Chapter 45

It is Not an Offer

Abigail

The gardens were becoming more familiar to me. My weekly visits to HIccup’s mansion rewarded me with the chance to acquaint myself with strange plants. One of which walked right by me, with rhizomes as legs—the sweetflag grass. Its yellow flowering cone could have been its head which bobbed and swayed about as if surveying the rows of roses for pests. Long blades of grass arched down like arms.

“Excuse me,” I tried. “Could you help me find Corylus?”

But talking to a walking plant was still talking to a plant.

The familiar click of butler’s shoes echoed on the concrete. Spine erect, visage proper, Riggvelte’s long strides sped him toward me.

“Miss Yak,” he said. “I hope you haven’t been long in waiting. Please, right this way.”

I followed his lead, he adjusted his pace to my slow amble and I said, “Not long at all. I’ve occupied myself with the beauty of the gardens. Where is Corylus? I was hoping to speak with him.”

“Master Hiccup will have me call upon the gardener immediately.”

“Do not disturb the man if he’s sat himself for a moment of peace. I wished only to purchase fertilizer from him. I have these beautiful fourrure blanc flowers that aren’t blooming. They’re in trouble.”

“We will sort this,” he said. “Miss yak, you are Hiccup’s number one priority-”

“-You and I both know no one but Ashlee can be his number one priority.”

Riggvelte’s foot caught on a crack and he stumbled.

“Number two priority,” he amended quietly. “Out of earshot, mind you—and we will do everything we can to be sure you are well looked after pending your stay with us.”

“Always so formal, Riggvelte. I’m glad you had the opportunity to explore a dungeon.”

The butler raised his brows; shrugged the sort of shrug that made no big deal out of something that was quite a big deal for someone. He was proud of himself and didn’t need to say “oh it was nothing I couldn’t handle,” because his half smile already said it for him.

“Tell me all about it,” I said.

“There’s nothing to tell, my lady.”

He unleashed his tale of battle and dungeon-crawling upon me. He spoke almost in whispers, and quickly, because we fast approached the mansion. I heard it all before, of course, from multiple perspectives and it was nice to hear someone recount with the humility Riggvelte mastered. And just as he finished his tale with a run on sentence, out of breath, I heard many voices beyond a turn of a hedgerow.

“My lady, stay behind me,” Riggvelte warned tiredly from the side of his mouth as he moved to the fore.

When we turned the corner, with Hiccup’s marble clad mansion glinting in the morning light, a crowd of familiar faces attempted to push through a line of butlers toward Riggvelte and I. There were many acquaintances there, Brewers, Alchemists, and just as many strangers to me. Almost everyone there called my name. All except one person—Margaux. The rest all spoke at once, and I couldn’t make out any other word through the mash of questions. The butlers stood their ground and held the crowd back.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Hiccup strode through the entry archway and addressed the crowd. “Please, my dear guests, I must meet with Miss Yak in private for the afternoon.” He offered a warm smile my way and said, “quickly, this way.”

“Did you know that Margaux is here?” I said, falling in step.

“Here? In my house?”

Before passing through the entry archway, I nodded toward the diamond rank Brewer, who stood frozen in the cacophony, watching me like a hawk. Hiccup must have seen her too because he took Riggvelte aside and spoke with his butler in quick sharp whispers. Their conference was brief and Riggvelte tugged his gloves, one at a time, so that each finger touched the tips. As though preparing for battle, he stormed toward the crowd. Hiccup returned to his warm smile and gestured that we continue.

Hiccup guided me through several domed chambers lit with the natural light of day through amber stained glass. Coiled rings of gold seemed to have been thrown and looped over silver veined, white marble columns. They piled at the foot of each column like rings for giants’ thumbs.

We veered into a chamber new to me. There were columns too, but the western, eastern, and southern walls were all windowed from floor to glass dome. The room was filled with fern, potted vines, and pastel chaise cushions set on tangled bars of brass.

It took me a moment to take it all in. “This is new,” I uttered.

“For a special guest,” Hiccup said.

“You’ve gone absolutely out of your way. You’re too kind, my friend.”

“I would be doing you a disservice if I told you I designed this room completely out of kindness. Its design is born half from kindness, half as an investment so that you can be more comfortable when we chat.”

“So that we may discuss Hawkin’s beers,” I said.

We sat around a shallow large bowl of ivy. Ferns flanked us on pedestals. Hiccup cleared his throat, lost his smile, and said, “people are hunting Hawkin.”

