The Mazer (9 page)

He carefully ladled the scum into his flask, and then pocketed a sharp knife and a pot of wax. He took them into his chamber, lit a lamp, and climbed into the tunnel. He wouldn’t have much time. Flask in one hand, lamp in the other, he hurried along the tunnel.

He set his lamp on top of a rock, the flask next to it. Then he found his knife. A clean cut into Great Aspen’s root to begin with. Now deeper still, turning the blade around this way and that, working it into the root until he’d formed a deep, vertical hole. Time for that brew. Pour it in gently; watch it bubble; wait a minute or two; fill the hole with the rest of it. The wax was next: spread it over the top of the wound; seal in the rot; and it was done!

The root began to glow. Steam puffed out of the seal, hissing lightly. The wax turned black; white froth bubbled from the seal’s edges; and the root flesh underneath started to bulge, turning the whole into an impressive, festering pimple.

“All you have to do, Master Aspen,” whispered Bassan, picking up his lamp and looking closely at the pulsating wound, “all you have to do is drink, drink up your water, drink up your fungus, feel it fill your root and work its way up to your trunk and your branches and leaves. Feel yourself get old, tired, forgetful. Then we can be the best of friends. Because if you don’t, kind sir, I shall simply return to give you some more medicine!”

The root grew darker; the bulge slowly dissipated. Bassan picked up his equipment and returned to the laboratory. He refilled the flask. That could sit on the mantelpiece behind the tapestry. He’d go to Oakenwood as soon as he could, but now he’d better join the others up in the Great Hall and await Silva’s return.

***

Harold knelt by the kitchen door, a bowl of soup and a round loaf on the low stool in front of him. He broke off a chunk of bread and dipped it into the soup, watching warm, greasy liquid make its way up towards the crust, then lifted it up above his open mouth, waiting for the soaked bread to peel off and fall onto his tongue. Fat, herb, onion, lamb, salt. Delicious!

He licked his lips, wiped his chin with the tail of his shirt, and cleaned out the bottom of the bowl with the remaining crust. Winifred always gave him second helpings, but where was she? He was still ravenous. He stood up, watching Lisette stand guard over two cauldrons in the fireplace.

Sweat poured down Lisette’s face. She stirred one pot, then the other, a fat wooden spoon in her hand, her white apron stained with splatters of broth and drips of animal blood, her wiry hair caked with flour, her bare arm marked with a nasty, bubbling burn. Harold giggled. What a sight! The kitchen today was like a madhouse: maids running in and out, guards coming and going, vegetable peelings sitting in puddles of spilled mead, flies buzzing over dirty platters littering the board by the sink. He turned round to take the last of his bread, but it was gone.

“Boy!” whispered a voice. A tall man’s face appeared above him, and then there was a firm hand on his elbow, and he found himself being steered out of the door to the yard and into the shelter of the underfloor passageway.

“What do you want?” asked Harold, wrinkling his nose. This man hadn’t washed in a long time. His clothes were filthy.

“I took your bread,” said the stranger, looking at him with sharp, green eyes, “but I’ll give it back. Just tell me why the Session has been meeting and what’s happening. If you don’t, I’ll eat the bread myself.”

“I don’t know if I want that loaf any more,” said Harold, rather boldly, he thought. After all, who knew if this fellow had a knife hidden under his cloak? But it was safe enough here. Maybe. His stomach rumbled loudly.

The man laughed, softly. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Harold. What’s yours?”

The stranger raised his eyebrows and smiled. What was a man like this doing in such clothes? His teeth were tainted, and his breath smelled, but he was well spoken and fine skinned.

“Listen, Harold, you look like a clever boy. You tell me what the Session is up to, and I’ll give you this.” He took a folded piece of parchment out from under his cloak. “Careful how you open it!”

The parchment was clean. A written leaf lay inside, and he picked it up gently by its stalk just he’d been taught.

“Come to me, the Wishing Tree,

Old Elm I am, as you can see.

Make a wish. Will it come true?

Young man, the answer lies with you!”

“Is this leaf talking to me?” asked Harold.

“Not exactly to you, Harold, although I expect Old Elm says the same thing to all the young men on the island. Let’s say that if you think the leaf is talking about you, it probably is!”

