the father she'd lost, and the mother she'd barely known
at all.
Her destination
was the house of her friend Meesa's husband, Numinar Wrobsley. A
prominent and skilled herbalist, he lived on Circle Twelve in the
heart of the trades quarter. Instead of situating his dwelling on
the edges of the forest, as any reasonable potion maker might do,
he had brought the forest to his home. The building was stacked
atop tall stilts, which wasn't that unusual in Glour; many citizens
liked to raise their houses a little closer to the firmament.
Wrobsley's house was easily twice the height of even the tallest of
the residential buildings elsewhere in the city. He had a garden
spread atop the roof and he spent hours and hours up there,
carefully tending the rare plants he'd had imported from the Lower
Realms. He swore that the proximity to the pale moonlight kept his
plants stronger and healthier than their sicklier cousins elsewhere
in the city. It was as reasonable an explanation as any for his
particularly potent concoctions.
Eva found him in
his rooftop garden as usual, bent over pots of seedlings. He was
cursing their lack of progress with an enviable fluidity,
impatiently pushing his escaping strands of hair back behind his
ears as they repeatedly fell forward. She noticed he was wearing
mismatched colours.
'Lackadaisical
monsters! Destined to grace the most delicious and marvellously
effective potions in Glour and you fail to produce more than a
SINGLE miserable leaf?'
She cleared her
throat. He shot upright, turned and stared at her.
'Damned
laziness,' he muttered darkly.
'I can assure
you, I have never trained a dringle-bird faster.'
'Not you,' he
said impatiently. He never did have much of a sense of humour, she
reflected. He was far too intense for that. His wife, on the other
hand...
'It's these
absurd milkleaf sprouts. Couldn't ask for a better environment,
could they? Pampered like children. Food, water, moonglow, never so
much as a hint of strong daylight...' He stepped forward
suddenly, his face brightening as he observed the glove and the
pacing bird. 'Dringle-bird, you said? Is this him? It's about time.
I lost an entire crop of darsury grass to the mites not two days
ago.'
She drew off her
glove and passed it to him. 'He'll respond to the whistle, every
time.'
'Perfect,
perfect.' Wrobsley eyed the bird. Skritch paced, fluffed his wings
and clucked. Eva gave him the hunt signal, and Skritch took to the
wing. Eva and Wrobsley watched as the dringle systematically combed
the tubs of plants, snaring insects and mites with deft, quick
snaps of his tiny beak. Wrobsley began to walk after it, selecting
pots at random and inspecting the leaves. Eva knew there wouldn't
be an insect left in sight.
He returned to
her at length and nodded approvingly. 'Thank you. I know you don't
train much anymore. Meesa will appreciate it.'
She smiled. 'Only
for friends, yes. Glour Council seems to have other things for the
High Summoner to do, for some reason. Where is Meesa?'
He turned back to
his plants. 'Downstairs somewhere.'
'One more thing,
Numinar, if you've a moment.' He straightened up again, eyeing her
impatiently. 'I've run out of the prophylactic and I need some
more, fairly quickly.'
Numinar frowned.
'I don't have much. One bottle. The rylur shortage is killing
me.'
'There's a
shortage?'
He led the way
back down to his workroom and fell to rummaging through cupboards.
'You haven't heard? I can't get any at all at the
moment.'
This was curious
news. Rylur was one of the trickier plants, impossible to rear
properly outside of the Lowers. That meant supply was always a
problem - it had to be carefully gathered by herbalists trained in
Lowers survival and excursions down there were always brief and
tightly controlled. But she knew that Numinar didn't always rely on
the fully legal sources.
Numinar was
throwing bottles around with a carelessness that made her wince,
but nothing broke. 'All sources have dried up lately. I
at all.
Her destination
was the house of her friend Meesa's husband, Numinar Wrobsley. A
prominent and skilled herbalist, he lived on Circle Twelve in the
heart of the trades quarter. Instead of situating his dwelling on
the edges of the forest, as any reasonable potion maker might do,
he had brought the forest to his home. The building was stacked
atop tall stilts, which wasn't that unusual in Glour; many citizens
liked to raise their houses a little closer to the firmament.
Wrobsley's house was easily twice the height of even the tallest of
the residential buildings elsewhere in the city. He had a garden
spread atop the roof and he spent hours and hours up there,
carefully tending the rare plants he'd had imported from the Lower
Realms. He swore that the proximity to the pale moonlight kept his
plants stronger and healthier than their sicklier cousins elsewhere
in the city. It was as reasonable an explanation as any for his
particularly potent concoctions.
Eva found him in
his rooftop garden as usual, bent over pots of seedlings. He was
cursing their lack of progress with an enviable fluidity,
impatiently pushing his escaping strands of hair back behind his
ears as they repeatedly fell forward. She noticed he was wearing
mismatched colours.
'Lackadaisical
monsters! Destined to grace the most delicious and marvellously
effective potions in Glour and you fail to produce more than a
SINGLE miserable leaf?'
She cleared her
throat. He shot upright, turned and stared at her.
'Damned
laziness,' he muttered darkly.
'I can assure
you, I have never trained a dringle-bird faster.'
'Not you,' he
said impatiently. He never did have much of a sense of humour, she
reflected. He was far too intense for that. His wife, on the other
hand...
'It's these
absurd milkleaf sprouts. Couldn't ask for a better environment,
could they? Pampered like children. Food, water, moonglow, never so
much as a hint of strong daylight...' He stepped forward
suddenly, his face brightening as he observed the glove and the
pacing bird. 'Dringle-bird, you said? Is this him? It's about time.
I lost an entire crop of darsury grass to the mites not two days
ago.'
She drew off her
glove and passed it to him. 'He'll respond to the whistle, every
time.'
'Perfect,
perfect.' Wrobsley eyed the bird. Skritch paced, fluffed his wings
and clucked. Eva gave him the hunt signal, and Skritch took to the
wing. Eva and Wrobsley watched as the dringle systematically combed
the tubs of plants, snaring insects and mites with deft, quick
snaps of his tiny beak. Wrobsley began to walk after it, selecting
pots at random and inspecting the leaves. Eva knew there wouldn't
be an insect left in sight.
He returned to
her at length and nodded approvingly. 'Thank you. I know you don't
train much anymore. Meesa will appreciate it.'
She smiled. 'Only
for friends, yes. Glour Council seems to have other things for the
High Summoner to do, for some reason. Where is Meesa?'
He turned back to
his plants. 'Downstairs somewhere.'
'One more thing,
Numinar, if you've a moment.' He straightened up again, eyeing her
impatiently. 'I've run out of the prophylactic and I need some
more, fairly quickly.'
Numinar frowned.
'I don't have much. One bottle. The rylur shortage is killing
me.'
'There's a
shortage?'
He led the way
back down to his workroom and fell to rummaging through cupboards.
'You haven't heard? I can't get any at all at the
moment.'
This was curious
news. Rylur was one of the trickier plants, impossible to rear
properly outside of the Lowers. That meant supply was always a
problem - it had to be carefully gathered by herbalists trained in
Lowers survival and excursions down there were always brief and
tightly controlled. But she knew that Numinar didn't always rely on
the fully legal sources.
Numinar was
throwing bottles around with a carelessness that made her wince,
but nothing broke. 'All sources have dried up lately. I
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