Paladins of the Pickle Goddess

It was the look of pure desperation on his face that stopped me from using the spoon. I wasn’t violent at heart- well, not that violent- and I knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t fight back against a good drubbing. What kind of man wouldn’t even fight off a wooden spoon?

I grabbed him by the back of his robes and pulled him upright. He was wearing pale robes, almost like a monk’s garb, although they were mostly stained dark now from the ash. His face was puffy from the tears.

As he looked at me, he coughed. He looked about my age, perhaps a little younger.

I raised the spoon again. “You’ve admitted to burning this temple down,” I said.

“What?” he said. “No!” He pushed back at the spoon, then stood up on his own, brushing off his robes. He didn’t look upset, anymore, although the tear tracks stood out on his face. He looked…. embarrassed?

“You said it was all your fault!”

He held up his hands, as if he was going to hold off the spoon. “I should have caught those… scoundrels! I should have saved the temple! The horror… this place should have been safe…”

I lowered the spoon again. “Oh, stop it,” I said. “Fine.”

He lowered his arms. “You’re not going to- turn me in?”

If this man was an arsonist, I was the Goddess Andrena, and she could place me upon her flowered throne in the core of the world. “Let’s start at the beginning,” I said, and paused. I didn’t like the temple. Andrena stared down at me. They had done a shockingly good job at her face. She was judging me, from that stone bust. Watching my every move. It was worse than when Durandus the First came into the kitchen and made comments about over-use of expensive spices.

“Actually,” I said, “Is there a pub nearby you’d recommend?”

“You want to drink?”

“I want to be out of this place,” I said. “You can explain yourself over mead.”

We made a strange sight, leaving that ruined temple. Duran led the way, skinny but holding the handle of his sword as if a wraith might rise from the ashes and turning his head about anxiously every few minutes. The beekeeper followed. He had pulled up his hood, seeming even-more monk-like, and walked with hunched shoulders as if shame was weighting him down.

I brought up the rear, slamming my staff into the floorboards to test them for any hidden chambers. If I muttered a little question to Andrena- something along the lines of, Well? Anything to say? that’s entirely between me and her.

She didn’t respond, anyway.

By the time we made it to the pub, we had clumped up. It was starting to get dark, the sun low, and what was usually a nice part of town, with temples and businesses and banks, seemed to have been cluttered with guardsmen and fires on every corner, with the protesters still chanting blocks away at the bottom of the spire.

I turned my face to the door of the pub and pushed inside. A table was still open in the corner. I grabbed one companion each by the elbow and ushered them over, shoving the beekeeper in the corner of the booth where he couldn’t escape, pinning him in before waving over a bar-girl.

Forty years ago, she must have been a looker. Now she had wrinkles even in her cleavage, and as she leaned over she wriggled all three of her eyebrows. “Need anything?”

“Whatever mead you have,” I said. The beekeeper was trying to slide out of sight, hiding his face with the corner of his hood.

“What’s he want?” she said, peering at him.

“He’s got a condition,” I said, leaning over to obscure his face. He should have said if he didn’t want to come in here. If he hadn’t paid his bill, I wasn’t going to cover it. I didn’t have that much money on me.

“Hmmm,” she said. “If it’s catching, he’d better leave.”

“It’s not,” he said, from behind the hood.

She stared for a moment more before turning to Duran. “You?”

“I’ll have the mead too,” he said, “Or whatever you have that’s strongest.”

All three of her eyebrows remained unimpressed and solidly flat. “A jug of mead and three glasses,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

“A condition?” said the beekeeper, as soon as she’d bustled off towards the bar.

“You’re conditionally here,” I said. I pinned him in as he tried to slide out of the booth from under the table. “Until I decide to release you.”

He looked towards Duran. Duran was no ally for him; he was staring towards the bar, where the woman was pouring out mead into a jug and speaking with a man wearing three swords.

“What do you want,” he said. “Of all the- I don’t owe you money, I don’t owe you mead, and I certainly didn’t burn anything down. Must you-” He trembled. He was taller than I was, I realized. I hadn’t noticed until now because he’d been slouching, in what seemed to be a misjudged attempt at survival tactics. “Why do you care?”

“Look,” I said. “I can’t just ignore a burned temple like that. Seems to me you have answers.”

The bar-maid came back with the mead, sloshing it across the table. As she did, the man pulled his hood up again. She poured out three large glasses, sliding them across, and gave me another stare before turning away.

I sipped at the mead. It was better than the mead we got back in the country. I resolved to never admit it.

“You’ve never been to that temple,” he said. He sounded entirely too confident. “Why are you interfering in Andrena’s business?”

I looked between him and Duran. Being chosen by a god happened, of course, but it happened to acolytes who trained for decades, to be chosen as clerics, who then rose to be heads of their churches, to represent their god in the great spire. It didn’t happen to cooks in the middle of a creek, after they might have eaten some half-rate pickles. If I admitted Andrena had chosen me, I’d be admitting I was half-mad.

I took a long drink of mead. When I set it down, I had decided on a solid lie. “I was seeking Andrena’s help,” I said. “For woman’s troubles. How could I abandon her, after I saw… that?”

They both stared at me, faces blank.

Duran shifted sideways. He’d only had a little of the mead; it was sweet, half-spiced, and much stronger than we got at the inn. “Madam Elysia, what are-”

Better to go with the truth, I decided. “Fine,” I said. “You want the truth? Andrena chose me as her mortal instrument. I have to find who’s done this and bring them to…” I paused. “Justice.”

Duran actually nodded at this, relaxing. “Oh! Of course.”

The beekeeper had frozen. His eyes were as wide as saucers, his mead untouched. “Andrena chose you?” he asked. He squinted, as though he was trying to see some aura of godliness around me. He probably only saw the filth from the road.

