The Slime Farmer - 116 Turning Wine and Tears

Mulling wine for the Ascharonian palate was not as simple as it sounded.

Garun, once more, had tricked Defi into a misconception.

It was nothing close to ‘a little bit of this and that, a little bit of something from here and there, make sure the coals are glowing beautifully, swish the pot around a little bit, and you’ll have a nice hot spiced wine, simple eh?’ at all.

Defi frowned deeply at the recipe for spiced wine in ‘The Bluzand Book of Cookery’.

Vesia had sent the book along with his subscriptions to various journals and circularies, saying that it was a disgrace for a Bluzand partner not to have it.

There were seventeen different spices, herbs, and fruits in the recipe, along with three pages of instructions and notes on how to prepare them and when to add them to the concoction.

How was this simple?!

The recipe was quite thorough. There were even suggestions on substitute ingredients, depending on the taste of the one preparing the wine.

Thankfully, he only had the ingredients for the one with seventeen spices and fruits. It was the simplest mulled wine recipe in the book, with the other two having more than thirty ingredients.

Defi had some awareness of himself, after years of meditating with the Current. He knew that if he had the thirty ingredients, then he would be following the recipe with the thirty ingredients rather than the current one.

In simple matters, he always chose the most difficult option.

If only in more complex matters he wasn’t so indecisive perhaps he would still be back in Ontrea.

He paused at that unbidden thought, then gripped the knife tighter.

He pressed the sansu peel into the cutting board, ignoring the flash of self-blame, concentrating on trying to get the slivers as thin as possible. It was the last ingredient he had to prepare, everything else having already been sliced, diced, ground, juiced, peeled, and so on.

Even if he was more decisive in various matters, it was unlikely that the lord of Rimet would also change.

Defi would always be Defi.

And perhaps Defi was someone who would always have left Ontrea.

A scary thought, but it was a thought that had been lurking in his mind for some time now.

The knife skidded across the cutting board and Defi snatched back his hand before the blade could touch his skin. He tested the blade across his thumb, and determined that he should set aside a day to sharpen the kitchen knives.

He set the knife aside, eyed the result of his cutting.

This was enough for the ‘one large pinch of sansu peel, sliced as thin as you can get’ in the ingredient list, yes?

How much was a large pinch? Was it using more fingers or more surface area between fingers? If he could not slice the peel thinly at all, would it affect the taste of the wine?

To Defi who only knew how to make several dishes, it was slightly frustrating.

If it was so arbitrary, he thought, wouldn’t it be fine if he removed an ingredient or two?

The problem was, he had never needed to cultivate an intuition for cooking, and didn’t know how to tweak a recipe to get something he liked.

Ah, forget it. He’d already prepared the ingredients anyway.

If the recipe was tested by Bluzand, who had Sarel advising them, it should taste good no matter who drank it, shouldn’t it?

He set up the flameless stove and four small pots of water to first boil and steep several spices and herbs.

Those were only the first four of seven different pots to be used.

By his estimate, it would take an hour before all the ingredients were finally together in the big cylindrical pot that had been part of the supplies he bought for winter.

An hour.

It was already full dark, several hours since he left the northern farm. In another hour, they likely would think he wouldn’t be returning. He sighed at the raft of bubbling pots before him.

He was truly not jesting: this spiced wine better be delicious.

The fragrance that started to permeate the rooms of the house as the spices and fruits were carefully added together, strained, mashed, separated and mixed with other ingredients, made him optimistic about the prospects of the wine.

He put his focus on timing and careful decoction, moving in a trance of concentration, before they were all poured into the final pot with the wine.

Come to think of it, wasn’t this like Ontrean alchemy?

His lips twitched.

Those proud alchemists back home would certainly faint with anger if he said that in this world, their alchemy would not be comparable to the cookery.

Defi took the pot off the stove, added the final ingredients, and covered the pot, letting everything come together as it cooled a bit.

He again inspected the cask he’d be pouring the final result in, moving his gaze carefully over the inside and outside. There was an Emblem already etched on the cask.

It was a public design for containers that needed to be insulated. He inspected the Emblem as well, looking for flaws, breaks in the ink.

Satisfactory.

That was his final verdict for both cask and Emblem.

He returned to the cylindrical pot, took a ceramic cup, and ladled some of the mulled wine to sample. He breathed in the enchanting scent.

Garun’s spiced wine had not smelled so delightful. Would the wine then be more delicious than that nostalgic taste?

He lifted the cup to his lips.

A faint thudding on the front door made him pause.

“Is anyone home? Please help!”

It was an unfamiliar voice.

Defi put down the steaming cup, walked toward the former slime room that was now empty of slimes and slime extract barrels.

Turq was lounging on a basket of zaziphos, but didn’t protest when Defi scooped it into his arms. The slime only crawled obligingly up its owner’s shoulder and extended its boy to flop onto Defi’s head as he walked through the candle-lit receiving hall and to the front door.

The security Emblems on the house were good, but Defi still opened the door cautiously.

“Thank the Seven-Colored!” The woman outside dripped with water and mud, her face wet with more than just rain, her voice trembling.

