by Treadwell » Tue Sep 13, 2016 12:21 am
"But May, that's th'Lard Stew'rd! What's 'e doin'ere?"
Beady eyes turn from the portly man in the yellow robe and his two companions. The three of them sit at a corner table in May's Catch, a tavern in Lindock specializing in fresh fish every week (or as often as May can manage such). The "Lard Stew'rd" in question, though, has slowly nodded off after his second serving of breakfast, the result of not having slept well the night before.
"Taxes, maybe, Henry, but I thought I heard 'im say somethin'bout finding someone to paint him. Somethin'bout a portrait."
So says May herself, a middle-aged woman firm of gaze and a touch stout of frame, much like the other catch in her life besides her inn: Henry, who sits atop a barstool beside her.
"Well, go tell 'im about yer brother already! He's been 'ere since night 'fore last, and 'tween 'im and the other old man with'im, they can put away some food. The younger man don't eat so much. Have we got enough?"
May merely nods her head. A new delivery of fish from Silver Lake came in this morning. However, that momentary surplus doesn't stop her from strolling across her inn, one hand holding a rag in it wiping tables on the way, the other drumming fingers on the Lord Steward's table when she arrives.
The guardsman Carson, still recovering from his traveling to Lindock, merely worms a little in his seat. Some guard he is at the moment. It is Gregory who softly speaks in lieu of his snoring employer.
"Madam?"
"Not t'sound ungrateful, sirs, but the husband and I was wond'ring 'bout y'business in Lindock. Come to just eat all the fish?"
Gregory smiles. "And splendid fish they are at that, delicious. My lord Treadwell is here seeking an artist who might return to Myrkentown with us for a bit. He fancies his portrait painted and hung in the meetinghouse there."
"Lindock's 'ardly known for that sort of folk. What made 'im come here?"
"In all honesty, dear hostess, I think it was more the closeness of the town and the chance to eat good fish than the chance of actually finding such a person. My lord is hardly suited to long journeys."
May smiles and shakes her head. "Well, I hate t' tell'im he's wasting time, but he's wasting time. Now, I've a brother, lives in Foggy Bottom. Name's Randolph Fish. Named after our pop, he is."
Treadwell's snoring here interrupts the hostess. As it quiets, she continues.
"He went t'Foggy Bottom to do just what the Lard Stew'rd's a-wanting. Does a good job of it, too. Looks a little like Henry over there," a nod to the bar, "an' a little like yer Lard Tread'ell here. Got Henry's face--them flat hangin' jowls, but red-headed--and somethin' like his gut." A nod now to the dozing toymaker. "Well, not quite, but something like it. 'bout more like yours, telling the truth." And, to punctuate her point, the innkeeper here pokes a firm finger into the soft flesh that is the belly of a Tubbian's cook.
The butler chuckles and nods. "Then I trust he does very well at his job. When my lord awakens, I shall mention this and see us off."
May Fish nods and turns to go back to her bar. She is stopped by Gregory's pressing a shilling into her hand.
"For your troubles, madam, and, were the Lord Steward awake, I am certain he would thank you himself."
"Looks like a table to me. Do you think it could hold up someone as bulbous as Treadwell?" -- Dr. Brennan, Myrken Wood Rememdium Edificium