Chapter 47 – Generous Mood

Just as they had suspected, Prince Gwilet went all out for the Trial of Largesse.

Early that morning, a long procession of ox-drawn carts loaded with sacks of grain rolled through the alleys of Bomfrey toward the market square. Prince Gwilet sat on the lead cart, waving graciously to the crowd. With the value of the rings on his hand alone, he could probably have filled several more carts with grain.

In the market square, the sacks were slit open, and Grevue servants shoveled the grain into the baskets and sacks of those waiting. In every tavern in the city, ale was served for free at the prince’s expense, and at the Forge of Bomfrey, they delivered a stately chest full of silver and gold coins with great fanfare. “For the promotion of religious practice and out of the prince’s love for the Forge,” they proclaimed loudly.

Afterward, the prince personally made his way through the town’s orphanages, where he distributed honey cakes to the children with a broad smile. 

Shaelith, Benderast, Mirrsoss, and Grimbart stood at the edge of the market square and watched the spectacle. The poor, of course, accepted the grain. Who would turn down free grain?

Both Gwilet and they themselves were each accompanied by a group of attentive heralds, tasked with meticulously documenting every act of generosity.

Thaelon, who had been shadowing Gwilet and his men from a distance, stepped up to them. “Prince Gwilet has apparently made another, somewhat less conspicuous donation.”

“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Benderast urged, pulling Thaelon and the others into a huddle.

“He signed some documents up in the castle and distributed them to people,” Thaelon began. “One of the notaries told me that he transferred part of his land holdings to a total of two dozen landless knights.”

Benderast whistled softly. “Not bad, I guess.”

“But it’s not a purely selfless act either,” Shaelith remarked. “That’s two dozen new vassals who are grateful to him and, on top of that, bound by feudal loyalty.”

“Our idea isn’t purely selfless either,” Grimbart shrugged. “But it’s a good one.”

Shaelith clapped her hands. “Then we should get started right away.”

~

They had already scouted out where their help would likely be needed most and now split up to carry out the plan.

Benderast first went to the river quay in Bomfrey, where barges were docking, bringing large quantities of stone and wood for the tournament stands. The cargo was received by strong dockworkers, who collectively negotiated a price and then divided the wages fairly among themselves.

When Benderast first joined them, they were a bit suspicious, but when they realized he could carry stone blocks and entire beams that would otherwise require several men and didn’t even want a cut of the wages, they quickly warmed up to him.

Meanwhile, Grimbart had already figured out exactly what he wanted to repair in the days leading up to this, as it had been getting on his nerves for days.

On the outskirts of town, not far from the first tents of the tent city, there was a heavily used well that was a terrible nuisance to both the people who used it and those who lived nearby.

The well’s winch had been damaged for quite some time, which meant that the bucket could only be lowered and pulled back up with great effort, and that the mechanism squealed like a pig on a spit throughout the entire process. It also regularly jammed completely.

Most of the women who fetched water there had long since grown accustomed to the squeaking and the stiff winch and were accordingly surprised when Grimbart showed up with his tools and some materials and began taking the winch mechanism apart.

At first, the women weren’t very thrilled about having to lower and pull up the bucket by hand while Grimbart was working.

But when, two hours later, he had completely overhauled the entire winch and fitted it with a two-stage gearbox which made it possible to lower the bucket completely silently and effortlessly with a simple hand crank, they were absolutely thrilled.

“Not bad, little man,” said an old woman, nodding at him kindly. Grimbart bit his tongue to keep from grumbling.

Thaelon, for his part, had gone to see the steward of the Bomfrey granary, since he had heard that there was a major problem with rats and mice there.

The steward was a stocky man with a weary face who looked as if he had already given up the fight. He had tried everything over the past few years. He had laid out poison and set traps, kept a tabby cat with dubious success, and, in his desperation, had even paid a lot of money a few years ago to hire a rat catcher who turned out to be a con artist and ran off with the money. But he was willing to give Thaelon a chance. 

Thaelon crouched on the floor of the granary, making smacking noises and clicking his tongue. After a while, the first curious rats and mice came running toward him. The steward could hardly believe his eyes.

Of course, it was much easier to strike a deal with animals if you understood their language. The deal Thaelon negotiated wasn’t bad at all. If the steward would set up a small box of grain at the edge of the granary and fill it daily, the rats would make sure the rest was left alone. The mice also agreed to this, but only on the condition that the tabby cat, who, by general consensus, was a deranged sadist, be removed.

When Thaelon told the steward about the negotiations, he stared at the Sylvyn suspiciously at first, but he had seen with his own eyes that the elf had somehow spoken to the creatures, after all. “How do I know the rats will stick to the agreement?”

“Rats are pragmatic,” Thaelon said dryly. “If you yourself stick to the agreement and don’t keep trying to murder them, they can only benefit from the arrangement. Oh, and the tabby cat has to go. The mice insisted on it.”

So, shortly thereafter, the bewildered tomcat was carried away from the granary to a new home on the other side of Bomfrey. And shortly after that, before the wide eyes of the steward, a whole column of mice and rats marched out of the granary and lined up obediently in front of the box, which the steward hurriedly filled.

