The not-immortal Blacksmith

Lostcairn, Snows Province, Kingdom of Garthia;

50th of Amsiel, Second month of Summer;

2121 years since the new gods came.

The eclipse of Kochbez party is tonight. I will, of course, be bringing bread.

*-*-*

8ish pm, on the 50th of Amsiel,

“Of our two moons, Manur the smaller, and Kochbez the Larger,” the old astrologist from the local school was speaking in a rough and scratchy voice, “Manur is the fastest, passing through its phases every 17 nights. Kochbez is a much more sedate and reliable sight, taking 38 days to complete all of its phases.”

The party, as far as Max could tell, consisted of the Lady Ermistan, her paramour Louis, and 42 of her closest friends. They were gathered on the front lawn of the Ermistan country estate, located several miles north of Lostcairn, so as to not have the eclipse ruined by the lights of the city. Tables had been scattered around laden with snacks and drinks, and household staff were busy attending to the guests.

As the old astrologist droned on about the lunar eclipse, Lady Ermistan approached Maxwell. “I see you have dredged up another of those old fashioned outfits from the royal court! They are just so gorgeous! It is too bad that the designer decided to commit suicide after waiting upon the queen mother.”

Max hid a smile behind his barely touched wine glass, “Yes. My grandfather was lucky enough to obtain several of his later design patterns at auction and have them reproduced. They are so well recognized at this point that even third hand copies of the patterns are worth a fairly substantial sum.”

“Well, if you find yourself low on funds for our next card game, I would gladly buy one off of you, or buy it from the pot.” Lady Ermistan winked. “But you never seem to have any of the good stuff in your collection on hand, just 'in storage'. Wherever that is.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Well, just to prove the validity of my claim, I may have brought an item worthy of your Ladyship.” Max retorted with a cockeyed grin and a waggling of his eyebrows. He set down his drink on a nearby table and opened the valise he had been carrying, one he had pulled out of his storage chest earlier in the day. The valise had the words “Patterns, Women” stenciled on the front.

*-*-*

“

51st of Amsiel, 2121 years.

Dearest Master Smithson,

I am truly astounded, nay amazed, at the gift of wonder that you have bestowed upon me! I dare not even to attempt to explain in words my wonder and awe at this pattern. I will treasure it more than my own life.

Sincerely,

Lady Marabell Ermistan

”

What a wonderful letter to receive. It was just a pattern I came up with at the old shop. I never had the occasion, or chance, to see it to fruition. I'm glad she liked it.

Lostcairn, Snows Province, Kingdom of Garthia;

39th of Arah, Second month of snow;

2121 years since the new gods came.

The wolves have been a blessing in disguise. The outer lands have never been as bandit free as they are at present. Several times now I have found a deer carcass or dead bandit on my rear doorstep. The wounds definitely match those that would be inflicted by wolves. Strangely, the only footprints I have found around the bodies have been human.

Unfortunately, there are now rumors of Ratlings in the ancient catacombs under the city. The inner families have asked if I could intercede. At least Ratlings are smarter than wolves, even wolves that can speak.

*-*-*

41th of Arah,

Late evening.

After closing the bakery and bar, Max headed into the city wearing only his normal clothing, a warm cloak, and his revolvers. His destination was an abandoned temple that still had access to the catacombs. The old and crumbling temple was dark, cold, and covered with graffiti. Shaking his head, Max followed a mostly hidden corridor to an unlocked gate that “secured” the catacombs stairway entrance. His footfalls echoed on the stone steps as he descended into the darkness.

A quick and quiet spell later, a small ball of light hovered over Max's head, illuminating the stairs. As he followed them down, he began to notice faint intricate carvings on the walls, most decorative, but some full pictures. Pictures he recognized from that thrice cursed book he had obtained from the goddess of knowledge.

“Stupid old gods. Stupid temples. Stupid idiots all around.” he quietly said. Something skittered in front of him at his words, and he jumped. “And stupid rats, trying to startle me.”

As he descended further and further into the darkness, the cold air became moist, leaving droplets of condensation on his clothes and hands. “And now I'm going to need a bath.” Something skittered on the floor in front of him again. “Ha. Not going to startle me twice, rodent.”

After what felt like hours, but he knew to only be 15 minutes, he arrived in what could be described as an entrance hall or large living room. The room was around 45' square, with open doorways on the three walls not occupied by the stairwell.. Illuminated by the sputtering glow of witchlights where sconces should have been on the walls, and by his own light spell, were several little groupings of rotted chairs and couches surrounding what would have once been a beautiful rug.

