The Slime Farmer 69 Night Marke

It was and was not.

He could see a number of the regular stalls from the dawn market here and there. The rest were unfamiliar, like the stall selling a range of knives in various shape, and the one professing to sell a hundred types of spices.

By now the spice shop would be closed. The proprietor sold his spice in amounts and prices higher than the spice stall in front of him however.

"What do you say, lad? Ten rond a grane, blackspice from beyond the Gate!"

Defi paused, looked at the wooden boxes of the spice seller. In one of them, it was indeed blackspice. Something wrenched in his chest.

He shook his head and focused on the details. Ten rond a grane – that came to five crescents a kilogar. It was cheaper by at least a fifth from the shop.

The blackspice looked to be of good quality, well-dried, the wrinkled outer skin of the small circular berries was flexible and not powdery.

"I a.s.sure you, young sir, the very finest spice! Carefully grown in the very best farms!"

He nodded, just to be polite, and walked away.

The night market was lit with lamps hung on stall posts. Crystal lamps were bright, their clear cold bluish white light brighter by far than the warm yellow of oil lamps.

The warm flames from oil lamps, more numerous than the other, flickered to make the shadows dance. The crystal lamps made shadows flee into dark corners with their steadfast sharp glow; the shadows they created were darker and deeper. The two kinds of light battled between the stalls, creating a strange pulsing of light and shadow with every flicker of flame.

The stalls of the marketplace were arranged in parallel lines, with breaks between them that people might freely walk between the main lanes.

In a number of stalls, the lamp-shades were placed as to put the seller in shadow and the wares in light.

There was no delineation, Defi saw, between the stalls that strove to keep to themselves and those that dealt in the bright light. That Jorne would definitely have more suspicions should he see such arrangements.

The night was cold, from the breezes blowing in from the lake and the afternoon rain. But within the stalls, the air was warmed by human heat.

With the mayor's open invitation, it looked like half the town was packed into the marketplace and the central square.

The dawn market was energetic, full of vigor. The night market had a different kind of energy. He wondered if it had a similar energy all the time or this night's atmosphere was because of the news of the fall of the Blades.

The night rang with songs and shouts of cheer.

The ale flowed freely.

A group of soldiers were bellowing out a song, to the accompaniment of a rather exasperated looking lute player.

"…everywhere I look around, what's there to be found, ah!

"A solemn mist too shrouding, and barren grey rocks in darkness!

"My beloved is in Jebrimea, I always sleep alone, ha!

"The pledge of love given to me has been at the dice board lost, hey!

"Alas! I dearly want my love and also want my pay!"

From the other end of the marketplace, there was a faint hint of mournfully blowing pipes that oddly went very well between the unsubtle music of the soldier's song. Defi inclined an ear in that direction; it sounded like someone was singing a love song of some sort.

Despite the music and merriment there was a quiet undercurrent flowing through the night market, as townspeople lifted their large mugs of ale, as they put their heads together to gossip, as they chivvied their children to the brighter parts of the night market where most of the food stalls were set up with long tables.

Defi stood at the very edge of shadow and watched the familiar proceedings. He had gone on bandit suppression expeditions before, patrolling the boundaries of the city with the Watch as a senior student of the learning halls.

At the end of every expedition, the warriors would get together for food, wine, song, and company.

Why was today so insistent, he wondered, of giving him reminders of the land and people who were now lost to him?

A hand was clapped on his shoulder.

Lergen grinned at him, a mug of something foaming fiercely in his hand. "Lost?"

If he was ever truly lost in a simple town, Defi would willingly drown himself in shame. He gave the man an incredulous look.

"You looked like you were watching someone kick Turq around." Lergen eyed him like the slime would pop out of his clothes.

"I left Turq at the house."

"No wonder you look so ill-tempered." Lergen slung an arm over his shoulders and steered him forward. "Come, Adan has set up a stall. You'll want to try his new ale."

Already? How many new ales did the tavern have now? Defi let the other tug him to a stall that had four large wooden barrels set on a stand, each three times larger than a cental.

Adan pressed a mug into his hands the moment he appeared in front of the brewer. Defi barely thanked him when he was dragged away again, this time to a table comprised mostly of people he knew.

Lergen sat him down forcibly and flitted off again. Defi watched him go. "How much has he drunk?"

"Too much," grumbled the boy opposite him.

Defi paused and took another look at the boy. Dark hair cut short, an obvious reddish white scar on his jaw, wearing the clothes of the orphanage.

He looked away, deliberately taking a long sip of his ale.

"Don't say anything," threatened Renne, glaring at him from under the dark mop of hair. Cut short, her former curls spread in a messy halo around her head. Her hair had been dyed a black that shone blue in the harsh light of the crystal lamps, from the darkly reddish brown that was her former color.

The scar on her jaw looked natural, a burn that had healed over for years.

