Chapter Three:
The Gall of Some People
Several days after his embarrassing foray into entry-proof housing, Trug was hard at work copying over several blueprints for his father. His fingers were stained black with ink, and several smudges crisscrossed his nose and forehead. He straightened from his drafting table with a groan, and went outside for a breath of fresh air.
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The clearing work was still in full swing. Most of the trees had been felled, limbed, and dragged into a massive pile near the river. The workmen were busy looping long sections of chains around the many stumps spread across the site, hitching them to teams of horses and slowly but surely pulling them from the ground like rotten teeth. Smoke smudged the sky from several bonfires where the brush and stumps were thrown.
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A massive structure was being built below a particularly swift section of the river – the foundation of the new township's sawmill. Once complete, the massive stack of tree trunks would be run through the mill and used to build the rest of the town. In the meantime, a steady train of wagons from the North kept the crews supplied with all the lumber and supplies they needed.
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Trug walked over to the mill site, where his father was overseeing the construction from a large canvas tent. William was deep in conversation with two of the supervisors, leaning over a table covered in plans, lists and tools.
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“The lumber shouldn't be a problem,” William said, pointing a page covered in calculations, “we have three caravans arriving daily. Stone looks to be in good shape as well, the quarry on the East side of town is meeting quota with no problems.”
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One of the men gave a nod of satisfaction. He was short, stocky man with fiery red hair and heavily callused hands. “Aye, sir. The pilings in the river should be done by next week, and we'll be ready to start on the dam when you are.”
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“Good, Johan, thank you. How about you, Pierre? Any issues getting the framing done?”
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Pierre shrugged. “We're limited by materials, really. As long as the wagons get here, we should be fine.”
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“Excellent. Just so you're both aware, I have a letter here from our engineers back in Chernsburg.” William rooted amongst the papers for a moment, then pulled out a sheet of parchment with a large wax seal at the bottom. “Here we are. Barring any further delays, we should have the sawblade and mechanisms for the mill on the way by month's end. So we should be well ahead of schedule.”
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William looked up and saw Trug waiting patiently outside of the tent. “That will be all, gentlemen, thank you for the updates. Keep up the good work.” Johan and Pierre gathered up their papers, and headed back out to their crews.
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“Well son, how goes the copying trade?”
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“Very well, sir. Ten copies each of the cottage plans are drying, and I've gotten a good start on the tavern and warehouse plans as well. But I've hit a bit of a snag, sir. Our ink supply is almost finished.”
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William squinted at Trug. “Hardly surprising, it looks as though you poured most of it on your face. But if you were trying for the noble savage look, you'll need more piercings to really pull it off.” He paused, and a knowing glint came into his eye. “Wait a moment... I know what you're up to here, my boy.”
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Trug frowned in confusion. “What? I really am almost out of ink, what do you mean, 'up to'?”
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“Uh huh, sure. Out of ink means a trip to the apothecary. What was Ronald's eldest's name again? The one you were staring at like a stunned trison the last time we were in town for supplies? Bonnie?”
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“Oh, you mean Rhonny!” The un-inked portions of Trug's face started to turn decidedly red. “I mean, I think that's her name.”
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“That seems right, yes. At least, that's what I saw carved into a tree over by our campsite. Inside a heart. But I'm sure that was probably one of the workers, right?”
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Trug remained remarkably silent.
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William gave his son a knowing grin. “Well, it sounds as though you're ahead of the workload anyway, so why not. Take some coin from the lockbox and go get us another case of ink. But do try to be back before dark.”
Trug gave William a grateful smile and sped off to their campsite, light of step and humming a tune.
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An hour later, at a hamlet a short distance upriver from the Belleme worksite, Trug arrived outside of a small cottage. A wooden sign hung over the door, showing a mortar and pestle – a common sigil for those in the apothecary trade. He had made some effort to clean himself up, donning a (mostly) clean tunic, and having run his fingers through his hair (the overall effect was somewhat akin to a porcupine after a rainstorm). He took in a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and entered the shop.
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The shop was clean and simple. Light from a pair of small windows behind the counter spilled across the shop, illuminating several shelves lined with bottles of various shapes and colors. Bushel baskets sat in a row along the left-hand wall, each holding a different sort of herb or root. A few small tapestries and bolts of cloth hung from the right wall – samples of the shopkeeper's wife's handiwork for sale.
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The shopkeep himself, Ronald Curwen, stood behind the counter. When Trug entered the shop, Ronald was pouring a powdery substance from a small mortar into a row of glass bottles. He looked up with a smile and set aside the bowl.
