The Slime Farmer

Chapter 8: Terroir and Turquoise

"You're going to help Falie with her damnable grapes," Sarel proclaimed one morning, a week after he woke from his embarrassing faint. "You've been doing chores all this time, you ought to be able to take light work by now."

"Who is Falie and why are her grapes damnable?" Was it anything like how she considered the zaziphos trees damnable as well?

Her face darkened, a jolt of realization at his words. Defi wondered what he said that brought that on.

"That woman," she hissed. "is the neighbor."

Then she turned to Defi, forcing calm. "Did I say grapes? My mistake. Those things are not grapes. They. Are. Suirberries. You be certain to tell her that."

Who? What? There were no neighbors. Defi had not met anyone else in the days he'd been here. And he definitely did not know what a suirberry was.

"Walk along the bank until you come to the yellow tree. Just beyond that is her place. About an hour's walk for me, I suppose. With those spindly legs, you'll obviously take longer than that, so next time you should set out before dawn."

An hour, he recalled, was a third of the Ontrean eighth. Ascharon had moved from the sundials and water-clocks he knew to timepieces he could not yet understand. Something about crystals and glyphs

The yellow tree he had never passed, but he'd seen it from afar. It was huge, its recognizable golden leaves spread beyond even the stretching branches by the constant breezes rushing between the entrapping mountainsides.

An hour from the Sarel's homestead to the tree? He was insulted.

"My legs are excellent," he retorted. "I'm not losing to someone whose bones have likely already rotted from age. I'll get there in half the time."

"Hah. I told her to expect you, so go already."

He went.

The solitary woman was likely nearing the end of her tolerance for strangers in her house. Defi was grateful that she was still housing him, though his presence grated on her. He tried to give some of her solace back by spending afternoons on cautious walks near the homestead but it appeared not to be enough.

He had never met a person so against company.

If she had the bearing of a soldier, or old enough to be grey, he would've thought her akin to some of Ontrea's old warrior elite, retired and irascible, sending youthful would-be soldiers on impossible tasks in the hopes of securing an apprenticeship that would never happen.

It grated at him too, that he must accept her hospitality. But all that was left to him were his clothes and what coin he had secreted into his belt. He could not use Rimet gold, not with his sister on the hunt. The little monster, he thought, would sniff him out from a single mistake.

He was not even sure how she had sussed out his boat.

Once more, he regretted not joining Garun. And once more, he let that regret pass. He had been a noble of Ontrea, a position nearly synonymous with 'slave-master', and they had been slaves. Despite mutual friendship, that knowledge would fester through every interaction they had until it grew into true resentment. It was better that they parted here.

Garun and Samti might be strong enough. He was not. Even as he traced the lines that meant their freedom, he had been thinking of ways to indebt them more to his service. He had watched in fascination as they interacted with all others as equals but turned to him in deference. He had watched and liked it.

For all that he was not a noble of Ontrea now, he was still his father's son.

He laughed, humorless.

It was a thought that added to the anger in him. On this homestead, he was in good company at least. If its mistress stopped looking for ways to avoid his presence that is.

Sarel was nearly always angry. He did not know why and had no wish to ask, just as he had no wish to speak of his father to anyone.

Or maybe his host's constant ire was only because of his continuing presence in her home, he considered sardonically. Maryiz did often say, when he had been her apprentice, that Defi tried her patience.

And yet, his mentor had let him call her grandmother, and Sarelhe closed his eyes to remember callused hands on his face that reminded him of his mother. Despite her vexation at having to deal with him, her hands had been gentle.

He smiled faintly, more real than his laughter. Beneath the curtness, there was a soul of kindness he was uncomfortable with taking advantage of. So truly, this demand to go and help some random fruit-grower was for his peace of mind as well as her comfort.

A sweet smell hit his nose, turned him from his thoughts.

He slowed his trot to a walk. The ever-changing breeze tossed leaves into his face. He brought an arm up instinctively. The breeze only laughed and ruffled his hair. He sighed and peeled a golden leaf from his cheek.

Had it been an hour already?

No. The tree was still some distance away. It shivered as he looked, the winds constantly tugging at the delicate leaves. There was a similar tree in the king of Ontrea's garden, called the Golden Fall. Imported, with great expense, from a land whose name he did not care to know.

He had thought that tree magnificent, its leaves in infinite shades of amber never changing color all year round. The leaves fell easily, and were replaced by the tree twice as fast. Its fragrance was deeper, richer than this yellow tree of Ascharon.

