Chapter 9: Womanly Wiles

If someone had told Gascon he would be working for that Jameson fellow another day longer, he would have called them mad. In fact, he had planned on leaving just as soon as he received his pay and never giving that old nutter a second thought. Seriously, what would his next job be? Protecting the town's rat population from hungry felines? Just stick your hand into that dark and foreboding mouse hole, Gascon. The little buggers don't bite much.

Upon returning to the old man's small and rundown place of business, the first thing Jameson had inquired was how exactly Gascon had been able to complete his task so quickly and with so few bruises. It seemed rather unsettling that an employer should even have to question why one of their underlings was still alive and in possession of all their limbs, but once the teen had explained his methods, the old man had risen to his feet with such fervor, one would think his chair was on fire. Rather, it appeared he merely wanted to congratulate Gascon on his ingenuity, along with nearly yanking the boy's arm from its socket in the intensity of the handshake that followed.

In all honesty, Gascon's knowledge of machinery and other mechanical contraptions simply came from growing up in Hamelin, where nearly everything but the people themselves were mechanical, in one way or another. Nonetheless, that didn't stop the old man from showering him with praise and informing him that his days of hard labor were over. Never before, and never again, would drawing a gun in the presence of one's employer be so rewarded.

They spent the rest of the day exchanging ideas for a project Jameson had been "scratching his mind over" for the last week or so. The town's many terraces, as Gascon himself had already noticed, made navigating the place quite bothersome when one had several stories to ascend and was lacking the willpower to walk so far. Apparently, it was even worse for the shopkeepers who wished to share their wares with the outside world, especially when the caravan drivers who could do just that often didn't have the patience to wait for them to haul their goods up so great a distance. Jameson had already drawn up the blueprints for a lift that could solve the problem. The real obstacle was devising a means of powering it.

While Gascon was more than familiar with the steam power commonly used back home, it was a different matter entirely incorporating this kind of technology into a town where such advances were still a thing of the distant future. Even so, he supposed he knew enough about how steam turbines worked that he might be able to figure out a way to power the lift with wind instead. He knew Lari had plenty of that.

A clear plan of action decided, the old man declared the project fit to begin tomorrow. But this time, Gascon would not be responsible for the grunt work. He was, rather, to be in charge of this particular assignment thanks to Jameson's faith in him. His own father had never spared him as much.

It was funny how, despite spending his life as a prince, Gacon had never really had authority over anything. Sure, he could order the servants around on the most basic of errands, but he could goad them into no more and no less obedience than what was shown his younger brother. Of course, it couldn't be overlooked that some of the palace staff even had the nerve to give him commands, whether to demand he take a bath or return to his studies. Even the head cook had been known to provide a stern word or two whenever he was caught stealing snacks from the palace kitchens, and sometimes he wondered who, in the end, had the real authority, the princes or their servants.

The fact that he was only overseeing one other person mattered little. The thrill of telling someone else what to do, and not due to his title, was more than enough.

His "inferior", as he preferred to think of him, the term applying to more than just rank, was a stubby young man of about Reese's age named Herman. He was built like a squat oak, and he bore it all with about as much personality. While Gascon had bigger plans for himself one day, he thought this guy fit into the role of manual laborer quite nicely.

They began their work from the comfort of the small workshop situated in the back of Jameson's office, and by the second day, they had already taken their task outside to begin installation of the windmill blades and pulley system high upon the clifftop on Lari's north end to facilitate much quicker movement between the top of the cliff and the village's lowest terrace. It was here that the former prince's mechanical prowess would really get a chance to shine, and with it, his authority.

Throughout it all, Herman obeyed Gascon's instructions without protest despite their age difference and the vast discrepancy between the lengths of their respective employments to the old man. In all honesty, it was a baffling sort of obedience that the younger boy thought greatly diminished the satisfaction he should be feeling over his superior rank. He had expected to be questioned. He had expected some sort of resistance that would inevitably force him to remind his comrade exactly who was in charge here. He had expected the other to lament over the blatant unfairness of the arrangement. But he didn't do any of those things.

As the third day progressed in a silent productivity for which Gascon doubted he could claim any real responsibility, he began to order his comrade to pick up the pace even though they were already ahead of schedule. And the older boy did it, without complaint or the slightest indication of grumbling. In fact, this guy had not spoken more than a handful of words since they had first been assigned to work together, save for a muttered "mornin'" at the start of each day and a nod when Gascon informed him for the third time that morning that, in the short span of two days in Jameson's employ, he had already managed to attain a higher rank than him. He counted the last one as a word because he had nothing else to work with.

