Chapter 11: 11: Premier Cruxiwotsit

The words hung in the air.

Wren leaned forwards expectantly, irritated at herself for how invested she was. “And?” she prompted.

Mercie shrugged. “And what? That’s the end of it.” She flashed Wren a wide grin - then, without further warning, snatched up the flask, pulled the stopper out, and held it upside down above her open mouth. A stream of clear fluid poured out; she swallowed, popped the stopper back in the flask, and put it down again.

Wren stared at her, dumbfounded. “Why would you risk…? I mean, I’m sure your heart’s pure and all, but…” She cast about uselessly, looking for she-didn’t-know-what but somehow hoping she’d just happen to spot a cure for enchanted poison somewhere in the melange of stuff in the Hilarious Misunderstanding.

“It’s fine,” Mercie said, grinning wickedly. “I had it checked over; the enchantment’s inert now, if it exists at all. That’s just regular water - I put it in there earlier.”

Wren groaned.

“But,” Mercie went on, “there’s an enchanter - Tilkwern, his name is, he’s Brechtsen, comes through here every so often. He might be interested in having a look, see if he can’t examine the magic, or activate it, or purge it so he can use it somewhere else, or whatever enchanters do with these things.” She beamed widely at Wren - disconcertingly widely, even. “So you want it?”

Wren narrowed her eyes at the courier. “Do I want it?”

Mercie nodded cheerfully. “Yeah. As in, you give me money, I give it to you, we’re both happy.”

Wren’s eyes narrowed even further. “How much do you want?”

“Eh, fifteen crowns.”

“Fifteen -” Wren had been prepared to explode indignantly, but it fizzled out at the unexpectedly low number. “That’s barely more than a middlingly decent, totally normal flask.”

“Yeah, well.” Mercie shrugged emphatically. “It’s a good story, but it’s just a story. I have no idea whether it’s really from Acorton, and there definitely was an enchantment on it at some point, but I’m not qualified to tell what. It’s no use to me, and I didn’t pay for it. Like I said, people offload stuff to me when they just want it gone.” She leaned in, her expression suddenly becoming curious. “Hey, you’re from Din, right? You ever see the Twin Crown?”

“From a very long way away, one time.”

“I always wondered why the coins minted since they took the throne have two crowns on them - there’s still only actually one crown, right?”

“That’s… what I understand, yeah,” said Wren, somewhat bamboozled by the sudden change in topic.

“Sorry,” said Mercie, as if detecting Wren’s confusion (which, to be fair, was not difficult to detect). “It’s just, thinking about coins made me think about the ones with two crowns, made me think about the monarchs, made me think you’d lived in the capital so maybe you’d seen them. Do they stand really close together and wear the same crown on both of their heads at once?”

Wren burst into laughter. “No,” she said. “No, they definitely don’t.”

“They should try,” said Mercie, grinning. “Anyway, you’ll take the flask, yeah?”

After a brief moment’s consideration, Wren nodded. “Payment subject to Myrinna confirming she actually wants to buy it.”

“Very fair, and thank you exceptionally deeply,” said Mercie.

Wren nodded politely, unable to resolve the conflicting intuitions that a) she had in fact not paid any more than the flask was worth, even if it were a perfectly normal flask, and b) there was no way Mercie would really give it to her that cheaply after bothering to tell such a story.

“Well,” said Mercie, “I have a few more things here, but that was probably the most interesting for now. Might be one or two others I’ll talk to Myrinna about later - on my way back through, if I still have them by then.”

She started to drag her trailer back towards the door.

“You’re leaving?” Wren asked, suddenly disappointed by the idea. Mercie was the person she’d had the most enjoyable conversation with since leaving Din - and the most extensive, followed closely by Dachran, whose death had sort of soured Wren’s impression of that interaction.

“Oh, yeah,” said Mercie, nodding. “I have a lot to do. Lots of things to take to lots of people in lots of places. Plenty of deliveries just in this town before I head off on my travels, you know?” She flashed a winning smile in Wren’s direction. “If you ever need something delivered, you make sure to remember Mercie Beiceuse’s courier service is the best, okay?”

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“I believe it,” said Wren honestly.

Just as Mercie reached the door, someone pushed it open from the other side. A young man, perhaps twenty at the oldest, lightly freckled, and skinny-limbed in a way that made Wren want to wrap him in several layers of blankets, entered - and froze at the sight of Mercie.

“Oh,” he said. “Miss Beiceuse, er, I didn’t know you were here. Are you having a good trip?”

“What the shit is this thing you are saying to me on this day?!” Mercie demanded in the absolute most ludicrously over-the-top Galinesque accent Wren had ever heard in her life. And with that, she dragged her trailer past him and out of the door, shooting a cheerful wink at Wren on the way out.

“Oh,” said the young man again, looking crestfallen.

“Are you alright?” Wren asked.

