The Slime Farmer - 26 The View Differs Where I Stand

“Come in, come in!” The assayer grew a little somber but still invited them into his house heartily. He ushered them into one of the rooms, gestured them to sit.

Immediately a man appeared at the table, and poured wine for the three of them, and arranged a plate of thinly sliced meats within easy reach. That done, he placed the wine bottle in a cradle and disappeared.

Defi was impressed by the silent service. It would not falter before the ability of servants for the Ontrean courts. He ignored the curiously large non-human ears growing from the sides of the man’s head.

“Delos of Rimet,” their host greeted, now that they were ensconced comfortably within his house. His eyes were sharp, though not accusing.

It appeared Marmon Chacort knew a little of the trouble shadowing Defi. The assayer was a highly intelligent man, despite the outward mask of loud joviality. There was no need to hide what could be easily deduced from the fracas at Stahlchausses.

Defi inclined his head, respectful, to both the older people at the table. “I was born Desislaf, and now go by Defi. I can no longer use the name of my birth, but would prefer Defi over Delos.” He turned to the assayer. “I hope my sister did not give you too much grief?”

“That terrifying child,” sighed Marmon Chacort. “She was very polite. I told her everything, of course.”

“I would not expect less.” Defi nodded. It was the smart thing to do, after all. Besides, the man had likely only told Ymirin everything that was verifiable by public witness.

“She was confused about the baby. Does your family not know you had a child? She asked quite a few questions about it.”

Defi paused as he was reaching for a piece of meat. Across from him, Sarel, who had been silently watchful as more of his background was revealed, had to drain her wine goblet to hide her shock.

“Ymirin asked about the baby?”

“I think she only wanted to confirm rumor, and was surprised that it was true.”

Defi reached for the wine bottle instead of the meat platter. He poured a generous amount into his goblet. He took a large sip, before clarifying, “The baby is not mine. But there was no logical reason two servants would take their child through the Gate, so we pretended. Do I truly look like I could be a father?”

At his slightly despondent question, Sarel snorted in amusement. Marmon Chacort grinned wide. “Truly, you have an air of paternality about you—”

“Please stop.”

“Do you know he has children stalking him whenever he goes to the orphanage?” Sarel put in, drawling the question.

Marmon laughed.

Defi gave her an annoyed glance. She smirked at him.

He did not know that, in fact. A few children come up to him from time to time, especially Mureil and her friends who were interested in his views on joining the military, but he would not call it stalking.

“But really, the old man that was your interpreter, he is the father?” Marmon’s amusement abated, though his eyes still gleamed.

“Garun is only sixty, despite the white hair, and Samti not close to forty. It is not so surprising.” He knew people who were still fecund enough to welcome children every few years at the age of eighty.

“They do not appear to be with you?”

“We separated in Stahlchausses. They’re somewhere south, setting up their farm.” At least, Defi hoped so. They should have had at least a day ahead of any pursuit Ymirin could mount.

“I see. You will stay for the mid-day meal, certainly. I am not a bad cook, you know! But of course, as Sarel is here, I will bow to her expertise on food.”

Sarel gave the fleshy man a look. Marmon only grinned back.

That sally soon saw all three of them taking over the kitchen. Sarel’s bag had a number of pots and bottles, her personal mix of spices, herbs, and other condiments, plus several ingredients that she planned to use today.

One of the few kitchen workers started heating up large pans nearby, at Sarel’s instruction.

“Oh, is this Grozier cheese?” Marmon lifted a chunk of brown and yellow, one of the things taken from Sarel’s bag, crumbled some pieces into his hand, and inhaled. “It is! Sarel, you truly do like me!”

There were tears in his eyes, the hand with pieces of cheese cradled close to his heart.

“No,” refuted Sarel immediately, as she chopped the shallots into fine pieces. “It would go bad if I left it longer, so I brought it here.”

Marmon sighed deeply, then looked at Defi for succor.

Defi ignored him and kept washing ingredients and placing them in sieve baskets to dry. Horn clam and bearpaw clam, blue shrimp, river crab, catfish, white turnips, different kinds of beans, spinach, chard, and a few other vegetables and herbs he didn’t know.

Despite the cheap ingredients, it seemed today’s mid-day meal was going to be more outrageous than usual. Just the smell of spices sizzling in oil, already permeating the kitchens, made his mouth water.

Seeing no help from the younger man, Marmon tossed the cheese into his mouth as if to heal himself from these cold personalities that shared his kitchen. He mumbled to himself, “Delicious, so flavorful, and the texture not too refined. Excellent, excellent cheese.”

He wandered into a small doorway, muttering all the while. Defi took a moment to be concerned.

But seconds later, the man rushed out the doorway, slapped a large silver-blue carp onto one of the four cooking areas in the large kitchen, took out a knife and started descaling the fish even as it flapped on the stone counter, still alive.

Sarel sent a meaningful glare at the man who was gracefully descaling the fish that was longer than a whole arm in a manner that the scales fell directly into a refuse bucket. But she only spoke to one of Marmon’s kitchen workers, telling the man to bring added ingredients.

Defi finished at his station. He opened the water barrel, lifted the filtering cloth protecting the water. It needed refilling. He turned, then nearly ran into a woman carrying two full water buckets. “Oh, sorry. Good timing.”