And yet that tree was kept in a greenhouse: its leaves fell only for gravity, its stature diminished from being reared in foreign soil.

Was this gaily spreading yellow tree on the banks of a treacherous river what that magnificence would be like on native earth?

He twirled the twig of the single leaf between thumb and forefinger. The delicate lobes waved. He let it go, the wind sending it upward, then dropping it into the river to swirl among thousands of others.

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The bubbling waters of this section of river already flowed golden. Despite his recent aversion to the river, the sight was something that called him close to the bank. It seemed, that should he dip his hands in the rolling torrent they would come out drenched in liquid gold.

His lips quirked. That would solve his immediate problems nicely wouldn't it?

The walk past the tree was spent in some delight, with subtle scent perfuming the morning, and the constant rustling of leaves a pleasant harmony to the graver bubbling of the river and the high-pitched chirping of waking birds.

*

"Good morning," he greeted the first person he met, some ways past the tree. She sent him a narrow-eyed look of suspicion. "My name is Defi. Sarel sent me to help with your suirberries."

Her face darkened.

"That woman," she hissed.

"Yes, exactly." It appeared that his first guess was correct. This was Falie, of the damnable berries.

"It is," enunciated Falie, all but brandishing her tools at him. "a grape."

"I see." He had stepped between some weird rivalry. He decided to step back. "And do you need help with it?"

She stared at him, lips turning down and brows beetling. "Sarel sent you?"

"She wanted me out of the house."

Her bows shot up in surprise. "You're living at her house?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know she had relatives."

"You mean she wasn't born out of a rock, in all her curmudgeonly glory?"

She made a face of exasperation. "You definitely have her humor. If that hermit is expecting me to pay you more than standard, you're both out of luck. Still interested? The work here is from dawn to sunset."

It was not about interest. He needed to get out of the house as well.

"It's fine. It's only, I have no experience with grape-growing." There were vinyards in Ontrea, but most of the top quality wine was traded from the north.

It appeared that in this new life, this new world, he must again be a farmer. He nearly laughed at the thought.

Without further ado, Falie took him to meet her husband before putting him to work.

"As you see, this fool is useless during summer harvest," she introduced. "leaving me to do all the hard work."

The husband sitting on the shaded porch only raised his brows, puffed on a pipe, and shrugged, going back to his carving. Defi didn't even have to give his name. The man looked paler than undyed cotton. Possibly he was sick?

"We do the harvest in batches," said Falie, as she handed him gloves, several knives, and a whetstone. "We're doing the east quarter today."

She worked beside him for some hours, explaining how to use the knives as they moved down the rows of vines. He could not manage how the clusters fell into her hands from a single flick of the knife but he managed an acceptable competence as she moved to another section after lunch.

The work was repetitive, but oddly soothing, especially with the scent of ripe fruit pervading the area. It was different from the sweet scent of zaziphos fruits or the heavy, earthy scent of spice.

That is, until he had to carry baskets full of green grapes down the hill to the house.

He grunted as the path dipped unexpectedly, throwing off his balance. He took deep, invigorating breaths as he re-seated the basket on his back. If this work was what Sarel considered light, Defi dreaded the day he would need to do the regular kind of work.

It was his seventh trip down the hill with a large and heavy basket on his back when his new employer straightened from placing her own load down and stretched.

"That's enough for the day, I should think." She looked at him in surprise, held out a waterskin. "Are you this tired? The baskets were only about twelve kilogar."

"I'll be fine." He tried not to wheeze. She had picked over twice the number of grapes he did. It was embarrassing enough, when he had trained in combat for years.

She accepted his words. "Come back tomorrow. I'll show you how to press grapes for the fermenting."

"It's not yet sunset?"

"You're more than halfway to keeling over. East quarter's done, anyway. You did well, better than expected from someone associated with that lazy hermit."

Over his protests, he had a bundle shoved at him, along with a handful of ash-colored coins, before he was all but tossed out the gate.

The average Ascharon farmer, he decided, was very strange. He had not missed how the vinyard was the only farm visible in all directions. Were all the people here solitary souls?

They were about three decades too young to be proper hermits. Neither Seral nor Falie and her husband looked like they passed their mid-thirties.

At least the hermits in Ontrea would offer some deep wisdom or spiritual guidance before kicking a visitor out of their caves.

