"Speaking in Rakahi"
"Speaking in Common"
83rd of Ymiden, 717"Speaking in Common"
early morning
Hart had always had a hard time letting things go.
So, lying awake at three in the morning, he had gotten up, pulled on his clothes, laced up his boots, and went out to slog through the woods near the Estate in the early morning rain. He was looking for Jack.
In his heart he knew he wouldn't find the little dog, but he couldn't sleep regardless and what else was there for him to do.
A break soon passed in the rain.
For the umpteenth time Hart hunkered down and looked through the nearest bushes, sweeping aside grass and branches and brambles with his arms no matter how they cut. He kept trying to remember when last he had seen Jack, but he couldn't; whenever it was, it was a long time past. Desire to right an unspecified wrong drove him, related to Jack's disappearance but unrelated to that as well, and if he had to, he thought, over the next trials he would check every last hiding place in Oakleigh a dog might find. He would sweep aside every blade of grass, he would look under every leaf, and in each den and burrow and rotten log and forgotten place.
He did this knowing what he knew, that it was far too late to find Jack now; nonetheless he stood back up and called her name again.
"Jack?"
Nothing, of course.
Then a young female voice called back, "Hello? Is that you?"
There was a beat of quiet.
"Hello?" came the voice.
"Jack?" Hart called again. It didn't matter if he knew it wasn't her, it couldn't be, and it didn't matter that it made no sense for a dog to talk. He did it anyway.
"No," the girl said and Hart breathed out and began to follow the sound of her voice. "No, I'm Lyla, Lyla Thorn," she said. "Is that you?" If she kept talking he would soon find her, and sure enough--
There she was.
The girl, Lyla, was strongly built, tall but not gangly though she was still young; an athletic teenager, likely in the last few arcs before twenty. Brown hair made black from the rain clung to her face and she looked over with sharp, bluish eyes. Her shoes were muddy and leaves stuck to her clothing as if she, too, had been thrashing through the forest as of late. She seemed to have cleared a little space around her from the brush, a hasty circle, and was standing very still. There was an ax with her though it wasn't in her hands; rather, it was propped up against the nearest tree.
"I'm Hart," Hart said, and the girl gave an impatient roll of the eyes, "Hello, Hart, that's well and good but is it you or are you someone else just happening by?"
It turned out she was waiting for a messenger to return from her house, but no one as of yet had come. "It's not me," Hart said when she had explained. He looked around, but there was no one else there and no sign of anyone coming soon. He had been out here for a while now, and Lyla was the first person he had seen. "But I can help if you want," he said.
"Take this note," the girl instructed as if she'd been waiting him to offer, and shuffled through her many pockets until she found a paper and pen. Hart stood over her to block the rain from the paper as she knelt in the mud, and she hurriedly scribbled something down. Her handwriting was neat and elegant for how fast she was writing but she quickly sealed up the note before Hart could catch a glimpse of the meaning, using wax and a stamp. She had to bring out a candle to melt the wax and it was hard to light in the damp, but she finally did it.
"Take this to my home in the next village over."
"Your home?"
"My name is Lyla Thorn," she repeated to him, and when he gave her a blank stare she rolled her eyes once more. "Take it to the big house. You know, the manor, right next to the greenhouse. You can't miss it, it's not all that far from the big fountain in the center square."
"Okay," Hart said. He tucked the note into his shirt, carefully, so it wouldn't wet through and ruin the ink.
"And Hart?" the girl asked as he was leaving.
"Yes?"
"Hurry," she said, and he was gone.
---
The walk was long but shortened by the speed at which he moved, though he had to be careful. Not a practiced runner, Hart had to limit himself to a jog, walking in places where the ground got too muddy or rocky so he didn't slip. His shoes were soon ruined by the puddles and muck he was constantly tramping through; he was going to have to spend a few hours cleaning them once he got home, or risk ruining the leather.
He knew the way well enough, as he had been out and about in Oakleigh from his first day here. He had assumed that the village Lyla had spoken of was the one not all that far from Tristan's Estate, and so he went quickly in that direction, mostly sticking to paths and country roads so as not to get lost in the gloom. He got to the village perhaps fifteen bits later, finding a man sitting on the edge of the central fountain, out in the rain with one of his boots off. The boot was quickly filling with rainwater, not that the man seemed to notice.
"You!" the man said, and breathed out in relief when Hart immediately came over.
"I'm guessing you're the first messenger she sent," Hart said. The man took his hand gratefully when Hart held it out and pulled himself up, limping heavily on his uncovered foot.
"She told me to run," the man said, wryly enough, "And stupidly I listened."