He glanced up and jumped in fright, one foot fully jolting off the ground. “Ah! I mean, er, hello. Sorry - I didn’t know who you - I mean, it’s nice to meet you, I just wasn’t expecting, um, you. Not that I mind that it’s you! Whoever you are.” He descended into unintelligible anxious mumbles.

“I’m Wren,” said Wren, in the most reassuring voice she could manage. “I’m new in town, just…” She almost said something to the effect of just learning the ropes or just watching the shop, as if she were starting a new job and planning to stay there, but caught herself. “Myrinna’s out,” she said eventually.

“I see that,” said the young man. His head kept rotating forty-five degrees between Wren and the door through which Mercie had left, never quite getting all the way to either before changing its mind and going back the other way again. “Er, is Miss Beiceuse, um, staying in town long, do you know, or…?”

Wren leaned one elbow on the table in front of her and rested her chin in her palm, trying not to find his flusteredness too amusing. “Sounded as if she’s always on the move,” she said.

A huge, relieved breath whooshed out of the young man, leaving him looking - still nervous, but far less on edge. “Oh, thank all the united heavens.”

“What, er…” Wren felt as if she ought not to ask, but couldn’t help it. “What’s the deal there, then?”

“Oh,” he said, finally turning his full attention to her. “Oh, the deal. Erm, well, I asked her if she might like to have dinner with me the last time she was here, and she never really replied one way or another… I made her a crossword and everything.”

“Please say the answers weren’t things like romance and partnership.”

“No,” he said, looking puzzled. “I mean, affiliation was in there, but only because it fit neatly between the I in divulge and the O in pyroclastic…”

“Huh. And have you been trying to bother her again about going to dinner, or…?”

“Oh, heavens and separated hells, no,” he said, shaking his head vigorously. “I would never. I mean, if she ever said she might want to, I still would, but, you know, I asked once, didn’t get an answer, that’s fine, she doesn’t owe me one -”

“Hey,” said Wren, snapping her fingers. He blinked. “I think she’s messing with you. I’ve only just met the woman, but it seems like teasing people is kind of her thing.”

“Oh. So I should…?”

Wren shook her head in a how would I know? sort of way. “Just let her keep doing her thing, sweeping in and out like the agent of chaos she is. If she ever wants to spend time with you, she will, and if not, it doesn’t mean she hates you or anything.”

“Hmm. Hmm. Yeah. Hm.”

There was a brief pause, though hardly a silent or still one - he kept shuffling around, occasionally stammering something barely audible.

“I, um, er, um.” The young man took a few quick breaths that seemed intended to be calming but that Wren thought were probably more like hyperventilating. “I’m Tim,” he finally said. “Ettim, but everyone calls me Tim.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Tim,” said Wren, deciding it was time to finally try to put the poor sod at ease, or whatever was the closest thing to ease he could manage. “Was there something you were looking for?”

“Oh!” he exclaimed, as if only realising for the first time that he had walked into a shop. “Yes. Well.” A new expression slid onto his face: a much more comfortable, self-assured one, as if he were suddenly stepping into a role he knew how to play much better than his own regular self. “I, Tim, am not just the premier cruciverbalist of the Southwest Shires -”

“The what?”

“The… the Southwest Shires?” Tim squeaked, instantly losing all the confidence he’d gained. “You know, it’s just what the… like, the counties in the south west of Gradia are called as a sort of collective… region… thing? No?”

“Not that,” Wren said, resisting the urge to slam her palm into her forehead. “The other - the premier cruxiwotsit.”

“Oh.” Tim’s air of assuredness returned. “Yes, that’s right: I, Tim, am the greatest creator, solver, and general admirer of crosswords for miles around!”

Wren tried to look impressed. “So that word just means… someone who makes, does, or likes crosswords?”

“Well, yes,” said Tim, with an unexpected air of exasperation that made Wren have to stifle a giggle, “but that’s an inelegant way of saying it, don’t you think?”

She held up a hand to concede his victory.

“As I was saying, not just the premier cruciverbalist, but also the secretary and quartermaster for the excellent and qualified band of adventurers known far and wide as the Cotton Mossford Dungeoneers!” Tim paused, giving Wren an expectant look.

She applauded dutifully, giving him a wide-eyed look of what she hoped came off as utter awe. “Astounding,” she whispered.

“Of course,” Tim continued, slumping just slightly, “we’re not having the best of times lately…”

“Why not?”

He gave her a strange look, then blinked. “Oh! Of course - you’re new, you don’t know! Well…” Tim pulled himself up to his full height, puffed out his chest, and put his hands squarely on his hips. “Allow me to fill you in on how the Cotton Mossford Dungeoneers went from thriving to barely surviving, for ‘tis a tale of intrigue, strength, skill, mystery, curiosity, daring deeds, swashbuckling, and…”

He seemed to realise too late he’d run out of words. Wren raised an eyebrow.

“And intrigue,” Tim repeated lamely. Then he took a deep breath and began: “The Cotton Mossford Dungeoneers may be a small team, but we’re perfectly formed…”