It is Dorian's habit to stroll the lake's shore, an hour or so before dusk. Not many people know this, because it's not a particularly
interesting habit; it's not the sort of thing that one bothers to proclaim.
Except that a little over a week before this incident, she'd encountered a curious group of fellows, during her evening stroll, and their discussion had been so interesting that she's lingered to eavesdrop. After a time they'd come to notice her presence, and had explained to her the problem facing them, because really, what harm could it do? They were at their wits end, after all, and because of --
A fish?, she had echoed, quite doubting the whole thing, until they
showed her the specimen. Not just any simple aquarian, they had explained, as distress gave way to pride. Oh, no: this creature measured more than four feet, from jaw to tail; its weight was beyond their ability to calculate; its mighty fangs had bitten the rod clear in two --
here, do y'see! The wood is splintered!; why, this fish was nothing less than a fearsome, black-scaled King of the Silver Lake's murky depths!
And it was rotting into filth with every passing moment.
That was the problem, of course. They'd first meant to take it back to Myrkentown for a trophy; they'd certainly intended to sell the thing -- for there are always men who collect such freaks of natures, after all; men with too much coin and too little sense. But having walked here, the explanation continued, they had neither horses nor cart, but just this little 'barrow for the fishing rods. It
might hold their mighty catch -- folded over several times, perhaps -- but by the time they dragged it to the town gates, it would be rotten beyond repair. And not even the most witless of collectors would pay a copper bit for
that.
And thus, they concluded, this
dilemma. The fish would be their fortunes, if they could only transport it; at the least, it would be a right royal booze-up at the Floating Dragon, and maybe a new dress for the lady love -- did she see the appeal?
Why, of course, replied the sympathetic Dorian, who then mentioned what a shame it was that no such 'collectors' resided at the Broken Dagger -- which was just over yonder, did they see it?
They did, now that she'd pointed it out.
Only a few minutes' walk away, but a little obscured by the forest.
And
my dear, my sweet, my kindest scullery lass, I just happen to know a recipe for the most amazing
trout stew.
It comes with the price of the fish.
***
It had been a disaster, of course. No human means could store that much fish safely, not for the sheer length of time required to cook it -- let alone
sell! At her wits end, she'd begun almost to
give the stuff away -- only to discover, one bright and beautiful morning, that the lot of it had
vanished. A miracle!, she would tell them at St. Iona's, come faith day next.
But meantime, delivered eight shillings to Miss Molly's coin jar, with the small, inward smile of the saleswoman who's found her trade profitable.