I couldn’t put words to what I wanted to say. I tried but only stammered.

“Not on his life,” Hiccup said, realizing what I’d assumed. “Gods no, they want to do business with him. Abigail—the Alik family is even offering to speak to him. It is up to you and I to keep ourselves as Hawkin’s only conduit to the markets.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Ethan. I’m not sure I want to be in the middle of this. I am not—I will not be a liaison for long. You’ll have to speak with Thrush and his companion Barnacle-eyes who have agreed to sail to Lavenfauvish to deliver Hawkin’s beers. Let them be your link to Hawkin.”

“Oh dear. I’ve gone on the aggressive, haven’t I? I sincerely apologize. I’ve been agonizing over acquiring Hawkin’s beers, and I’m not treating you as a friend would.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. I understand the game. I know where you’re coming from. Prestige is important for climbing rank. I will help, but under my own conditions. My advice is: talk to Thrush. You’ve wanted to establish a connection with him. Arrange a warm and safe welcome for him and the goblin when they sail south. Treat them well. Aside from that, I’ll fill you in on everything I learn when I visit. That’s all I’ll do.”

Hiccup nodded while in thought. He relaxed into the backrest of his chaise. “I think we make a fair team and I hope I’ll see you more, not less.”

“I’ll do the best that I can,” I said, “but my other condition is that I will honor Hawkin’s wishes.”

“That’s fair. He wants to be left alone. Naturally. But I would like to enter his beer in the Oude Brewer’s competition come mid-spring.”

“And one of his wishes is that he not enter the Oude Brewer’s competition.”

Hiccup sat up and rolled his eyes into the flutter of his lashes. “Why is he so difficult?”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s not that he’s difficult. It’s that different things are important to him.”

Hiccup’s eyes were wide then and he moved to the edge of his chaise, bracing himself on his knees. “Tell me,” he said. “What things are important to him?”

I smoothed the fabric of my pants, and looked off through the panes of glass. I could hear the sentiment in my own voice. “His wilderness,” I said. “Trees. Flowers. Thrush and Barnacle-eyes. Beer, of course. He’s …odd. He’ll shave with the bit of an axe, but his hands are gentle. He…” I glanced at Hiccup and did not like the assuming smile on his face, so I cleared my thoughts and cleared my throat before I continued. “Well, let me just say that becoming one of the greatest Brewer’s in the world is not one of his goals. Given the chance, I’m sure he would give up his rise to prominence.”

“Abigail, are you hearing yourself?

“Oh yes. It’s been driving me curious. His only interest in the Brewer quest path is to brew the best beer that he can. The rest he seems content to discard like compost.”

“Meanwhile,” Hiccup said, “others that want to level and rank up are having a much harder time of it.”

“Perhaps it’s just his love of the craft.”

“Oh yes, it must be something in the water. It has absolutely nothing to do with the adjacent Planes Cutter quest path, nor the camaraderie he has miraculously made with some cousin of nightream monsters.”

Laughing at the ceiling, I said, “You should hear yourself, getting all worked up.”

Hiccup’s voice fell soft. “May I remind you that the Alik family is reaching out to him.”

“I should tell you that he’s already seen members of the Alik family—in their jungle.”

Hiccup was up on his feet then, pacing, studying the marble tiles. “I refuse to believe it,” he said.

“It’s true!”

“I’m afraid if I believe it, my head will explode with envy.”

Two raps at the chamber entrance drew our attention. Riggvelte stood aside so that Corylus could waltz in.

“Good morning Hiccup,” Corylus said. “And Abigail.” I stood to meet him and we hugged. “It is so good to see you. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Hiccup said. “Our conversation has made me parched. We should slake our thirst over aged ales.”

Hiccup dashed out of the room, calling for Riggvelte to wait a moment.

“How are the beauties?” Corylus said. “They should be flowering.”

My conversation with Hiccup took its toll then and I slumped back on my long chaise. “I need your help. I don’t know what’s gone wrong with them. They won’t flower. They’ve grown but stand there like sticks.”

A melancholy moment seemed to suck away the blood between the gardener's skin and bones. “Ah,” he said. “Yes. I was afraid that might be so.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been working with Lavenfauvish’s Premiere Garden Shoppe for some time now, helping them with problem plants. Years ago, due to my ineptitude, I killed their first fourrure blanc plant. I was devastated and I worked hard to grow another one. I succeeded in that endeavor by accident.”

“Accident?”

