The Improbable Adventures of Scar and Potbelly: Ice Terraces of Crystal Crag (13 page)

Potbelly remained perplexed for a moment, his mind trying to come to grips with Scar’s last statement. “Tea?”

“That’s right,” Scar said. “Bring your stuff.” He spun about, dropped his bag into the dirt, kicked it for several feet, then picked it back up. Without waiting to see if Potbelly was coming, he headed back to the door.

The man with whom he had spoken to earlier was in the tea room helping the two elderly ladies that had entered prior to his leaving. Spying a table next to theirs, one that would be in clear view of where the man stood, he strode purposefully toward it.

“…that can be arranged,” the man was saying. “If you will but…” Spying Scar taking a seat stilled his tongue.

Scar met his gaze, and plopped the dirt-covered bag onto the impeccably white tablecloth. Dust exploded outward. “Can I get some tea?”

“Excuse me a moment, ladies,” the man said.

“Why of course,” one said as he walked around their table to Scar. About that time, Potbelly arrived.

“So what’s this about tea?” he asked. Then he saw the man standing there with a look like he had just sucked a sour persimmon. He glanced from him, to Scar, then back. “Oh.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer…a tavern?” the man asked.

“Why, no,” Scar replied. “We are the adventurous sort and have never tried tea.”

“No….”

They turned at the elderly voice and saw the two ladies looking sadly at Scar and Potbelly. “You boys have never had tea?”

Scar shook his head. “Not that I can remember,” he replied. “Heard about it though and thought to try.” He looked up at the man and added, “But I don’t think we are welcomed here.”

“Nonsense!” one lady exclaimed.

“Of course you are,” the other said. To the man she said, “Yorlen, bring us a pot of Steanmen’s Best.”

Yorlen nodded. “Two servings of…”

“Not two,” she said. “Four.” Then she turned to Scar. “That is if you handsome fellows would not mind the company of two old women?”

Scar saw the extreme distaste that Yorlen had for the prospect, so grinning, he nodded. “I would
love
to enjoy your company.”

Potbelly just rolled his eyes. There were only two things that would cause Scar to act so out of character; women and spite. He knew the later was the motivator this evening.

The two ladies rose and moved to their table. Scar removed his pack and did his best to brush the dirt off but only managed to grind it in all the more.

“But…” began Yorlen.

“But nothing,” Scar said. He snapped his fingers. “Bring us some of,” turning to the ladies he asked, “what was that you asked for?”

“Do you mean Steanmen’s Best?”

“Yes, precisely.” He slapped the table then said to Yorlen. “A pot, make that two, of Steanmen’s Best and don’t keep these sweet ladies waiting.”

Yorlen glanced from Scar, to the ladies, then to Potbelly. He shook his head, bit his tongue and turned about to head to the kitchen

“How is it that you two have never had tea?”

Scar shrugged. “No one I know has ever drunk tea. It’s always been ale or wine.”

Patting him on the arm, the old lady said, “Then you are in for a treat. By the way, my name is Elora, and this is my friend, Namma.”

“Nice to meet you,” Scar said. “You can call me Scar, and he’s Potbelly.”

“Odd names,” Elora said.

“I suppose some might think that,” he replied.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend,” she said worriedly.

Scar laughed. “You did not offend.”

“Thank goodness.”

Potbelly looked at his friend as if he’d lost his mind.

Scar caught him watching and shrugged and then darted his eyes toward the kitchen.

Yorlen appeared bearing a tray with two tea pots and four cups and saucers and three other small spouted vessels. He set a cup and saucer down before each and then the teapots he set in the center of the table. The trio of spouted vessels he set near Elora.

He flashed Scar a look of distaste then said to Elora, “Anything else, madam?”

“Not at present,” she replied. “Thank you, Yorlen.”

Giving her a slight bow, he bustled off to wait on another table.

Scar reached for one of the steaming teapots but was stopped when Elora placed a hand on his arm. “Never pour in the tea first,” she explained. She picked up one of the spouted vessels. “Milk first, then the tea.”

“Ah,” he said.

She poured a small bit of milk in the bottom of his cup, then took up the teapot. With practiced ease, she lifted the teapot and added tea to the milk. The mixture blended, the colors swirling to a light brown color.

Scar spied spoons sitting upon the table, picked one up and commenced to stir. The clattering he made as the edge of the spoon rattled against the side of the cup cut through the soft music the bard strummed on his mandolin.

Namma chuckled; Elora flashed her a disapproving look. Then to Scar she said, “One must treat the tea with respect. Never, ever clink your spoon against the side.”

“Why?”

She turned to Potbelly. “It simply is not done that way.”

“Yeah,” Scar said to his friend.

“Like you know,” Potbelly mumbled under his breath.

Scar watched the two ladies stir their tea in short, brief swirls. His second attempt proved less noisome though there was a bit of clinking.

Potbelly poured his own milk and tea and when he stirred, made no sound. He flashed Scar a superior grin.

“Now try it,” Namma said.

Knowing there had to be some sort of special way to drink tea since everything else about it had been so particular, Potbelly hesitated.

Scar on the other hand, wrapped his hand around the cup and took a large mouthful. His face turned red and if not for the ladies would have spit it out right there. Instead, he swallowed it and felt the hot liquid burn the entire way down.

“That was amazing,” Namma said.

Sweat beading his forehead, Scar nodded. “Yeah,” he gasped.

“Tea should be sipped, not gulped,” Elora chided.

“I’ll remember that.”

Potbelly, seeing his friend’s faux pas, gingerly sipped. Though it did not have the boldness of ale or the kick to it, he had to admit, it was almost tolerable. “I like it,” he said to be polite.

