Rastellion is still preoccupied as the two reach a staircase leading back down toward the village center, and he nearly runs in to two men conferring there. "Oh, pardon me," he says then, recognizing the pushy artist from before, edges away, "ah, hi." The artist, Freddie, glances up distractedly - he's been in close conversation with Basil, who's got his leg stretched out and is grimacing in pain.
Stopped short by Rastellion's own quick halt, she runs into him, grabbing his arm to keep from slipping. She looks over his shoulder, at the man sitting on the ground. She calls down to him, "Mister, are ye alright?" as her brow furrows in sympathetic worry for the man. Basil looks up, wincing, but smiles ruefully. "Thank 'e miss ... it's a judgment on me, sure enough. My own fault. Thought I'd sneak off from my duties t'enjoy a bit of the festival, and what should happen but that I slip and sprain my ankle." He bends down to rub the injured limb. "An' I'm supposed to be delivering kegs of ale around town right now!" Freddie wrings his hands. "I'd help you Basil, you know I would, but I can't lift down those kegs. I'm an artist, not a lumberjack. I'd wind up flattened by th' ale, and not in the enjoyable sense!"
Looking between the two men, Immalaine ponders Basil's situation, turning to Rastellion and carefully looking at him. She leans in to whisper, "Mebbe we could help them out wit' this?" she says, her voice a bit uncertain, but quietly calm as she looks to Rast for a reaction. Basil looks up. "Sir, I know it's an imposition, but if you could ... you look like a strong lad... if you could just lift the kegs down for us, Freddie could do the delivery, like he said." Freddie blinks, caught by his own earlier statement. "I ... uh ... sure." Basil whispers to the artist "Would save my job. You know how the mayor gets ... I've got to get those kegs distributed before anyone looses any money..." He looks up at Rast again. "'Fraid I've not much to offer you," he says, reaching toward his beltpurse. A slow smile spreads across Rastellion's face and he holds up a warding hand. "No need for that, friend," he says. "Another sketch by your talented friend here will be recompense enough." Basil looks relieved; Freddie startled, then simultaneously flattered and indignant. "I'm sure that's fine," Basil says, before the artist can object. "Thank you sir... And thanks, Freddie; you're savin' my buns!"
Hiding her face in Rastellion's cloak, presumably against a sudden gust of wind, the men miss the grin that spreads on Immalaine's face at the deal being made, and the artist's reaction. After a moment, she peeked her head up, once again whispering in Rastellion's ear, "Ye sure ye can handle them, dear? They do seem a mite heavy." She then looks back down at Basil, whose face is etched with relief at the offer, and she sighs quietly, with a smile, knowing that Rastellion would do what he could for the man. Turning, she looks back up the stairs to where the kegs were and nods.
"It'll be just like handlin' bales of hay back on the farm; I'll be fine." Rastellion nods at her. Gratefully, Basil grabs Freddie's shoulder and pulls himself onto his feet, then leads the way to a warehouse off toward the edge of the village, supported by his resigned friend, and followed by the couple.
"In here," Basil says, standing on one foot and leaning against the door frame as he pulls a key on a chain from around his neck and unlocks it. "We'll need at least half a dozen down off those racks; better make it eight." He opens the door and Rastellion and Immalaine peer in to see a long, dimly-lit storage room, filled with barrels of ale - and the warm woody smell of casks and berries. The dim light makes it hard to see far, but she smells the air, and furrows her brow, as though something was missing. She shakes her head, thinking it a silly thought, and watches Rastellion enter the room, as she stands at the doorway.
Following Basil's directions, he moves to the next full barrel and, with a grunt, heaves it down. "Ugh! Like tryin' to lift a mule!" he exclaims, waddling awkwardly back out the door and placing it onto the large wheeled cart that Freddie has manhandled out the door and placed on the cobbled street. He sets the barrel on it carefully, straightens, and goes back for another..
As she concentrates on him carrying the barrel, she bites her lower lip. Looking down at the barrel he had placed on the cart, she catches a glimpse of a stamp on it and frowns slightly as she turns her eyes to examine it. Vaguely familiar, she shakes her head slightly, and watches Rastellion bring out the next barrel. She waits until he straightens from placing the next barrel down, before catching his eyes with a steady gaze. After she does, she glances down at the barrel, then back to his eyes, before looking down again, her eyes questioning.