“I know,” I said. I took another draught of mead. “Trust me. I don’t want it, either. Apparently there isn’t much choice when it comes to applicable mortals.”

There was a rattle as cups were shoved aside. He’d thrown his torso across the table. “Please,” he said, face muffled by the solid wood. I pulled back a little. He was brave, putting his mouth anywhere near that table-top. “Forgive me, Andrena. I would never-”

“Get up,” I said. “I’m not actually Andrena. She just wants me to fix the temple.”

He stayed prone across the table for a few more minutes before sitting up just as suddenly, making the cups of mead slosh. “You’ll truly investigate the temple? You’ll bring everyone to justice?”

“I don’t have much choice about it,” I said. “Keep your voice down.” I chanced a glance over my shoulder. At least this pub was busy; most people were throwing darts, or arguing, or speaking in various corners and looking suspicious. I turned back to him, then frowned.

“Wait,” I said. “Why do you know so much about who goes to Andrena’s temple?” Brewers cared about Andrena, but they didn’t need her refuge. That refuge was for expectant mothers and fleeing women.

“It’s my home,” he said. Finally he reached out and took the mead in both hands, taking a long draught. “Andrena is as close to a mother as I’ll ever have.”

The story came out in fits and starts. Apparently his mother had arrived at the temple and asked for guidance in some late stage of pregnancy. Whatever the guidance had been, it hadn’t included him; he’d been left behind at the temple as an infant and she’d left for the northern wastes.

The Refuge of Andrena was not, in fact, one of the temples that regularly took in orphans. There were several orphanages around the city, some dedicated to specific gods, some agnostic, and some multi-theistic, based on the theory that the more gods involved, the better luck for the children.

The Refuge of Andrena had kept him anyway. They had named him Apis, for the bee, and considered him a sign of great luck. They had trained him in beekeeping, given him a sacred hive for his trade, and sent him off to brew mead in Andrena’s name.

It had gone well at first; Apis’s mead had been a success. He had found a place to stay, and set up the bees with a small garden of flowers where they could flourish.

“My luck hasn’t kept, though,” Apis said, and swirled his mead sadly. “First the city wanted me to get a brewer’s license. It’s five-hundred gold for one- as if I have that much money on hand! That’s a year’s worth of earnings, in a good market. Then my landlord wanted me to move the bees- he said they were disturbing other residents. Then, when I went to go ask the Temple if I could stay there, and maybe get a loan….”

“Ah,” I said. I took another draught of the mead. Perhaps there was something to be said about a brewer’s license. This stuff was delightful. “Well,” I said. “Perhaps you could work for whoever’s supplying this place.”

“This mead is mine,” he said. “They won’t buy it again. Said they found someone in Southside.”

“You really made this?” asked Duran, who had previously kept silent. “But it’s better than-”

I cleared my throat. “Duran,” I said, “Watch to see if they’re making drinks behind the bar. You should see what spices they’re using.” He quieted immediately. So- my mead wasn’t the best in the country. That was fine. The goddess still liked my pickles.

I took another sip of the mead. I couldn’t stop liking it, even now that I knew it was from the competition. Here was a bright young man- well, hardly young, probably my age- but a man, anyway, who seemed to be a devout believer. He could brew. He was competent.

Why not him?

Andrena, in all of her godly wisdom, didn’t deign to answer.

“Where were you when everything collapsed, then?” I said. “Since you weren’t, well…”

“It’s my greatest regret,” Apis said. “I was here. Arguing with…” He nodded a head towards the bar, where the bar-girl was leaning over, staring towards him with squinted eyes. He leaned back into the booth, avoiding her eyes. “When it all fell apart,” he continued. “I never even got an answer to my questions. All the guards came in and broke down the place, interrupting us, searching everywhere.”

“An answer?”

“I was hoping for…” He swallowed. “Well, a deal.” He made a vague gesture. It looked like he was begging for alms. “You know, under the table. They could still buy from me, couldn’t they?” He slid farther into the corner of the booth. “I didn’t expect to come back so soon,” He added.

He had definitely been raised by the temple. He was about as capable of subterfuge as a raging bull. I cleared my throat.

“Well,” I said. “It’s been good to meet you, Apis. We’ll be going now.”

I made to leave the booth, heading to the bar as I threw a few coppers on the table, when he grabbed out at my wrist. His grip was surprisingly strong, self-possessed. When his eyes met mine, I found myself gripped by the fire in them.

“Wait!” he said. “Please.”

“We can buy more mead, if you’d like,” I said. My cheeks felt warm. That mead had been quite good.

“No,” he said. “Let me help.”

When I still pulled away, he leaned forward. He released my wrist, but I couldn’t quite manage to slide out of the booth before he continued to speak.

“You’ll need somewhere to stay,” he said. “I have a guest bedroom. And I’m not going to be evicted until the end of Flight’s Feast.”

That left us a week and a half. I swallowed. “I have money,” I said.

Slightly true. I had a few coppers left, after everything I’d spent on his admittedly lovely mead. I’d also been raised with the strong conviction that staying in a strange man’s guest room was definitely to the left of acceptable.

Someone in one of the corner tables shouted an expletive and unsheathed a sword. The man at the bar with his three swords turned, frowned, and unsheathed two. I wondered when the third would come into play.

Outside, the sun had fallen. The bar-girl ducked behind the bar, taking a few of the bottles with her. I swallowed.

“The city’s full anyway,” said Apis. “Everyone’s here to see how the Council of the Chosen votes.”

I sighed. Someone went crashing towards a window, waving a dagger. We needed to leave before Duran got involved. I could see his hand twitching towards the sword. “Fine,” I said. “But any funny business, and I’m leaving right away.”