“Have I ever invited you over for tea?”

“No,” I said, but was quick to add, “but that sounds lovely. Truly. You’re a friend.”

“I live on Rue. Solelle, on the slope—half hour away by foot. I’ve got a beautiful garden. The best garden.”

Corylus rubbed at his chest and his eyes searched among private thoughts, or history— poignant memories, perhaps, if I could call it for what I thought it was.

“Well,” he said. “I took home seeds of the fourrure blanc one day last year. I planted them all around the garden, but they only grew in one spot.”

“They won’t grow up north,” I said, trying to put two and two together.

“They will; that’s not it.” Corylus looked at me with eyes that were twice his age. “Once a year, I perform a macabre tradition. I cast the ashes of my dog, my beloved late companion by the patch of chamomile, on her birthday. Last year, after sprinkling her ashes, the fourrure blanc flowered overnight.”

The glint of a tear spun in his eyes.

“Oh, Corylus,” I said, sitting up.

I wanted to touch him, offer my comfort, but his solid upraised palm warded my attempt to rise from my seat. He cleared his throat and said, “it seems to be that the first generation of seeds will propagate flowering fourrures without fertilizer. What you have are second generation seeds, which will not flower unless…” He rose and withdrew a burlap sack from his private inventory. He offered the sack to me.

“Corylus,” I whispered. “Are there ashes in here?”

“Only a pinch.”

“I absolutely can not.”

“It is macabre, isn’t it? Until I learn how to encourage second generations to flower by another means, this is all I have. Would you take this, please? Not for me, but to honor…”

Words could not trespass into the deepening moment. I offered reassurance through touch, rubbing his shoulders. We hugged; we spoke through smiles while fortifying our private dams. The moment was quiet enough to hear a pair of footsteps approaching. Corylus straightened himself, took a deep breath, and excused himself with a “thank you, dear friend.” He only briefly stopped to speak with Hiccup and the shadow of a figure in the hallway.

Hiccup watched the gardener leave before turning to me and mouthing, “is he all right?”

“He’ll be fine,” I returned, peering to make out the shadow.

Hiccup crossed the room and the shadow entered. It was a man, wearing a draping gold tunic. His eyes were hazel and his skin knew the sun. His clothes were foreign—no, not his clothes, the very fabric was different. The fibers foreign.

“Miss Yak,” Hiccup said. “May I introduce Evon, gold rank Brewer, assistant to the Alik family Traditionelle Breweri.”

I greeted Evon, learning by first impression that he was courteous, reserved, thick-skinned, and saw you with an air of fearlessness. Hiccup meanwhile cracked open a bottle of something musty. The foam erupted out like a diminutive volcano that dissipated to the air. He poured each of us a small snifter glass full before walking over to a nearby potted fern. He poured a small libation into the pot, turned back to us, and said, “Corylus will understand. So do you, Abigail.”

“It is a pleasure to finally meet with you,” Evon said.

“The pleasure is all mine,” I said with a slight nod.

Hiccup led us in a silent raised glass. After a sip of something reminiscent of freshly opened pages in an old tome, in a razed library, in an old city, in another lifetime, Hiccup said, “Evon wants to meet with Hawkin.”

Evon frowned and I assumed he was unaccustomed to Hiccup’s direct nature.

“Subtle,” the Alik representative said.

“Abigail is a dear friend of mine,” Hiccup said. “I will always be forthright with her.”

“The Alik family admires that,” Evon said. “Therefore, to put it bluntly, the Alik family wants to bring Hawkin into the jungle.” Hiccup choked on his second sip and battled the beer driving into his lungs. Evon continued, unbothered. “I have a Brewer’s Portal attribute beer ready for him. Obviously, Hawkin will say yes.”

“Hawkin will decline the offer,” I said.

“It is not an offer. No one in their right mind would deign to decline such a calling. Especially one who follows the Brewer quest path.”

“Damn,” Hiccup said, face flushed red, almost fully recovered. “Then this is it. We’ll never see Hawkin again.”

“Hawkin will decline,” I said.

“Humor me,” Evon said as though the future were written in stone. “Give him this letter.”

He gave me a bottle of beer. The bottle wasn’t made of glass. It was made of the veins of leaves though they felt hard as stone. The amber-gold liquid within did not seep through the windows of the veins. The cork was a cork, but inside was a letter, rolled up like a pencil, unsoaked. “This is a Fable rank beer—that’s all I was told. The jungle has already prepared for his arrival.”