《Far and Wide》 Greyberries Beer was invading Arlet''s house like ants. First a few careless crumbs would go unminded, a late-night bit of cake dusting the surface of a side-table by the chair he liked for reading, and by the next morning amber bottles and sweet-smelling corks would be swarming his books. His kitchen had always been a nightmare, the living room had been a lost cause for weeks and, shamefully, the chaos had driven him to start eating burnt toast and eggs in his washroom, thanking the four winds he couldn''t afford a mirror. He left crumbs on the floor, and it was barely another week before Arlet Haywin found himself cradling his favorite nut-brown ale in a hot bath, halfheartedly holding the bottle out of the water. A great lathering of dreadful eucalyptus shampoo had formed his considerable hair into a soapy, comforting helmet. Arlet watched his knees make rings in the bath and sipped his beer. It tasted like eucalyptus. A knock sounded at the door, starling Arlet enough that he splashed soapy water all over his washroom floor. He slipped and almost fell on his face climbing out of his small metal tub, letting out a few choice curses under his breath. Fifteen minutes of slow, quiet rinsing, drying, tripping over bottles, robe-sniffing, and procrastinating later, Arlet was disheartened to hear the sharp taps for a tenth time. The sound came in near-perfect ninety second intervals, polite and determined. Whoever wanted to speak with him, they showed no signs of leaving soon. How the hell did they know he was actually there? He absently kicked a bottle over while crossing his kitchen, and it clinked across his cobblestone floor before musically crashing into his mantle. Arlet sighed, gave his face a couple of gentle slaps, and pulled open his heavy oaken door, rusted hinges screeching their protest as he cringed against the midday light. The woman at Arlet''s door was as short as he was tall, as composed as he was disheveled, as sober as he was drunk, and seemed to be cringing right back at him. He studied her face for a long minute, trying to figure out what was wrong. She seemed to wither a little under his scrutiny. "Oh, hell. There''s a smell isn''t there?" He let out a bit too much air on the soft "h" sounds and the small woman''s nose crinkled deeply, her lips tightening into a thin line. If there wasn''t a smell before, there was one now. As though Arlet hadn''t said a thing, the woman fixed a polite smile on her face and straightened her posture. "Are you the wizard Haywin? I was told to find your trail on the road up to the pass, but for the life of me, I must have followed at least five trails off the main road that just hit a dead-end. I wasn¡¯t even sure this was a real trail at all,¡± she glanced back the way she had come, ¡°but I followed it here and you look like you''re supposed to, er... I mean your robes are trimmed like a magician¡¯s, and you''re quite tall..." Now it was Arlet''s turn to cringe, and he leaned back from the breathy woman and found that he had extended a hand to his doorway to steady himself. He looked at the blue-and-green trim that decorated his wrist and marked him as, indeed, a representative of Fellen Circle and a wise and noble steward of mystical forces. Merciful gods, was he going to need to be poised today? "I''m terribly sorry sir, to speak so much without getting to my point, see... It''s just that I, you see... I''m sorry." Arlet decided that if this woman could ignore his bad breath, he could ignore her bad first impression, so he put on his most professional face. ¡°Yes, I''m the wizard Arlet Haywin, at your service.¡± He gave a short bow from his waist. ¡°And who are you?¡± The small woman composed herself again. ¡°I''m Gertrude Adetta, sir, and I''m hopeful that you might help me with a personal matter... a sensitive one.¡± She cast a furtive gaze around the clearing Arlet''s cottage sat in, as though wary of an eavesdropping deer or squirrel. ¡°Of course, miss Adetta, come inside.¡± Arlet stood to the side, and Gertrude crossed into his disastrous main room. Suddenly even more self-conscious, Arlet compared the prim, blonde-haired, petite woman in a clean and fresh-pressed green dress to his dark, crumb-ridden, bottle-covered, dank hole of a home. He had long since stopped noticing whatever the place smelled like, but he had a sinking feeling about it, and quickly tossed a bundle of sage hanging on his wall into the fire. ¡°So what secret business has you braving a journey to the local magicker?¡± He asked Gertrude, in a strained, almost-playful tone. She gave a little start, then squared herself to him and looked into his eyes. ¡°Well, you see.. oh how do I ask this... Oh, curses.¡± She drew a quick breath and made herself as tall as she could. ¡°My husband can''t grow stiff anymore, and the physician can''t figure why. He thinks it might be, well... cursed. I''m hoping you can tell me what happened and what to do about it.