"Slipped and fell?" Hart asked. It was something he would have done had he been running full-pelt through the rain.
"Slipped and fell," the man confirmed, rather cheerfully for such a mistake. "Think I damn near broke my ankle."
Still limping heavily with Hart's support the man showed the way to Lyla's house.
---
She had been right when she'd called it big. The house was a boastful three stories tall, excluding the attic and cellar, and much longer than it was high. But while the manor itself was much larger in size than the greenhouse next to it, it was easily dwarfed in magnificence; the greenhouse glittered from many thousands of windows like a lit candle through the steadily lightening rain. Once he'd gotten the hobbled messenger to the house's front door, Hart was pointed round the side of the building to the back, where the sheds and the entrance to the greenhouse were located. Hart tried to jump a security fence and nearly impaled himself on one of the twisting metal posts before he realized there was a gate and let himself through to the other side.
A large shaggy dog like an ugly mop greeted him and he ruffled its scruff before it trotted away to find an elderly gentlemen, who stood within the entrance to the greenhouse and waited for Hart to draw near. Looking at the man, Hart guessed him to be Lyla's uncle or father.
"Yes?" the gentleman asked, looking more than a bit surprised to see him, and Hart quickly explained what was going on and handed him the sealed note. "I see," the man said, reading it through. "I thank you for your help," and he gave a low, slow bow.
"She said to hurry," Hart hedged, and the man crooked an eyebrow while he shrugged into a raincoat and stepped out of the greenhouse entryway, shutting and double-triple-locking the doors behind. He had a bag with him which he held carefully close to his body, as if it were fragile or heavy. It clinked when he walked.
"If you will?" The man held out a hand, and Hart turned to lead the way.
As they passed the big house a line of other people, mostly men, filtered from behind them to march along in their wake. "Village men," the gentleman explained when Hart looked over at them, "We've hired them to secure the forest perimeter, though they will be paid to perform whatever other tasks we need."
"Okay," Hart said, not understanding the significance of all that, and led them back to the woods.
---
They found Lyla exactly where she had been as if she had not moved a step, though she had hunkered down and appeared to be brushing through the mulch near her boots with her fingers. She glanced up and gave a big grin when she saw the man with Hart; the others had gone, spread out into a loose circle to patrol the forest, and had been told not to let anyone through without permission. It seemed most of the little town had come out to help, though the women and children had balked, no doubt wanting to stay out of the rain and needing someone to manage the town while the men were away.
Now the rain had cleared somewhat, though the skies remained cloudy and dark. Out away from the forest, in the nearest field, Hart could see fog.
"Do you see them?" Lyla asked, ignoring Hart for now, and the gentleman squatted down next to her in the mud regardless of his fancy clothes.
"Yes," he said, rummaging in his coat pocket. He pulled out a parcel of something Hart couldn't see, wrapped up tight in brown paper. Now the man opened it and Hart couldn't help but step closer, though not closely enough to earn a reproof from either of the people before him.
"Mushrooms," he said, and the two looked over at him as if not having expected him to speak.
"Yes," the older gentleman said, and that was when Hart noticed what it was the girl had been looking at near her feet.
"Mushrooms," he said again, surprised, taking another half of a step closer in his curiosity.
Lyla turned to the gentleman. "Do you think they're the same?"
The mushrooms in the parcel were old, perhaps even sun-dried; they had shriveled in on themselves, warping their appearance and color.
Still, there were distinctive features that Hart could make out about them, even from his distance. The mushrooms looked to be greyish white, with little purplish specks. The mushrooms upon the ground were much the same, though larger, in better condition, and with a rosier hue.
"I think they're the same," Hart said, and the others seemed to agree.
"I think they pale when they age," Lyla said, and the gentlemen was nodding his head. "Did you bring the--?" She need not finish her question as the man was already reaching into his bag. He took out what looked like gardening tools, a trowel and gloves and bags and several little ceramic pots. The two each slipped on a pair of gloves and began digging through the ground around the mushrooms, careful not to overturn them.
"You," Lyla said after she had lifted out the first handful of carefully collected dirt, settling the mushrooms gently inside one of the larger pots and packing the dirt down flat. Hart looked up from what they were doing and she tossed him a satchel which had been in the larger bag. He opened it. There were more gloves and bags of clothsack.
"Find some of the men and take one of these mushrooms," she said. "Do not let it touch your skin; we don't know if it's poisonous or not. Give each of them a pair of gloves and a bag and begin combing the forest. Any mushrooms you find that look like these you need to pick and place in the bags. It's simple. Now go."
