The Slime Farmer - 77 An Excess of Students

The sky lightened in patches of grey and white, the blue still hidden by the false dawn. Defi opened his eyes and stood up, smelling the blooming of the sansu tree that stretched its branches above him; the fruit tree once more supple with youth and life.

One more tree flowered, reborn from the withered husk it was before.

The land was starting to heal itself, encouraged by the Current Defi had been expending through it. It was not so tiring a task anymore.

Defi felt refreshed, more than anything else; as if the dew of the morning had been returned to him for his efforts. He took Turq from the branch of a sansu tree and started back to the house.

In another week or so, the land would not need his frequent injections of Current as the stimulated areas natural energies started to balance. After that, he could concentrate on reviving the sansu trees and supporting the Herbs. He hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, expected himself to keep circulating Current through the land for at least another month.

The soil in Ascharon was truly different from the soil in Ontrea.

Garun was lucky he had a Current-farmer like Samti with him or the blackspice seedling he had sent with the man would not be able to adjust to the world by just replanting in the soil. Even if Samti’s Current-abilities were not equal to Defi’s, she still knew how to work Current through the land.

This incompatible soil was likely the reason exchanges of crops between worlds was deemed a failure by history. The crops of Ontrea would be overwhelmed by the vitality of Ascharonian land. The crops of Ascharon would act the same as Kern’s hybrid herbs and decimate Ontrean land.

Even with the Current-farmers of Ontrea, the average Ascharonian crops would take too much effort and energy to sustain. And the most tradable crops in Ascharon would be mystic plants.

Ontrean alchemists could do so much with those.

But it was an unfortunate waste.

He, who was a low-adept, was supporting only three plots of greedy energy-guzzling hybrid Herbs and thought he could only support one or two more plots in the daily schedule he had now.

Most Current-farmers in Ontrea did not reach abilities above high-initiate. Ontrean soil would never have as much vitality as Ascharonian land no matter how much Current was expended in it, and a crop that needed a constant stream of Current through the weeks or months of its maturity was a crop even a wealthy noble would balk at planting.

Too little gain for too much effort and time.

Animals were easier to trade between worlds.

He knew that some of the horses of Ontrea were hybrids, faster and stronger and smaller than the ordinary local stock. The grace of Ontrean horses was known in history, their sleek forms unique and prized even in the lands beyond Ontrea. Rimetian chargers, in a coveted addition to that sleek grace, had successfully added great endurance and a particular vigor as a result of hybrid breeding.

He knew that the docile Ontrean white pigs were a popular item for Gate-trade. He didn’t know how Ascharon bred them however.

He had seen a herd of white pigs in Stahlchausses river docks, awaiting transport, but since then he’d not seen any porcine animals apart from distant sightings of rockboar in the cliffs around the Lowpool.

The small sansu orchard grew near enough to the house that Defi could navigate the path in the lightening dark. He entered through the kitchen yard.

He flicked on the lamp that sat on the kitchen table, carried it to the slime room and started on the morning extraction and feeding.

The morning’s efforts topped out the third quartels from Jar, Lar, and Mal. The others, barring Zav, still had several days to go before filling up their second quartels.

He brought the Shyleaf from the underground storage and dumped fourteen kilogar of it into Turq’s feeding basket. He kept a kilogar for himself, curious about the taste. He’d add it to today’s lunch.

The sun was peeking over the eastern mountains when Defi untied the scow from its moorings and started poling downriver. The wooden tubs for his daily supply of slime feed were empty and meticulously clean on the flat bottom of the boat.

By the time he docked, the sunlight illuminated the whole of the bustling marketplace. The early fishing boats had come and gone, and the later ones were nearly finished unloading their catch.

He took the tubs and strolled toward his usual suppliers. They should have sold enough crab and carp to feed a battalion by now.