¡± She was red in the face, and panting a bit. ¡°Oh. Alright.¡± ¡°I just don''t see who would do this sort of thing to people like us.¡± Gertrude began to fidget and tug at her hair, and seemed to consider pacing, before thinking better of navigating the many small objects cluttering Arlet''s floor. ¡°We''re perfectly ordinary and polite, we hardly even talk to magikers, er, wizards, not that we know any, and I''m perfectly friendly with the apothecary Laren down by Ediene''s herb garden...¡± she gulped a breath through her mouth. ¡°I can''t help thinking this is all over some herb traders he ran out of town two weeks back, he does that sort of thing, you know, he¡¯s a guardsman. The guard had heard rumors they were selling witchleaf to the locals. Anyways, it was two weeks ago they left town, could they have done something like that?¡± Gertrude was, again, out of breath, and some quick panting brought her face from blood-red to pink. ¡°Is there some curse or hex of poison that will... keep a man down like that, but only a week or so after you do it?¡± Looking almost dizzy, she eyed a chair with a few bits of fuzzy cheese on its armrest. She kept standing. ¡°Can you do anything?¡± A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. Arlet looked searchingly at Gertrude, slowly scratching the back of his head. ¡°What made the physician suggest magic? There are plenty of mundane reasons for a man to have these difficulties, and they¡¯re all more likely than magic. Most ¡°curses¡± are just tricks of confidence anyways. Little insecurities already wedged into a man¡¯s mind can become truly nasty with a bit of mystic flair, so the physician had better have a damned good reason for giving out that kind of diagnosis.¡± Arlet put on his best serious face, locking eyes with the small woman. She returned a small frown and, for just a moment, almost appeared to pout. It disappeared just as soon as it had arrived. ¡°I¡¯d be very careful jumping to any conclusions. I can¡¯t say I¡¯m speaking from experience, but I¡¯d bet good coin that a man convinced his dick¡¯s been hexed would go to¡­ strange places in his head.¡± There was no noise, save for the crackling of sage and old logs in the fire, as the wizard continued to search the young woman¡¯s face. She swallowed thickly, then pulled her eyes away, to the floor. ¡°So what did he say?¡± Gertrude took a deep breath. ¡°He really didn¡¯t offer much¡­ he just said it was all he could think of, to have an otherwise¡­ healthy man have those issues come on so suddenly. It was very sudden, sir! One night he was.. Um¡­ and the next night he wasn¡¯t!¡± Her face was red again, and she was chewing on her cheek. ¡°Hm.¡± Arlet softened his gaze, his stern posture relaxing into something much friendlier. ¡°Well, were there any other physical oddities that the physician couldn¡¯t explain? Perhaps a grey discoloration in the area?¡± Gertrude¡¯s eyes lit up almost comically. ¡°There was actually! Yes! How did you know?¡± Arlet smiled warmly. ¡°Oh, good. Your husband just has greyberry poisoning. Somehow, he was slipped a poultice of fresh greyberries and rosemary, probably in a drink. Normally it¡¯s applied to the skin for its numbing properties, but if it¡¯s ingested it can cause the symptoms you¡¯re describing precisely. ¡± Arlet knelt next to a trapdoor in the corner of the room, pulled it open, and returned with an opaque, brownish bottle. He pulled the cork out of his beer and took a long drink. Gertrude¡¯s face was blank. ¡°The discoloration will clear up in a few days, and any loss of function with it.¡± He tossed the cork into the fire. ¡°Oh, well thank you.¡± She flashed him a tight, but relieved-looking smile. ¡°All¡¯s well that ends well! Have a nice walk back into town.¡± ¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª------- Arlet looked into his fire and watched the pale cork smolder. He watched it crack and glow, and he listened to the little hissing noises it made as air trapped in the porous material was released by narrow cracks in its burning surface. He watched it turn orange, then grey, before crumbling into ash. He put out his fire and followed Gertrude out the door. The sun was about two-thirds of the way across the sky, and crisp air carried just a hint of the sea to Arlet¡¯s home at the foot of the Giant¡¯s Shrug mountains. Beyond the small clearing his cottage was built on, and a humble dirt path that connected him to the Giant¡¯s Shrug pass, ferns and evergreens overran the landscape completely. If you followed the pass away from the mountains, they would continue to cover the ground all the way until you reached sea level, where a small port-town called Greynook had been forced into the terrain. Greynook was viciously guarded against encroaching nature by a hardy townsfolk who made a small fortune selling necessities at one of the only points of entry by sea into the kingdom of Fellen too small and shitty for a royal tariff officer to oversee. Its remote location and access to rare and often illegal commodities made it a perfect haven for a small community of unscrupulous or criminal businesspeople, or wizards. When Arlet walked onto the dark, uneven, winding path that navigated the forest floor, the smell of salty ocean spray was replaced by the rich, loamy scent of soil teeming with life. The distant crashing of mighty waves against stolid mountains was drowned out by rustling leaves, and the sheer joy of walking drunk through nature made Arlet feel lighter than air. