The Slime Farmer - 43 Calor Ducan, Esq.

Calor Ducan, Esquire.

How he hated the name, the insignificance of it.

Ducan, the name of the minor cousin who had hidden his heritage from him. Esquire, an address that only emphasized how lacking his current circumstances were.

If he had not found his mother’s journal, he would never have found out that he was supposed to be Calor zi Asmovare, grandson of a great lord, last scion of a great line. Not even an ‘il’ but a ‘zi’ – part of the grand nobility that were descendants of kings and not the low nobles that were elevated from common or minor roots.

He would never have known that his father had been executed along with his uncles, and his bloodline was struck from the rolls of nobility by the emperor himself. The Ducan cousins that raised him, were they intending to let this matter go unremarked? He was the last, the blood within his veins had tinges of royalty!

How could they be so unambitious, so lacking that they would let his blood fade into obscurity, so…so ???????????????????????? that they steered him away from greatness? Faugh!

His lips curled in disgust.

He had long searched for a way to regain his titles and he was close. He could feel it. Who knew a visit to a diminished castletown by the Indar river would gain him a hint to such treasure?

It was the only reason he would ever come to this place, this Lowpool. Even the name was miserable.

He was only here to look for the Asmovare secret, the secret that papers saved from the ruined Asmovare castle hinted at. A secret that made even the emperor hesitate to go against the Asmovare family until the old marquis died. Hidden in the shade of the crocodile?

It had taken him months to know what that phrase meant. This wretched lake and this tiny town, why here? Why would the great lord that was his grandfather hide something so important here?

It was a stroke of luck, really, that the wine merchant made a mistake with his usual order. If not for the nervous babbling of the man’s wife, he would not have known such an obscure story as the legend of the Little Treachery existed.

He heard a commotion down below, where the servants were getting the small manor ready. Really, this town…who would call this barely acceptable house a manor?

He raised his eyes from the view of the duskleaf aspens and giltdagger bushes that obscured the sight of the other ‘manors’ that were built on the street.

A servant passing by froze at the sight of clear eyes, blue as the skies of summer and arresting as the first sight of the ocean, revealed in a face that would have turned the gaze of a deity. Lips full and sculpted for passion smiled at her.

She ducked her head, mortified, and scurried away.

Calor chuckled. She had an interesting look. Perhaps he could take a tour of the maidservants’ hall later.

He leaned away from the window seat, bending a gaze on the matter so noisy in the receiving hall below. The coat that usually fell to his ankles, pleated and embroidered so finely it looked plain from a distance, fell open to reveal trousers made of fine wool woven in patterned subtle plaid, and boots made of strange leather that shimmered as the light changed.

“I said the pear. Pear green!” Agreine held up the cloth to the servant’s view. “This is basil green. Basil! I already said it was for the chair with the gold cushions. Do you know what a basil green throw looks like paired with gold cushions in a room with rose curtains?”

The servant quickly took the woven throw away.

“Horrid!” cried Agreine after his hurrying figure. “It looks horrid, do you hear?”

She huffed, quickly fixed her hair, and went into the next room with a frown at the merman statue in the alcove. She turned, to see another servant bringing in a pile of cushions. “Remove this thing. We cannot have a beast leering at all and sundry as they pass. This is the receiving hall. Mer statues, how barbaric.”

“Yes, madam.”

She walked on.

“Those stools, why are you placing them there?”

“They’re traditional, madam.”

“I have not heard this tradition.”

“The old master of the house—”

“Ah. An arbitrary tradition.” She lost interest. “They’re out of place. We want an elegant hall, a hall with class, not a tavern. Replace them. There are black-applewood chairs with red seakrait leather seats in the esquire’s things. Use them.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Change the flowers in the left small hall, I see them wilting.”

“Yes, madam.”

She swept out the receiving hall to the front courtyard, servants hanging on her every word.

He laughed quietly.

Really, how amusing. She showed her lack of understanding with every word. If she were not so useful, this wine merchant’s wife, he would not have given her a chance to even look at him.

What did she know of elegance, this fishmonger’s daughter, this merchant’s wife? The foundation of class was arbitrary tradition. How else would a person set himself apart from those below him? The servants knew that better than she did, despite her airs.

