Chapter 537: Shared Knowledge
Shared Knowledge
Henry poured half a cup of wine and placed it in front of Martel along with a pitcher of water. Ignoring the offer of dilution, Martel grabbed the cup and took a healthy sip. The stonemage gave him a look under raised eyebrows. "That kind of day?"
"Yesterday. Third patrol in a row we got attacked. Lost one."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah." Martel took another sip.
"At least spring festival is just around the corner. In fact, be prepared for things to get rowdy. The soldiers usually make the most of this opportunity for revelry."
"I heard them talk about it. A bit late, isn't it? It's been spring for quite a few days now."
Finally picking up his own cup, Henry leaned back in his seat. "You can't have a festival without supplies. We have to wait until ship traffic resumes after winter. It's usually a jovial affair. With luck, some entertainers will have found their way to Esmouth as well."
"I suppose it can only be better than our current options for merriment." Martel emptied his cup and placed it back on the table, pushing it away from himself to indicate he was sated. Another round would go straight to his head. "How is the business of earth magic? Come across any nice stonework recently?"
"You mock, but I have in fact received new orders, which happens maybe every five years. So, for your humble resident stonemage, this is quite the turn of events."
Despite his mood, Martel felt the inclination to smile, probably aided by the wine. "And what fascinating tasks have our glorious leaders bestowed upon you?"
"Well, enchanting stone. So more or less what you might expect. But not the existing walls, no. I am to prepare an entirely new lot."
"What for?"
Henry gave a shrug. "As a lowly civilian, I am not privy to strategic decisions. If I were to guess, they intend to build new fortifications north of here make it easier to defend the bank from crossings. Given how much stonework they want, it could easily house a cohort."
"I pity whichever mageknight gets that posting." Martel got on his feet. "I need to get back. Between spring festival and my next patrol, I should rest up."
"See you at the festivities."
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***
Making his way through Esmouth, Martel had almost reached the bridge when he was hailed by Starkad. The berserker, wearing his big smile as always, approached him. "Mage of fire, a pleasure to see you."
Martel did not feel up for idle conversation, but it seemed foolish to insult the Tyrian. "Starkad," he spoke in greeting.
"I hear your patrol yesterday was rough," Starkad spoke in a quiet voice; his pronunciation improved markedly as well, now that only Martel could hear him.
"It was. I don't blame your man we got ambushed if that's your concern. These Khivans, they're more like hunters than soldiers. Hiding in the bushes, laying traps, and all of them with sharp aim." Frustration took hold of his voice.
"Something I learned that you should know. Of all the patrols that my people have shared, only those with you present have been ambushed of late." Starkad gave him a knowing look. "Three times in a row, is it?"
"You think it's not a coincidence."
"I know your Empire loves everything in its place, predictability, doing it the same way every time. These fire eaters don't strike me as the same," the berserker considered. "I don't think they've elected one day to always be the day they hunt for Asterian game."
"Thanks," Martel mumbled. The thought was unsettling.
"My man says you had salve to heal him. His wound has closed fast. Very effective," Starkad continued. "Where did you get it? We should like to buy for ourselves."
"I'd suggest you ask in the infirmary, but they won't let you inside the camp. Other than the physician there, I think I'm the only one who knows how to make it."
"You created this healing mixture?" The berserker gave him a discerning look.
"I did." Martel reached into his belt and took out the jar. "You can have this. I got another ready."
"Much appreciated. I thought your Empire teaches mages like you to kill. I didn't think such lore of herbs would be part of it."
Martel could not suppress his sarcastic laughter. "You would be right about that. I learned this on my own time, you might say. I wasn't always destined to be a battlemage."
The berserker gave him another scrutinising look. "Truly? I am surprised. Fire has no place in our traditions, so I know little of it. Yet what I have seen in your Empire, that seems to be its only purpose."
"Yes, it seems to be that way." Martel thought about his enchantment work. Light and heat were essentials; if he had no other obligations, he might improve his skill to such a degree, his enchantments would be near permanent. All the homes that he and other firemages could provide with heating to chase away even the coldest winter instead, his gift was used to turn Khivans into torches. Feeling bitter, Martel almost missed the opportunity in front of him. "Actually, I could teach your people how to make the salve."
The third look that Starkad gave him was born of surprise. "You would share such knowledge?"
"For something in return. One of the empty buildings around here" Martel looked at the ruined part of town where the Tyrians resided. "That'll serve as workshop." Bringing his herb rack and tools down here would alleviate the cramped space in his tent. "Get it ready for tomorrow. Somewhere dry and shielded from sunlight. Can you do that?"
Starkad smiled, and for once, it seemed almost genuine. "Consider it so!"
***
Back in his tent as evening swept the camp, Martel knew he had to share Starkad's suspicions about their patrols with Eleanor. But it would be another four days before their next trip beyond the camp; he could so tomorrow. For now, he would spend the last hour before sleep creating an enchantment; his new alchemy workshop would need the best lightstone he could make.
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