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and tripped on a stout root, barely managing to get his arms in front of him before he fell face-first into the dirt. Arlet released a short groan and a long sigh, before pulling himself up to his hands and knees. He stayed that way for at least a full minute breathing deeply and staring at his hands. ¡°Having a weak day, are we?¡± Rasped a thin, imperious voice. Arlet looked up at a pair of fine black boots inlaid with golden trim, matched with a black-and-gold silk robe. The robe was worn open at the front, and as Arlet sat back on his shins, he was treated to the sight of a set of gleaming, polished-white ribs. His eyes wandered up the gleaming skeleton, taking in several gleaming necklaces hanging from its collarbone, before resting on a pair of cold, empty sockets. The skull glared back at him. ¡°Pathetic¡±. Kothkemi ¡°Pathetic.¡± Even with no mouth to frown and no eyes to glare, the bleached skeleton of Kothkemi radiated inhuman contempt. Even as Arlet rose to his full height, a good half of a head taller than the imperious lich, something seemed to look down on him from the depths of its hateful, empty sockets. Adding to Kothkemi¡¯s imposing presence, every inch of the monster was covered in astonishing finery. The silk-and-gold robes draped over its shoulders would alone probably be enough to buy half of Greynook, and the bracelets and rings hanging on just one pearlescent arm would certainly be enough to buy two or three Greynooks. All-in-all, Kothkemi¡¯s wardrobe spoke of that mind-bending sort of wealth that one did not measure in gold, or land, or even titles. It suggested the kind of wealth that made somebody a force of history, that elevated people above mortal concerns, and burdened them with sheer, unquestionable consequence. A being that knew secrets from before recorded history, that had once held much of the wealth of humankind in its vaults, and had transcended death itself, stared with burning hatred into Arlet Haywin¡¯s eyes. He threw his beer at it. The projectile flew true, right into the lich¡¯s collarbone, and passed through without so much as rustling its robes. After a moment, a muted thump sounded from the woods. If Kothkemi was impressed, it didn¡¯t show on its skull. ¡°Truly, I am trapped within a dim, feeble mind. You ought to be grateful, mortal. Having me sealed in your thick skull is more honor than your breed of pissant-magiker deserves to see in a dozen generations!¡± The skeleton was practically spitting the words out by the end. ¡°Merciful Sahtet¡¯s fucking beard, Kothkemi!¡± Arlet sighed. ¡°It¡¯s too nice out for that.¡± He picked himself the rest of the way up and flashed the lich a winning smile. ¡°Besides, what does it say about you, that some pissant-magiker like me managed to lock you behind this handsome face?¡± He continued to beam at the decorated skeleton. Kothkemi snorted mockingly. ¡°I remember the proud, brave wizard that managed to force me into his very brain. It must have required a will and talent unmatched within the borders of the kingdom of Fellen.¡± The creature made a sound and gesture that might have been spitting at Arlet¡¯s feet. ¡°I don¡¯t see a hint of that man left in you, drinking and drugging your sanity away and hiding from the sun in that grimy hut. Whatever part of you there was that could have amounted to anything, has long since shriveled up and died.¡± Arlet shrugged off the barb and walked over to the forest¡¯s edge, looking for any sign of his discarded bottle. He shrugged again and resumed walking down the path. ¡°Does this mean you¡¯ll be keeping my company today? Perhaps joining me in my errands around town?¡± The monster¡¯s form had vanished, but its deathly rattle seemed to come at Arlet from every direction. ¡°One day soon, I¡¯m going to break you. I¡¯ll wear you like the shell you are, and you will become a miserable shade skulking in my mind! You think you¡¯ve sealed me away, but all you¡¯ve done is gift me, with a fresh suit of skin.¡± Kothkemi¡¯s tone conveyed a sinister smile to Arlet¡¯s senses. ¡°I look forward to the¡­ novelty.