He saw Bram look askance at the hurricane of organizing the woman was doing. He glanced upward, at Calor, who waved the matter away.

Bram climbed the stairs, disgruntled. “She removed the mer statue?”

“Let her be. She won’t be back to this place after today, in any case. You can put the statue back if you wish.”

“Good. There’ll be assumptions if you let her have charge of your household like this.”

Calor touched a hand lightly to his chest. “Why, Bram. She is married, the wife of a friend, don’t you know? Despite her charms, you think I would touch her? She is too old.”

“She’s barely past twenty, and years younger than you.”

“A number is not indicative of age, my friend. She has that herbalists house to putter around, doesn’t she? Tell her she won’t need to come here again, if you’re so bothered.”

“I still don’t know why anyone would buy that property. It’s ill-used and the land is tired. What can grow there?”

“I forgot your family are nomads.” What could a wanderer know of land that gripped your heart and roots that made your blood burn?

When he saw the bare earth where Castle Asmovare once stood, even the stones hauled away and the gardens ripped out, he felt such emotion as he had never felt before in his life. He vowed to raise it again, larger and more powerful than before.

Bram snorted. “Nomad or not, we still know better than to buy dead land.”

“Enough about it. You have news.”

“The herbalist’s neighbors are moving out. They just sold to the boy.”

Calor turned away, put an elbow on the windowsill and propped his chin on his hand. “Mm.”

Bram swallowed. “There used to be an old fort west of the Garge homestead, it was destroyed over twenty years ago. There’s a chest of things hidden in a nearby cave, but the contents were paper. They’ve rotted down.”

“Nothing at all?”

His tone was lightly enquiring. Bram quickly reached into his coat.

“Just this.” He brought out a piece of leather. “I believe it’s a map. I’ve not seen the place it shows before.”

Calor gestured, and Bram spread the scrap of leather on the window seat.

The esquire leaned over it, then his brows came together. “It is a map. I’ve never seen such a strange depiction, however. It’s a map of the noble domain that once ruled over these lands.”

Bram pointed. “There are locations that appear to have been deliberately scratched out.”

Calor Ducan nodded. His finger touched a dark patch on the side, pressing down some of the flaked surface of the waxed leather map.

His friend looked at the black symbol that was taking shape. “A tree?”

A smile touched the full lips of the man beside him. “A garganel. They call it the shadow tree in these parts, a tree that guards the path to the underworld.”

Bram nodded. “I suppose the circular ‘leaves’ on the tree match the scratched out locations. Should I send people to check out these places?”

Calor shook his head. “Don’t bother. Feints, merely. To hide this.”

He touched one of the locations where the ink had been carefully scraped off.

“Do you know, Bram, when the world was young, beasts ruled the earth?”

“They offended the heavens and were muzzled,” Bram rolled his eyes. “And became the playthings of the weakest race, called humans. What of it?”

“In the beginning, there was a crocodile of the great river, the mother river, the river of life, who found no solace but in war and murder. And when the heavens proclaimed peace between all races, the crocodile rebelled so mightily that deities descended upon the earth to subdue it.”

“I do not see—”

“The head was smashed into the earth, and restrained by divine chains. The lashing tail was curled forcibly and sank into the ground. The limbs were cut off and tossed into the mother river. Only the body was left to wriggle and writhe unrestrained, in fury and pain, in hopeless hope. Listen well, you children, for this is the story of the Little Treachery. Be wary, oh children, for the Lowpool is the head of the crocodile. And it only rises for blood.”

Calor smiled at his confused companion. “Rather well done tale, wouldn’t you think?”

“I’ve heard better.”

“The good Madam Agreine is not the equal of your story-singers, I agree.” His smile widened. “But thanks to her, the path has opened to me. The boy will bend whether he wants to or not. What can a farmer do? We’ll endure a few weeks more, Bram. But then, we’ll rise to heights these people cannot even imagine.”

Bram looked at him, then nodded, as he always did, in full belief.

**

Chapter End

**

.

Notes:

Duskleaf aspen – a tree with leaves that shade from lavender to dark purple, thought to bless a household with longevity and success

Giltdagger bush – a plant usually used as a hedge, with small tapering yellow leaves that tinged red at the tip and edges.