Frowning slightly at her odd behavior, he follows where her gaze points. He stares for a moment, then his eyes go wide. He glances at the two locals, but they're conferring, perhaps about where the barrels are to go. So he leans against one of the barrels, peering at the mark more closely, while making a show of rubbing his back. "Think if I tear my nice clothes I can get away with wearin' my comfortable farm clothes again?" he asks Immalaine, making conversation. Then he straightens, briefly touching a finger to his lips before going back into the warehouse to fetch the next barrel.
Confused by the source of Rastellion's expression, Immalaine watches him return for the next barrel. She briefly glances at the barrels again, but not long enough to draw attention to the fact that she was staring, before looking over to him. "Ye better not rip another pair of breeches," she said, a chuckle in her voice. Th' last pair were a right bear t' get fixed."
"Well, in this weather, I'm not about to wear the same outfit for hauling as I do for fighting!" He grins and pauses at the door back into the warehouse. "Here," he says to Basil, "I see one of these barrels got broken." He points at the staved-in remains piled just inside the door. "Don't suppose you'd mind if we took the cask top and one of the slats?.. We've bought a spot in that snowman contest," he explains in a lower voice, seeing their puzzled expressions, "you know, where you've got t' decorate it with things you find around town? I'm thinking that'd make a fine sword and shield, and likely be unique, rather than the coal and sticks everyone is using." Basil shrugs, "Sure, it's just garbage; help yourself. You'd be doing me a favor, getting rid of some of it." Rastellion nods his thanks and hands the pieces to Immalaine, before resuming the work of piling the barrels onto the car, and the job's over in good order. "There you go!" he says, straightening and rubbing his back. "Eight casks, ready for delivery."
Briefly glancing down at the 'sword' and 'shield' for the snowman, she smiles, before looking back up to watch as he deftly maneuvers the rest of the casks into place on the cart, an appreciative gaze in her eyes as she watches him. When he was done, she leans in to kiss him on the cheek briefly, and watches the men as they look down at the cart of ale, now ready to be delivered. "Well, that were no great task fer ye, I see," she said to Rastellion, in a low voice, as she looked up at him fondly.
"Shh!.. Don't let Freddie hear that or he'll skimp on our sketch." Louder, he says to the two, "we'll be back in a bit for that sketching .. .I know you need to deliver the ale first." Freddie gives him a bit of a glare from behind the handle of the cart, but Basil is all smiles. "Of course, of course. You've helped me out of a tight spot, and I'll be ever grateful." He shakes Rastellion's hand, then Immalaine's, and then, leaning his weight on the cart, starts pointing Freddie to their first delivery spot.
After the men leave, Rastellion gestures Immalaine to join him by the nearby wall, where he crouches down and points to the mark she had noticed before, displayed on the barrel top she's appropriated as a shield for her snowman. "Recognize this now?" he asks her.
Staring down at the barrel top, Immalaine worries her lower lip with her teeth, her face intent as she stares at the mark. "I ... I know I should ... I seen it afore, but I canna remember whe ... where ..." she stutters and tilts her head, sighing before she looks back up at Rastellion. Suddenly a comment he'd made about the ale came to her mind, and her eyes light up as it dawns on her. "It's the mark on Barliman's ale kegs, down at th' Pony!" she says. "But ... if that's th' case, then why is it on these kegs?"
"Not just on Barlimans' kegs - though it's on some of them, sure." He chuckles and grins up at her, looking as if he's just solved a puzzle, or made a particularly good trade at the Bree Auction House. "It's the shipping and trading stamp the B.A.A. uses! You'll have seen it not just at the Pony, but probably on a few things at Zandrianna's house too." He stands and whispers, triumphantly, "This winterberry ale of theirs... it's not made locally! It's Breeland ale, shipped up and flavored here. Why, the cheapskates haven't even put it in new barrels! Probably just pried out the bung, dumped in the berries, then sealed them back up to take the flavor for a bit..." He trails off, as if trying to catch another elusive thought.
Her eyes widen, as she listens to him, turning back down to stare at the mark. Leaning closer to it, she closes her eyes briefly as if visualizing something, then nods and opens then again. "So, yer sayin' ... their /prized/ ale is nothin' more than a fake? That's pretty low o' them! An' they're chargin' a fortune fer th' stuff as well!" she says, her voice vibrating with anger.
