Black Mould - Twenty-One - Where Those Who Have Passed Rest

Black Mould - Twenty-One - Where Those Who Have Passed Rest

Black Mould - Twenty-One - Where Those Who Have Passed Rest

I considered what to do after the Gremlins left.

Fighting was tempting. Looking at what theyd done to my farm, all the stuff theyd just taken, it made my blood boil. I was clenching my jaw so hard it hurt.

I didnt have the ability to fight, though. I was small, weak. All I had was a bit of magic and some mushrooms. I couldnt exactly trick people into eating poisoned mushrooms twice now could I? If all my adversaries were that stupid, then I didnt have much of a challenge at all ahead of me.

No, I couldnt fight. What did that leave me with?

Flight? Running away? I couldnt move out, but they probably didnt know where I lived. There were hundreds of little homes packed tight around us. Assuming that each one held a small family, there had to be thousands of people for every square kilometre of the city. More, maybe. I didnt bother to count.

My family didnt stick out much. Wed be fine where we were.

The farm though I looked around at the opened racks and the mess theyd left. Jars tossed aside, some mushrooms just casually ripped apart. Id need to fix the mycelium and resettle the dirt. More mana to fix the broken stems and, and basically a lot more work.

Could I move the farm?

Probably not.

Could I start a second farm?

That idea had some merit. Finding a place wouldnt be too difficult; dark and damp pretty much described half of the lower-levels of the slums. Small, private places that no one would bother had to be pretty common.

What would I need to bring with me? Spores would be a start, but a weak one. No, it would be better if I had isolated, growing mycelium that I could place on some fertile spot. I didnt need a full mushroom, just enough of its root system that it would grow.

Which samples would I be taking with me, then?

I rushed around the room, collecting the mason jars and tin cans that I used for spore growth and placing them all on the work table.

My farm was mostly dividing itself along three lines: nutrition farming, for mushrooms that were edible, weaponizable farming, which I hadnt really started in earnest, but which had just gotten a bump in priority, and finally, experimental farming. I wanted, needed, to discover and create new strains of fungi.

My end goal, for now, was being able to feed my family, maybe earn some money on the side, and maybe I could help Feronie, if it wasnt too inconvenient. There had to be some way to magic up an anti-pollution fungus. Something that leeched heavy metals from the soil was very plausible.

Okay, okay, I muttered to myself as I flitted around the farm. I didnt just take samples. There was no point in entirely abandoning the place. I could leave the more hardy mushrooms behind for a week or two. Besides, that blessing was still in the air, which would keep them going.

I packed in my [Dead Mans Agaric] and [Dead Horse Head]. Those two were my most lethal variations to date. I wanted more, not because they were useful on their own, but because I could conceivably combine them with other things to make them even more lethal.

Stew nodded and rubbed at the scruffy beard clinging to his chin. Think you know anyone?

Debra hesitated for a moment, then nodded. I know someone. Shes an acolyte of Galen, goes around the city to help people with things. You know the sort. Was from around here before joining the cowl and mask, I think.

Whats her name? I asked.

Eight-Three-Eleven, Debra said. She comes by the camp every so often. I can tell her that you want to meet. Im sure shed accept.

Ah, okay, I said. So, we couldnt meet her right away. Also, what sort of name was that? I shook my head. Right, that would be helpful, but Ive got all my things packed up already. I dont really want to put them all away.

What kind of place are you looking for? Stew asked.

Damp, dark, not too much traffic, I said. If other mushrooms grow there already, then the place is perfect.

He frowned for just a moment before grinning. Cemetery, he said. By the Ditz Dungeon.

You cant, Debra said. Its not proper to use a place like that for farming.

Whos going to complain, the dead? Stew asked.

Dearil might. Or his servants, Debra said.

Theyre too busy patrolling around the nice cemeteries. No ones going to bother the kid at the one near Ditz. Besides, Ill be there. If anyone bothers us, Ill say that were paying respects. Its even true. Got a friend or six stuffed in a box there.

Debra sniffed, but when Stew took off at a surprising fast pace considering his lack of limbs, she followed after him.

I hastened to keep up. Whos Dearil? I asked.

God of funerals and suchlike, Stew said. When you start working a dangerous job, you need to find one of his folk and pay them three coins: two to keep your spirit in your body, the third for them to stuff you in a box. Dour folk, mostly. But not bad. Just weird.

Is he like a god of death? I asked. I could vaguely remember a few of those from Earths ancient pantheons. Undead and stuff?

No, Debra said. The opposite. No one hates the undead more than Dearils people. This city is a shithole, pardon my common, but we dont have zombies and wights roaming around thanks to him. We should be thankful, not using his sacred grounds to grow mushrooms.

Bah, you worry too much, Stew dismissed. Come on! Its a quiet place, you might like it.

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