“I have prospects. Tomorrow I’m meeting—”
“How much?” Natto said, standing.
Petin looked up. “I don’t barter with scum like you.”
Natto laid his hand on his knife. “How much?”
“More than your purse has seen in years.”
“How much?”
There was silence, the sort that made a few men reach for their weapons. Finally Petin smiled. It was not a friendly smile. “Ten silver crowns. Take it or leave it.”
Natto had the money, but only just. Still, ten crowns against a prize of a thousand royals? He would be a fool not to take that wager. “Done,” he said. He dug the coins out and laid them, one by one, onto the wood.
Petin picked the first up and bit it to be sure, then reached into his coat and took out the map. “It is yours.”
The paper was rough, and the map was crude, but Natto recognized the capital and its bay and the steep mountain ridges surrounding it. One road wound up and through them, a jagged line that ended at a labeled X. “Fossepuante?”
At the sound of that name, Masquiat quickly made the sign of warding. He stared at Petin, who laughed.
“Ah, now even you see why I was in no hurry to make the journey.” Petin quickly scooped the coins from the table and jabbed his knife into the wood. “I would wish you good luck,” he said, waving a hand, dismissing Natto, “but in times like these, one hates to waste a wish.”
THE WHITEWASHED ROOM of the outbuilding behind the inn was small and extremely tidy, two walls lined with shelves of jars and bottles containing powders and tinctures of a hundred hues and consistencies, all neatly labeled. A wide table ran the full length of a third wall. At one end stood a row of brown crocks filled with a pale opalescent substance. At the other, next to a stack of leather-bound books, paper flags sticking out from a dozen pages, a chemist’s apparatus consisting of flame and stand and beaker bubbled with a smell faintly reminiscent of a Sunday roast.
Standing at the center of the table a trim, bespectacled young woman in a linen smock, her dark hair pulled back into a tail, took up a knife and a thick block of suet and minced the brittle beef fat into a small pile. She weighed the shreds, made a notation in a lined journal, and added the mass to the beaker, stirring it with a glass rod. She was reaching for a jar marked ‘Potash’ when a knock came at the door.
“Anna?”
“Who’s there?” she called.
“Just me, Sponda.”
“Oh. Come in, come in.”
A red-haired girl entered the room.
“This is a nice surprise,” the chemist said, kissing her on the cheek. “I didn’t think I’d see you until supper.”
“I wanted to bring this back, before it got mixed up with my kitchen spices.” She set down a jar marked ‘Dried Rosehips’. “It worked like a charm. That so-called tax-collector only stayed one night.”
“A bed full of itching powder will do that.” Anna replaced the jar on its proper shelf.
“Do you really think he was here to steal your—?” She glanced at the row of crocks.
“The emperor is offering a thousand crowns as a prize, Sponda. That’s temptation enough.”
“I suppose. How’s it coming?”
“I made a new batch this morning, and added both lime and potash. That helped the texture. It’s creamy as butter, and spreads as smooth.”
“But—?”
“But the flavor still isn’t right. Nor the color. Too white. This morning I boiled some carrots. Once the paste dries, I’ll grind it into powder. A pinch should make the spread yellow enough for a proper presentation.”
Sponda stuck a finger into one of the crocks and licked off a bit of the creamy substance. “It doesn’t taste bad,” she said. “Makes me think of a farm, wholesome and fresh. But I don’t think I’d care for it on my morning toast.”
“I know. And it’s that last bit of caring that’s going to get us the prize, if I can figure it out before anyone else does.” She smiled. “The first man-made, edible fat. Cheap, plentiful, and will last for weeks without going rancid. Imagine what that will mean for the poor, not to mention the navy, which I think is the emperor’s first concern.”
Sponda licked her finger again. “It does need a little something.”
“I know, and I’ve got a few ideas. We’re getting close.” Anna smiled. “But it won’t get done if I stand here talking.”
“I’ll leave you to your experiments.” Sponda went to the door, stopped, and blew a kiss. “Supper’s at six. Raisin clootie for dessert.”
NATTO WAS UNCERTAIN of his purchase; Petin could not be trusted. But having spent the silver, he readied himself for a journey. He stole a full wineskin and a loaf of bread, and bedecked his coat with a handful of rude charms and amulets in case there was a wizard.
He made further enquiries about the village, Fossepuante, and was not reassured when, a number of times, the response was widened eyes and the sign of warding. But he had been able to discover that there was an inn. Not the finest lodgings, although one man said that his supper had been the most delicious suet pudding he had ever eaten.
This was the first good news Natto had gotten since he bought the map. He fancied himself a gourmet—although glutton would be closer—and nothing delighted him more than a good pudding.
Putting that thought ahead of any others, he set out from the capital on a crisp autumn morning. Once he passed the army checkpoints that ringed the city he had the road to himself. It narrowed as it climbed, the sound of his horse’s hooves muffled by a carpet of fallen leaves, scarlet and golden and copper. The trail had not been much traveled; few had business in the region beyond the cliffs, which was populated more by cattle than people.
From the summit, the land spread out before him, vast grazing plains mottled by rocky outcrops. The once-green fields had been parched to pale straw, the streams mere trickles. Late in the afternoon on the second day of his travels, saddle-sore and weary, he was glad to see a thin plume of smoke on the horizon. Fossepuante.
He rode for another hour and was close enough to see the outlines of low stone buildings when the smell hit him. The putrid emanations made his eyes water and his gorge rise, filling his throat with the sour remnants of his midday meal.
What foul protection had the wizard devised to guard his treasure? Natto touched the amulet on the collar of his rough wool coat and muttered an oath under his breath. He yanked on the reins and forced his horse to advance in the direction of the village.
The stench grew stronger with every step. Natto pulled his neckerchief up over his nose, the odors of tobacco and wine and sweat masking, for the moment, all other smells. That moment did not last long.
By the time he reached the first outbuilding, the horse was flagging and Natto imagined that his own face was the tint of a greenish putty. His stomach roiled, and for the first time he could remember, even the idea of ale was repellent.
Fossepuante consisted of a single muddy street bordered by a handful of stone buildings, half-timbered and thatched. The sign on the two-storey inn said ‘The Pond and Clootie’ in faded gold letters. Next to it was a stable. The horse whinnied at the oddly welcome odor of manure.
At a distance of some hundred yards was a large barn surrounded by wooden fencing. Scores of animals lay in heaps amid swarms of flies; above them hung a dreadful cloud of grayish vapor.
The wizard was clever, Natto thought. Unless one knew, this would seem an unlikely hiding place for a valuable jewel.
He dismounted and thought for a moment. He had no plan but to rely on the fortunate opportunities upon which thieves thrive. He would arrange a bed for the night, and a meal, then insinuate himself among the locals. The pearl was bound to be a topic of conversation, and when ale loosened some tongues, information would be revealed.