By the end of the week, the project had already reached completion, and with it, Gascon's days with Jameson and his motley crew were only just beginning. The next two months flew by at a startling pace, spring giving way to summer, as the former prince turned laborer completed an odd assortment of tasks for the eccentric old man, alongside roughly a dozen other teenage boys and young men. While it turned out that his authority over his tree trunk of a comrade had been short-lived, the favor that Jameson had decided to bestow upon him was not.

Many an afternoon was spent exchanging ideas with the old man, who claimed that he, too, was something of an inventor, and the sheer range of creations he had come up with over his many decades boggled the mind. He would have done well in Hamelin had fate decided to place him there, but instead, Jameson had spent his entire existence in a town stuck a century behind the world's most advanced city, with ideas beyond his time, but often lacking the tools to make much use of them. Not unlike the state in which Gascon had found himself since leaving home, really.

Funnily enough, Gascon had never before thought of himself as an inventor. The idea to build his own pistol had only sprung from necessity when his father refused to allow him to have one of his own, citing the boy's own lack of responsibility in the past. Furthermore, they were not standard issue in the Hamelin military and were, more often than not, the weapon of choice for pirates and other assorted villainy. That was probably what made the young prince want one so badly. Well, along with his inexplicable desire to do exactly the opposite of whatever his father commanded him. That second point might have been the stronger motivation.

As if the old man's newfound faith in him was not enough, Jameson himself turned out to be an excellent source of resources as far as Gascon's pistol was concerned. The man had far better materials at his disposal than the innkeeper, and it wasn't long before Gascon had upgraded his gun's new grappling hook attachment to something far more respectable.

In fact, the old man had since offered free use of his workshop any time Gascon had need of it. After all, Jameson expected great things from him. A mind like Gascon's should never be held back, he had said.

Gascon had eagerly thanked him at the time, though his face had fallen as soon as Jameson had turned away to attend to a customer.

Why had his own father never said anything like that?

It sometimes seemed to Gascon that the lengths some guys were willing to go for a girl were rather ridiculous. He had no problem helping a lady out every now and then or complimenting her on her dress, but slaying a dragon or enduring trials of wit and strength at the risk of one's own life was asking just a bit too much for his liking. Of course, based on such extreme examples, it was clear he had not had much experience in that department during his years as a prince.

What he knew about chivalry and the male-female relationship came from books he had read on long afternoons when he hadn't the will to attend to his studies or from conversations he overheard whilst eavesdropping on unsuspecting servants or soldiers. One man had shaved off his mustache for a girl. Whatever facial hair Gascon ended up with one day, he didn't plan on doing anything to it that wasn't his own idea. It was his face, after all, and the way he saw it, it was his last remaining asset now that he no longer had wealth and a lofty title to stand him out from the crowd. He wasn't the worst looking guy around, he could say that much.

Nevertheless, despite these beliefs and the fruitless, but fervent, verbal battles he would often have with himself over the absurdities of fiction in a book incapable of arguing back with him, it looked as if he might very well have fallen into the same trap as all those lords and knights before him. Lately, it had begun to feel as if every time he visited Katrine, they would end up doing chores together. Her chores. Hold this, sweep that, pull out my splinter, and do it right, will you? Today, she needed medicine for her ailing mother, but instead of buying it like any sane person, she intended to make it. It was cheaper that way, and in monetary value, he supposed he'd take her word for it. Based on the risk it posed to one's own personal safety, however, he had to say it was not the better option.

The final ingredient was a type of red lichen that made its home on the moist surfaces of rocks battered by the sea. And he had begun to suspect with deflating spirits that he would be the one assigned to the task of gathering it. She didn't say it in so many words, but her smile told him everything, until she inevitably pointed out the best rock to begin his search. It was, to his increased dismay, not attached to land in any way, but was, rather, a tiny black island jutting out of the sea twenty feet from shore. It was just fortunate he had greatly strengthened his swimming abilities over the course of the last month or so, as the only thing that could have possibly been worse than the task at hand was having to admit that he couldn't do it at all. Lari's smallest children could swim as well as any fish, so there would be no excuse for him.

He had to wonder if she had simply planned this to get him shirtless. Just in case, he kept it on. That would teach her to trick him.

Gascon arrived on the rock weighing roughly twice what he had originally from the sheer amount of water his clothing had soaked up. His own plan to stay fully clothed for a dip in the sea had backfired on him, it would appear, but at least he could count on the sun's warmth to dry him as he worked. Heck, he might very well remain out here all afternoon to sunbathe while he was at it. He could use a tan. All that time spent beneath Hamelin's bronze canopy had made him the palest person in Lari.

