The Beacon: Palisade (4)
Episode 9: "Fish With a Side of Ale"
Upon leaving the Leitan compound, Adon trudged up the hill toward the palace. His exertions soon reminded him he had missed lunch—and breakfast had been a pitiful, rushed thing. In the meantime, he had drunk several cups of tea but eaten only a few of Kanita’s cookies. Those cookies don’t count. They’re special. You don’t eat them for sustenance but out of respect. His ruminations convinced him to find a worthy pub.
As an extensive traveler, Adon had dined at hundreds of inns, taverns, pubs, and even a few elegant restaurants, not to mention at royal tables in the continent’s capitals. As a working man, still considering himself a ship’s captain, he preferred good, plain food and hearty servings with a side of ale. He often came away from prestigious restaurants hungry, having twice stopped at nearby inns for a “snack” on his way home from them. A man can’t survive on a measly slice of beef cooked in some strong sauce and two peas and a carrot with a parsley garnish! That’s a mouthful, not a meal.
A long-time resident of Palisade, he knew what he was looking for. About a block off the main road, he found a pub squeezed between a dry goods store and a barber. Its weather-beaten front, pierced by two small windows, had lost most of its paint, which had once been yellow. A peeling green sign depicting a mug of ale hung above the door. The latter was open to let in what breeze wandered down the street. Smiling, Adon found it inviting.
As he stepped through the doorway, he knew his intuition had been correct. Featuring a short bar in the rear, the homely place could seat about two dozen cheek by jowl in mismatched tables and chairs. The dingy walls needed a deep scouring and whitewash, and hard use had gouged and stained the floor. Sounds of activity, mostly the washing and stacking of crockery with an occasional hummed snatch of a song, emanated from the pub’s kitchen behind the bar’s mirrored back wall. All the lunchtime clientèle had gone their respective ways, so the proprietor finally had time to prepare for the larger crowd that would file in once the workday was done.
Adon pulled out a bar stool loudly to announce his presence. A disembodied grunt acknowledged the noise, and half a minute later, a short, stout man in an apron over a gray shirt and dark pants, rounded the bar’s wall, drying his hands on a once-white towel. His eyes bugged slightly when he saw Adon, clearly expecting someone else.
Adon nodded amiably at him. “Good afternoon! I missed lunchtime dealing with other affairs and wandered this way to see if I could get some real food and ale before leaving for other parts.”
Recovering quickly, the heavyset man grinned. “Oh, I have real food here, sir! I’ve got a new stew cooking for dinner, or I would be pleased to fry you a couple of just-caught fish from the lake. I can fry up some potatoes while I’m at it! Some bread is just about to come from the oven, too. As for ale—just the best in Palisade, if I don’t say so myself.”
“Have you eaten?” Adon asked, startling the man again, who may have never been asked that question while on the job. “I would like the company.”
“Why, no, sir, I haven’t,” he replied seriously, “and I’m right peckish, now that I consider it.”
“Well, my good man,” Adon said with a laugh, “fry up some fish and potatoes for the both of us, serve me some bread and butter and a nice pint of ale, and we can share a tasty repast in each other’s company. What do you say?”
“I say I’ll be back with the bread, butter, and ale before you know it,” the man said, grinning, and hustled back to his kitchen.
He was as good as his word. In a few minutes, Adon was buttering a thick slice of warm bread and enjoying the refreshing and very smooth ale the man drew from a small barrel across the bar. “I brew it myself from a recipe my dad left me. Most of my customers come for it, not the food, though they eat plenty of that, too.” He grinned and went back to the kitchen. In a couple of minutes, Adon heard the sizzle of something being pan-fried, smelling the fish a few seconds later.
In no time, the cook returned with a glazed stoneware plate covered with three small battered and fried fish and a pile of salted potatoes fried in butter and sprinkled with salt and chives, which he placed before an astonished Adon. “This looks and smells marvelous,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it, sir,” the proprietor said, grinning. “I love cooking—and eating. One moment, and I’ll bring my own plate. Tuck in, please!”