“So I can keep this, can I?”

“Yes, Harold, it’s yours. Take your bread. I think you need to eat more than I. Your stomach is rumbling again.”

His stomach never stopped rumbling, but this poor man wasn’t to know that. He put the leaf back in its parchment and then slid it carefully into the little pocket Mother had sewn into the inside of his shirt. He stood up straight, puffed out his chest, and put his hands on his hips, bony elbows jutting out, sharp chin raised.

“The Session met in the night. Bassan and Wystan had an argument about the trees in Southernwood and all this treesmoke. So they had an election for a new Legator, and Great Aspen decided on his answer, and he said Silva.”

The man dropped the bread on the floor.

“Sorry, Harold, but Silva—Silva to be Legator?” He bent to pick up the loaf. His hood slipped back, revealing red hair knotted back from the thin face.

“Yes. So now they’ve sent for Silva, and I’d better get back to the Great Hall in case they need me.”

The man stood up, pulled his hood back over his head, took Harold’s elbow again, and led him through the empty yard and into the kitchen. Where was everyone?

“They must all be in the Great Hall!” exclaimed Harold.

“Wait! Take the bread, and don’t lose that leaf. Let’s go in together. Here, come close to me,” and the man put his arm around Harold, and they went through the kitchen to the doors that led into the Great Hall.

“People of Southernwood, Session members!” announced Trevello. “Our Treasurer, Filibert, met with Silva and our accomplished cook Winifred in the Homesteads this morning.”

Lisette snorted. She ran her fingers through her hair, picking out sticky lumps of flour and flicking them onto the floor. Filibert stood next to Trevello. Wystan was nowhere to be seen. Bassan came in from the entrance hall, and stood inside the door.

“It’s twenty years to the day since Silva’s mother died. So, Silva is on her way to Yewlith to pay her respects. She’ll be back tomorrow. She does not yet know that she has been elected Legator.”

“Trevello, why did Filibert not tell her about Great Aspen’s decision?” asked Bassan, stepping forward from the doorway.

“I’m sorry, Bassan!” snapped Filibert. “Silva has enough to think about today. Let her mourn her lost family in peace, I say!”

Bassan glared at Filibert, then stepped back, saying nothing.

“Filibert, I’m sure you are correct in your estimation—as always,” said Trevello. “But,” and he surveyed the crowd standing before him, “this means that we will not be welcoming a new Legator today.”

The crowd groaned. Harold smiled. They’d all been looking forward to a celebration, a feast, all paid for by the Albatorium, dancing in the square, and free mead aplenty, as much as you could drink. Lisette heaved a sigh of relief, then glanced back towards the kitchen. Harold saw her looking at the man next to him, screwing up her eyes to see properly, but then she turned back to hear the rest of Trevello’s words.

“I will ask the guard to open the doors, and you may go home. Please, I ask you all, let us prepare for our new Legator peacefully. When we are ready to welcome Silva to the Albatorium, the bell will sound. For those of you farther afield, I’ll send out the guard to let you know.”

The man pinched Harold’s shoulder, then disappeared back through the kitchen. Harold turned to watch him go, then went into the kitchen himself to see what he could find. But Lisette’s voice stopped him.

“Harold! What are you doing? Trevello wants to see you. And who was that man you were with?”

“That—er—he was my uncle, Lisette,” said Harold, ducking through the door to the Great Hall where the crowd was dispersing.

Trevello was talking to Filibert and Bassan. He waved at Harold.

“Have you eaten, boy? Good! We’re going out into the woodlands today to check on the trees before Silva gets back. Yes Filibert? No, you have no time to sit and eat. Harold can pack you something from the kitchen. Can you do that Harold, quickly as possible, please. Filibert is rather hungry!”

Trevello laughed, Filibert grinned, and Bassan looked at Harold impatiently.

Harold returned the look. He didn’t like Bassan. Always sneering at him as if he were stupid. Always hiding away in that laboratory of his. A very interesting laboratory it was, too! Oh yes, despite Bassan’s decree that no youngsters were allowed down to the underfloor, that “stupid” Harold had got into the laboratory now and again over the past couple of years, had taken a good look round, all sorts of things in there, what was that map he’d seen—

“Harold! Did you hear me?” said Trevello.