"We'll pay you, same rate as the others," the gentleman assured him, looking over at him oddly again, and Hart took what he needed and went.
---
Finding the men was not difficult and he chose three or four of them to help him, leaving the others to keep watch on the forest. The gloves and bags he distributed between them, repeating the warning that the mushrooms could be dangerous, but none of the others seemed phased; Hart got the impression they had participated in this sort of work before. Hart showed them the sample mushroom Lyla had given him, and then quickly enough they set to, organizing into parallel lines five to ten feet apart. Then they all began to walk through the forest, maintaining the same, slow speed in their search, never straying too far from one another as they kept to their grid. They crouched low in places and kept their gaze on the ground, peeling back brush if it got in the way.
The mushrooms were not difficult to find as most of them were pale white or light pink against the dark browns and greens of the forest floor. The hardest part was walking in a perfectly straight line, and making sure you kept to your section. The men worked fast, experieneced, though Hart was able to quickly figure out the best way to pick the mushrooms without damaging them and put them in his bag. When it began to rain again he wiped the rain from his face with his shirt sleeve. Lyla had said not to touch the mushrooms to his skin, and so the gloves might have whatever poison she suspected upon them.
A break passed and the small forest they were searching was painstakingly canvassed. Now the men and Hart lined up, tying off their spoils with strings, and returned to their employers, placing the small bags of collected mushrooms into the larger bag the gentleman had brought.
"Good work," he murmured to each man, and the men began to shuffle off back towards the village, laughing and talking as they went, happy with a job well done. Hart followed by Lyla and the gentleman, not knowing anyone else, and watched as they discussed locations over a map as they walked. It looked to be a map of the woodland nearing Oakleigh's southern border, and they spoke for a while before marking areas with an 'X'.
"I'll send someone out to check for the mushrooms here, here, and here first thing tomorrow," Lyla was saying, pointing with her pen at certain 'X's on the map. "If they find anything promising we can have the rest of the villagers out by noon and back well before evening sup."
They continued speaking like that until they got back to the village, where Hart and the other men lined up once more, this time to be given their pay.
"Hart," Lyla said when she got to him, and hesitated before pulling him aside. "I've got enough labor for the grids I've plotted out, so I won't need anyone else for the next few days," she said. Another pause. "But if you ever want to work with us again, let me know. I could use you; there are many different applications of labor associated with what we do."
Many different applications of labor, Hart thought, pondering, but didn't ask. "Alright," he said, and Lyla smiled at him.
It had been easy work if repetitive, and not totally boring; he was curious as to what was going on. Better yet, he had been recently thinking of picking up an odd job or two in the area. This offer was as good as any, close to home and simple to do, and while the money wasn't great it wasn't poor either.
"If you don't mind me asking," he said, "What are these mushrooms for?" Though she hadn't said as much, Lyla had seemed pretty excited about them. Excited enough to tell her messengers to hurry, and run. A man had twisted up his ankle for a few bags of mushrooms in the woods, and Hart couldn't help but think it odd they'd set up a security detail around the forest in order to collect some fungi.
Lyla leaned towards him. "The Masons and Luthers of Welles have organized a hunt for a species of odd fungus said to have been discovered on a farmer's land on the southern border two trials past. Preliminary sources have hinted that these mushrooms have 'interesting qualities', though whatever qualities they may have are still as of yet unknown. Still, we've been told these mushrooms are 'sure to be a big thing in Saun,'" she said.
"While the merchant families of Welles squabble over land purchases and negotiate product contracts, we in Oakleigh have been doing our own investigations into the matter. Turns out," she said, smiling wide like a cat, "that our woodland border here in Oakleigh is much better for growing wild mushrooms of this sort. So all we need do is work quickly, diagnose the mushrooms' uses, and we will surely capitalize upon our products long before the others catch up."
"Masons," Hart said, catching on, "Luthers." He paused, finally getting it. "Thorns. You're Lyla Thorn, of the Oakleigh Thorns." He had heard about the merchant families of the Eastern Settlement. The Thorns dealt in pharmaceuticals.
"Correct," Lyla said. "And I've got work to do. So be on your way, dear Hart, and I'll be sure to send a letter requesting your employment again." She stopped to consider, squinting at him. "Expect one by the 2nd of Saun, if not sooner."
"Do you know where to send it?" he asked.
"The Duke's Estate," Lyla answered simply. "Oh, don't look so surprised. You think we wouldn't recognize you?" When Hart tried to object she waved a hand. "I know you're not him; you're his half-brother. Now I've really got work to do. I'll see you again soon."
