George Martin - Rogues

“Oh,” Bast said happily as he gazed up at her. His eyes were slightly dazed. “You’re so much lovelier than I’d imagined.”

He lifted a hand as if to brush her cheek, only to find it holding the crown and knotted handkerchief. “Ahh,” he said, remembering. “I’ve brought you some daisies too. And a sweet bun.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the daisy crown with both hands. She had to let go of her shift to do this. It fell lightly to the grass.

Bast blinked, momentarily at a loss for words.

Emberlee tilted her head to look at the crown; the ribbon was a striking cornflower blue, but it was nothing near as lovely as her eyes. She lifted it with both hands and settled it proudly on her head. Her arms still raised, she drew a slow breath.

Bast’s eyes slipped from her crown.

She smiled at him indulgently.

Bast drew a breath to speak, then stopped and drew another through his nose. Honeysuckle.

“Did you steal my soap?” he asked incredulously.

Emberlee laughed and kissed him.

A good while later, Bast took the long way back to the lightning tree, making a wide loop up into the hills north of town. Things were rockier up that way, no ground flat enough to plant, the terrain too treacherous for grazing.

Even with the boy’s directions, it took Bast a while to find Martin’s still. He had to give the crazy old bastard credit though. Between the brambles, rockslides, and fallen trees, there wasn’t a chance he would have stumbled onto it accidentally, tucked back into a shallow cave in a scrubby little box valley.

The still wasn’t some slipshod contraption bunged together out of old pots and twisted wire, either. It was a work of art. There were barrels and basins and great spirals of copper tube. A great copper kettle twice the size of a washbin, and a smolder-stove for warming it. A wooden trough ran all along the ceiling, and only after following it outside did Bast realize Martin collected rainwater and brought it inside to fill his cooling barrels.

Looking it over, Bast had the sudden urge to flip through Celum Tinture and learn what all the different pieces of the still were called, what they were for. Only then did he realize he’d left the book back at the lightning tree.

So instead Bast rooted around until he found a box filled with a mad miscellany of containers: two dozen bottles of all sorts, clay jugs, old canning jars … A dozen of them were full. None of them were labeled in any way.

Bast lifted out a tall bottle that had obviously once held wine. He pulled the cork, sniffed it gingerly, then took a careful sip. His face bloomed into a sunrise of delight. He’d half expected turpentine, but this was … well … he wasn’t sure entirely. He took another drink. There was something of apples about it, and … barley?

Bast took a third drink, grinning. Whatever you care to call it, it was lovely. Smooth and strong and just a little sweet. Martin might mad as a badger, but he clearly knew his liquor.

It was better than an hour before Bast made it back to the lightning tree. Rike hadn’t returned, but Celum Tinture was sitting there unharmed. For the first time he could remember, he was glad to see the book. He flipped it open to the chapter on distillation and read for half an hour, nodding to himself at various points. It was called a condensate coil. He’d thought it looked important.

Eventually he closed the book and sighed. There were a few clouds rolling in, and no good could come of leaving the book unattended again. His luck wouldn’t last forever, and he shuddered to think what would happen if the wind tumbled the book into the grass and tore the pages. If there was a sudden rain …

So Bast wandered back to the Waystone Inn and slipped silently through the back door. Stepping carefully, he opened a cupboard and tucked the book inside. He made his silent way halfway back to the door before he heard footsteps behind him.

“Ah, Bast,” the innkeeper said. “Have you brought the carrots?”

Bast froze, caught awkwardly midsneak. He straightened up and brushed self-consciously at his clothes. “I … I haven’t quite got round to that yet, Reshi.”

The innkeeper gave a deep sigh. “I don’t ask a …” He stopped and sniffed, then eyed the dark-haired man narrowly. “Are you drunk, Bast?”

Bast looked affronted. “Reshi!”

The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Fine then, have you been drinking?”

“I’ve been investigating, ” Bast said, emphasizing the word. “Did you know Crazy Martin runs a still?”

“I didn’t,” the innkeeper said, his tone making it clear he didn’t find this information to be particularly thrilling. “And Martin isn’t crazy. He just has a handful of unfortunately strong affect compulsions. And a touch of tabard madness from when he was a soldier.”

“Well, yes …” Bast said slowly. “I know, because he set his dog on me and when I climbed a tree to get away, he tried to chop the tree down. But also, aside from those things, he’s crazy too, Reshi. Really, really crazy.”

“Bast.” The innkeeper gave him a chiding look.

“I’m not saying he’s bad, Reshi. I’m not even saying I don’t like him. But trust me. I know crazy. His head isn’t put together like a normal person’s.”

The innkeeper gave an agreeable if slightly impatient nod. “Noted.”

Bast opened his mouth, then looked slightly confused. “What were we talking about?”

“Your advanced state of investigation,” the innkeeper said, glancing out the window. “Despite the fact that it is barely three bells.”

“Ah. Right!” Bast said excitedly. “I know Martin’s been running a tab for the better part of a year now. And I know you’ve had trouble settling up because he doesn’t have any money.”

“He doesn’t use money,” the innkeeper corrected gently.

“Same difference, Reshi,” Bast sighed. “And it doesn’t change the fact that we don’t need another sack of barley. The pantry is choking on barley. But since he runs a still …”

The innkeeper was already shaking his head. “No, Bast,” he said. “I won’t go poisoning my customers with hillwine. You have no idea what ends up in that stuff …”

“But I do know, Reshi,” Bast said plaintively. “Ethel acetates and methans. And tinleach. There’s none of that.”

The innkeeper blinked, obviously taken aback. “Did … Have you actually been reading Celum Tinture ?”

“I did, Reshi.” Bast beamed. “For the betterment of my education and my desire to not poison folk. I tasted some, Reshi, and I can say with some authority that Martin is not making hillwine. It’s lovely stuff. It’s halfway to Rhis, and that’s not something I say lightly.”

The innkeeper stroked his upper lip thoughtfully. “Where did you get some to taste?” he asked.

“I traded for it,” Bast said, easily skirting the edges of the truth. “I was thinking,” Bast continued. “Not only would it give Martin a chance to settle his tab. But it would help us get some new stock in. That’s harder, the roads as bad as they are …”

The innkeeper held up both hands helplessly. “I’m already convinced, Bast.”

Bast grinned happily.

“Honestly, I would have done it merely to celebrate you reading your lesson for once. But it will be nice for Martin, too. It will give him an excuse to come by more often. It will be good for him.”

Bast’s smile faded a bit.

If the innkeeper noticed, he didn’t comment on it. “I’ll send a boy round to Martin’s and ask him to come by with a couple bottles.”

“Get five or six,” Bast said. “It’s getting cold at night. Winter’s coming.”

The innkeeper smiled. “I’m sure Martin will be flattered.”