¡± Arlet rolled his shoulders to cover the shiver that went up his spine, and released a tight breath as an almost imperceptible darkness lifted from the forest, and an unnatural chill faded in the warmth of the midday sun. He walked on in silence, the beauty surrounding his home flatter, more muted than before. ¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª------- The township of Greynook had, by way of the sea, access to luxuries from many lands and cultures, near and far. Glassware and psychoactives from Khet could be found in pantries and sitting rooms in most of the more established homes. Masiri textiles, spices, and pottery were treasured by more than a few well-to-do merchants who worked around the port. Some of the wealthiest folk were even rumored to own pieces of pitch-dark Bolot jewelry, though nobody would ever admit to keeping that sort of wealth in their home. In short, the townspeople of Greynook generously sampled from the trickle of eclectic goods that used their port to skirt the tariffs, taxes, and laws of Fellen. For all the material wealth that passed through and, indeed, collected in Greynook, the town itself was constructed with somewhat brutal functionality. Most of the structures were windowless, made from rough-hewn fir logs and rafters, with mud and moss filling in the cracks for warmth. As Arlet passed through the town walls western opening, just a break in the line of uneven, more-or-less five foot high stakes of fir hammered into the dirt to deter wildlife, he was welcomed by the smell of roasted meat and wild mushrooms, as well as sweet beer and horse manure from one of the town¡¯s two inns, and a heady note of some spiced tea. After considering each scent, Arlet picked the beer, and made his way towards the Last Good Night Inn. One of the only two-story buildings in Greynook, the Last Good Night Inn stood prominent on Greynook¡¯s main thoroughfare and advertised itself with a painted sign depicting a canvas tent set up in a muddy clearing in a rainstorm, water leaking inside onto a sad, grey-haired man rolled up in a stained blanket full of holes. Above him, a cruel face painted on the moon laughed uproariously at his bad fortune. Arlet stopped short a couple of steps from the door, and looked up at that sign. For a long moment, he looked at the moon¡¯s evil eyes, and the moon stared back, laughing. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Suddenly, Arlet felt bone-deep exhaustion. His skin felt cold and clammy, and the dull pain in his hands and knees from he had tripped on the path screamed like broken bones. Every sore muscle in the wizard¡¯s arms and back shook with weakness, and his whole body seemed to beg him to lie down in the hard dirt where he stood. He lifted a trembling hand to his head, running his fingers through his hair, feeling for the cold metal of a crown so heavy that he was surprised he could heaven stand while he wore it. Instead, he felt the wet slick of blood, hot against his skin. His breathing quickened as his head started to spin, but when he pulled his hand back, it was clean and dry. A rasping laugh sounded from inside Arlet¡¯s skull. He took three deep breaths, turned his back on the inn, and made his way to the apothecary. ¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª------- Moethe Brewster, son of Geb Brewster and proprietor of the Last Good Night Inn, was one of the few townsfolk of Greynook who was born there. Indeed, he was one of less than ten of the township¡¯s citizens to legally own property in town, most of the surrounding structures being too impermanent to bother with any sort of deed. He enjoyed innkeeping and bartending, and he especially enjoyed the different sorts of people he got to meet, Greynook being the sort of place it was. He rented beds to strange-smelling alchemists, served beer to grizzled mercenaries, he even had a Fellen Circle Magister for a regular! He did wish the man would return his bottles, soon, so that he could wash and refill them with his latest batch. His customers were, he supposed, mostly criminals of some sort or another, but he loved to listen to their stories all the same. He had even begun writing down his favorites into a collection, as much to work on his letters as anything, but had given up the practice when he realized that distributing such a book might put his business, and his person, in some danger. This particular afternoon had brought Moethe a most unusual traveler. He couldn¡¯t place her by her features, or by the fur-trimmed leather coat she was wearing, though that wasn¡¯t in itself strange. She was traveling alone, which was very unusual for a woman, though not unheard of, and she had the watchfulness and posture that he associated with soldiers and mercenaries. In fact, he thought he had seen one or two leatherbound handles peeking out of the front of her coat. For