He waved at the couple as he left. Falie nodded while the man lifted his hand lazily.

He tucked the bundle under an arm, slid the coins into his belt-pouch. He paused. There was a small bunch of grapes stuck to his belt, likely snagged in the buckles at some time during the day. He was certainly tired enough not to notice.

Even with the Current running through him, easing the aches, it was still a level of exhaustion he rarely felt. His recent illness had obviously taken a toll. He plucked the cluster from his belt, held it up to inspection.

Falie's grapes were smaller than the average wine grapes he'd seen in Ontrea. He squeezed one between his fingers. They felt as firm and juicy. He tossed one into his mouth and bit through the taut skin.

Juice gushed across his tongue. He froze in surprise. The next moment he was spitting out the fruit, the juice, and nearly all the moisture in his mouth.

"Are all grapes in Ascharon this tart," he panted, mouth still twisting in rebellion at the intense sourness that had invaded it.

No. Marmon Chacort had added sweet wines to the table during that dinner that now seemed long ago.

He tossed the rest of the grapes over his shoulder, into the river.

They hit with a squishy thunk.

He turned. That was not the sound of damnable fruit hitting the river. He moved to the bank. The river here ran over boulders, and a series of smoothly water-worn rocks dotted the banks.

The grape cluster lay beside a strangely-shaped stone. He dropped down the small incline to take a closer look. The edges of the stone were straight. Not an average rock.

He dug into the gravel to extract a small rectangular tablet, carved in intricate detail. The facing side held an abstract design though, not an image. He ran fingers over the carving. The lines were crisp, showing skill and care in the use of skill.

He should ask Sarel what it meant at dinner. If it was engraved into stone with such care, it should be interesting. At the very least, there must be a story behind it. Who knew, he might get Sarel to speak more than ten sentences to him today.

His lips curled in amusement.

A glint in the river caught his eye. He reached into the shallow water and pulled out the small cylinder of metal. A single silver crescent.

He held it to the mid-afternoon sun.

Ascharon coins were not the flat disks he was used to. They were cylindrical, with reliefs covering the surface. The silver crescent had moons prominent in its design.

The metal of the coin was bright and untarnished. How likely was it, that this came from his own coin-pouch? He grit his teeth at the memory of a captain with cold eyes, beard carefully curled, and the sound of mocking laughter.

He stood and moved among the rocks, looking for more of the coins. An hour later, he had a solstice and two more crescents.

The sun was hovering just above the mountains to the west. Sarel should have finished with her work around the homestead and was lazily fishing in the shade of the large oaks by now. He should be getting back. There was likely no more than what he already found.

He wiped his hands on the linen-lined wool breeches borrowed from Sarel. He had enough to buy his own clothes at least.

*

Sarel was already cooking when he entered the house, the scent of sizzling fresh fish permeating the enclosed space.

He quickly went to freshen himself up. He had since childhood tasted the best dishes that a royal court had to offer. Sarel's cooking was as far above those cooks as the sun was above the desert.

It was, beyond all, the reason that kept him from leaving the moment he could stand from his illness.

One month.

He would only have this cooking for one month before she kicked him out as 'fully' healthy. She did not know of the Current in him that aided his recovery, and he certainly wasn't telling her anything that would compromise his ability to eat her food.

He had already lost access to the midday meal, which he ate with Falie and her silent husband. He was not, definitely not, giving up any other chance.

"This was sent over." He put the bottle of wine on the table. He dropped the stone tablet beside it.

She glanced at the bottle, huffed in irritated exasperation, and turned her back on it.

He raised his brow and took a cup from the kitchen shelf. How bad could it be? He ignored that his toes nearly curled in terror at the remembrance of the earlier taste of grapes.

Surely it would not be the same for the wine? He uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount into the cup. He inhaled and nearly forgot where he was.

The fragrance of the wine curled around him pleasurably.

He took a mouthful in anticipation.

And spat it back out immediately.

It was acerbic, it was saccharine, it was savory, it was earthy. It was not to be called wine.

"Mushrooms?" Who put mushrooms in wine?! He reached for the water-barrel to wash away the deeply regretful taste. It clung abominably to the tongue.

Sarel glanced at him, snorted in amusement. "Nothing wrong with your taste-buds, at least."

She poured some of the abominable concoction into a ceramic plate, then struck a match against the flameless stove. The match burst into flame, which she touched to the contents of the plate. The liquid burned in a colorless fire, and the incredible scent he was enamored of earlier mingled in harmony with the smell of cooking fish.