Hungry enough not to be asked twice, Adon soon added this simple lunch to his list of the best meals he had ever eaten. The young man trotted back with his own plate and an extra containing a few more fried fish and an almost overflowing pile of potatoes. “Oh, I almost forgot! Dessert!” he exclaimed. He scuttled back to the kitchen and reappeared with a bowl of deep-red cherries lightly drizzled with honey.
“This isn’t lunch,” Adon said admiringly. “This is a feast!”
“Another lesson from my dad,” the man said, cutting a piece of fish with a fork. “Never skimp on food.” He gestured to his belly. “Living proof I am an obedient son.”
Adon laughed. “What is your name, if I may?”
The proprietor covered his mouth as he laughed in turn. “I’m sorry! I got so caught up in lunch I completely forgot the courtesies! My name is Clyve Erixon, and this is my pub! Everyone just calls it ‘The Alehouse.’ That’s what’s on the sign.”
“Good to meet you, Clyve!” Adon said, shaking the proffered hand. “I’m Adonis Santinetta. Most people call me Adon. Your pub is exceptional!”
Clyve looked around at the well-used pub. “You are far too kind, sir! Most think this place needs to be gutted and rebuilt from scratch.”
Adon made a dismissive gesture. “Mere trappings, if you asked me. The heart of a pub is its food and drink, its proprietor and customers, the feel of its place among its neighbors. That’s what attracted me to The Alehouse. I could tell immediately that you value what you serve. I bet you have a long list of regulars.”
“Almost all of them!” Clyve agreed, nodding vigorously. “That’s why I was surprised when you came in. I wasn’t expecting a new customer, especially since everyone had already scattered back to work or home.”
“Well, add me to your list of regulars,” Adon said, smiling. “It is a short walk from my home—when I’m in Palisade.”
“So, you travel often?” Clyve asked, making friendly conversation.
“I do,” Adon replied. “My boss usually has me haring about all over Osegra. I am currently preparing to take a quick trip to The Corner. Tonight, in fact.”
“The Corner?” Clyve said, chewing his potatoes, his face thoughtful. “Can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”
“That’s not uncommon,” Adon said, spearing a chunk of potato. “It’s almost directly west, out where the Spruce Hills meet the Coastal Range. Just a small community of Margonni way out there.”
“Really?” the owner said. “Margonni live way out there? I thought only Leitani lived so far out.”
“Why do you say that?” Adon asked, curious.
Clyve shrugged, reaching for the bowl of cherries. “My world is Palisade, so I don’t pay much attention to what goes on outside the walls. But just yesterday, a hostler mentioned that several Leitani asked him about horses, saying they’re moving to the mountains. I always think of Leitani as plains people, but I reckon a lot of them lived in the mountains, too, you know, before Margonne.”
“No doubt,” Adon agreed, pushing his empty plate away. “But why would today’s Leitani want to leave Palisade? It has everything a person needs!”
“Nobody’ll ever convince me to leave, that’s for sure,” Clyve said, shaking his head. “My life’s all right here within these four walls! Not even to hear some holy man.”
“Is that why they’re leaving?” Adon said, leaning back and sipping his ale contentedly. “Seems silly just to pick up and leave for that. But I’m not a religious man.”
“I’m with you, Adon,” the small, round man said and spit a cherry pit onto his plate. “Seems a long way to go for some chanting around a fire!” He laughed, popping another honey-coated cherry into his mouth.
“So, some holy man’s attracting followers,” Adon said, scratching his short, gray beard. “You don’t hear about Leitani holy men much.”
“You’re right about that,” Clyve said, indulging in more cherries. “We know about the Prophetess and her school for Wise Women—in fact, it’s just down the road from here. I’m sure you know it.”
“Indeed, I do,” Adon admitted. “I’ve done business there before.”
“So, you know men are scarce there,” he continued, “and I’m certain I’ve never seen holy men.”
“True.”
“This holy man must be special if people are pulling up stakes and heading to the wilderness to see him! I wonder what he tells them?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Adon said, taking a few cherries before Clyve finished them all himself. “I know almost nothing about such things.”
