The Slime Farmer

Chapter 13: A Day to Remember

The docks of the Lowpool were by far the least that Besan had ever seen. It was almost insulting for someone like him, who had seen the harbors of Albcasso and Terren and of the great capital of Carmedel, to be looking for work in the Lowpool docks.

It could not be helped. He needed to stay somewhat in good stead with the people here.

This day was looking better than others, however.

"Besan, you're here today?" A dockworker greeted him.

Jerac, he recalled, some years younger than him. He grunted.

"Natan's calling in all hands," the dockworker Jerac added with a grin. "That never happens."

Never happens here, Besan sneered. Not in this tiny forgotten town. But he only nodded to the other dockworker. "Sounds interesting," he lied.

"You look happy about it," Jerac fell into step. "Running out of ale money already?"

"Unlike you, I don't have a wife to spend my money."

Jerac laughed. "What else is money for?"

Fishermen here had it easy, Besan snorted inwardly. So much that even if the guild regulated the amount of the catch and the number of fishing boats on the lake, they were still wealthier than the farmers. He curled his lip in derision. Of course they were. People who wallowed in the dirt for a pittance were obviously soft in the head. And there was that herb guy who wanted to do it better?

This place had some wealth. Look at him, who had striven for a better life and gotten out. Anyone in town could save up a little money from illegal fishing in a couple of years. It wasn't like it was difficult not to get caught. Get out and make a name somewhere. But this idiot couldn't even envision a life where there was no leech of a woman chaining him and all his potential down?

"Besan, Jerac," a voice interrupted them before Besan could mock the idiot for his incredibly small thinking. This forsaken town, he was disgusted. He was glad he left it behind. Why would he want to stay like this? He almost regretted telling Derwain about this place.

Almost. Soon, he would be able to leave the mud of it behind for good.

"Telebrae's coming in with a full hold," the man who had accosted them said. "They're paying extra for speed."

Telebrae? That old bucket? Sometimes fools got lucky, he supposed.

He eyed the man who had spoken. Natanel, this strutting idiot, was rumored to have been a high-level soldier in the imperial army.

Hah, doubtful. Why would an imperial soldier come to this backwater just to be a dockworker, even if he was the leader? Evidently he bragged about himself well, he silently sneered at the man. How proudly the boaster stood, head up and shoulders high, as if looking down on them all.

Much like that mudgrubbing boy from the other day. He seethed at the memory. But in the end, it was Besan who had the last laugh.

This Natanel

The idiot did not even recognize the superior existence that was Besan, right in front of him. But it was not long now, before Besan could show how exactly high he was above all the mudshrimp here and even that arrogant head would lower.

"Natan," he smirked at the dockboss. "It's just one ship. Telebrae isn't even eight metons. Why are you calling everyone?"

"They're running ahead of Windfisher and Carlarine. Coming in from the same area. It's going to be a busy morning."

The Lowpool was large enough that the fisher's guild had ten sixteen-mar fishing vessels operating each with a displacement of four to ten metons. Those ten ships brought in a total of four or so meton of fish a day, enough to feed the whole town. That was not even accounting for the several hundred vessels smaller than ten-mar which collectively brought in about the same.

But for three of the largest boats to come in with full holds that meant at least fifteen metons of fish. Enough to glut a small city.

There was a blessed land somewhere within the lake, according to local lore, which accounted for the black crab. So the lake was more productive than even lakes twice larger. Sudden bursts of abundance like this were not an impossibility. But it not in summer, not in any season other than spring.

He saw why Natan had called in everyone. Fifteen metonsthe twenty or so dockworkers normally stationed on the town wharf would not be nearly enough to unload and pack that in a day. Much less the few crucial hours needed to get the fish to the guild coldhouse.

He smiled, his lips a thin unpleasant line across his face. Did his seakrait scare the life out of the lake that much?

"Besan! What are you standing around for?"

He did not let the braggart Natanel lower his mood. He moved to the dock the Telebrae was approaching. He sparked his Shade in preparation for the work. Embers fell around his frame, as if within him there was a bonfire hidden. Red flame, of course, the color of the strong.

There was a murmur from the other dockworkers. It was uncommon for a person to be able to manifest their Shade color visibly when not using sigilcards.

He smirked.

The sun was not even fully showing itself over the horizon, and he just knew this day was going to be one to remember.

*

*

In the morning, Turq was still massive. Defi wondered why, as the inside of the slime looked free of krait.

He could not help his examination of Jar in his curiosity. But no matter how he poked and prodded, Jar did not give up any slime secrets.

"You look like you're going to slice it up next," said Sarel from the other room, where she was frowning over a book.

"Do I? I won't."

"Slimes are akin to mobile carnivorous plants. You won't hurt it. They cannot feel pain, if that's what you're worrying about."

"There are carnivorous plants in Ascharon?" He bounced Jar between his palms. This was akin to a plant? He pressed Jar between his palms, gently rotating as if massaging the slime. It felt like no plant he had ever encountered.

"There are carnivorous plants everywhere."

"My native land was a land where plants were eaten, not the other way around."

Then Jar took exception to being compressed between Defi's palms and attacked.

Defi sputtered. Liquid stung his eyes. It tasted like sour wine. He put Jar down gently then made for the water barrel.

"Why does it smell like a vat of vinegar in there?"

Defi splashed his face with water. "Slimes spit vinegar in defense, apparently."

