Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (26 page)

Livinia considered the chalice. Her chances of retaining it were difficult for her to gauge. She had held onto it for the last three years running, but last year had been a very near thing. Both she and Daphne had submitted variations of apple pies, and if it had not been for Livinia’s last-minute addition of a crumb topping, she might well have lost the contest altogether. As it was, Orlynda’s plum fig pie had been a very close third and a much better showing by her than in previous years.

Contrary to the popular belief among the ladies of Cobblestone Street, Livinia had done her own cooking since she was very young. That she had a serving girl now was largely pretense for the benefit of the town. Eunice did the scullery work, which Livinia hated, and the general cleaning, which Livinia hated more than the scullery work. But when it came to cooking the meals in the house, this was one labor that Livinia thoroughly enjoyed. It was a matter of pride and accomplishment to her.

There was a sharp knocking at her kitchen door.

“Who is it?” Livinia asked loudly, still considering the chalice.

“Ariela Soliandrus,” came the muffled response. “I have most intriguing news!”

“Come in, Ariela, the door is open.” As the door opened, the cooper’s wife’s eyes remained fixed on the mantel.

Livinia just
had
to win the chalice again—whatever the cost.

Jarod Klum stood uneasily behind the small cart in Trader’s Square. He had borrowed it from Farmer Bennis and fixed it up as best he could the night before to make it appear festive and presentable. There were a number of different spices arrayed across the top of the cart, small shingles with prices scrawled across them sitting before each. The spices were rather common—most of them Jarod had acquired from other vendors in the square, and their diversity was small.

Townspeople passing by were quite surprised to see the counting apprentice having set up a spice cart in the middle of the Fall Festival. They were in turn more surprised by the prices listed on the shingles for each of his products—and continued passing by.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Jarod said to the Dragon’s Bard, who was leaning against the wall of the Guild Hall behind him, relishing a crisp apple.

“And why should it not work?” Edvard exclaimed, nearly spitting out a piece of apple in the process.

“Because we haven’t sold a single thing all day,” Jarod said, his voice forlorn.

“Of course you haven’t . . . certainly not at those prices!”

“Maybe we should lower them,” Jarod wondered aloud. “Bring them more in line with the other vendors . . .”

“Nonsense! This rabble is not your market, boy,” Edvard exclaimed. “You’ll never get rich selling pinches of spice! Your
real
mark . . . I mean, your real customers have not yet come to you. You remember what I told you, do you not?”

“Yes, I do,” Jarod sighed.

“And you visited Lord Obsintia?” the Bard coaxed.

“Yes, he had exactly what you said I needed,” Jarod replied, clearing his throat nervously. “Still, I’m not that sure that this is a good idea. I mean, it seems like there’s something wrong with it.”

“Nonsense, my good Jarod!” Edvard exclaimed. “It’s business!”

“Still, after talking with the fairy king, I—”

An imperious voice called his attention back across the makeshift sales cart. “Jarod Klum?”

“Oh! Why, good morning, Madam Walters!” Jarod said, his voice rising half an octave.

“Good morning to you, Jarod.” Livinia was dressed in her fur-trimmed coat and matching hat. Jarod wondered idly if she had killed the animals herself.

“I’ve got a fine selection of spices and herbs . . . for baking, I mean,” Jarod swallowed hard. “There’s . . . uh . . . some cinnamon here from the south, and that’s . . . let me think . . . that’s anise . . .”

Livinia cleared her throat. “Do you have anything . . . special?”

Jarod stared for a moment. The Bard kicked him to get him started again.

“Why, yes, I have something special,” Jarod answered slowly, “but it’s very expensive. I don’t think you would be interested in it.”

Livinia nodded. “You’re probably right.”

Jarod’s face fell.

“Still,” Livinia said, leaning over the cart and speaking in low tones. “If you were to meet me with it this evening around the hour after sunset behind the ruins of the old pottery kilns on Butterfield Road . . . and were willing to part with your ‘special’ spice . . . I think I could meet your price.”

Livinia stood back up and continued nonchalantly down past the other stalls in Trader’s Square.

