[Mkguild] Waiting on Orders

[Rimme the Weasel]

Another part written.

----

Evening, June 19, 708

It wasn't that she hated change, Ethelyn realized. It was that she hated
surprises.

It was bad enough that Lord Atherburr had called her unexpectedly to be a
waitress. It was bad enough that all these Keepers and their guests had
ridden in for the next part of a week. It was bad enough that Isabel, her
friend, had agreed to help only to suddenly disappear within a few
customers to help with the cooking, leaving her to memorize everyone's
orders.

But now, with no warning, her customer had decided to switch drinks.

"Wine, please. An eastern elderberry, if you could."

She blinked, and returned a nervous smile. She really did like that Misha
was settling down with a woman, and that so many people had come to
support. They were guests, and she was happy to provide for them. But there
were so many people, and she was terrified they would run out of something.
But there was only so much her memory could hold. If she had known reading
and writing orders would be far more useful than a gentle heart and a warm
smile, she would have made an excuse not to work that morning.

"Same for your friend, here?" she asked. The man who had joined him less
than a minute ago was much younger, though not enough to be an age regress.
Their robes were of a similar style, though the young man's had light
colored stains weaving in and out of his robes, as if dyed unevenly.

"Indeed. One tankard for each of us!" the older man grinned as the younger
man chuckled shyly.

Ethelyn gave a pleasant laugh and turned away, running the man's previous
items through her head. This was too much for one head. She needed help.

She peeked into the kitchen. It was not very big, but it had a small brick
oven for cooking tiny bread rolls, smoked by a firepit from which two
different stews were cooking. Along the sides were a few wire racks where
the meat was cooking. By the ovens were two workstations. Wainlik stood at
his station for the big stew, meat, and roll orders. Isabel normally ran
the station for spicing and garnishing individual plates. Except she was
absent.

"Wainlik! I need you to write something down for me!"

Wainlik looked up, his round cheeks wrinkling slightly as he rubbed the
sweat of his eyes. "Write what?"

"Orders, Wainlik! I need you to write down everyone's orders as I give
them!"

Wainlik dropped his dough and plucked the bits that stuck to his hand.
"Don't have a pen here. But ah could ask the lord's clerk of that's what
you need. Just give me time to put these rolls all rolled out, first."

"I need you to write something down now. It's urgent."

"Well, I don't have anything to write with. But, well, this flour."

"Please, Wainlik."

"Oh, well." He sprinkled some flour on the table and held out his skinniest
finger. "Ready."

"Five drinks of ale. Eight eggs. A leg of lamb."

Wainlik wrote out the numbers: 5, 8, 1. Beside the ale, he drew a circle
with a smaller circle in it. For the eggs, he drew a circle with another
circle inside it. For the leg of lamb, he drew a circle with a smaller dot
beside it.

"Two rolls of bread. A bowl of beef-radish stew. And a plate of filet
mignon stuffed with peppercorns and topped with mint sauce."

Wainlik wrote 2 and drew an oblong circle. 1 beside a circle with dots in
it. 1 beside a plate with more dots on it. Unsatisfied with one of the
drawings, he drew a line over the icon for the hot soup. He smeared the
other circle a bit, so that it now looked like two circles.

"Are you sure you remember that?"

"Sure," he nodded. "Five rolls. Eight eggs. One chicken... no, lamb."

"Ale. Five ales."

"That's a two, though. Two ales. Or, no, rolls. Those are the ales. These
are the chickens."

"How about this?" Ethelyn suggested. "I'll just tell you how much they
cost, and you can add them up."

Wainlik scratched his white-powdered brow. "Never learned math," he said.

Ethelyn tugged her ear. "Then have you seen Isabel around?"

"Had to run out to the storehouse for more milk and eggs. Errand boys were
already out grabbing some fish."

"Okay, I'll be back in a bit, make sure you remember!" She headed to the
cellar and hurried down them. Candles were already lit to guide her
footsteps. There was barely any light to read by. At least, so she'd heard.

She grabbed one of the darker bottles from the center shelf. Elderberries
made a dark wine, and the center shelf was reserved for Midlands wines. Was
it east enough, though? She hurried up and held the bottle up to Wainlik.

"Does this say elderberry?"

He glanced at it and read. "Boisenberry."

"Damn. Half right."

"Someone ordered an elderberry last night," Wainlik said. "Should be up in
that cupboard there."

She opened the cabinet and grabbed the nearly empty bottle. About half a
swig remained. "There's none left!"

"Bottle just like it downstairs. Use the label."

"The label? Oh!" She turned it so she could see the writing, and headed
back downstairs. Maybe she couldn't read, but she could match the general
shapes of the letters.

She picked up the candle and set it one of the barrels, then set the bottle
just beside it. She pulled out one bottle and held it up to compare it to
the other bottle. Same design, same logo, but this one was three words
instead of two. She put it back and pulled out the bottle beside it. This
one was too short. She exchanged it for another. This one was so long it
was split into two lines instead of one. The next one was close, but it had
different looping letters than the other one. Better to safe than sorry,
and she switched it out.

Four more bottles like that until she found a perfect match. With a
grateful sigh, she took the cork and tried to pull. Stuck. Very firmly as
well. She grabbed the other bottle and headed upstairs. The two errand boys
had returned with the fish. The older one had taken the fillet knife and
was carefully carving the fish.