It was not that which had Defi opening the door wide. He recognized the limp figure of the mud-splattered and sodden youth all but hanging off her shoulders.

His eyes widened.

The rain was only just abating. Had they walked here from town? Why?

“Please…” she begged. “My brother, he needs help.”

Defi was already moving to take Haral’s other arm as she spoke. “What happened?”

“He went into the river, the idiot. The big idiot,” the woman thumped the barely moving Haral as Defi pulled them inside, nearly sobbing.

“On the rug before the fire,” Defi instructed, pushing down his confusion.

The river again?

Haral felt nearly as frozen as the girl he and Barham had dragged out of the drink.

The woman swayed in fatigue as Defi took most of her brother’s weight, laying him down directly in front of the fireguard. But she moved to stoke the embers, in the fireplace.

Defi tossed more than a few pieces of wood over the glowing coals, watched them blaze high and warm before going to the kitchen.

He ladled out two cups of hot spiced wine, and brought them back to the hall, forced one of the cups into the woman’s trembling hands after gently prying them from where they had fisted tightly in Haral’s wet coat. She was collapsed beside her brother, shivering in the heat of the fire.

“Drink it,” he said. “It’ll help.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, but didn’t move the cup to her lips.

There was a blankness in her gaze, and one of her hands had once more attached itself to her brother’s sleeve, as if the youth would disappear if she didn’t have him in her grasp.

Defi was from a nation of warriors. He had as the son of a noble leader the duty of watching over the leaving and returning of armies, had seen many scenes of reunion and parting play out to cries of joy and mourning entwined.

On the features of Haral’s older sister was unmistakable grief.

He attempted to reassure her. “Miss, he’s fine, just a little cold.”

Kneeling next to her, he studied Haral. The youth was barely conscious, and there was a wound on his temple that Defi hadn’t noticed before. The blood welling out was not excessive, which was a good sign.

The woman noticed as well. “Oh no. Did I…?”

She put down her cup and dabbed the edge of her scarf to the wound, distressed.

“Head wounds bleed greatly. That there is so little blood means it is not a serious injury.” Unless he hit his head hard enough to gain a concussion, Defi amended.

He didn’t say that though. Haral’s sister looked worried enough to cry as it was. He would try savras extract later, after the two changed out of their wet clothes. The priority at the moment was warming them up. They looked unhealthily pale, the both of them.

Haral flinched at his sister’s ministrations, raised his head a little, eyes trying to focus before he closed them again. “Ad…?”

“Have him drink the wine.” Defi urged.

“It’s wine?” The woman eyed the cup she’d put down, her voice not so weak now. Defi was glad she seemed to be getting herself together.

“Yes. It should warm him up a little.” He placed the second cup near the first.

He remembered that Sarel had forced brunwine down his throat when they first met. The brunwine had burned like fire from his stomach, very effective.

He had no hard alcohol, so the hot spiced wine should do.

The woman didn’t say more and raised Haral’s head to cradle in her arm.

“Haral.” She brought her cup of hot spiced wine to the youth’s lips. “Drink this. You’ll feel better.”

“Wha…? Ad?”

“I’m here too,” Defi snorted at the youth, to lighten the atmosphere. “What were you thinking, trying to swim in this weather?”

Haral’s eyes opened wide and he struggled to get up. His sister held him down, offering the cup of mulled wine.

He ignored it, trying to stand.

“Ad,” he protested. “Ama—”

“No.” His sister interrupted, almost harsh, and pressed the cup firmly to his lips. She seemed entirely a different person from earlier. “Drink. Please.”

To Defi’s surprise, tears gathered and fell down Haral’s face and the youth suddenly stopped struggling. Even as his sister forced him to drink the wine, tears rolled down his cheeks unceasing. His sister wiped at them silently with trembling fingers.

Defi felt uncomfortable, witnessing this. It seemed his words had the opposite effect.

As discreetly and speedily as he could, he withdrew.

He went into his room and readied a set of clothes, as he contemplated the day’s events.

Was it a coincidence?

Too unlikely.

He lay out the clothes, thinking. They would fit Haral’s sister well enough. Not Haral though. Even younger by a few years, Haral was nearly Defi’s height and more muscular by far.

Defi sighed and entered the store-room to find some of Kern’s clothes.

He piled the selection of clothes on the bed in one of the guestrooms, then reluctantly returned to the receiving hall.

The two were standing now, heads close together and speaking. They still looked cold, but not as much as earlier.

Neither looked like they were crying at the moment, and Defi sighed in relief.

He stepped toward them, about to call, when he heard Haral’s words.

“We have to go back, we have to. I found her chair, Ad! She can’t be far.”

“I know. But Haral, you can’t…you have to take care of yourself too. We must prepare—”

“No. No, I won’t, not until I see—”

With this conversation, Defi understood.

His suspicions turned into certainty, and he didn’t hesitate anymore. He cleared his throat, interrupting Haral.

They both whirled, to see him smiling gently.

“I don’t suppose one young girl, about this high, sandy-colored hair, is who you’re looking for?”