He uncovered the water barrel and helped her pour her buckets in. It did not fill even half the barrel. He lifted down two buckets from a stack for himself. “Where is the well?”

Was the cooking together part of Ascharon negotiation custom too? Garun didn’t tell him that. But as it related to food, it would be important anyway. He didn’t know how to cook, so he might as well make himself useful in other ways.

The woman smiled at him, a brief lifting of the lips. “This way.”

She led him to the back of the house. The view from the back of the house was more expansive.

Only part of the land was used for farming, he could see now. The rest of the small pocket of lakeshore was kept to woodland.

It was very idyllic.

They passed a series of one story houses. Outside one of them, an old man lounged, white haired and knobbly fingered, nearly skin and bone but with lively eyes. He peered at them.

“Little Gide, this young man cannot be Gosseu?”

Defi carefully did not react at the casual use of Ontrean.

The woman shook her head, replied in Ascharon. “Gosseu is still in Agamarl, elder. This is…”

“Defi. Grace be to your day, elder.” It was said in Ascharonian, but it was a traditional Ontrean greeting.

The old man laughed, jewel-colored eyes scrutinizing him. “And to yours, young Defi.”

“He returns the greeting,” said the woman…Gide?

Defi smiled in acknowledgement.

She turned to the elder, “Madam Sarel has come by.”

“A good day to eat good food. Go, go, I will not keep you longer.”

“That’s Old Jahaf,” Gide murmured as they continued to the covered well that was visible nearby. “He’s been here for decades now, first with Mestre Marmocha’s father. Gosseu is his grandson.”

Defi nodded, mired in thought. He clearly saw the scars of a crudely removed slave mark on the old man’s arm. It still spelled the same familiar phrase.

“What work does he do?”

“He used to take care of the winged goats. He still spends time in the stables, but most of his duties are now Omfe’s. He’s more a retired elder for everyone here. Mestre Marmocha is very kind.”

“Yes, I thought so.”

She beamed at him, happy at the praise toward her employer.

“Are there many winged goats here?”

“Just the two teams, and the two oldest. The goats were bred by Mestre Marmocha from his parents summons. He made the summon emblems for them on his own. He uses them for travel, as his business brings him all over.”

If by ‘team’, Gide meant the four he saw in Stahlchausses, then there were ten winged goats around.

“Is flying faster than a sailboat?”

She did not mind his questions, so they talked easily as they drew water to fill the buckets. The old man Jahaf was asleep on his chair on the porch when they passed on the way back.

As they passed, an amethyst-colored eye, dulled by age but still bright, cracked open and followed their progress.

*

*

“I thought that was why you came,” Marmon looked troubled, when Defi told him he needed to change coins. “Rimet coinage is selling dearer than ever, but the exchanges are now scrutinized more by the commerce ministry. That sister of yours…she’s unrelenting.”

Defi frowned, a headache forming. Ymirin gained enough influence in three months to have such a hold on an important branch of the imperial government?

“It is within her capabilities,” he said. “but only in Rimet, where the family is known.”

Even if she was so capable, here in Ascharon she was only a twelve year old foreign girl. “What leverage did she use?”

Gold or information would be the most–

“It is being whispered that she is a princess of Ontrea.”

That was indeed good leverage. There were two World Gates that connected Ontrea and Ascharon. Nobles do not go through the Gates. The trade deals between Ontrea and nations beyond the Gates had always been conducted through commoner merchants.

To have an Ontrean royal descendant in Ascharon…

It was incredibly good leverage.

Defi opened his mouth to deny it, then frowned. The lords of Rimet were not royals. There were clear delineations.

But here in Ascharon, those delineations did not exist. The current lord of Rimet’s mother, Defi’s paternal grandmother, had been the daughter of a former king of Ontrea and a born princess with the official bloodline seal to prove it.

In Ascharonian tradition, ruling emperor’s children were archdukes and archduchesses, his grandchildren would be princes and princesses. The title of ‘prince’ or ‘princess’ persisted for three generations then lost royal status and became part of the ordinary nobility.

“By Ascharonian culture, indeed, Ymirin would legitimately be the daughter of the son of an archduchess.” She was a daughter of the first wife of the lord of Rimet.

That was too much trouble to process. Defi’s headache increased by just saying it.

“But not in Ontrea?” Sarel lifted a brow.

“In Ontrea, royals are only limited to the immediate family of the ruler. Grandchildren do not count unless they are the children of the designated heir to the kingdom.”

Once royal status was lost, it could not be returned.

Because of that one enduring maxim, the descendants of the brothers and sisters of the ruling king or queen could not inherit the kingdom even if all the royals were lost. If the royal family died, the kingdom would die with them. The nobles of Ontrea so immersed themselves in the idea of the kingdom that literally no one, even the king’s enemies, wanted that.

If Ymirin was going around being called a princess, even in another dimension, the king would surely have a few words with the lord of Rimet.

Was his father so unreasonable that she went so far just to find Defi? Or did she have other motives? Was it even her doing?

Defi sighed. Well, as long as Ymirin never actually called herself a princess, and only used the rumors to increase her status, then things would be fine.

For her, that is.

For Defi, this development only made him dread the inevitable day he would see her again.