Reikland? I think a guest of mine may be a friend of yours.”