Chapter 5 – Grieving Family

Teller Mas counted cheerfully. With both his hands, he held Bobbins under the surface of a large plastic barrel of something twangy and acrid smelling; if he’d been forced to guess Mas would have said vinegar. Instead, he said, “…eight, nine, ten,” and pulled a soggy, tangy Bobbins out of the liquid.

“Phhhhaahhh!” he said. “I told you I don’t know nuffink.”

“Shocking grammar, Bobbins. You remember the midwife, though.”

“Yeah, young piece. Nice smell.”

“Eww,” said Teller. “Creepy.” And dunked Bobbins again. “Now, what did she say again?”

“I told you!”

“Humor me.”

“She asked about what poisons smelled sweet and spicy, and could they work through the nose.”

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’?”

Mas sighed heavily and dunked him again, and started to wonder what the midwife had been onto, if anything. He’d gotten as far as a twelve-count and the barrel started to rattle.

“Teller Mas!”

“Huh,” said Teller. Bobbins was still at the end of his arms, under the fluid. The voice calling his name was loud, piercing and outside.

“TELLER MAS!”

Teller sighed and removed a gasping Bobbins from the barrel, then let him slide gently to the floor, “No rest for the wicked, eh Bobbins?” He dried his hands on a cloth he found on Bobbins’ chair, then when it turned out to be sticky, made a mental note to wash his hands again at the first opportunity.

“TELLER—”

“Yes?”

“Oh, are you Teller Mas?” The female was extremely brusque.

“Yes, I am he.”

“I have been told that you are the person to talk to about our daughter.”

“In the case of missing persons and normal crimes and infractions, it is the Lakeside custom to go to the Constables first,” he said. Two could play at being brusque.

“It was the Chief herself who told me to come and find you!”

Teller sighed. What had he done to tick the chief off now?

“Well, there’s no point standing here on ceremony, let’s adjourn to our local visitor attraction, The Bocado, shall we and talk about this like civilized folk over a racta?”

“I can’t stand the stuff myself.” The female smelled of that odd stuff the Stone-folk rubbed over themselves to not smell like folk.

“Well I can, I haven’t had one yet and it’s halfway through work-span, so that is where you will find me if you want to talk to me.”

He turned on his heel and nearly walked into the male who had been standing there all the while. He was silent and smelled faintly of male, but not much else. As if he washed too much. Was he the mate to the noisy one? That and other questions could wait until there was racta. He left the noise of their argument in the street behind him.

The thought, the growing desperation for something warm and stimulating to drink, carried him all the way to the swing doors of the bar. He pushed them in headed straight for the bar, gasped an order at the new girl, Minu, who was still on this work-span, stole a damp towel from where it was tucked at her waist and went to find his usual booth, wiping his hands. He sat heavily. Minu followed him with three steaming cups of racta and a small wooden plate of odd-smelling treats made of flower petals, and vegetable pâté. She plonked the plate down first and then the three racta cups, on the rough, round table, thunk-thunk-thunk.

The doors swung behind them and the powdery smelling parents strode in, or rather the female strode in, Mas assumed the mate was following somewhere behind. The mother seemed to have a large wake, it was difficult to pay attention to whatever or whoever might come after her. She sniffed theatrically and said, “I told you I can’t stand that stuff!” she tapped on the table to emphasize.

“Don’t remember saying any were for you,” said Mas, lifting one and drinking the entire steaming hot contents in one gulp. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and burped loudly.

“Manners of a sewer-rat!” she said. “If you’re doing this for my benefit then you can stop right now.”

Mas laughed once, “Lady, the first thing you need to know about me, is that I only do things for one folk's benefit and that’s my own.”

“Huh!”

She hovered by the table. Mas drank the second racta, then leaned out to Air-sense toward the door. “Hey, friend!” he shouted past her, to where he’d sensed her mate come in. “Come on in and sit down. I saved you a racta.”

The mate shuffled in, carefully avoiding bumping the woman and sat, “Err- thank you?”

“Figured your need is greater than mine,” Mas said. “Now what do you two fine folks want with a simple Lakesider like me?”

When no reply was forthcoming, Mas plowed on, “And how rude of me, I’m Teller Mas,” he reached and gently grabbed the male's hand, “and you are?”

“Alum,” he said.

“And you?” Teller Mas didn’t reach for the female's hand. He suspected she might bite.

“Allingite, we are Stone-folk of the Talc clan!” she swept her hand over the table. A waft of powdery scent followed.

“Aren’t you just,” said Mas under his breath.

“Sorry?” the female replied.

“Oh, don’t be,” said Mas. “Now what do you want with me? You’re slumming it with Lakeside folks for a pretty important reason, I’m guessing.”

“We need you to help us find our daughter,” Alum said quietly.

“And you must do it with all haste,” said Allingite.

“No,” Mas said, “I must drink this racta. What I’m then going to do depends on a number of factors.”

“Which would be?” Allingite had a voice that would powder most rocks.

“My rates are ten tallies per work span, plus expenses, fifteen if I work into sleep span, payable in advance.”

“That’s disgraceful!” she said.

“I know, you’d think the best nose in Lakeside would charge more, right? I have community rates, see, to help folk out. You want my services or not?”

Teller lifted the racta to his lips and slurped.

“Please, will you help us, Mr. Mas?” A credit stick clattered to the table top with a satisfying wooden plink. He picked it up and measured its length in his fingers. Ten credit stick all right and no tallies cut in it yet.

“Okay,” Mas said, “that buys me for today. Tell me what you know.”