all that, the thing that truly set her apart was that she was a maybe-mercenary woman traveling alone from parts unknown, and she was making friends, quickly, with two of the most unsociable, gruff, boorish men Moethe had ever known. Half an hour before, when the woman, who called herself Hatti, had come to the inn, Mack Stickle, or ¡°Stick¡±, and Grud Sturge, ¡°Stump¡±, had been sitting at the corner of Moethe¡¯s bar, grousing about their difficulties hunting and foraging, and spitting on his floor like they did every day they were in town. He had fully expected her to pay for a room and, if she ordered any food, to make her way to the very opposite corner of the common room from Stick and Stump, and eat in silence. Hatti did not do that. Instead, she ordered beer, sat herself right down on Stump''s left, introduced herself to the pair, and started asking questions about life in Greynook. Stick and Stump, who pretty women generally did not speak to, and almost never made eye contact with, suddenly found themselves trying to be friendly with another person for the first time in years. Now, a full thirty minutes later, the two men had warmed to conversation like feral cats that had just discovered head-scratching and belly rubs. They were gleefully swapping stories about their adventures and misadventures. Bears that had ransacked their campsites in the night, close calls experimenting with unfamiliar herbs, days spent lost in the thick woods less than a thousand paces from Greynook, and other tales flew out of them. Moethe was more than a little shocked at the charm the two old grouches were able to muster, when given a good reason and opportunity. Hatti, for her part, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their company, and, despite not having total mastery of the Arundi language, shared plenty of stories of her own. She talked enthusiastically about the different kinds of plants and animals she had seen, and especially the many varieties of foods she had tasted, from rich, spiced meats cooked in pits dug into the ground, to colorful, aromatic salads made almost entirely from flowers, to the very marrow of a cow, roasted and served still in the bone. Though she spoke at length about her travels, Moethe noticed that Hatti was vague about the exact places she had been to, and she never mentioned where exactly she was from. That was fine, and not at all unusual for his patrons, and the talk stayed jovial until, in response to nothing Moethe noticed, Hatti¡¯s head swiveled to face the door. She motioned Stick, Stump, and Moethe to silence, and slowly rose from her chair, hand brushing against a now clearly visible knife-handle at her waist as she continued to stare at the entrance to the Last Good Night Inn. Moeth whispered, ¡°What is it?¡± Hatti quieted him with a hand, but replied, ¡°Be ready to hide, all of you.¡± Despite feeling a bit silly, Moethe found himself preparing to duck under his bar, staring, rapt, at the door. For almost a full minute, Hatti was perfectly still, and everyone was silent. Then, as soon as the moment had arrived, it ended. Hatti relaxed and gave a long sigh, smiling apologetically. ¡°Sorry, friends. I¡¯ve had a long, long day.¡± ¡°I think I might be¡­ rattled, yes.¡± She chuckled a little, sheepishly, and adjusted her weapons so that they were once again hidden by her coat. Then, she quickly paid Moethe for her room and her beer, and walked out of the inn, waving to the three of them as she left the door. Stick spoke first. ¡°What the hell was that?¡± Moethe, nodding in agreement, walked to the exit of the Last Good Night Inn¡¯s common room, and poked his head out of the door. After taking a moment to adjust to the light, he picked out Hatti standing across the street, head cocked in consideration as she looked off into the distance. He followed her gaze to a tall figure in blue-green robes walking away down the Greynook thoroughfare. ¡°Arlet?¡±, he muttered to himself. Frowning, he shut his door and made his way back to the bar. Stick spoke again, his earlier charisma nowhere to be found. ¡°What the hell?¡± Stump spit on the floor. Grey Fingers The Apothecary¡¯s home, a small structure just outside Greynook¡¯s perimeter, had four square mud walls and a thatched roof. Rough, hard-packed dirt steps led down to the floor, which was itself below ground, so that the house¡¯s one room stayed cold year-round. The apothecary Sojele, was an emaciated, clean-shaven Masket man with deep lines covering his old, well-tanned skin. He was sleeping shirtless on a reed mat laid against the room¡¯s far wall. Nobody had ever found Sojele awake in his home, but he always woke promptly, without surprise or concern, when people visited. There were only two pieces of furniture in Sojele¡¯s hut. Arlet sat on one, a small tree stump on the floor which had been sawed and sanded flat to serve as a stool. The second was an ornate desk, carved from some dark, glistening wood and inlaid with polished bits of seashell, which was built low enough for somebody sitting on the floor. It was mostly bare, save for a few trinkets Arlet recognized as blessed crystal-buttons, mostly quartz pieces, which held some significance to Masket soldiers, though he couldn¡¯t quite remember why. Sojele, placid as ever, raised himself into a crossed-legged position at his desk, dark eyes ghosting over each of his buttons before he looked up at Arlet. ¡°Ah, the troubled Fellen thunder-dog darkens my door. Tell me, magiker, what burdens you? What is in your mind?