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“Ah, young master Belleme, isn't it? To what do I owe this pleasure?”
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“Good morning Mr. Curwen,” said Trug with a slight bow, “I'm here on behalf of my father.” He reached into his pack and pulled out a small wooden case which held several empty phials. “I was hoping to get some ink.”
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Ronald looked at a shelf to his left and frowned. “Hm. I hate to turn away a customer, Trug, but it appears that my supply of ink is a bit barren at the moment. I think I have most of the reagents to produce more, but...” He tapped a finger against his chin thoughtfully. “Actually... I tell a lie. I used the last of my oak gall last week. Perhaps we could help each other?”
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“How so, sir?”
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“Well, I need more oak gall, and you need ink. If you were willing to head out and collect some for me, I could make your ink today, and at half-price to boot.”
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“A tempting offer sir, but I'm not much of an herbalist. I doubt I would recognize oak gall, let alone know how to harvest it properly.”
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Ronald tipped Trug a wink, and turned to yell through the curtained doorway behind him. “Rhonorix! A word, please!”
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“Just a moment,” called a clear voice, “I'm just finishing this tincture.”
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At the sound of that voice, Trug's mouth went dry as sand, and he suddenly wished he had taken the time to put on a nicer tunic and actually wash his hair. His palms began to sweat, and he was positive he saw a gleam of unholy glee in the eyes of Rhonny's father. The bastard.
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A moment later a young woman pushed through the curtain into the shop. Her auburn hair was pulled back into a ponytail, held in place with a hank of twine. She was wearing a loose white blouse, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her fingers were stained with a greenish-brown fluid, and she was wiping them on a rag as she walked in. Her green eyes lit up with surprise as she saw Trug standing in front of the counter, his hands clutching his pack as though he expected thieves to snatch it at any second.
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“Oh, Trug. What brings you here?”
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“Rhonny, you are as beautiful as the stars at night, clever as the finest engineers in the Kingdom, and I pledge my undying love to you,” was what Trug imagined himself saying. What actually came out was a strangled "Urk..."
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“What?”
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Trug gave serious consideration to running off and joining a monastic order, and rallied with a heartfelt "Nnnur..."
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Rhonny raised an eyebrow and turned to her father. “Is he sick?”
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“No, dear, I think the road dust has just gotten to the poor lad.” Yes, no doubt about it, Trug saw nigh demonic hilarity in Ronald's smile. “He's here for ink, and has offered to gather some much-needed oak gall. But he needs someone with some woodscraft to accompany him – I was hoping you would be willing.”
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“Of course, father. Just let me get my things.” With one more puzzled glance at the dumbfounded Trug, she went back into the rear of the shop.
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Ronald placed a pair of leather mugs on the counter and filled them from a wineskin. “Here, Master Belleme, you look a bit parched.”
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Trug took the mug gratefully, and after a few mouthfuls of the watered wine he was feeling much more himself. “Thank you, Mr. Curwen. I don't know what came over me there.”
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“Oh, you'd be surprised how many young men your age have the same malady, lad.” Ronald took a drink from his own mug. “Ahhh, yes. Might have had the same malady myself years and years ago. I'm sure you'll survive it, most do.”
A serious look came over the apothecary's face. “Now, as a father, I would be remiss not to caution you. My daughter knows these woods, and she knows how to take care of herself. Try to take any liberties, and you'll be unlucky to make it back here in one piece. I say unlucky, because then you'd have to deal with me. Clear?”
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Trug nodded earnestly. “Completely, sir.”
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“Good. I trust you, and I have a lot of respect for what your family is doing for the Count. Now, like I said, my daughter knows these woods. They're more or less safe these days, but you mind what Rhonny tells you to do.”
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“Aye, otherwise you'll likely wind up in a daemon's belly before noon.” Rhonny emerged back into the shop, with a leather satchel slung across her body, a quiver at her waist and a bow across her back. “We all set?”
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Trug snorted. “Daemons this close to Chernsburg? We'd be as likely to catch a kraken in the river!”
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“Ah, found your voice again, did you?” asked Rhonny with a smirk. “Good, you can tell me all about the new township as we go.” So saying, Rhonny pushed past Trug and left the shop.
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Trug looked to Ronald, who shrugged. “She's not one to stand on ceremony, Master Belleme. Best hurry if you don't want to get left in the woods by yourself.”
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Trug left the shop at a dead run, hastily pulling the door shut after him. Ronald smiled to himself and took another pull from his mug. “Young love never ceases to amuse.”