What he had apparently failed to take into account was the constant crashing of the waves upon this lonely spire, not to mention the sheer distance spray could travel when it was so inclined. Most of the lichen could be found on the rock's sides, forcing him to spend the majority of his time where the water struck most, but even a short retreat to the island's center did not offer the reprieve from the cold sea for which he had hoped.

The teen spent nearly a half hour scraping lichen off the sides of the rock with his fingernails before returning to shore, shivering and thoroughly soaked to his bones and deeper. Spluttering water from his face, he produced the jar containing the mass of lichen he had accumulated, only to freeze when he caught sight of something undeniably suspicious. Blinking salty water from his eyes one last time, his vision focused just enough to confirm that the small basket Katrine was sitting beside was already full to the brim with the red, flaky fungus.

His eyes narrowed. "What's this?"

Her head ducked in the motion of one swallowing their own amusement. "Oh, well," her attention darted for a moment to the basket beside her, as if it was but an afterthought, "the stuff way out on that rock is better quality, an'-"

"I don't see why that would be."

Katrine smiled and held out a hand. "I'll take that, please." As ill-inclined as he may have been to give in after her trickery, he handed over the results of his labor when careful consideration could uncover no good reason for the unpleasant substance to remain in his possession. Once the jar had been safely tucked away in her basket, along with the rest of her supposedly "inferior" supply, she patted the grass on the side of her that was currently unoccupied. "Sit with me, won'cha? You look positively tuckered."

This acknowledgement of his own pitiful state only served to sour his expression further, but he obeyed, nonetheless, by plopping down next to her with an unavoidable squish. He nearly allowed another shiver to wrack his frame, but managed to subdue it.

"I can't work with this stuff 'til it dries, so I guess that means…we have some time to talk."

"That's the very reason I came to see you. And then you made me do this."

She laughed. "Get used to bein' wet. We're always wet in Lari. As proof, it looks like we're gonna get a storm soon."

As if to confirm her words, he turned to eye the thick grey clouds rolling in over the water with increasing dismay. That was the way of seaside weather. It had been a clear day just a half hour ago. "Shouldn't we head inside?"

"Nah." She folded her hands in her lap. "'Tis always the coolest just before the rain starts. We have to enjoy it while it lasts."

He brushed wet hair from his eyes. "Do we?"

"Yes! If you're gonna live in our town, then ya hafta learn how things work."

"Well, in that case…" he fell backwards into the cool grass and tucked his hands beneath his head, "I guess I better get started conforming. Might as well dry off before the rain comes."

Katrine turned to look back at him. "You really are soaked, Gascon."

"And I have you to thank. But I suppose it's worth it for the sake of better quality…whatever that stuff is." His eyes locked onto hers, and she looked away.

Brushing a few of her curls behind one ear, she asked, "Where are ya from, Gascon? I don't think I ever asked."

He was silent for a moment as he thought this over. "Castaway Cove." It was the first thing that came to mind.

"Your father wasn't able to catch enough fish there?"

He pushed himself up onto his elbows. "Huh? Oh, no."

"I guess fishin' never really suited ya, then? I mean, otherwise I'd assume ya'd take on the family business. My brother tried to, but…well, with what happened to Father, Mother forbid him."

"Oh." Family business, huh? He had tried to carry on the family business, but had been told in nearly as many words that he wasn't good enough.

"Can we see your father's fishin' boat from here?" Katrine asked, her attention directed out across the choppy, grey water and the dozen or so small boats bobbing in the distance. From shore, they looked hardly any bigger than the miniature sailing boat Gascon used to have for bath time when he was little.

"No, uh…he's probably too far out now," Gascon said. "I…I don't think I'd make a very good fisherman. I'm better with…mechanical things, I suppose. At least, I've fixed up a few things for Jameson anyway." He sighed at the encroaching clouds above, which had already begun to advance beyond the shoreline. There was really no need to admit that his assessment of his own fishing abilities was not merely hypothetical.

"That's good. That's very important, actually. It's better than becomin' a pirate anyway." She turned to him and winked. "Now, me, on the other hand…"

"Oh, sure, you'd make an excellent pirate. One smile would be enough to get men the world over to hand over their loot. Look what you can get me to do."

She gave him a smack on the arm. "You love it, an' you know it."

He sat up straighter to better defend himself in case of further assault. "I'm sure I'll also love staying in bed tomorrow with the flu. Then at least I won't be expected to lift a finger. I only hope that'll inspire you to make me some medicine."

She swatted at him again. "A little water never hurt anyone."

"You ever heard of drowning?" He released a long sigh of anticipation. "Yes, I think some hot soup will be the best way to ease your regrets. Should I leave you to fetch the ingredients?"

