Chapter 3 – The Flower of the Andelin #5
“As long as no one but you and Wen handles them,” Remin said, grim.
“I will make certain of it.” Genon gave himself a shake.
They both had faces like a gray winter day, and while they had reason to worry, it was no good going into this with fear.
“I’m as eager as anyone else to meet the new little lord of the Andelin,” he added heartily.
“It’s meant to be a blessed thing, the begetting of babes.
There’s naught to be ashamed or afraid of.
I hope you’ll talk about it together frankly, and then find joy in the begetting.
If you’ve questions, I’ll do my best to answer them. ”
The original reason for his visit had been entirely forgotten, and Genon was glad. There wasn’t a thing wrong with Her Grace that a long talk with Rem wouldn’t cure. Heaving himself to his feet, Gen bid them good afternoon, and promised to tell Juste that supper would need fetching.
“Thank you, Gen,” said Remin, walking him down the stairs to show him out. His voice lowered. "About the...begetting. It's really all right?”
“So long as the lady is in no pain, then there’s no reason to wait.” Genon belted his herbman’s jacket on at the door with a waft of spicy scent.
“I mean…it’s usually three or four times a day,” Remin admitted, with a worried glance at the ceiling. “Is that normal?”
“Ah. Well. Perhaps,” said Genon, after a moment’s internal consternation. It was fortunate that the duchess was a sturdy little thing. “I might…add some things to her diet. Make sure your lady feels comfortable to tell you if she’s too tired or…sore, but so long as you both are enjoying it…”
He shrugged his functional shoulder and bit his tongue ferociously. They really did need a proper healer. But as a soldier and a man, his first impulse was to congratulate the young lord on his stamina. And maybe light some incense for the lady.
“Let her guide you as to how much is too much,” he advised, and clapped his hat on his head. He kept the laugh buttoned in until he was well down the hill.
Blessed be the begetting, indeed.
* * *
“We brought back seven,” said Justenin, extracting the remaining devil quills from their protective leather case. “We have used three for our own experiments, testing them with various implements, exposing them to cold, heat, water, fire…”
The stack of paper at his elbow detailed these experiments and their results, along with speculations from the Duchess of Andelin on their implications, carefully copied by a scribe.
Juste had been tempted to furnish the scholars with the original, just to drive his point home, but that was a little unsubtle for his taste.
“Thank you,” said Master Forgess. He did not reach to touch the quills with his bare hands. “We have heard rumors already. There were two children that actually saw the creature?”
“Glimpsed it, in the dark. They have been gently questioned,” Juste added, flipping to the section of the document that detailed these eyewitness accounts. “But we are waiting for a fuller tale until they are settled. They are only children, and it upsets them to speak of such things.”
“Of course,” murmured Master Forgess, skimming the pages. The florid Master of the Library of Beasts had yet to learn patience or the management of his expressions; behind his spectacles, his eyes skimmed barely a full paragraph before they narrowed, and his lips tightened.
Juste smiled inside.
“You destroyed the other quills in your experiments?” Forgess grunted.
“Necessary sacrifices. You may do as you wish with these two,” Juste added, sealing them in a small leather pouch.
“But I will caution you not to handle them directly. Everyone who touches a quill with his bare skin has developed a rash afterward, which I am told is itchy and painful, and takes about a week to heal. And once a quill is embedded in flesh, it cannot be extracted. It did not react to dead flesh, but if it even lightly punctures the flesh of a living creature, it cannot be withdrawn. It…burrows. We are not sure whether it was poison or whether the quill reached something vital, but it killed the animal.”
Juste had sacrificed a haunch of pork and an elderly goat in that experiment. The goat had taken four days to die.
“The devils are aptly named,” Master Forgess grumbled, taking the pouch in gingerly fingers. “Her Grace wrote this? She assisted with these…experiments?”
“She did,” Juste confirmed. Though she had not handled the goat. She was too soft-hearted for that work, and His Grace would be furious if she were exposed to any potential poison or contagion. “I have found her a subtle and thorough thinker.”
Maybe it was petty, to keep jabbing at them. Forgess might be impatient and intemperate, but in time he would understand Juste’s subtle rebuke, issued in the language of the Tower of Scholars: this is the work of my student.
