The Chronicles of Harold the Healer, Chapter 7
Harold Moser was facing a minor dilemma. After helping to release the spirit of a dying cat at Turner's Veterinary Clinic, then setting up a whole-home cleaning spell for the house that will become the new Veterinary Magic Academy or whatever it would be called, then performing the Last Rites for Ed Morton, its former co-owner, he was drained and hungry. He had tapped into the energy of some thunderstorms that were on their way, but he needed sustenance. It was a common problem with Magic use because of the demands that it put on the body and brain as the caster worked to bend the energy to his/her desires. He also wanted to put his Order of the Kingdom and Golden Star of Carcosa medals into a bank safety deposit box for safekeeping, but a peek in the window showed a long line of impatient-looking people, indicating that it was also moving slowly, so he decided to feed his need first.
"Is there a diner or restaurant around here?" he inquired of a passing couple of retired men.
"The Dewdrop Inn is really nice," said the first man.
"I should have prefixed my request with 'affordable'," Harold corrected. "I have a few coins in my pocket and the bank service seems to be constipated."
"Macy's is in the next block," said the other man, snickering at Harold's crude analogy. "It's a bit of a greasy spoon, but Macy will give a great blowjob for a little extra."
"So says the man whose pants magically fall down at the slightest possibility of a blowjob," remarked the first one, expertly deflecting a swat. "Though lately, it's been getting rather more difficult to rise to such an occasion," he added sadly.
"You should look up Kim Blandford," said Harold smoothly, edging back slightly. "I hear that a crazy Mage gave her a very effective recipe to counter problems experienced by older gentlemen," he added with a conspiratorial wink. They both perked up.
"Gordon, my good man, I believe that we have a few moments to spare before lunch."
"George, my good fellow, I even remember where she lives. Tally ho!" They looked around. "Where did that man get to?" Harold had inserted himself into a small knot of passers-by who were ignoring the old gaffers and had quietly Sneaked away. He found Macy's easily enough, realizing that he had walked by it earlier on his way south to eventually wind up with Dana at Turner's Vet Clinic.
"I really should pay more attention to my surroundings," he muttered to himself as he walked in through the door that had been propped open by a brick. A counter made of thin slices of black and white polished granite ran from near the front of the diner to the back. At the front, it closed off the area behind it so that a patron could sit on one of the stools with his back to the window, and at the back it closed off access to the rear where the kitchen was, save for a half door that opened inwards. The stools were higher than chairs, made from a variety of woods, and had crossbars near the bottom on which one could rest one's feet. When he walked in, staff in his right hand, the three people in the shop stopped their conversation to look at him.
The woman behind the counter was casually leaning on it while facing the two women who were seated on stools with the remains of their meals in front of them. All three were dressed in loose-fitting, white, short-sleeved blouses and slacks that looked suited to warm weather, and Harold could see that the visitors were probably wearing military-style boots similar to those that had been confiscated by Pella yesterday (damn, I want my boots back, he thought) that were mostly hidden by their slacks. They had olive complexions, rather than the usual fair complexions of people from the Westlands, oval faces framed by more-salt-than-pepper hair cut in attractive styles, sharp aquiline noses, sensual lips, and intelligent dark brown eyes that seemed to size him up quickly. Most noticeable were the scar on the left cheek of the woman behind the counter, and a tattoo of a snake wrapped around a sword on the outside of the visitors' left arms that extended from elbow to under the sleeve, and that their hands looked like they'd seen a lifetime of hard work.
Most interesting was that they had been speaking in Argosian, the native language of the Argosy Federation that bordered the Kingdom to its south. Harold had always had an interest in languages and had done well in the Introduction to Argosian course that was part of the seventh-year requirements in Mage School, but had never had the chance to use it until after the fall of Carcosa when their military and aid had arrived about a week after the battle. Even though they were a few hundred miles closer by sea to Carcosa than the Kingdom, Argosy had been slow off the mark in putting together a force to deal with the piracy that had been plaguing them as well. It was the Kingdom that had done the heavy lifting in the City and, by mutual agreement, the Argosians who had done the equally bloody mopping-up in the countryside. Because the Carcosan culture was more male-dominated and the Argosian more female-dominated, as opposed to the Kingdom's egalitarian approach, there had been some friction, especially at first when tempers were short. On many occasions, Harold and the other Mages had had their diplomatic and language skills sorely taxed as they attempted to smooth ruffled feathers. If nothing else, it had motivated the Carcosans to get themselves back on their feet quickly so they could tell the outsiders to bugger off that much faster.
To his surprise, Harold recognized them from Carcosa, and seeing that they hadn't recognized him yet, he decided to have a little fun. He offered Polite Bow #2, and a request to the woman behind the counter, in Argosian.
"Good morning. What do you have on the menu today?" Their response was total astonishment, as if the last thing that they'd expected was to hear one of the locals speaking their language. He grinned cheekily and added, "You look like a Malintan who was just told she is beautiful." Malinta was one of the thirty States in the Federation, whose natives were unfairly (and incorrectly) maligned for a lack of beauty. A significant fraction of their Federal government's efforts were devoted to its original purpose, namely keeping the peace between the States, whose overall geographical size and economy were close to those of the Kingdom, but whose internal cohesiveness was much less. They were even more astonished, then started laughing loudly as Harold placed himself on a stool near the door, a relatively safe distance away from the visitors.
"A Kingdom man who speaks Argosian, with a not too dreadful accent," said the woman behind the counter. "Welcome to my diner. I haven't seen you before, but you look familiar for some reason," she continued in Kingdom Standard with the trademark Argosian accent of rolled r's and odd syllabic stress patterns. "What would you like?"
"A cup of coffee and a chicken pot pie, which is a Tanan specialty, if I recall correctly."
"How the hell would you know that?" she asked in surprise, looking at him sharply. The woman farthest from Harold suddenly snapped her fingers.
"That staff! You're Harold Moser, one of the Kingdom Healers who was in Carcosa, aren't you?"
"Guilty as charged," he replied as Macy looked on, memory dawning on her face. "You probably aren't a sergeant any more, are you Giuliana?"