Sure enough, Grenia and Marte were busily selling the last of their supply. Grenia winked upon seeing him and gestured to the elderly man packing some of the larger orders. Those orders were likely for trade in other towns, seeing the complicated preservation Emblems on the barrels and tubs.

Defi caught the silver-haired man’s eye.

“Good morn, elder,” he greeted, in the Ascharonian manner. Though calling old people the equivalent of ‘elder’ was more common in Ontrea, it was also known as an expression of respect in Ascharon. “I am Defi. Shall I leave the tubs here?”

The man eyed him without stopping his work, grunted in agreement, then seemingly ignored him to focus on stuffing chunks of silver-blue carp fillet into a cental-sized barrel.

Defi put the tubs down, unconcerned with the lack of words in the answer. The latter stages of the dawn market were a busier time for everyone. More people were awake, more people came to acquire the day’s food.

“I’ll come back later,” he called as he went off in search of breakfast. He made a beeline toward the grilled squid in starcherry sauce he’d discovered some weeks ago. The man had expanded, his wife now also joining him with battered and fried squid drizzled with the same sauce.

Defi acquired one of each and sauntered through the market, munching on seafood.

The grilled squid was smoky and tender, the fried squid had crunchy outsides and tender juicy insides. The tart starcherry mixed gloriously with the smoky flavor of one and cut through the slight oiliness of the other.

Delicious.

He eyed a mound of lake herring in a basket. Seafood went well with Shyleaf in general, said the Simple Cookery journal, but it was a waste to use it with non-mystic ingredients.

Well, his hybrid Shyleaf was nowhere near the pricelessness of the original, so it should be fine with the most common catch in the lake.

“Herring, young sir? Just eighteen rond a kilogar, fresh off the boat!”

“A quartel,” he told the woman.

She called over a boy with a gesture while saying, “One quartel, five klauds twenty, young sir.”

He paid the woman, handed the boy a few coins, saying, “Seven-twelve, private docks.”

The boy, possibly just five or so years younger than Defi, grinned toothily and hefted the barrel onto a shoulder to take to the scow which was at the twelfth berth of the seventh pier in the area set aside for small watercraft.

There were four people he needed to accommodate on the scow. With the tubs, it would be a little bit crowded if he added other things.

He bought two kilogar of clams from the same woman for twenty-six rond and a half-kilogar of seaweed for three rond. They would make a good soup. He already had condiments in his kitchen and didn’t need to acquire more.

Defi knew the basic arrangement of an Ascharonian table, which was several soups, several main dishes of meat or fish or vegetables, and several grains for each meal. Accompanied by wines, fruits and cheeses, the typical spread was substantial.

He wasn’t so formal in what he intended to feed his students, but the soup-main-grain combination was inviolable. He’d been giving samad and bread to the workers, as Ascharonian hospitality demanded he feed them at least twice in the day.

Karles took care of their main sustenance at least.

He was now aware that at least once in the time that they’d been working for him, he must serve them wine. It signified that he was pleased with their work.

He was pleased with the work done.

Why must it be wine? He mourned his rapidly emptying moneypouch. There was a rant on acceptable wines to be served by Marmocha that he could not forget as it ended in a brief Emblem-enhanced scuffle between him and Sarel.

He still didn’t know who won that argument. He just knew that if a wine was even mentioned by any of the two, it would be expensive. Nothing less for their gourmet Ascharonian palates. Their tongues were even more sensitive to wines and flavor than his.

There was no wine-shop in the Lowpool. The townspeople got their wines from the taverns or ordered it from the caravans.

“Defi!”

He turned at the familiar sound of the oldest of the orphanage’s children. Mureil had a grin on her face as she neared. Markar beside her looked aggravated and was trying to hide it.

Defi smiled in greeting. “Good morning.”

Markar exhaled audibly. “They just butted in,” he complained, without context.

“The more the merrier, right Arac?” Mureil looked at Defi hopefully. She looked a little sheepish. “There might be a few more people who wanted to join in…”

“A few?” Markar groaned.