¡± Arlet narrowed his eyes. ¡°Did you mean to ask, what is on my mind?¡± The bony man tsked. ¡°Ah, silly Fellen prepositions, forgive this old medicine peddler and his feeble mind.¡± He procured a thin bundle of herbs from somewhere and lit the end with a rock and a piece of flint. When the fire took, he blew it out and waved the smoke in Arlet¡¯s direction. To Arlet¡¯s surprise, the headache that had been building since he¡¯d seen Kothkemi slackened, and he felt his neck and shoulders relax. Before he could ask what had just happened, Sojele spoke again. ¡°So, why are you here?¡± Arlet smiled. ¡°I came to ask after a customer, you might have seen her some time this afternoon. Short, pretty, a little flustered.¡± Sojele chuckled. ¡°You just missed her. Perfectly equanimous, when she did her business here. Short-lived is the apothecary loose with his customer¡¯s secrets but... I suspect she¡¯ll be back soon enough. You can wait, if you like.¡± Arlet pulled a flask out of his outer robe¡¯s pocket and gently shook it next to his ear. Satisfied, he took a small sip. ¡°I think I have time for that.¡± ¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª------- Outside Sojele¡¯s hut, a woman in a stiff leather coat laid flat under a huge fern, her face obscured by foliage. She laid unmindful of grubs and insects that squirmed and crawled beneath and over her, perfectly still save for the idle stroking of a hatchet at her waist. The axe was one of a pair, identical, made from gleaming obsidian set in bone-white handles. Those handles vibrated faintly as she stared, eyes narrowed, at the hut. No emotion showed on her face, but the pulsing of the axes, to her, seemed apprehensive, excited, insistent. ¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª-------¡ª------- Back in the hut, Arlet and Sojele sat against a wall, one sipping something harsh from a metal flask, the other smoking a long clay pipe. ¡°You know, magiker, you were followed here.¡± Arlet¡¯s eyebrows shot up. ¡°I did not know!¡± He frowned. ¡°How did you?¡± Sojele tapped the side of his nose. ¡°A keen sense of smell and a couple of, hm¡­¡± he dragged out the last words ¡±...trade secrets.¡± Arlet withdrew a small, silver-colored bead from one of his pockets, and dropped it into his flask. He paced in the small room, and began tracing various symbols on the flask with his finger. With a note of anxiety in his voice, he said ¡°Well! What else can you smell?¡± The old man drew a deep breath. ¡°A woman, unfamiliar to me, hiding in the greenery. She¡¯s wearing leather. That is all.¡± ¡°Do you think she¡¯s from out of town?¡± Sojele shrugged. ¡°I have not noticed her before, but¡­ I do not engage much with these locals. She arrived only a minute or so after you. She wasted no time deliberating, merely walked here and planted herself in a¡­¡±This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Sojele trailed off, and his eyes widened, and he exclaimed, ¡°What in the sun-baked hells of empty sea are you making!¡± Arlet¡¯s pacing had become feverish, as he insistently scratched symbols into the side of the flask with a thumbnail, pausing only to shake it next to his ear, listening for something. He ignored the question. ¡°Do you have another way out of this hut?¡± The old man gestured exasperatedly towards the smooth clay of his one-room home. ¡°What do you think? Now put that accursed-smelling thing away and compose yourself. We have another guest coming, and I think you know her.¡± His scowl seemed to center Arlet, somewhat, and he returned the flask to his pocket. He slumped against the wall again, eyes narrowed in thought. Even though he had been warned, he was startled visibly when the curtain that served as Sojele¡¯s door was flung open, and a young pink-faced woman, reddish brown hair a mess around her, stormed in, brandishing grey, blotchy hands. ¡°You filthy, smoke-addled, wrinkly shit-peddler!¡± Gertrude Adetta stomped single-mindedly towards the apothecary, shaking her grey fingers in his face. She was nearly shouting. ¡°Mix the berries, with mortar and pestle, you said! A little mint and water, and crush them up, and I¡¯d have something to soothe my bites! The things burst everywhere! How long will my hands be stained like this?