Checking the floor for tracks, of which there were many, he decided to head through the door to the right of the stairs. As he stepped past the threshold, he was met by several sets of glowing eyes. The Ratlings finally appear, he thought. As he approached, he saw that the group was some kind of guards. The Ratlings stood some three feet tall and wore helmets and chain shirts, as well as carried spears that fit their size.

The one in front, probably the leader, spoke, “Who are you that desecrates our burrow, this temple to the dead gods of old?”

Max stopped, several feet back from the guards, “My name is Maxwell, and I am here to parley with the leader of your burrow.”

“And why should we listen to you?”

“Because I am here to head off...problems.” Max said.

“What kind of problems could you pose to us?” A hollow voice from behind the guards asked.

“Ah, someone more useful than guards.” Max said, pushing back his cloak hood and gave a slight bow, “I am Maxwell Smithson, head baker of the Naked Eagle Bakery, and owner of the Neutral Ground.”

“We have heard of you, Maxwell the Heretic.” The voice said. A frail looking Ratling stepped into view, wearing what appeared to be some kind of clerical vestment. “But what brings you here? We have no dealings with the city folk. We keep to ourselves, and to these catacombs.”

“Well, your priestlyness, therein lies the problem. Your...parishioners have been seen stealing items from street vendors, and shops after the hours of closing. This needs to stop.”

“Really? And are these claims reliable?” The cleric asked, voice betraying no emotion.

“Sadly, yes. One of the 'organizations' in question had decided to invest in bound spirits to guard their wares, and one of yours was caught in the middle of pilfering some expensive items. A jeweled necklace to be exact.”

“Well gracious me. Children can be so bothersome. What would you offer in exchange for the return of the pilfered goods?” The old Ratling cocked a fuzzy eyebrow at Max.

“A promise of no reprisals. And an opportunity to join the organizations I represent.” Max said. “There are apparently some jobs that the city council and the 'Families' think your kind would be an excellent fit for.”

“Oh really? And what would that be? Rat catching? Petty theft?” The cleric said with a derisive snort. “We refuse that sort of thing out of paw.”

“Well, I know that petty theft was on the table, originally, but no.” Max replied, “There is a need to guard the granaries from pests, both two legged and four. But also there is a refuse problem. A large one. It was thought that refuse collection might be something you would be interested in. Perfectly legal, and pays a small amount of coin.”

“Hmmm...Refuse you say...Hmmm...and some coins...and legal...” The ancient Ratling cocked his head to the side. “I will speak to my brothers and sisters on this matter. An answer will be sent to you in a week.” The Ratling nodded. “A week.”

“Thank you cleric. Have a good night.” Replied Max, then he turned around and headed back up to the city. I hope the council will go through with this. If not this could start an unpleasant war.

*-*-*

47th of Arah,

The Ratlings have left me a note. They are willing to speak with the city council on the terms of the accord. I sent a message to the mayor's office on the subject. It is out of my hands now. The note also contained a recipe for something called “Ginger Bread”. It looks like it is edible, I will try it one of these days.

53rd of Arah,

“Ginger Bread” is surprisingly good. I will be adding it to the menu. Ginger is, unsurprisingly, hard to find. I will have to send for some from the spice caravans that visit Eastern Deepfallsia.

Lostcairn, Snows Province, Kingdom of Garthia;

3rd of Samue, the month of Planting;

2122 years since the new gods came.

New years is always a busy time. The new shop is open, but until I can graduate my apprentice, we are supplying the bread from this one.

The Ratlings have finished negotiations with the city council over refuse disposal and other things, and are no longer thieving. Well mostly not thieving. Some things will never change.

I'm glad that I had no part in the discussions. I dislike politics.

TTFN

Recipe stolen from: https://www.gutenberg.org/files/65398/65398-h/65398-h.htm

“The Calumet Book of Oven Triumphs!

Copyright 1934

GENERAL FOODS CORPORATION

Form 516

PRINTED IN U.S.A.”

Gingerbread

(1 egg)

2 cups sifted Swans Down Cake Flour

2 teaspoons Calumet Baking Powder

¼ teaspoon soda

2 teaspoons ginger

1 teaspoon cinnamon

½ teaspoon salt

⅓ cup butter or other shortening

½ cup sugar

1 egg, well beaten

⅔ cup molasses

¾ cup sour milk or buttermilk

Sift flour once, measure, add baking powder, soda, spices, and salt, and sift together three times. Cream butter thoroughly, add sugar gradually, and cream together until light and fluffy. Add egg and molasses; then flour, alternately with milk, a small amount at a time. Beat after each addition until smooth. Bake in greased pan, 8 × 8 × 2 inches, in moderate oven (350°F.) 50 minutes, or until done.