"How," he breathed. It was possible to create a drink so fragrant yet tasted like sugared citrons hoarded and forgotten, moldy and decaying?

"She's an idiot, that's how. Only follows her nose. I suppose there's something to admire in that." She glared at him. "You will not tell her I said that unless you want to drink all the new 'wines' she comes up with."

"Why would she send them to you?"

"I got her husband out of some troublesome event in town. She's been trying to get me to approve of this thing since." She eyed the bottle with reasonable loathing, then noticed the other object on the table. "Did she send over the summon-tablet too?"

"A summon-tablet?" Defi picked up the carved piece of stone. The flat surface was about the size of his hand. "I found it in the river."

"It's what summoners use to call their beasts." She leaned over the stone and laughed a little. "What is your luck, I wonder? Survived the Treachery and now found a summon-tablet? See those marks?"

She pointed at the two circular divots at the top of the tablet. "That means a second-level summon. Not particularly rare, but even the most common first-level summons cost about two hundred klauds. And this mark over here," she touched the quartered circle, "would increase the price even more, as it means the ability to summon a clan of beasts rather than a single individual."

"How is it used?" Defi was fascinated. The sorcery of Ascharon was incredibly varied in craftsmanship. The Current was mostly a personal power, and the only craft associated with it was alchemy.

"This thing is old," Sarel took it from him. "I don't think this emblem, this design, has been used for a hundred years. People don't carve stone tablets these days, what with finding a way to summon with just ink and paper."

She gave it back to him. "The small bowl-shape on the bottom-right is where you drip blood, traditionally. Don't get too excited, though. Like I said, it's old. At least a hundred summon beasts have been found every decade since the Gourmand Emperor. That means a second-level beast from a hundred years ago would be ranked no more than first-level now."

She leaned back. "It's good enough for a beginner. Want to try it?"

"You need not ask." He pricked his finger with the table knife.

"Wait, not on"

The tablet glowed and spat forth a ball of light that condensed slowly.

"the table," finished Sarel, glowering. Specks of orange-colored light flickered around her. "If you ever do that again, I'll throw you back into the bloody river."

He lifted his hands, quick surrender. "I apologize. I will not do it again."

She was right. What if it were a large beast? Her house would've been destroyed and Defi would no longer be able to eat her cooking. The orange glowing specks only appeared when she was particularly irritated, so Defi speedily placated her while curbing his usual curiosity. Questions on Ascharon sorcery would have to wait for another time.

The blue-green creature that came out of the tablet bounced. It was globular, and half the size of his head. There was a semi-opaqueness to its being. Fascinating.

Sarel snickered.

Defi poked the gelatinous object..animal? The skin felt soft yet firm, like a thicker grape-skin really. There were even animals like these? "What is it?"

"I take back what I said about your luck," Sarel said, amused. "I was fooled by the stone-tablet it's generally used for important summons. A slime doesn't even make it into the summon rankings these days."

"A slime?" He poked it again. It was not slimy at all. It started to creep over the table. He watched with interest. How did it move? It had no legs. Was it like a slug, a worm? He turned it over on its back. It started to creep forward once more. How intriguing. It could move with any surface part of its body.

"They were popular as pets some decades ago, but with people discovering greater beasts needing more vitality from summoners, it's now classed as a pest, a waste of a summon. No particularly useful abilities in combat or craft, no appreciable utility, intelligence only slightly higher than a plant. It only knows how to eat."

Defi scooped up the blue-green animal. A pet soundednice. He'd never had one, too busy with studies and obligations.

Level-null, was it? A waste? He smiled wryly. It was in good company, the perfect pet for him.

He lifted it solemnly above the kitchen table, cupped between his palms. "Your name is Turquoise."

"A grand name," said Sarel sarcastically.

Defi laughed. "A name suitable for the challenge of imminent glory!"

**

**

*

Notes:

Eighth a measure of time in Ontrea, based on dividing the 24-hour day into eight sections of three hours each.

Two hundred klauds is a year's earnings for the average laborer.

1 gold solstice = 20 silver crescents = 400 bronze klauds = 40,000 black-iron ronds

1 kilogar = 1000 grane

[In the units of Earth, a land far far away, a kilogar is the equivalent of one kilogram and a grane is one gram. -- from the journal of the Magician of Dimensions]

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