"Folks tryin' to make some coin, I can't fault 'em for... though, course, I'd rather be the one making it than the mark. But all this," he gestures at the festivities around them, "pushin' their local brew, when it's not even made local. When..." A light of insight crosses his features, "when it's th' damn spring ale they bought from the B.A.A.! I remember now, seein' that in th' books when I took over as factor. One of the deals Ana made, last year. A big shipment of the stuff to an Archibald Archbluff ... who works, as I've learned from other trades, for the town of Winter-home!" He nods, certain now. "This winterberry ale nothing but Bree spring-wheat ale with Frostbluff winterberries thrown in!"
Immalaine sighs and reaches over to hug Rastellion, her own body trembling from a mixture of anger and the cold air. "Can they do that? I mean ... passin' it off like that, foolin' folk who jus' came fer some fun ... I, well if it were me, I'd not do somethin' like that. Dun seem right to call somethin' yer own if it really isn't! I'd not e'en want anyone t' know, it'd like ruin me!" She turns away from Rastellion, as her voice breaks and she starts coughing. "So, if they dun this, then how are ye goin' t' deal wit' it?"
"There's no percentage in acting hasty.” Rastellion says as he rubs his chin. I've no doubt we've sussed out what they've done here, but we've no proof. Nor who here knows. Mayor, for sure, an' this Archbluff. But who else? Does that Basil fellow? Do the workers? Does that waitress whose pa mans the distillery?" He frowns. "What we need is proof. Proof... and then maybe a quiet word with the mayor."
"Well, I reckon this is goin' t' hurt all the workers most," she said, sighing heavily. Rastellion looks around in frustration. "Thing is, we don't know where t' look. An' we're leaving tomorrow afternoon. How're we going t' prove anything in a short time like that. Heck, I don't even know where t' find this Archbluff fellow, an' it's not like we could go strollin' into the mayor's office without an appointment. If the man's even in there, an' not out enjoying the festival, shakin' hands or the like." She bows her head, looking down at the ground and she kicks a small rock with the toe of her slipper. A bit dejectedly, she thinks Rastellion is right and it'd be nearly impossible to get any solid proof. Her mouth turned down in a frown as her mind wandered to all the poor workers that would be ... "Th' workers!" she said, turning to Rastellion. "What 'bout all th' workers o'er near th' room we're renting? I can't see as they'd have any fondness fer th' mayor right now, an' they're likely t' know more than they're sayin'. Mebbe it's graspin' straws, but they might help?" Rastellion nods. "It's a thought - mebbe a good one. After your bread this mornin'... well, if they told anyone, might be you. Worth a try." He takes the barrel lid and a few of the other snowman-building items from her. "I think you should ask. What've we got to lose?"
"Well, I'll try t' talk t' them an' see. It can't hurt more than not doin' anything." Having said that, she looks back down the road, squares her shoulders and, taking Rastellion's hand, she heads over to the workers.
As she approaches Daley, she nods to him and, stopping nearby, smiles. "I've got t' say," she starts, "Fer all the cold and wind, this isn't a bad festival. But seems t' me th' mayor isn't treatin' the workers all that fairly." She shakes her head, a tinge of frustration in her voice at the mention of the mayor. Daley looks at her a bit suspiciously. "Hm, may be," he allows. "But I'm not one to speak out of turn." He turns away from her, a slight frown creasing his face. Gareth, hearing Immalaine's voice, turns and, a smile spreading on his face, comes up to greet them. "Festival treating you well, Miss Immalaine?" he asks. "Enjoying yourself I hope? Must thank you again for your kindness this morning. Much appreciated."
"It's a right nice festival, as I were telling Mr. Daley here. Though it really seems t' me th' mayor isn't doin' ye all any favors, an' yer all the ones doin' the hard work. Decoratin', cookin', keepin' everything clean ... brewing th' ale too, I 'magine." She turns back to Daley and sighs. "An' not e'en a thank ye, I reckon. But it seems that /most/ politicians are that way. Why th' town hall in Bree took forever t' help Rastellion out, so I figure it must be th' same 'round these parts too."
Quietly Daley mutters, "though they help themselves, right enough, and woe t' anyone who question them." Gareth nods. "Aye miss; an' you don't know th' half of it... But," he straightens, "never you mind about our trouble. You've done more that we could ask of you already, more than most do, truth be told. Go on, enjoy the festival." Immalaine looks over at Daley, her face full of sympathy as she reaches out to squeeze the man's shoulder briefly. "Well, I've had me some hard times afore, as I said, an' I like helpin' out, now that I can. Mebbe there's somethin' I can do t' help ye out?" she asks at the end, tilting her head with a friendly expression.
