The Slime Farmer - 39 You Stole My Land!

Defi had lived alone on a farm for two years with only Garun as a regular visitor. He was constantly surprised how difficult it was to adjust to having people around, after that.

Sarel was a hermit herself, and didn’t mind him going off on his own at all hours. Falie chattered as they worked, but it was more him listening than anything else. He’d learned much from her constant stream of talk, in fact. He’d even improved his Ascharonian accent. In contrast, her husband Hames had barely said two sentences to him in the entirety of their acquaintance.

He wasn’t blind to the fact that Sarel introduced him to the orphanage because she didn’t think he should be a recluse at his age. Maybe he should tell her that cloistered sages were very respected people in Ontrea?

She would probably call them idiot hypotheticians, with some rant on how a person could know the world if they did not walk it end to end.

He did learn from Garun that the average Ascharonian view to becoming a master of life and fate was connected to travel rather than cloistering – giving oneself to the world rather than secluding oneself from the world.

Defi thought that if Maryiz were here she would say, with a twinkle in her eye, that both approaches were one and the same. Then she would engage Defi in a teaching debate to prove and disprove her statement. She was a philosopher, a priestess, a respected teacher and elder.

Defi missed her.

She would laugh at him being in charge of three children, then give him the advice he sorely needed.

He didn’t think what inviting three children into his house would entail, only thought to get them away from the town.

In the three days since Aire and he made that sunset trip up the river with three children hidden in scows, he’d possibly corrupted the youngest at least twice a day, lost said youngest once a day, got the quizzical looks from the two oldest ten times a day, regularly answered numerous questions in the range of ‘what are you doing?’ and ‘why?’, and had to constantly find ways to tire them so there would be less questions and more sleeping at night.

He settled with chores as the solution.

On the positive side, he now had several planter pots seeded with the three varieties of Kern’s hybrid herbs, the house was more free of dust than when two matrons had gone over it in the manner of two small hurricanes, the stones of the floor and the wash house were scrubbed to shining, and he had several hands to gather starcherries from the land near the western boundary.

Apparently starcherry bushes were considered undesirable as a crop, more a weed as it really did grow anywhere. It had little vitality, and its only use was to make sauce and juice. Even then, there were tart sauces and sour juices aplenty of better quality and taste.

It really was perfect for Defi’s needs. It cost nothing but labor and time.

“Are we going back to the orchard?” Another constant question. He glanced at Markar, who had an expectant look on his face.

That first day, Sarel had been remarkably tolerant of the three, considering he once heard her call the orphanage children ‘noise-making plague-carriers’. His peace offering, a quartel each of fresh snow squid and blue shrimp, was accepted with only a critical hum.

He’d made sure to buy the squid with the highest vitality on the market. It was not from the lake but had been transported up the River Indar from the coast.

The blue shrimp was, despite the inexpensive price, the most vitality-rich Lowpool product after sable crab and sunstripe bass.

During the mid-day meal, Sarel’s spice-roasted squid with sour zaziphos sauce and the shrimp cream soup paired with fresh soft bread was a revelation to the children.

Defi very much understood the awe with which they looked at her. The woman was certain to be some avatar of a deity of cuisine or something in that vein of thought.

Then Defi thought of how Sarel made him climb the house to re-shingle her roof for three days straight because according to her ‘they looked crooked’, the hours she made him cut cabbage until he got callus on his fingers, the initial days she made him do the deliveries but only told him the names of the clients and not the locations. How many people were named Charol in the Lowpool? Because Defi met fourteen and none of them were the client.

The three were going to live with him for weeks. He should spread the joy of suddenly having children, yes? His lips curved.

“We are,” he answered the boy. “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow was a delivery day for the couple who owned the courtyard house built around a fragrantly blooming purple tree that was similar to a jacaranda. He would say it was a jacaranda, but these mountains were too cold for it and the flowers too reddish.

Like Lergen, the couple made zaziphos jam. They were in fact responsible for most of the many jams the townspeople regularly used.

Tomorrow, he’d let Sarel deal with the children. After all, it would be rude to deny guests who were sincerely wanting to help. In addition, it was only polite for guests to lend assistance to their host.

His smile widened by an infinitesimal degree.

“Really, we are?” Renne was looking at him suspiciously.

“Sarel is a private person,” he said, beatifically. “Grumpy, brusque, frowny. But she won’t eat you.”

Maybe just gnaw on them a little. Metaphorically, of course.

But the children were astute. They’d survive.

Renne’s suspicious look abated only a little.

See? Very astute.

“I’m going to town. Don’t bother Tholme and the others. They’re taking down the roof. If you must watch, do it from a distance.” He put Turq in one of the baskets of zaziphos.

Barrey had come by earlier to warn him they were doing just that, and that they were also starting to dig a channel to the river.

The warehouse was coming along nicely, it seemed. If only other parts of the farm would be as simple to manage.

*

Defi entered the town hall.

It had taken him a day more of exploring the western boundary before he knew what land he wanted to buy. He’d let the children pick baskets and baskets of starcherries as he explored. They were happy playing around the bushes, and it took so much of their youthful energy that he found them sleeping in the meadow.

Yes, yesterday had been a good day.

Defi looked around the town hall. It seemed he had to wait a few minutes for the clerk to be free.

He didn’t mind; there were more people in the town hall today than usual and people watching was one way to learn to blend in. Most in the building were average townspeople, but one or two had the more elaborate clothing that city-people and the wealthier townspeople preferred.

Not many people came to the Lowpool, as the roads were scarcely maintained and bandits were only barely kept at bay. But there were a few in town today.

Rocso once said there was one thing that differentiated a wealthy Lowpooler from a city cosmopolite: the Lowpooler knew better than to wear velvet shoes in the lands of the Treachery.

Even if the shoes were the more durable kind of cotton velvet.

Defi was studying various footwear with half-lidded eyes when the clerk finally smiled him over.

“What is your name?” He greeted her. “I feel remiss not knowing until now. I am Defi.”

“Karis, young sir. How may I help you today, now that you have no guide at your side?”

The clerk was the same person he’d been meeting for several major changes in his life. This time as well, was his first experience buying land in both worlds.

Actually, even had his father not interfered with the Trials, he doubted he would have the experience of buying his own land – as an adult member of the family, he could have requisitioned an estate or two for his own use with a letter of rationale to the man who’d been one of the last to see him in Rimet: Janef, the relative who managed the family properties.

He gave a brief smile to match her amusement, acknowledging that being dragged into the town hall by determined women was out of the norm for the typical town hall experience. “Is there a procedure for buying land?”

“If you have your residence papers, I can help you right away. Do you know the plot number or the owner of the land you want to buy?”

He shook his head. “I just want to expand the western boundary of the property by fifty mar or so. A small purchase only, but I do not know the plot number.”

It would add a bit over two hecte to the homestead, if his calculations were correct.

“That’s fine.” She brought out a map.

Defi added, belatedly. “Ah, I was told it was sold to the town some years ago.”

“Oh! Then you are repurchasing from the town?” She brought out a different map.

“Repurchase? I thought that was only offered to the original owner?”

“You live on one of the first three hundred steadings. The deeds from back then are different, and the emperor affirmed the laws of the old marquisate after the Fall, so you might say the Garge homestead is the original owner.”

There was a gasp behind Defi.

“You!”

The single word shrieked through the hall. It couldn’t be ignored.

A woman, in too-elaborate dress and cotton velvet shoes, pointed at Defi in indignant accusation.

“You stole my land!”