"Did Wainlik leave?"

"Yep, something about an errand for someone." He dropped one filet onto a
pile of flour. Right where Wainlik's etchings had been.

"Gah!" she yelped.

"What?" the youth looked up.

Ethelyn tapped her ear. These were Janice's boys. She couldn't get mad at
them, not when they were just doing their jobs as best they could like she
was. She should have alerted them to the workbench. She should have found a
notebook to write in. Perhaps Wainlik should have warned the youth. Maybe
he had memorized the order while she was downstairs. Maybe Lord Atherburr
would pay She shook her head and grabbed a corkscrew to pop out the cork.
"Nothing. Just let me know when Wainlik returns."

With wine uncorked, she stopped in the corridor to sweep off her dress and
get her hair back into place, before she coolly slipped out to the table of
two.

The two men were deep in conversation. The youth was flourishing his hands
as he spoke, though he sat back down when he saw Ethelyn approach. "...
adjoined to the fifth element, balances the weave over a long interval."

Ethelyn cleared her throat. "I apologize so much for keeping you waiting.
Our wines are in great demand today." She poured their drinks.

The older man accepted it with a gracious if not entirely distracted nod.
"Could we have two more bowls of stew, with rolls, madam?"

She smiled and nodded. "Of course. I hope our food is satisfying your
generous appetite."

"What can I say? A good debate whets my appetite."

She chuckled. "I'll have it right out for you, sirs."

She hurried to see to the remainder of the guests. First was the group of
six, one of whom was enthralling the others with a story of elves and
magic. "Everything okay, sirs?"

"A refill of rye, please?" A thick-bearded man at the end held up his
tankard for her.

She took the tankard moved past the hooded woman in the corner, seeing she
wasn't ready to order, and moved to a new couple who had just sat down.
"Hello, I'm Ethelyn. Anything I can get you to drink?"

The man hesitated, with a glance at the woman. "I'll have a mint tea,
please."

Ethelyn raised an eyebrow at that. "I'll have to check. We don't get much
call for that."

The man put out his lips a bit. "Hmmm, well, if there's no alternative,
I'll have to settle for a watered-down..."

"Water, please, for both of us," the woman put in. The man grimaced, though
with a mischievous smile.

Ethelyn smiled, hiding any trace of confusion. Why did some women have such
strong viewings against alcohol? "Anything to eat?"

"The chicken cutlets, with vegetable garnishes," the woman continued. "I've
heard they're quite good. You, dear?"

"I'll have some of that stew I hear about." He glanced at his companion.
"Two bowls, please?" He was asking her as much as Ethelyn.

Before either could respond, a loud smack whipped through the room,
followed by a shattered plate. A shocked yelp as furniture crashed to the
ground, accompanied shortly by a heavy body.

Ethelyn finally got her head turned around. All the inn was staring at the
two men whom Ethelyn had just served the elderberry wine. The older man was
laying face down on the ground. Above him stood the youth, his arm raised,
a dagger wavering in his fist.

Clutching tightly to the youth's wrist, forcing him to drop the bloodless
dagger, was the hooded woman, whose own dagger was pressed against the
man's back.

"Damn you!" the youth hissed, trying to worm his way free of her grip.
Below him, the man rolled onto his side, stunned and dazed from the hard
fall.

The woman struck him in the neck, forcing him down to his knees, as she
kept the dagger pressed against his back. She looked up and locked eyes on
Ethelyn, the closest there was to any authority in the commons. "Do you
have any rope back there?" she asked.

"Uh, yes," Ethelyn glanced around. The other guests were startled, though
thankfully none had lost their appetites. Some still seemed confused, as if
they were watching some rustic theatre troupe.

"Tie him up. Bring him to the magistrate."

Seeing no reason not to comply, Ethelyn disappeared into the back room.

Freya glanced to the other man. "Can you still walk?"

"Y-yes, ma'am. Thank you." He took her offered hand and stood. "I don't
know what happened. We were just discussing Fahlior's work on ritual
theory. Suddenly... gods, the little bastard tried to kill me!"

"What's your name, boy?" Freya said, her gloved hand on his neck as she
held the dagger close to it.

"Damn you! I'll... I'll never..."

She struck her boot against his forearm. There was a loud pop. He yelped
and twisted about, but she kept him planted to the ground. "Your name."

"Canson!" He whimpered. "Please! Let me go!"

"That's not for me to decide." She looked up as the middle-aged barmaid
returned with the rope. "Is he a mage? I saw him trying to gesture just
now."

The man glowered. "You vile --! What is this about? What kind of stunt were
you trying to pull?"

"The people of Marigund have not forgotten your betrayal, LORD Raesal."

The man blinked, and looked squarely at Freya. "This man is a lunatic. I'll
handle this myself, miss..."

"I'm sure you will," she emphasized this as she tightened the knots.
"You're lucky I was here. Try not to make this any more of my business."
She stood up and turned to the door.

"Wait, miss!" The barmaid said. "Would you at least take a cup of rye, on
the house?"

She turned and eyed the twin tankards the waitress held out for her.

She shrugged and smiled. "Why not? After these last few days, I could do
with a drink."
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