Jarod turned to the Bard, a wide grin splitting his face. “She’s going to
buy
it, Edvard! I can’t believe it!”

“That’s the beauty of this business. All you have to do is sell this one potion for a king’s ransom to someone rich enough and desperate enough to afford it,” Edvard said. “Then you’ll have enough for the bride price of your darling Caprice.”

That night, after his meeting at the ruins, Jarod quietly returned home to the countinghouse and pulled out his Treasure Box from the office cupboard where he had kept it since the spring.

With warm satisfaction he opened the box, unfolding it to a pleasant size in his hands—a size that he felt was just right for the important occasion. He set the box on his desk, reached into the folds of his coat, and pulled out a heavy coin purse.

“One hundred gold crowns!” Jarod exclaimed. “All from buying a single cooking potion from the fairy king and selling it to Livinia Walters!”

Jarod calculated it as his father had taught him, just to make sure he understood the magnitude of what he had achieved. He had spent three silver leaf coins to purchase the potion in the first place. The Bard had negotiated with the fairy king a deal that the Fae could sell any kind of potion they liked to the townsfolk
except
baking potions. Jarod had paid one gold crown to hold that exclusive privilege. Having spent two gold crowns for the spices he placed in his business cart, plus another three silver leaf coins on fixing up the cart so that he could present a legitimate business appearance, Jarod tallied up his expenses at three gold crowns and six silver leaf coins. That meant, by Jarod’s reckoning, that he had made a profit of ninety-six gold crowns and four silver leaf coins!

The young man carefully counted the coins into his Treasure Box and was about to close it when he stopped.

If he did it once . . . why not do it again?

There must be other ladies in the town who might like a little extra assistance with their pie baking this year and who would be willing to pay an outrageous price.

Jarod quietly took three of the silver leaf coins back out of the Treasure Box and a couple of gold crowns just to be certain. Then he closed the box and folded it up small, placing it back in the cupboard.

Filled with pride in his own business sense, Jarod went back out the door and headed toward the Fae Grotto.

On the seventh day of the Fall Festival, the townspeople gathered in Charter Square around the Cursed Sundial in the brisk fall air. Long tables borrowed from the Guild Hall were supplemented with several from the Griffon’s Tale Inn. Each was covered with long linen, and the square was lit once more with the glow of the pixies—imprisoned again for some heinous if thus far unspecified offense.

Everyone in the town brought something for the Harvest Feast, a community sharing of the bounty from the growing season and, it would seem, the last great holiday for them all to gather together before the onset of winter and the long wait until the spring. Breads and stews, meat pies and vegetables, fruits and tubers—all were passed along joyfully down the rows and shared with each other.

The town had said farewell to the fairies earlier that afternoon. The tents and provisions were all secured aboard their seven ships and they sailed away somewhat earlier than expected. The fairy king—Lord Obsintia—seemed to be in a particular hurry to leave. The fairies sailed down the Wanderwine River toward distant Blackshore, waving and singing as they left.

Jarod, dressed in his best leggings and doublet, found Caprice in the crowd and sat down on the bench next to her. “Good evening, Caprice!”

“Why, good evening, Jarod,” Caprice said, raising her eyebrows as she looked at him. “And may I say you are looking particularly well this evening?”

“You may,” Jarod said with a smile. “I have been looking forward to this evening for quite some time and wanted to look my best!”

“You are a great supporter of the Fall Festival then, I take it?” Caprice’s wide green eyes were filled with mirth.

“In more ways than you may know,” Jarod answered, then leaned slightly toward her. “Caprice, would you meet me beneath the tree in Chestnut Court after the contest? I have something particular to say to you.”

“You
are
saying something to me,” Caprice said in a mockingly serious voice, matching Jarod’s own conspiratorial tone.

Jarod laughed. “So I am . . . but I have something
particular
to say to you and you’ll not know what it is unless you meet me there. Please say you will!”

“Of course I will!” Caprice smiled, and the world seemed brighter to Jarod. “After they award the chalice . . . I’ll meet you there.”

“Perfect!” Jarod exclaimed. He leaped up from the chair and ran down the row to find his mother, his feet seeming barely to touch the ground.