She attempted to trick him by switching hands, but he blocked neatly. "Since I'm such a harsh an' cruel master, surely ya must know I'd make you gather the supplies."

"I'd hardly recognize you if you didn't."

Katrine ceased her attack, a grin still present on her face that counteracted any other attempt to sound stern. "You can really be a jerk sometimes, Gascon."

"I know."

"Didja really hate collectin' lichen for me that much?"

"Yes. But you're the only one I'd do it for. Does that make you feel any better?"

"It does."

The deep growl of thunder was the first sign the promised rain had arrived, a rumble so low, it was enough to rattle their very bones. The second was the curtain of rain that followed. When he had originally noticed the impending storm, Gascon had figured he couldn't get any wetter. He could, however, get a lot colder.

"Now we're even," he said, staring back at her and the previously long curls now flattened against her head like a wet towel.

"Do ya wanna keep bein' sassy or do ya wanna find shelter?" she said.

"I can do this as long as you can."

Rolling her eyes, Katrine grabbed her basket in one hand and began tugging on his arm with the other. They headed back to town in a careful jog through the muddying grass, though the potholed streets of town weren't faring much better with the downpour. With how deep some of the puddles had gotten, he was grateful he was wearing boots.

It was the awning in front of Lari's local bakery that offered the shelter they sought. While they could not prevent the rain from splashing off the street and back onto their legs, at least here their heads were protected, and the warm, sweet smell of freshly-baked bread almost made him forget how cold he was. His stomach growled at the delicious aroma, but he could do no more than crave what the shop offered. He was becoming quite familiar with what it was like not to be able to afford what you wanted.

Gascon began to wring moisture from his clothes with quivering hands. All the while, Katrine remained frozen at his side, staring at the rain as if in a trance. She seemed wholly unaware of the puddle forming at her feet from the rainwater dripping from her dress.

"Herman never helps me with anythin'," she said at last. "He always says," she lowered her voice in a failed attempt to mimic the older boy's far deeper one, "'I have my own work' or 'I wanna relax when I'm off' or…or 'no one helps me do my job'. He won't do anythin' I ask of him, even little things."

Gascon stared at her. "Wh-what's all this about?"

She shook her head, sending flecks of water in various directions. "Oh, it's…it's nothin', really. Just silly stuff."

He tore his gaze away once he realized just how much he was gaping at her. When she failed to elaborate further, he asked, "So, this Herman fellow…is he your…cousin or something?"

"Herman…?" she repeated, her eyes glazed with far off thoughts before they focused again. "Oh, no, he's…" she paused, "he's just a friend o' the family. That's all."

"Oh."

She kicked one foot against the cobblestoned street, her fingers lacing together at her waist. "It's just that…we've known him for a long time, ya see, an'…he's mainly friends with my brother, so he's around a lot. Probably…probably to get away from his own home. Oldest o' six. I suspect it must be hard to get noticed in a house like that, the big, silent oaf." She attempted to laugh, but it came out hollow. "When he's around, I just ask him sometimes to help with a few chores I have trouble doin' on my own. He just…never helps me. That's all I was sayin'."

"I don't really mind helping you with stuff," Gascon said. "I was only joking."

She nodded, though her eyes remained on the ground at her feet. "Mmm."

When she said no more, he leaned against the large shop window behind him, finding no other means of waiting out the storm than to resume his earlier vigil over the downpour. Thunder continued to rumble overhead, though scarcely could it be heard over the strength of the rain hammering against the rooftops and the awning above them. He didn't quite like weather nearly as much as he thought he would. He had honestly believed last week's hurricane would be the end of him. Clearly the panic must have been plain upon his face, for the innkeeper had attempted to hug him in an ill-advised effort to comfort the frightened teen. Who did she think she was? She wasn't his mother.

He went stiff when something warm touched his cheek. Even once it had left him, he didn't immediately look over, but remained frozen to the spot as if under a spell. He would have been too slow anyway, for by now, Katrine was already darting off into the rain. She looked back just once, but it was enough to tell that she was blushing.

Random note: I like the idea that Swaine invented the pickpocket pistol, even though this is not canonically true, as the Wizard's Companion states that such a thing already existed. (I own a physical copy of the Wizard's Companion and have read the whole thing. I have no life.) Nevertheless, I just like the idea that Swaine, being from Hamelin and all, is the original inventor of a pistol that can be used to steal and open locks. It shows that he is intelligent, but used his skills for rather immoral reasons while he was living away from home.

I mean, clearly he's not quite at that point yet. But he will be. Eventually. He just hasn't needed to use his gun for more nefarious purposes…yet.

Also, keeping with the seagull theme, the name Herman comes from Heermann's gull.