Harold skipped back into the kitchen to ask Lisette to pack up some bread, cheese, and slices of meat for Filibert.

“Put in double, Lisette. You know how hungry Filibert gets.” He could always help himself to a bite or two, couldn’t he? Filibert wouldn’t mind. He was a generous chap.

“Harold, if you knew how much work I’ve had to do today!” said Lisette, slicing slabs of cheese onto a grimy chopping board. “I’m glad they’ve sent everyone home. Gives me a bit of time to clear up. Whatever would Winifred think? Those maids have all gone, I see, leaving me,” and her voice trembled, “to do all the dirty work!” She slammed the knife onto the table.

Harold went to give her a hug.

“Oh, mind my arm, Harold! Here, take the cheese; take the rest of this loaf; wrap it all up in this cloth; put them in this sack; and when you get back, I’ll see if there’s a bit of soup left for you. Go on. Off you go!”

Harold did as she said, grinning, then sped off to the Albatorium entrance to meet Trevello and his company.

***

Trevello and Filibert stood by the Sundial Tree. The square was busy, as Southernwooders mingled in groups, chatting to each other about the latest news: Silva Leon, Legator! Who would have thought there would be an election? So that’s what all the commotion had been last night and this morning!

Harold trotted up to them, holding Filibert’s sack of food.

“Thank you, Harold,” said Filibert, grabbing the sack. “I will partake of a little bread for my empty stomach. Did you remember to get a flask of mead? No? Then ask Lisette to prepare one.”

Harold sighed. He ran up the steps. Bassan was coming down, an odd-shaped bag in his hand. Had he taken some food, too? Lisette would be busy all day. But the kitchen was empty. He took a large flask from the shelf by the sink and poured a full measure of mead into it from one of the barrels. Then he went back outside where Trevello and his companions were discussing how to spend the rest of the morning.

“I say we go to Quagfen first,” said Trevello.

“The Homesteads are more important,” said Filibert. “The Homesteaders fear for their cottages and orchards. Even though there’s no fire there yet, it would calm them to see us. After that, we could make our way to Quagfen, then to Skeps Wood.”

“We need to start in Skeps Wood,” said Bassan. “That’s where the fire is worst.”

“Bassan, you’re right. To Skeps Wood we go, then!” said Trevello. “Harold, I think we may all need some more mead. And bread, meat, pickle, a little salted fish, too? Whatever is left in the kitchen.”

Harold gave Filibert his flask, went back up the steps, through the Great Hall, and into the kitchen. He packed more food, stuffing chunks of meat from the soup into his mouth, tipping mead into flasks and taking a gulp or two himself. No wonder Southernwood was in danger with such people in charge. These men couldn’t settle on what to do, where to go, or even how much food their stomachs might need. Hadn’t Trevello just eaten? And as for Bassan’s mead, well, how about diluting this flask with some water from that bucket over there? That would serve him right!

The door to the yard stood open. Lisette’s voice floated in from outside.

“Yes, there was such a man here. He was standing with Harold. I think he was one of Harold’s uncles. Can’t say. Never seen him before. What? One of the guard coming up from the icehouse saw him leave? I don’t know, my dear. You’d have to ask Harold, but he’s gone out now.”

Harold threw everything into the sack and escaped as quickly as he could. Thankfully, Trevello and his men were already threading their way through the market towards the bridge to Skeps Wood. He followed, watching Trevello walk with Filibert, deep in conversation. Bassan was by himself behind them. Members of the guard walked beside them, stopping to chat to some of the market stallholders.

It was a fine, sunny day. A stiff wind blew in from the northwest, so there was no smell of firesmoke. The market was just as Harold liked it: full of meats, fish, vegetables, fruit, tasty pastry fancies, painted shells—hadn’t Silva made some of those?—lacy embroideries, knitted socks, miniature illuminated paintings, leather shoes, hats, belts, bags, bottles of powdered or liquid perfume, leafbooks containing children’s stories, or collections of tree quotes. On one table, a title caught his eye:
Southernwood Leaves
. The stallholder sat on a stool behind his wares, sharpening a quill.