He found Orlynda fussing over her cranberry-apple pie. “Oh, Jarod, I just don’t think the crust is right—and I practically stood over that Muffe woman while she baked it!”

Jarod swallowed. He could have told his mother that she shouldn’t get her hopes up because he had personally seen to it that no matter what his mother baked, she was going to lose the competition. But he cared too much for her, told himself that it was all for the best, and said, “It will be fine, Mother. You wait and see.”

Jep Walters was standing up at the table that seemed to have been arranged for the more important folk of the town—at least more important in the estimation of those who had arranged the tables.

“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Eventide!” Jep pronounced, his hands firmly gripping the lapels of his long coat. “It has been a wondrous celebration this year—a bountiful harvest for which each of us gives thanks to those gods whose largess smiles upon us. It behooves us at times like these to reflect back on—”

“Never mind that, Jep,” yelled Joaquim Taylor from the back. “Let’s get on with the contest!”

Nervous laughter ran through the crowd, but Jep was beaming. It seemed he, too, would like to have this final duty concluded.

“As you wish! It’s time to judge the winner of the Fall Festival Pie Competition . . . the winner receiving this fine . . . this fine . . .” Jep was having a little difficulty lifting it up onto the table before him, “
this
fine chalice to keep for one year—until the next Fall Festival—in recognition of their achievement. Our competition is being judged, as usual, by Deniva Kolyan and Madeline Muffe—the fine bakers in our town—as well as our guest judge, Captain Hamish Pew, who has come all the way from Blackshore for the evening. Captain Pew!”

Jarod shook his head. Deniva Kolyan and Madeline Muffe had been made the judges of the contest partly because they could not be allowed to compete for the prize and partly because neither of them could ever agree on anything. All of this was supposed to be balanced out by the selection of a third judge from outside of the village, but this year’s selection of a sea captain whose palate was probably used to salted fish and hardtack was probably not the best choice.

“Ladies,” Jep said with a nod, “bring forward your pies.”

Orlynda Klum took in a deep breath and stepped forward. Livinia was already at the table setting down her pie—a cherry and pear cream confection that caused those watching to draw in a breath. Next, Daphne Melthalion presented her rum-apple and cheddar pie, which also drew delighted sounds from the crowd. The Widow Merryweather and Winifred Taylor both arrived at the same time, setting down their walnut peach-berry and pink lemonade pies, respectively. Orlynda set her cranberry-apple pie down at the far end, feeling a bit sheepish about her humble-looking entry this year.

All five of the pies were lined up right next to each other—and that was when the trouble started.

Magic, as anyone with any practical familiarity with the subject will tell you, is a jealous and dangerous thing. Intention counts for little in its application of effect, and the simplest of instructions can go awry when placed in proximity with other instructions of supposedly equal simplicity.

One might be tempted to blame the fairies for providing the magical potions in the first place, but that would be unkind and unfair, for the potions performed precisely as specified. Perhaps Jarod was to blame for deciding that if one could make so many gold coins with the sale of a single potion, it would be four times better to sell four such potions. But that, too, would be less than generous, as his motives were good and his reasoning sound in terms of business. Perhaps the ladies themselves were to blame in their zeal to obtain the prize.

As to the results, no one was in doubt. Four of the pies had been magically enhanced with cooking potions, each of which caused that pie to assert itself as the best pie of all. Each pie would do anything—
anything
—to assert its supremacy over every other pie around it.

Deniva Kolyan and Madeline Muffe stood on either side of the Captain and approached the pies.

The Captain leaned forward over Livinia’s cherry and pear pie with a knife.

A spark flew up from the center of the crust and burst into the form of a tiny, sparkling dandelion.

The thick brows of the Captain rose in surprise.

“Toot!”

The judges turned to look down the row of pies.

The walnut peach-berry pie had sounded a note.

Crackle! Snap! Livinia’s pie was producing a spectacular display in light and sound above its cream crust.

Not to be outdone, Daphne’s rum-apple and cheddar pie suddenly burst into flames across its surface, causing the Captain to push back his two fellow judges in alarm.