¡± Arlet, who she had somehow failed to notice, interjected. ¡°About two weeks, I¡¯d reckon.¡± Adetta¡¯s furious face paled in an instant, as she froze. She surreptitiously brought her hands to her chest, and started to wring them, as though hoping to rub the blotchy stains out. She opened her mouth, failed to make a sound, and then closed it. Arlet crossed his arms over his chest and bent down to the woman¡¯s eye level. ¡°So, tell me about these bites of yours.¡± Adetta swallowed. ¡°Well, you said that the greyberries were numbing, and I¡¯ve been getting these nasty mosquito bites-¡± ¡°It¡¯s not really the weather for mosquitos, is it?¡± Arlet asked. Adetta stammered. ¡°W-well, you see-¡± This time Sojele interrupted, ¡°So you went all the way to the magiker¡¯s house, perhaps half an hour of walking uphill, to ask about your mosquito bites? Do you not trust your own Greynook apothecary with such a trouble?¡± His weathered face seemed to crinkle with gentle mirth. The young woman was backpedaling, and seemed near tears. ¡°No, of course I-I¡­¡± Adetta licked her lips, eyes darting between the two of them. She took a calming breath and quietly pushed her hair behind her shoulders with both hands. The small motion seemed to restore a shocking amount of composure to her, and a measure of confidence returned to her posture. Once she had herself together, Arlet spoke again, a cautious note of empathy softening his voice. ¡°Why do you want herbs that cause impotence?¡± Sojele drew in a surprised breath, and his eyebrows drew together. ¡°Oh, dear me. Greyberries indeed.¡± Adetta looked at him, now more quizzical than flustered. ¡°What is that supposed to mean?¡± The old man smiled, a little apologetically. ¡°Greyberries are an old joke among Fellen herb-sellers.¡± He glanced at Arlet. ¡°The magiker was lucky I knew of them. Sometimes people ask us for plants and tinctures to cause ill-effects, sickness, and the like. If the desired quality is too pernicious, most will simply turn the person away, but for simple mischief, some choose to make mischief in turn, and will offer greyberries. They stain, and they itch a little, but that is all.¡± Adetta looked from her hands, to Sojele, and then to Arlet. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the hut. THe air was still and the room was quiet for what felt like a full minute. Arlet let out a nervous chuckle and scratched his head. ¡°I might have handled that a little better.¡± Sojele didn¡¯t laugh or smile. Instead, he leveled concerned eyes at Arlet. ¡°You might have given counseling her more thought, but instead you made a joke of her. Did it make you feel that clever, magiker, to catch her in a lie? I, myself, feel some regret at selling her those berries.¡± He sighed. ¡°I suppose I, too, had an opportunity to ask her some questions. That has probably passed.¡± Sojele re-lit his pipe. ¡°I think she might be an amateur apothecary herself.¡± Arlet raised an eyebrow. ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°The exaggerated flushing and pailing of her face. A sympathetic makeup, if I¡¯m not missing my guess. And by the scent of burnt lavender and distilled rose on her shirt, she made it herself. No small task, that.¡± Arlet shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ll be damned.¡± Then, suddenly, he jerked upright. ¡±The woman who followed me! Is she still here?¡± ¡°She left when Adetta arrived.¡± Arlet eyed Sojele¡¯s nose with some trepidation, and a little amazement. ¡°Is there any chance that¡­ you know which way she went?¡± Sojele smiled, a kindly, knowing, charming smile that covered his face in a tapestry of lines. ¡°Nearly due north, into the woods. She left with some speed, and has shown no signs of changing course.¡± He puffed his pipe, then gestured with it towards the flask that had returned to Arlet¡¯s hands, and had begun to emit a low, sizzling hiss. ¡°Now, if it is all the same to you, I think you should leave me to my afternoon nap, and take that with you.¡± With a start, Arlet looked down at the container, then dashed out of the hut. Outside, the day was bright and cold, and the sun had burnt away the morning¡¯s fog. As he rushed towards the path, he could see far into the dense greenery surrounding the apothecary¡¯s remote home. He quickly scanned about and, spotting the slope of a nearby creek, hurled the flask into it before ducking behind a thick oak tree. There was a gentle splash, and then a great, wet explosion sounded from the creekbed. Arlet flinched and covered his head as mud, rocks, and a fern sailed through the air to land next to his hiding place. Panting, Arlet slid down the tree and, for a moment, buried his head in his hands. Slowly, he rose to his feet, dusted off his coat, and began to make his way down Sojele¡¯s path, back to Greynook.