“Thank you very much, my good elf,” said the steward, shaking Thaelon’s hand vigorously. “By any chance, do you also have any ideas on how I can best tackle our mold problem?”

The corners of Thaelon’s mouth turned up slightly. “I think I know just the right person to talk to about that!”

~

Meanwhile, Mirrsoss had a particularly delicate assignment.

Through Shaelith, Obelaine had referred three noblewomen from Nalvine to Mirrsoss, who allegedly suffered from persistent insomnia and were willing to try anything, including Umilari wing dust. At least, that was the official story. Shaelith thought it more likely that the three young ladies simply wanted to experience the infamous effects of Umilari wing dust, about which certain… rumors were circulating. Not entirely without reason, as Shaelith herself knew only too well. 

Mirrsoss was thrilled by this opportunity, and the first batch of wing dust she fluttered toward one of the noblewomen was perfectly dosed.

Lady Justine closed her eyes, took a deep breath with a sigh, and sank back into her upholstered bench like a sack of flour.

The second dose though was only almost perfectly mixed. Lady Elisanne also closed her eyes and sighed deeply, but then, as she sank back into the cushions, began to moan softly and rub herself against one of the pillows with gentle hip movements.

Mirrsoss’s antennae flattened against her head. “Um, the second dose might have been a little too generous,” she whispered to Shaelith.

Lady Elisanne now moaned loudly while her whole body was trembling, even though her eyes were still closed.

“A little, you say?”

The drowsy euphoria wore off after half an hour, and Lady Elisanne said she couldn’t remember a thing, but the way the color rushed to her cheeks as she spoke told Shaelith a different story.

Nevertheless, or perhaps precisely because of this, the third lady insisted on being treated by Mirrsoss, who played it safe this time, though, whereupon the woman fell into such a deep sleep that her worried chambermaid checked her pulse in alarm.

All three, however, were eager to see Mirrsoss again, as they later learned from Obelaine.

And Shaelith herself healed all sorts of people.

She was by no means a true healer. The real specialists in Myzelemaerlazin would likely have turned up their noses at her technique, but of course she mastered the basics well enough to be of use to the people here.

She had applied a few healing glyphs and was sitting on a bench at the edge of the market, next to a sign offering her services for free, treating cuts, a broken toe, helping to bring down fevers, and disinfecting festering wounds with mycelium.

At first, people were a little hesitant, but as soon as the first few had worked up the courage, a steady stream formed.

A stocky woman with a scald on her forearm sat down next to her and asked, “You’re the purple wife of him over there, aren’t you?” She pointed in the direction Benderast was just shuffling past. On one shoulder he carried a massive wooden beam, and on the other, three laughing children who apparently wanted their turn to sit on the giant.

“Something like that,” she said. “My name is Shaelith Vyrnara.”

“Is it true that you put a spell on the banner?”

“No. If I’d cast a spell on the banner, it wouldn’t be chattering all the time.”

She laughed. “That’s true, they like to talk. Probably because they’re so happy they can. I’ve heard that in other countries the banners don’t talk.”

“Shaelith!” It was Thaelon, who had rushed over to her.

She looked up at him. “How did it go at the granary?”

“Good, very good,” he said. “Listen, the steward there mentioned a problem with mold. Could you maybe help him with that?”

“You’re asking a Shaeravyn sorceress if she can help with a problem involving fungi?” She laughed. “Nothing could be easier.”

She finished treating the woman and set off with Thaelon for the granary.

~

In the end, of course, the point still went to Gwilet.

The College of Heralds strictly measured largesse by value and volume. Their group’s work was certainly appreciated, as the somewhat contrite Tancred credibly assured them, but Gwilet’s gifts of gold, ale, grain, sweets, and land had, all in all, simply been worth more.

Of course, we could have asked whether generosity should rather be measured by what one has and what percentage one is willing to give, than by absolute numbers, but I fear that would have just made us look like sore losers.

They were all somewhat exhausted, and although they had expected this outcome, it tasted bitter that their hard work had been rewarded only indirectly.

Benderast sat on a tree stump and stretched. He looked tired, but not unhappy. “Four to one,” he said to Shaelith.

“You seem much more satisfied with that than I would have thought.”

“Why not?” He shrugged. “Now everything depends on the Lists, and in jousting and melee, I can beat them all. I’ve said from the start that this is going to be my comeback arc.”

“I know you’re a damn good fighter, Benderast,” she said cautiously. “I’m not going to deny that. But it’s not enough for you to finish ahead of Gwilet in those two list competitions. You have to win outright, and some of the people here aren’t exactly incompetent warriors either. I just don’t understand why you’re so sure of yourself.”

“Have you already forgotten about the Story Engine?” He wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully. “It would be the most dramatic way for me to win after all.”

Shaelith sighed loudly, and Grimbart reached up with a growl and slapped Benderast hard on the back of the head.

But Benderast just grinned. “What could possibly go wrong?”