He had not caught her out immediately because her furry pointed ears were hidden in the wild riot of her hair.

Defi stifled his laugh. "I haven't."

"Well, keep it that way." She dug her spoon into her soup vehemently.

Was this the solution they had come up with to deter the three's searchers?

He looked around for Markar, and found him at the other end of the long table, sitting beside a man Defi did not know, grimly digging into a bowl of what looked like mixed meats, his hair the color of the pale rays of sunlight.

With the tendency of the siblings to group together, it was a paper-thin ruse. But added to the rumors that the 'accidental' dissemination of Defi's last will spread, those who were looking for the children would think that the story had been appropriated by some unscrupulous woman for her own ends.

The count had not been subtle enough, according to Marmocha. The gossip that his children had run away was now making its way down the Indar river, and there were people taking advantage, muddying the waters more.

He took another sip of Adan's newest ale. It was a bitter-sour flavor. Defi was not quite sure he liked it. For hot days, he thought it would taste refres.h.i.+ng when cold.

But the summer had ended already and fall was imminent. The days were cooler, growing colder by the week. Defi tried to imagine what the ale would taste like when mulled.

Hm. The new ale might just get a good following when winter came, he decided.

Ascharon had no lack of mulling spices and herbs. They imported and grew so much that the more common condiments were affordable to even the common wage-earner.

Lergen popped up and slid an array of small bowls across the table. "Old Frema's stall was overrun," was his only explanation. A few eyes lit up.

"This is Old Frema's roast liver?"

Lergen slapped his chest smugly. "Of course it is, who do you think I am?"

Sarel, who sat opposite Markar, pulled a bowl close. "Whose place did you steal, you swindler?"

"I am hurt and offended," Lergen tried to take the small bowl away from her.

She tipped the bowl into her mouth quickly. "Delicious."

Lergen huffed and disappeared again.

Defi studied his bowl cautiously. There were two pieces of sliced liver, glistening in a light sauce, and several thin stalks of green scallions. Organ meat was not one of the things that regularly appeared on the tables of high born Ontreans. He'd tasted brain once, but that was an experience best forgotten.

Hames, who sat beside him, chuckled. "You'll wonder why you've never eaten it before."

The man was quiet, had sat contentedly with himself while watching others' conversations. He studied Defi. "You look more relaxed now, than when you worked on the farm."

"I'm not certain that's a good thing."

"A gambler knows that life is both fortune and misfortune. If one exists, the other must as well. To worry oneself over just one outcome is to lose before the bet is even made."

Defi didn't know why the man was telling him that, so he only nodded.

"That primped up pansy, he made a bet on the Blades, and lost. What people do is not your fault, but always note that you might also influence the actions of others."

"That is something I already know." Defi wondered where the sudden advice came from. Hames was at the recent fight, but returned to the Lowpool with the first wave. Did he mean Calor Ducan had something to do with the Blades?

He wanted to ask more, but seeming too interested might open paths he did not wish to go down.

He frowned. What had he done that had influenced others? The whole time since he crossed the Gate, it felt like his actions had been dictated by others. Or is that what Hames meant?

To live for himself? He had done that as well. To not be too concerned about the doings of others, perhaps? There were things that could not be borne.

He eyed Hames, whose looked back at him calmly. Was there something wrong with Falie? He glanced at Hames' wife, who was laughing with friends at the other end of the table. It did not appear so.

He was confused. The man had never spoken so much to him before.

"Yes? Then let us continue this memorial as we should." He tapped his finger beside Defi's bowl of liver. "The night market is well known for their pienplati."

"Pienplati?" It translated from Abrechal instead of being Ascharonian, to Defi's surprise, and meant 'little plates'.

"Because much of the ingredients are from our very own lake, the freshness is top quality." Hames waved at one of the children loitering about, made a gesture that got a wide smile from the boy, who darted into several stalls and took multiple small bowls similar to the one containing liver to their table.

Hames nudged them at him and the other children. The serving boy continued bringing them little plates and bowls with samples of seafood cooked in various ways, fruit jellies, pastries, and other organ meat dishes.

Fish belly with vinegar, grilled whisker-snake in fruit preserve, fried fish skin with vegetables, duck with ground peanuts and spices, steamed shrimp, dough b.a.l.l.s in various sauces and syrups, egg cups, fried cakes, duck intestines with oysters, and the serving boy did not appear close to stopping.

Defi scooped up the soft liver and paused as it melted on his tongue, the sauce and the scent of scallions mingling with the taste of liver in luxurious accord.

Hames had turned back to quietly listening to the others while eating.

Defi knew he would say no more on the subject. He sighed inwardly and considered which of the fresh food he would try next.

Heavy thoughts could wait until later.

**

Chapter End

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Notes:

Grane – the smallest unit of weight in Ascharon. A thousand grane makes one kilogar.

Cental – a barrel size, containing 100 litr of volume.