“How many?” Defi felt some dread at Markar’s reaction.

Arac, Defi reminded himself. Markar was going by Arac now. His hair color had changed, from the dark brown-red to the creamy golden locks.

A paper-thin disguise. Renne and Markar had recognizable ears, and Bree had that crest of feathers on his head. Defi was aware there were dozens of rumors now flying up and down the Indar, and the Count’s illegitimate children were known to be werefolk but not what particular order of werefolk they were.

A moment’s deeper look at the orphanage children by someone who had as much data as the count’s men would cause the ruse to fail.

Then again, if they were all the caliber of Fretharic il Magmont…the ruse had a good change of lasting last until Renne and Markar turned fifteen.

Mureil turned to wave and a stream of young people rounded the corner of a building.

“Ah.” Defi saw Bree, renamed Fell, and with dark bluish hair in place of the former golden brown, in the crowd beside Renne, renamed Eren, who had green hair.

It was the whole orphanage and all their little friends. He felt a slight headache.

“Is it not good?” Mureil looked slightly despondent.

Defi was in the middle of the street, and they were all blocking the thoroughway. He clapped his hands together once, for attention.

“Those under the age of eleven do not yet have the physique, uh, the body for this training.”

There was a chorus of disappointment. Defi narrowed his eyes sternly and they subsided into grumbling.

“I’m nearly eleven!”

“No.”

The smaller children dispersed, leaving with slumped shoulders. The older orphanage preteens all huddled into a group, corralling the younger ones. To Defi’s surprise, they went obediently. Even Bree, who Renne and Markar would normally not let out of their sight, was gently chivvied toward the younger orphanage group.

“Those of you above the age of fifteen,” Defi began, “don’t you have work at this time?”

Half of them looked mutinous, and one of the girls wearing the garb of a farmer answered. “We want another chance at the military selection. If you’re teaching swords, then some of us might have a shot at being granted officer candidacy.”

Defi sighed. “You can’t become an officer candidate on swordmanship alone. There’s a written examination.”

Reisei Larion, for some reason, had sent a letter with another offer to sponsor him into the military, had rambled a while on various things about the armed forces and a few anecdotes about Natanel.

He had declined without reserve.

She hadn’t sent a letter again.

“A chance greater than what we had before,” murmured one of the boys.

“Why the military?” Defi wanted to know.

Ascharon was not a nation that was known to be militant in the current era. While proud of its imperial military heritage, Ascharon was currently a land of peaceful people grown powerful because of ties to other lands through food and the food trade.

“You should know,” Defi continued, “that apart from the three-year tribute required from the general population, the shortest amount of time you are required to enlist is ten years.”

There was a sussurus of whispers from the older group. “Not twenty?”

“A recent amendment.” He parroted the words from Reisei Larion. How recent was it exactly, that it had not been announced by local military recruiters, Defi wondered in surprise. Well, the Imperial Household Guard would be privy to the latest news in the armed forces.

“There are three ways to get out of this town,” said one of the boys. “Join a caravan, be accepted to university, or be recruited into the military. The first two are for people who have money. As for us, the military’s the only way.”

“Besides,” one of the others shrugged. “It pays better than being a dockworker.”

“There is a combat school in town,” reminded Defi.

Several people sneered. “You think they’d take us? We’re dockside brats. Combat school’s for hillside rich. We go there, they’ll raise tuition until we can’t afford it.”

Ah. Defi was silent for a few moments. Then he nodded. “You’ll join the rest for conditioning. You’re not to touch a weapon until I say so. You’ll work hard or leave.”

There was a cheer from the whole group.

“Ah,” said the farmer girl, hesistant. “The payment?”

“I have a farm in need of a few holes.” Defi answered with a smile. He could finally start on his zaziphos orchard.

“What?”

That was how Defi’s leisurely four-student classes got increased to sixteen people.