“Me neither,” said Clyve. Realizing the subject was exhausted, he asked, “Can I get you anything else?”
“Another pint of ale, good host! It is excellent! It will make the long road easier to bear!”
For another quarter-hour, they spoke of various matters—mostly neighborhood gossip and the business of pubs—before Clyve admitted with a sigh that he needed to get back to work to prepare for the dinner crowd. Adon thanked him profusely for a fine meal, paying him generously, and Clyve thanked him for the conversation. After shaking hands, Adon gave him a promise to return, which would not be an empty one.
Taking a right out of the pub, Adon strolled down the street toward his daughter Artema’s house. Like The Alehouse, it stood in Palisade’s Third Level but on the northern side of the Royal Road that, past the city gate, became the Angeva Road. Walking at a leisurely pace, he reached her whitewashed picket fence in about ten minutes. At the door, he knocked and let himself in.
Artema stood in her kitchen at the back of the house, hands on her hips, glaring at a pot on the stove. Her father leaned on the doorjamb, watching her until she turned and looked at him, one eyebrow raised. “Do you think you could do better?” she asked.
Adon shrugged. “Hard to say since I have no idea what you’re doing.”
Sighing, she untied the dark blue and white bandanna that covered her nearly black, wavy hair, tossing it on a nearby table. “An, ah, acquaintance sent me a new recipe for a quick-acting sleeping draft, but so far, all my attempts have failed. Her instructions say the final concoction is clear, but mine ends up a murky green. I’m not doing something right. Too much heat? Simmer it longer? Impure ingredients? Chop them finer? Not the right proportions? Stir more?” She threw her hands up. “I do better when I just buy a finished product from the apothecaries.”
Her father looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry, my dear, but we know the kitchen is not your natural habitat.” He raised his hands before she threw something at him, saying softly, “Not a criticism, but an observation. Your skills lie elsewhere. Besides, young lady, brewing these potions or whatever they are takes experience you don’t have. If things ever slow down, you may want to find someone to teach you the art.”
Mollified, she nodded and began cleaning up the mess she had made of her kitchen. “I’ll ask Thesis if the agency knows someone who could teach me,” speaking of the youngest of her brothers, two years her senior, who ran the family’s intelligence-gathering business.
“I’m sure he knows if anyone does,” Adon said.
Artema scraped the remains of a dark, thorny plant into a small trash bucket. “From your presence, I gather we have a job?”
“You gather correctly,” her father answered, crossing his arms. “The king asks us to travel to The Corner to investigate one of these ‘waves of evil’ occurrences. The trip shouldn’t take us more than a week.”
“When do we leave?” she asked, not bothering to argue or pry out more details. She knew her father would brief them thoroughly when he was ready.
“No later than nightfall,” Adon replied. “The king desires answers as soon as possible.”
“Why the delay?” she asked with a roll of her eyes and a quick smirk. She removed her long apron, revealing black pants stuffed into knee-high boots and a pink shirt with short sleeves ending in a ribbon of white lace, the only feminine touch on her person. “I’ll tell Ren, and he’ll get Bandrick and Mast moving to get supplies. We’ll be ready by sunset.”
“I’ll meet you at the North Gate,” Adon said, already turning to leave. “I have my own preparations to make.”
A note:
Clearly, Adon loved cozy pubs. He liked them even better when they were full of customers buzzing with conversation, laughing at jokes, and overflowing with good cheer. The Alehouse was just the sort of place he would go when he felt the need to relieve some stress.
Not long after making Clyve Erixon’s acquaintance, Adon bought a share of the little pub to help the proprietor renovate it—but not too much. The place got a new coat of paint inside and out, a refurbished sign, sanded and varnished floors, and a handful of new regular customers: Adon’s crew, which, like their captain, enjoyed fine ale, tasty food, and a respite from the tensions of the day.
If you have enjoyed what you read on this Substack, please consider buying me a cup of coffee!
Adon is someone after my own heart in a way. A pub can be a soothing place to just forget the world!