Of Men and Mortar
A tale of stones, stew, and a stuck up supervisor.
A single drop of rain splattered on the flat surface of a stone, darkening its light gray face. Clouds hung fat and low in the sky, making idle threats — a typical day in the Bay of Eels. Great for farming. Poor for the spirits. Gullmar took a rattling breath, sucking at his teeth, before he bent his back and returned to the line of stones in front of him. The cheap Ripple of the village hadn’t paid him enough to give a cow’s moo about the wall he was building. He’d build it waist high and strong enough to survive maybe five winters. Then call it good.
Mira had pork stew on at home. This wall weren’t better than pork stew. He bent and picked up another block of stone, muscles in his back slithering at the effort, and laid it on the mortar. Pork stew, and with some peppers she’d found at market. Bargained the stall-keep down from a secant to three copper cants, she said. A silver secant stew it’d be, with all the pork and potatoes and peppers he’d seen her chop up that morning. And he weren’t going to miss that for some farmer’s wall on command of the Ripple.
No, the Ripple’s wall could get soggy as shit in this rain, as far as Gullmar cared. Little valley didn’t need a stonemason’s wall to pen in the cows. It could’ve just as easily been a few boards drove into the ground and wound with a rope or two. Used to be, Gullmar got to work on grand estates, churches to the Frog, big complex labs for alchemists. Or, one alchemist, once. But now the church had been built, the Baron’s estate built, the alchemist (and the lab) blown to bits, and all the work that was left in the village was to break his back making a wall.
He stood up to eyeball his pile of stones, and saw a figure emerging from the gate up on the hill to his right. Even this far away, he could make out the stupid hat the Ripple wore. Like lording over the village made the Ripple, or any ripple, so high and mighty he could pull off a hat like that. Floppy like a fish fresh from the river and pinker than its guts after cleaning it.
The Ripple rode out of his big sturdy house up on the hill, straddling a big sturdy horse — and him only paying five secants for a wall that’d take a week. Gullmar lugged one more stone onto the mortar before straightening up to see what the prick wanted.
“Mason,” the Ripple said in his shit-eating formal manner of speaking.
“Ripple Reefmar,” Gullmar replied, giving him the minimum necessary bow.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to finish my fine wall you’ve been so beautifully crafting.”
“Oh?” said Gullmar.
“I’ve just received a dispatch.”
Gullmar stared at him. He weren’t going to give the twit the pleasure of asking from whom. The Ripple raised his brows, a cheeky little smile tugging at his cheeks.
“From the Tide,” said the Ripple, smug. “It read that all my able-bodied men are to report to the armory.”
“A weapon take?” Gullmar asked, his interest now piqued. He wiped the mortar off his hands onto the crusty cloth that hung around his shoulders.
“Seems so.”
“What for?”
“You’ll surely have to ask the sergeant. A sharp little woman. The Tide sent her to organize the take.”
Gullmar nodded and got to packing away his tools. The word of the Tide required some attention. Gullmar could more or less ignore commands he didn’t agree with from Ripple Reefmar. He kept the village and lands fertile, but his authority didn’t command so much respect as a swell, or a tide, and surely not so much as the Three Deeps whose word was close to law. A ripple was a bureaucrat whose people could replace him. But a tide — when a tide spoke, everybody listened. He looked up at Ripple Reefmar as he filled his canvas bag.
“I’ll take my pay now, then.” He said it casual, throwaway style.
The Ripple scoffed, disbelief written in the arch of his brows. “You’ll what?”
“Pay me. Five secants, as agreed.”
“But the wall’s half finished!”
Gullmar put his meaty paws on his hips and craned his neck to survey the ring of stones that spanned the wide expanse of the valley, grazing cattle dotting the grass. He jutted his chin up at the Ripple.
“Goes all the way around.”
“It’s only up to your shins!”
“How’s the cows gonna know that?”
“It’s unfinished!”
“Y’said that already.”
The cows mooed and the clouds rolled overhead. Gullmar stared, deadpan, at the Ripple. Fucking guy.
“I’ll give you two now, and the other — ”
“Cut you a deal. I’ll take four.”
“Three!”
“Four,” Gullmar said. He gave the face of the Ripple’s horse a gentle pat, eyes locked with the Ripple’s as the puffy cheeks around them burned red, jaw working the teeth around in his head.
“Fine.” The Ripple broke eye contact and lowered his eyes as he fumbled coins in his purse. Under his breath he hissed, “Hope you get bloody blisters on the march to whatever skirmish you’re off to.”
“Oh, doubtless.” And Gullmar took the four silver secants out of the Ripple’s palm, hoisted his tools over his shoulder, and walked off down the road, whistling Old Hopper Heart as he went.
“Armory’s that way!” the Ripple shouted after him, pointing off down valley.
“Mari’s got stew on,” Gullmar said and waved a hand over his shoulder as he continued up the trail.