"Does that mean my kitchen is doused in slime acid?"

"At least it'll be cleaner after."

There was a silence from the other room.

"I'll do my next examinations outside the kitchen," he sighed.

"...go do the deliveries."

"The boat is gone."

"How did you get back then?" Sarel flipped a page of her book idly.

She expected him to carry the baskets downriver on Turq? Where was her compassion? "I would think, that one who has given herself to the earth would spare more thought to its creatures."

"I'm a hermit, not a sage."

"Knowing the cruelty of the human world, you would propagate it?"

"Knowing cruelty makes the average being more disposed to create it. I make no claim to be exceptional."

Defi gave up that line of persuasion, took up another. "Turq is such a size now, but have you given thought to the idea that it may revert to usual in the middle of the lake?"

"You are a summoner," she drawled.

He paused. "I can do that?"

The question came out involuntarily and momentum was lost. He groaned, gave up. "I brought suirberries for Jar. Will you feed him while I'm gone?"

He had given in to curiosity first after seeing that Turq was still floating on the river when he got back from the farm.

"Not calling them grapes?"

"Unless there is a decent wine made from the fruits, then no."

Sarel's mouth slanted, a half-smile. "Not yet."

"So much faith in your friend? She would be inspired by it."

"Go away."

And that was how, on a balmy afternoon, Defi found himself floating down to the Lowpool with half a score of fruit baskets on a massive slime.

*

*

There was a commotion nearby. Besan raised his head to look, and froze. The mudgrubbing boy had just docked, baskets of fruit on a slime larger than he'd ever seen. Wrapped around the baskets, for all to see, was the skeleton of a massive snake.

This was impossible.

How could the boy still be alive?

A team of three, strong in the Colors, could barely win against a full grown krait. The boy had shown no aptitudes at all.

He was so distracted that a swinging bucket nearly hit him. There was a shout of apology.

Too late. The slick deck was treacherous. He fell into a hold of wriggling fish, buried up to his thighs.

Besan hid his fury as laughs sounded.

"Maybe you should less time eyeing the girls, eh?" called down one of the fishermen.

There were indeed women who worked the docks, mostly fisher families.

He scoffed inwardly. Who would look at a woman who stank of fish? Another reason he hated returning here there were no brothels.

But Stahlchausses and Minetown, at the head of the great river, were places he could not return to just yet. There were suddenly people all over the place looking for something or someone. Escaped slaves, was the gossip. Unlikely.

He was afraid someone would turn up his doings and Derwain sent him here, his hometown, for a few months.

"Stop wasting time." The workboss said. "The day will not wait, and you're holding up the others."

Besan tried not to punch the man. Holding up? He was better than every man here, who hadn't even managed to get out of this tiny town.

He boosted himself back up to the deck, glared at the slime and the boy. Trash went together, he supposed. The dock-master was gesturing them to a scow. Even the boy's scow hadn't been crushed?

He grew even madder.

He still had a whole pack of seakrait in his keeping. Derwain wouldn't mind if two or three got loose, would he? They were uncontrollable beasts after all, and the drug wouldn't keep them sleeping forever.

So he waited.

It was not hours later that the scow showed itself in one of the deeper pools on the river. He touched his Shade into the sigilcard that kept the krait immobile, then tossed a ball full of scent-bait close to the slime putting after the scow.

The container opened. The krait shot out, circled once, before going straight at the bait.

His lips thinned in a smile.

His sight dimmed to darkness.

What?

*

He woke up in a chair, the room red with the light of the setting sun.

He stood, confused, circling on the spot.

"I didn't expect a lovely stroll through the countryside when I came to see you, Besan."

He whirled, the pupils of his eyes quickly expanding in fear. The beautiful voice, the entrancing tone - a voice unforgettable.

Three people stood behind him.

Besan's eyes roamed suspiciously. The man was never this alone. Never.

"Derwain," he greeted. He had not expected the man to come here this soon.

"Is this what you have been doing with what I've entrusted to you? Playing around with boys?"

Fury rose, sudden and clinging. "I killed him! He humiliated me. The fisher guild won't even deal with me now. Don't they know who I am?"

"Yes, yes your father was an important man. But respect trickling down from better people only goes so far. You have to earn it, Besan. You had the chance to earn mine."

"What? No, no! We had a deal!"

"I would use your little town to store my things, yes. And you would be my diligent keeper. Which of us, I wonder, has broken this deal."

"No"

"I will not kill you. But it appears this town, it is very quaint, isn't it? It would make a nice stronghold, I think. Even a little trade in mystic crab as a bonus. Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Besan. Your sins are forgiven. But do not come barking into my presence again."

Besan looked around again. There were three more people than were visible earlier.

His Shade sparked in vain.

**

**

*

Notes:

Meton a measure of weight that contains 1000 kilogar in total

Shade the personal sorcery type of an Ascharonian. There are seven basic powersets in Ascharon, matched to the elements of the deity of rainbows: red flame, orange earth, yellow sunlight, green restoration, blue water, indigo air, and violet moonlight.

Sigilcards created by glyphmakers, these are special cards inscribed with a power focus that directs sorcery to particular action. It's basically a contained spell that needs to be initiated or sparked by the user's energy.

The Colors an Ascharonian term for sorcery, as the use of power is often accompanied by a show of light in the colors of the rainbow. A term taken from the patron deity of Ascharon who gave the people power, who is at times called the Seven-Colored.

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