They did not fully realize the opportunity they had missed, and Juste hugged the secret to himself with satisfaction.
While he had never gone to the Tower, he had lived with many scholars and mystics after the slaughter of his family, and understood how they thought.
Excellent teachers were much-admired and highly sought after, but what those masters prized beyond rubies was a gifted student.
A student’s fame reflected on their master, and this most promising pupil belonged to Juste.
He was going to have words with the Duke and Duchess Andelin about that subject tonight, as a matter of fact.
Most often, Their Graces dined in the cookhouse, but that evening Juste went to pick up their supper from Wen directly. The irascible cook was loading up the hamper, a massive wicker basket lined with wool and linen batting to keep the food warm on the trip to the manor.
“Give me a minute, give me a minute,” Wen barked when Juste appeared, turning to stump down the single enormous counter in the long, narrow kitchen.
“And don’t take your eyes off that hamper while me back’s turned.
Gen’s asked me to add a bit of this and that to Her Grace’s diet. See that she eats her pudding.”
“Genon told you that himself?” Juste asked sharply, as Wen produced a small, sealed crock from a locked cupboard.
“Aye, what d’ye take me for?” Wen snorted. “Handed me the herbs and syrup himself, enough for one pudding. No one else got within six feet of it.”
“Be sure no one does,” Juste replied. “There are many varieties of mischief.”
“Not in this kitchen.” Wen snorted, settling the crock in the center of the hamper.
He did not like anyone in the valley to know it, but Wen was the son of a cook of some fame, and when disturbed, he had a tendency to plate things in attractive ways, which included the arrangement of crockery.
“You’re expecting someone to tamper with Her Grace’s food? ”
“It’s a possibility. Inform me if there are any further adjustments to her diet,” Juste said, hefting the basket, and departed. It was not a negligible burden.
Their Graces were occupied when he arrived at the manor.
Sighing, Juste set the basket on the floor of the grand entry.
Emi was scrubbing the evening mud from the stairs, Sim was bringing enough firewood to heat the house overnight, and the builders were wrapping up the day’s work, sweeping away sawdust and plaster.
So many people occupied with so many different tasks, and Juste’s sharp eye noted all of them, alert to both shoddy work and new faces.
He was the steward of Remin’s house in all ways.
The work went well. The grand entry was well on its way to being grand, and the whole second floor had been framed out, with plasterers hard at work in the west wing of the second floor.
Soon Juste, Miche, and Lady Verr would occupy their own suites there, the luxurious chambers of high-ranking members of the household.
Juste had spent a few hours with Master Didion a few days ago, choosing his furnishings and selecting basic items for the delinquent Miche.
By the new year, work would shift to the first floor.
Which meant they would have to find a new home for the Benkki Desan tree that currently occupied a sunny nook overlooking the courtyard. Turning that way, Juste found a pair of dark violet eyes peeping at him through the branches, framed with tiny white and purple flowers.
“Noble lord,” said Madam Imari Sanai.
“Madam,” Juste replied politely. “Well met. His Grace’s gift flourishes in your care.”
“It has come to a good spot,” she agreed, in the liquid syllables of Benkki Desa. They had exchanged pleasantries several times before.
“It was a generous gift. I must thank you again, on his behalf.” Juste inclined his head. “Though I still wonder why all of you chose to come to this spot, in all the world. Was it so great an opportunity?”
“The river here is wide and wild.” Madam Sanai clipped away a branch.
“The greatest river in the Empire,” Juste agreed, his eyes narrowing. “But all the great cities of Benkki Desa are built upon the river, are they not?”
“The Oboro-sati,” she replied, nodding. “The river of all rivers, which flows straight from the sea to the great western ocean. Yet it is slow and sleepy, and I had never seen a river so wild. Would you not go and see such a wonder?”
“I have seen enough wonders in my life,” Juste replied, interested enough to allow the evasion, and passed an agreeable time learning about her homeland, as her long fingers snipped buds from the tree, making room for others to grow.
Benkki Desans called themselves the People of Twilight, for they were last born to the world, and moved through time in their own rhythm.
It was the sort of small talk that Ophele would have to learn before her departure to the capital, and Juste had to own it could be pleasant, though he was not a man that greatly enjoyed society. He nearly forgot his original purpose until the door to the solar opened upstairs.