From a Villa Garden

One would think that when the nobles of the region all flocked to the Crossroads for winter, their land taxes and spending coin in hand, that they may do so with the understanding that they were not the only ones to do so. One would be wrong.

Without fail, there would always be enough family ships clogging the river in the week approaching the start of winter festivities that the waterway became functionally impassable. The port of the noble quarter, decorated with vibrant banners and carved stone arches, would then be in a complete mad scramble to try and clear them all out in time. Meanwhile the merchant port, or “common port” as so many called it, would be functionally dead until a clear passage could be secured to both the east and the west.

This was the scene that greeted Ambrose as he exited the family villa and went to join the women in the garden. It was all he could do to stop himself from sighing like a disappointed tutor who had realized that the child she was responsible for wasn’t worth her efforts. Every year. He thought. Every year they do this and they wonder why they are looked down on by the early attendees.

“No, I think it looks lovely.” His mother’s voice carried from down the path. On either side of the patterned stone that guided him onward, short blooming bushes became towering things as they ultimately came to encircle the pavilion in the center of the path. Within those flowering walls were patches minded by each lady in the family, his paternal grandmother, mother, and three sisters all had a section dedicated to their own tastes. Of course, one had been set aside for his future bride as well.

“Are you sure mother?” The eldest of his younger sisters, Liana, asked. “I do hope she likes it.”

“With how hard you’ve worked she would be a fool to turn such a gift away.” His grandmother spoke this time, her voice much clearer as he drew near.

“If she says anything bad, I’ll fight her!” His youngest sister, Evette, declared proudly, Ambrose crossing the figurative threshold just in time to see her little fists smack down onto the thick stone table.

“How ferocious,” he joined in, grabbing her at the waist and maneuvering her back into a sitting position on the bench she had climbed. “But try to remember that a lady uses her words before she starts a feud.”

“Good advice, how are you dear?” The lady of the house reached out and pulled her son into a sideways hug.

“Im fine.” He tried to assure her, but from the look on the others faces he could tell that he wasn’t as convincing as he would have liked to be. “Truly I am, helping father and the Dock Master has just been particularly frustrating this year.”

His grandmother nodded in understanding, taking a sip of the sweet berry mead she had. If anyone at the table were to understand his current plight, it would be her. She had been born to family of the postmaster before marrying into the city merchant lord’s house, so she had experience and knew how closely the two families worked.

“I still think that the prince should implement a pre-arranged arrival schedule, or at least a fee for anyone who arrives less than a week before the deadline.” She huffed. His grandmother had a great number of opinions on the prince currently running the city. She much preferred when a provincial lord was at the helm because his only allegiance was to the territory he ran instead of a far off crown.

“You know he would never agree to it. It may jeopardize his support for ascension if the lords he was overseeing all went to the king and declared him incapable of managing on his own.

Rather than answer she scoffed again and returned to her drink. With the most political party at the table having tapped, out the conversation was free to turn to much more pleasant topics.

His eldest sister had apparently finished a gift for her future mother-in-law. With her wedding only half a year away she was expected to prepare personalized gifts for each member of her future household. For this piece she had embroidered a shoulder wrap, which were popular in the colder region she would be moving to.

His middling sister, Rachel, had spent the last several days being escorted around the market by potential suitors. Now that she was fifteen it was customary to start looking for good matches, and there was no better place to do that than the winter market. All manner of luxuries had arrived in the city, the sale on which would replenish the coffers of the regions they came from after prepping for winter.

The youngest had only to worry about whether the dolls she had asked for would arrive soon. An early birthday gift from their father, they were to be hand carved and articulated, designed to match the female doll she already had. Now that she was eight the time had come to start familiarizing her with the different kinds of figured that helped run a household. Dolls, his grandmother had said, were an excellent way to introduce a child to distinct figure they had never seen and help them to identify tools of the figures trades.

“Speaking of your father, did he say when he would be arriving?”

“No, mother. Apologies.” The eyes of the woman before him sharpened slightly, ever so slightly, and a chill ran up Ambrose’s spine.

“Is that so? Thats such a shame, he promised to come home by tomorrow, but I suppose there is no way to know if he will manage it. He may not even remember.” She took a sip of her wine, deliberate and slow, as she watched her son begin to fidget in his seat.

“I can go fetch him if you would like?” He said. That must be what she wants, she doesn’t trust him to arrive home on time. Dedicated though he was to business and his responsibilities, the man had a habit of becoming too enthralled by his work.

“That would be wonderful if you could dear. Be safe on your way down.” She smiled and the chill that set into his bones eased. He pitied his father. He stood and one by one said goodbye to his relatives, before leaving down the path opposite the entrance he had used earlier and making for the port master’s office.

As he walked the bushes turned to fruit trees and the smooth path turned to gravel. On either side the orchard hands worked tirelessly to collect the last of the harvest before winter snow began.

And there, dead ahead, was the Great River. Clogged with boats and cussing bodies trying to slip into port first, even as the vessels clashed and knocked into each other and the water licked at the far bank. There was still a beauty to it despite the chaos.

If only I could enjoy a day on the water, the thought flitted through his mind unbidden, then I wouldn’t have to try and pry father from his desk.

Still, Ambrose had a job to do. So on he walked, ever closer to the water and ever farther from peace.