CHAPTER NINE
Korvaun unlocked the clubhouse door and held it open for the trio who'd followed him up the stairs, carrying fresh provender for the Gemcloaks' morningfeast. His friends had agreed to meet here first thing in the morning, which to them of course meant "shortly before highsun." Accordingly, Korvaun had ordered a spread of cold food commonly served at both morning and afternoon meals: breads, cheeses, sliced roasts, berry tarts, and cool ale.
His thanks and coins swiftly saw the baker's man and the provender shop delivery lad off, so he could supervise the placement of the ale.
The brew had been carried up by the brewer's apprentice, a boy of perhaps thirteen winters, who lingered after the handkeg was settled on the coldsmoke rack, staring at wisps of cold steam rising from the rack's copper basin.
"How's that done?" he demanded, too fascinated to remember proper deference to nobility.
"Handy magic." Korvaun plucked up the vial of coldsmoke liquid. "A few drops of this in the basin-so-creates enough cold air to cool a cask this size for two days."
A frigid cloud rose from the basin, and the copper fittings of the barrel misted over at once. The boy peered with bright-eyed interest, and Korvaun thought of his own boyhood. He remembered intense impatience when lessons ran overlong, but he'd been fortunate to have had the opportunity to learn. There'd be no books, lessons, or boring tutors for this lad.
The apprentice waved at the vial. "What if you get that on your hand?"
Korvaun smiled. "Well asked; I'm sure Nipvar Tattersky-the alchemist who devised coldsmoke-wishes he'd had your foresight. His best mouser tipped over a vial and was frozen alive, as stiff as wood. Master Tattersky's exceedingly fond of his cats, and spent days seeking a priest willing to beseech the gods on behalf of a cat. He altered his potion, so now it works only while touching copper."
The lad was frowning but also nodding slowly.
On impulse Korvaun asked, "Why do you suppose he chose copper?"
The apprentice looked at him. "I'd say he didn't want coldsmoke used as a weapon or on weapons so warriors could freeze foes at a touch. No one fights with copper blades, but coopers use it all the time."
The youngest Lord Helmfast nodded, impressed. This lad was as bright as new coin, utterly wasted as a brewer's drudge. "How came you to Master Drinder?"
The lad shrugged. "My father knows Drinder, or you might say he knows his ale. Da's powerful fond of it and likes to chide me for the six tenday's drinking lost to my apprentice fee."
Outrage flooded Korvaun. "Your father sold you for two months of ale?"
The boy's jaw dropped. He stared at Korvaun and then whooped with laughter. "Oh-hoho, that's rich! A master don't pay the apprentice fee! It's the 'prentice as pays him-and thanks him for the privilege!"
"I see." That made sense, given that an apprenticeship was a crafter's education. "If you could do anything, would you have apprenticed to a brewer?"
The lad gave Korvaun a puzzled frown. The thought of choosing a livelihood was obviously new to him. "There's a lot to brewing," he said slowly, "but Master Drinder says I need only know what he sees fit to tell me, which isn't much more than fetch this, mop that."
"You and Master Tattersky would get on well. His lament is that his new apprentice is content to do what he's told but hasn't the wits to wonder why. The alchemist values an inquisitive nature, which most likely explains his affinity for cats."
"Master Drinder doesn't like cats or questions. He says too much thinking sours ale."
Korvaun corked the vial and handed it to the lad. "Take this to your master, and instruct him in its use. It might be of benefit to him in brewing, and-who knows? — perhaps the brewer and the alchemist might find themselves engaging in mutually beneficial trade. Of more than one kind."
The boy was quick to grasp the unspoken, and his eyes widened with the wonder of new possibilities. Korvaun watched the dawning of hope with pleasure and dropped a large handful of coins into the lad's hand. "For your apprentice fee," he said softly, touching a finger to his lips to counsel secrecy.
Eyes shining, the boy nodded and knelt to Korvaun as one does to kings. Springing up, he ran down the stairs in a joyful clatter of boots.
"You're a good man, my friend," a voice observed quietly. "The best of us all."
Korvaun looked up, startled. Wary alarm melted into pleasure at the sight of Roldo Thongolir. His long-absent friend was lounging against the doorpost, smiling wistfully. Roldo was sunbrown from long hours riding under summer skies, and his blue eyes were weary. He'd always been shorter, slighter, and less flamboyant than his friends, but he wore his new gemweave cloak proudly. Its soft rose caught the light, glowing like a cloud at sunrise.
Grinning in real delight, Korvaun strode forward and pulled his friend into a back-thumping hug. "Welcome home! I didn't hear you come up."
"You were too engrossed in arranging that lad's future. When did the Helmfasts leave off shipping to become champions of the common man?"
"Weren't champions once those who gave aid wherever it was needed?"
The Thongolir heir chuckled. "You sound like Taeros talking of knights and heroes. Speaking of whom, it seems our sharp-tongued friend's been busy."
"Oh?"
"Aye. I've just come from the print shop, where the ink was drying on his latest broadsheets. The cryers' lads came to take them round the taverns. Fur'll fly before day's end."
Korvaun sighed. "Our Taeros can offend people more efficiently than a flatulent half-orc in a public bath."
Roldo smirked. "His is a rare gift-Lathander be praised for that!"
The youngest Lord Helmfast nodded in full agreement. "How was your wedding promenade?" he asked, knowing he must.
His friend's smile slipped. "I always enjoy Silverymoon. The minstrelsy and plays are better than ever! I held dawn vigil at Rhyester's Matins; it fills with rainbows when the light of morning touches its windows. Extraordinary." He plucked at his rose-quartz cloak. "I'll wear this when next I worship there, and see if the faithful mistake me for the next Mornmaster!"
Korvaun nodded. 'Twas said that laying the right "sign" of the god on that temple's altar would show the devout of Lathander their next leader, or some such. "And Sarintha?"
"She was pleased with the trip."
"It augers well for your union," Korvaun observed carefully, "that you find enjoyment in mutual interests."
Roldo smiled faintly. "As to that, my lady's already showing promise of a steady hand at the Thongolir helm. Father's pleased with several ingenious plans she's devised to increase trade with Silverymoon."
"I'm surprised to learn Silverymoon lacks either scribes or books."
"They've both in plenty. In fact…" Roldo reached into his belt-satchel and took out a volume bound in purple leather and stamped in gold: Dynasty of Dragons: The First Thousand Obarskyr Years. "I found a tome The Hawkwinter has long sought."
"Ah, he'll be pleased."
"Oddly enough, 'twas Sarintha who acquired this. She was busy indeed during our time in Silverymoon."
"Oh? What schemes hath the fair Sarintha hatched?" Korvaun asked, not without genuine interest.
Sarintha Thann was the granddaughter of the redoubtable Lady Cassandra and had inherited that lady's shrewd business sense as well as her blonde beauty. The unfolding of Sarintha's plans for the Thongolir calligraphy, limning, and printing businesses would be worth watching.
Roldo smiled a little ruefully. "We're now in the trade of printing music, and off to a promising start. The lutemaster at the House of the Harp is something of a legend, a half-elf of the old bardic tradition: memory only, nothing written. Sarintha won him over with personal charm and samples of family calligraphy; he's agreed to allow his work to be set down in a fine Thongolir tome. Each page carved and block-printed, and for the coin-heavy, copies with hand-painted borders. Demand swells already, with not a single page printed."