Daley shakes his head, pulling away from Immalaine's touch. ''No help for me, miss. I'm lucky I've still got this bit o' carpentry work I can do. Don't need to lose that too for openin' my mouth.'' Rastellion steps forward, and speaks to Daley quietly, ''She's right, though, friend. With what they're chargin' us visitors for food an' drink an' all here, seems like there oughtn't be a hungry mouth in the whole town. But if that money's goin' t' line some fat politician's pockets, well...'' He looks around the street, then leans a little closer. ''Might just be possible t' do somethin' about it.'' Daley stays silent, scuffing the snowy cobbles with one worn shoe.
"He's right, ye know,” Immalaine nods and leans against Rastellion's shoulder. “There's no sense in some politician makin' a pile o' money off th' backs o' honest, workin' folk. What's that gold gone do fer him anyway? Ye all," she waves her hands around at the workers, "did th' work. Most of it hard, sweaty an' thankless. An' out in th' cold, havin' t' work 'round all these people comin' past.She watches a group of drunken revelers go by, their voices loud as they sing some song about bells going dingaling, then shakes her head as she turns back to Daley. "Wit' all the money, none o' ye should be cold, or hungry."
Daley just shakes his head, but then Gareth steps closer to join them. "Well, Daley may be keepin' quiet, but I ain't going t'. Look here," he says, gesturing the two closer. "I don't know if it means much, but I found a ledger, dropped in the snow down by that countin' house the mayor's got outside of town. Down by th' old tower. Suppose that's suspicious right there, keepin' records outside of town, but jus' always the way things've been, eh? This ledger though - well, I don't undersand that sort of figgerin', but I shows it t' Daley here, 'cause he was workin' in th' mayor's office at th' time." Gareth pauses, looking to Daley, who has his mouth clamped tight shut. Gareth nudges his friend. Daley sighs. "Parts I could still read in the ledger, not damaged by th' snow... well, they didn't add up with the figures I'd seen for the festival expenses. I figured there was some mistake, and I asked Archie about it - that's Archbluff, the banker - when I returned the ledger." He shakes his head. "Man told me not to worry meself over it... an', th' next week, suddenly I'm let go an' told I won't be needed in th' office no more. If I'd not known a bit of carpentry from my pa, well..." He looks around the town, then adds, angrily, "An' I'm not the only one. You talk to Barrett or Regina or some of th' others out o' work here, an' half of 'em will tell you something similar questions about th' finances or th' brewery, an' next thing you know, out on th' streets!" His fists clench. "But ain't a thing we can do 'bout it."
Despite her lack of knowledge about business, Immalaine can tell by the tones of the men's voices that whatever it was had been pretty serious, and she turns to Rastellion. "What do ye think dear," she says, in a low voice. "If ye were t' take a look at these books, ye reckon ye could figger out what were goin' on? Mebbe it'll be 'nough t' get these people their jobs back, seein' how things are 'round here." She leans into him further, reaching up with her hand to brush her hair back from her face.
''Might at that.'' He looks at the two men. ''Down by the old tower, you say? Where exactly?... Don't worry, your names wont' come into it.'' Daley frowns again, but Gareth points toward the main gate. ''Out that way, then follow th' path, left, right, right and across the stone bridge. Where that banker does most of his figgerin'.'' He shakes his head. ''Not that there'll be anything you can do, sir, I'm sure. It's a kind thought... but don't go spoilin' your day.'' Rastellion smiles at the men. ''Nah, you're right. No point in that.''
Nodding farewell to them, he turns and takes Immalaine's arm in his again, shifting the barrel top he still carries to his other hand. ''How 'bout we go for a bit of a walk before we build that snowman,'' he suggests. ''I've a sudden fancy to see a bit more of Frostbluff outside the town. Mebbe a stroll down to that lake and back?'' Immalaine looks back at the entrance of the town. "Might take in the sights down that way, mebbe pick a few berries ... talk to some locals." She nods up at him, smiling as she shifts her arm in his to get comfortable and finishes, "Let's go take a walk then." Rastellion grins back, and the two of them start down the road together, arm in arm.
(Credits and love go to Rastellion, who provided the voice of the male characters in this story. *Blows kisses to Rastellion and grins widely*)