The ladies smiled. Elora turned to Scar. “Did you enjoy it?”

“Other than the burning of my innards,” he said, “it was okay.”

“But you must learn the proper way to hold a tea cup,” Elora said.

She slid her index finger into the handle to the knuckle, then pressed her thumb against the top of the handle. Then her middle finger braced the handle’s bottom and the other two fingers curled back toward her wrist. “Like this.”

Scar held the cup as she had but his pinky finger stuck out.

Elora moved the pinky so it rested curled under like the fourth finger. “There, that should do it.”

Potbelly could barely contain his amusement at the sight of Scar daintily holding a teacup.

Still a third of Scar’s cup remained. He raised his cup, fighting to keep his pinky in place, then sipped it. Finding it cooler, he drank the rest. Then he spied the inside bottom of the cup.

“Ugh!” he said, putting the cup down. Spying Yorlen coming from another table, he stood and hollered. “You got dirt in your pots!”

The look Yorlen shot him would have sent him to his maker if looks held such power.

“No, no, no,” Elora said. She placed an arm on Scar’s and urged him to retake his seat. “This is not dirt.” She tilted the cup for him to look.

“It isn’t?”

Namma chuckled.

“Be nice,” Elora said to her.

“My pardon.”

Elora turned to Scar. “These are tea leaves,” she explained. “When brewed with hot water they are what give tea its flavor.”

Scar eyed the cup skeptically. “Looks like dirt to me.”

Elora glanced around the tea room, spied Yorlen and waved for him to come to their table.

“Yes?” he asked upon arriving.

“Yorlen, could you bring some of the raw tea leaves to our table please?”

“Tea leaves?” He eyed Scar and his eyes narrowed as if it were his fault in some way these ladies were making unusual demands upon his time.

“Yes,” Elora said, “tea leaves. They have never seen any and I wish to educate them.”

Sighing a sigh filled with the weight of the world, Yorlen replied, “Yes, ma’am.”

As he left, she said to Scar, “Leaves of the plant are cut, then dried. Once dried, they are ready for tea.”

Yorlen returned with a small cup, inside which held a small pile of tea leaves.

“Thank you, Yorlen.”

“You are welcome, ma’am.”

Scar took the cup and inspected the leaves.

“Smell their aroma?” Namma asked.

He put the cup to his nose and took a whiff; then nodded. “Very nice.” Bringing the cup back to the table before him, he used a finger to move the leaves around, then picked one up and showed Potbelly.

“This remind you of anything?”

He took the leaf and rolled it between his fingers, smelled it, then shook his head. “No.”

“Those small boxes we got in Castin?”

Potbelly thought a moment, then his eyes widened. “Of course.”

He opened his pack and pulled out the three boxes they found in the worm’s lair in the sewer. Checking first one then another, he found the one containing dried leaves. “Here.” He handed it to Scar.

Scar set it on the table before Elora. “We found this in Castin,” he explained. “Don’t know what it is.”

She lifted the lid and her eyes opened wide and she gasped. “Namma, is this what I think it is?” She pushed it across the tabletop to her friend.

Namma peered closely at the leaves, then took one and held it to her nose. “
Tieguanyin?

“It has to be.”

Scar glanced from Namma then back to Elora. “What is Tieguanyin?”

“Tea,” she replied. “Only it is a very, very rare tea. Namma had the fortune to have a single cup of it thirty years ago.”

“It was exquisite,” she said. “The taste was indescribable; and the way it felt on the tongue… it was what made me a tea lover. No tea has ever come close to being so satisfying.”

“Would you ladies like some?” Scar offered.

“We couldn’t,” Elora said.

“Please. You have been lovely and gracious in showing us the ways of tea,” he said. “We insist.” He spied Yorlen standing off to the side keeping an eye on his customers in the event someone required his assistance.

“Hey, Yorlen,” he shouted across the tea room; totally shattering the quiet, peace-filled environment.

Yorlen shot him a hate-filled look.

“How about some help here.”

Scar grinned as the man grudgingly came to their table. “Yes?”

“We and the ladies would like you to brew up a special pot.”

He turned his attention to Elora. “
Special
pot?”

She pushed the now-closed box toward him.

Sighing, he took the box and opened it. Immediately, his face changed expression and he turned to Scar. “This…is yours?”

“Why of course it is,” he said loudly. “Tieguanyin I believe it’s called.”

Murmurs coursed through the tea room as every eye turned toward their table.

“I have seen this but twice,” he said. “How did you come by it?”

“I acquired it in Castin.”

Glancing around the room, he saw the way everyone was fixated on the box of Tieguanyin. Reminded him of patrons at a Den of Hollow Eyes when a fresh batch of the drug
biloci arrived.

“In fact, why don’t you brew a pot for everyone,” he said with a flourish to encompass the entire tea room.

Cheers sounded throughout the tea room.

Yorlen nodded. “I shall,” he said, his tone now more accepting. “And thank you.”

Potbelly shot Scar a look asking what he thought he was doing. If the tea was rare, rare meant expensive so why give it away?

“That was very generous,” Elora said.

Scar basked in the adulation for a moment longer then sat down. “Yes it was, wasn’t it?”

“You’ve made everyone very happy,” observed Namma.

“Yes, you have.”

Scar glanced to Potbelly who frowned and shook his head.

“You two boys aren’t from Cara, are you?” Elora asked.

“No, we are not,” Potbelly replied.

“What brings you here if you don’t mind my asking?”

Potbelly looked first to Scar then turned to Elora. “We are looking for someone.”

The old ladies perked up. “Who?” Namma asked.

“They may be someone we know,” added Elora. “We have lived here all our lives.”