momentarily, but the rest of him stayed slouched in the chair.
‘He’s my cousin from Rimstock, come to bring news of my aunt,’ he said around the stem of his pipe. ‘Pay no mind to him. He’s a bit simple, if you know what I mean.’
The soldier smirked, and took one more look at the man holding up the teapot. The little wretch did not match the description anyway, but it was good to check out new faces. He waved to the other two men and they left the house. Moffet followed them out to watch them leave his property. Groach peeked round the door at them, clutching the teapot like a good-luck charm. The soldiers were gathered in a group at the gate, talking. They were waiting for the rest of their group to finish the houses along the road.
The clink and jingle of bottles drew everyone’s attention towards the corner of the cobbled road, the space beyond hidden by a copse of trees. The clinking grew steadily louder until a figure appeared, pushing a cart the size of a wheelbarrow. It had shelves running up both sides to a point at the top; the shelves had holes in neat rows, and in each hole there was a vial or bottle. The tall barrow hid most of the figure behind it, but a head topped with a thick mop of curly red hair could be clearly seen over its peak.
The troops went quiet. There was a space between the shelves down the middle of the cart for the person pushing to be able to see ahead of them, and one or two of the soldiers hunched to try to see through this gap and get a glimpse at the figure.
The cart rolled right up to them and halted. The soldiers scattered around it and assumed aggressive stances, weapons drawn, battle cries rising in their throats. But it was a small, albeit slightly plump, young woman who unhitched the barrow from the belt around her waist and arched her back with a great stretch. She ignored the heavily armed ogres around her, and flicked her thick red hair over her shoulders. Pale blue eyes stared out of a round, brown,freckly face at the soldier who stood in her way. She wore an ankle-length, green cotton dress, belted at the waist, a dark green cloak and soft leather boots. She also had a long suede waistcoat on, lined with dozens of little pockets. The girl cocked her head to one side and addressed the soldier:
‘Good morning. Can I help you at all?’
‘What’s your name?’ the soldier demanded (and Groach realised for the first time that the soldier, too, was a woman).
‘You can call me Hilspeth. Would you mind moving aside?’
‘I can call you anything I like ,’ the armour-clad woman retorted. ‘We’re here on an official manhunt. State your full name and your business here in Crickenob.’
‘Hilspeth Naratemus; and my business is the same here as anywhere else,’ she gestured towards her cart. ‘Would you care for a sample? I have several preparations that can help ease an unpleasant temperament.’
‘Don’t give me any of your snotty talk …’
‘Yes, I imagine you have more than enough snot of your own. I have a tonic here that can cure that, too.’
‘You are getting right up my nose, little girl,’ the soldier hissed.
‘Not yet, I’m not.’ The girl’s voice carried a note of warning that rattled the warrior even further.
‘What are all these bottles? Are you a medicine woman?’ the soldier asked, voice tinged with superstition.
‘No, a scentonomist. I mix aromas for people’s pleasure and wellbeing.’
‘You sell smells?’
‘Yes, that’s a crude, but accurate, way of putting it. I could prepare one for you if you like.’
‘Why would I want to pay for a smell?’
‘To hide the ones you seem to have collected for free.’
There was a moment of grim silence as this sunk in. Then a fist the size and weight of a turnip hit Hilspeth across the side of the head. She crumpled to the ground. The soldier raised her spear over her head, intent on impaling the girl, but she did not notice the small man who had run from the house behind
‘He’s my cousin from Rimstock, come to bring news of my aunt,’ he said around the stem of his pipe. ‘Pay no mind to him. He’s a bit simple, if you know what I mean.’
The soldier smirked, and took one more look at the man holding up the teapot. The little wretch did not match the description anyway, but it was good to check out new faces. He waved to the other two men and they left the house. Moffet followed them out to watch them leave his property. Groach peeked round the door at them, clutching the teapot like a good-luck charm. The soldiers were gathered in a group at the gate, talking. They were waiting for the rest of their group to finish the houses along the road.
The clink and jingle of bottles drew everyone’s attention towards the corner of the cobbled road, the space beyond hidden by a copse of trees. The clinking grew steadily louder until a figure appeared, pushing a cart the size of a wheelbarrow. It had shelves running up both sides to a point at the top; the shelves had holes in neat rows, and in each hole there was a vial or bottle. The tall barrow hid most of the figure behind it, but a head topped with a thick mop of curly red hair could be clearly seen over its peak.
The troops went quiet. There was a space between the shelves down the middle of the cart for the person pushing to be able to see ahead of them, and one or two of the soldiers hunched to try to see through this gap and get a glimpse at the figure.
The cart rolled right up to them and halted. The soldiers scattered around it and assumed aggressive stances, weapons drawn, battle cries rising in their throats. But it was a small, albeit slightly plump, young woman who unhitched the barrow from the belt around her waist and arched her back with a great stretch. She ignored the heavily armed ogres around her, and flicked her thick red hair over her shoulders. Pale blue eyes stared out of a round, brown,freckly face at the soldier who stood in her way. She wore an ankle-length, green cotton dress, belted at the waist, a dark green cloak and soft leather boots. She also had a long suede waistcoat on, lined with dozens of little pockets. The girl cocked her head to one side and addressed the soldier:
‘Good morning. Can I help you at all?’
‘What’s your name?’ the soldier demanded (and Groach realised for the first time that the soldier, too, was a woman).
‘You can call me Hilspeth. Would you mind moving aside?’
‘I can call you anything I like ,’ the armour-clad woman retorted. ‘We’re here on an official manhunt. State your full name and your business here in Crickenob.’
‘Hilspeth Naratemus; and my business is the same here as anywhere else,’ she gestured towards her cart. ‘Would you care for a sample? I have several preparations that can help ease an unpleasant temperament.’
‘Don’t give me any of your snotty talk …’
‘Yes, I imagine you have more than enough snot of your own. I have a tonic here that can cure that, too.’
‘You are getting right up my nose, little girl,’ the soldier hissed.
‘Not yet, I’m not.’ The girl’s voice carried a note of warning that rattled the warrior even further.
‘What are all these bottles? Are you a medicine woman?’ the soldier asked, voice tinged with superstition.
‘No, a scentonomist. I mix aromas for people’s pleasure and wellbeing.’
‘You sell smells?’
‘Yes, that’s a crude, but accurate, way of putting it. I could prepare one for you if you like.’
‘Why would I want to pay for a smell?’
‘To hide the ones you seem to have collected for free.’
There was a moment of grim silence as this sunk in. Then a fist the size and weight of a turnip hit Hilspeth across the side of the head. She crumpled to the ground. The soldier raised her spear over her head, intent on impaling the girl, but she did not notice the small man who had run from the house behind
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