The Jester's Son

First Draft

Chapter 1: Flub’s Pig

I lacked the necessary chest hair for pig haggling. Sure, I had easy access to the castle kitchens. Prime seats at the Den on nights we weren’t performing. And a great excuse whenever trouble found me in Woeden, which was always. But folk wouldn’t trust a pig to a fuzz-chested jester’s son no matter how much I needed one.

I gathered this idea on very solid evidence as a flagon of ale smashed my face. I was in the Cobbled Cup, which meant this ale had begun its life in another tavern. Only, it hadn’t been drunk. It had ended the night in its mug, sitting beside empty mugs like a jouster who realized, upon crashing to the ground and holding his lance backwards, that maybe he was more of a poetic soul. Woeden was the City of 1,000 Taverns, and the Cobbled Cup was one such bottom-feeder that scavenged those half-cups of used ale, wine, or brandy. These partials were dumped into a new barrel.  Mystery mead, the cheapest drink money could buy. Anyway, let me believe the warm ale soaking my shirt had character, if not quality.

“You mugged me!” I said, halfway between laughing and accusing.

My drinking buddy, if I may call him (I had of course not been drinking and he was not acting a good buddy) was the husky, sturdy shape of a man who maintained a strict diet of ale and mutton. Vegetables would be for rabbits and other things you could really eat. Fruit would be for wine, which should be avoided when ale was around. He was the only man in the Cobbled Cup that smelled of manure instead of fish. I was betting it was pig manure.

His heavy eyes settled on me. “You wanted my pigs!”

Now I did laugh. “My friend, I want one pig, and only to borrow it for the night. Rent it, as you’d have heard if you held your drink. Besides, I don’t have any need for a pig. It’s for my father.”

“He a painter? Tailor?”

“He’s the Jester of Woeden,” I said indignantly, pointing to my purple shirt. “These are jester clothes.”

He turned from me and called for another drink.

“Baroness Helna also requested your pig,” I hurried.

Now he did laugh. It was the wet, surprised bark of a man who did not often indulge in a laugh. The innkeep dropped off another chipped mug of myster mead and disappeared into the backroom. 

“Baroness Helna needs one of my pigs?”

“Sure,” I said. “In a manner.”

He took a long drink. This mug, I saw, had odd bits sitting in the froth. The man smacked his lips, a nasty smile coming. “Benny, Wagner, get here!”

Two dockhands unstuck themselves from the barstools across the room and trundled over. Already several drinks along, I smelled.

“Who’s a friend?” Wagner said, peering at me. He was a massive fellow with proportional warts.

Buddy clapped me hard on the shoulder. “Says High Helna wants one of my pigs. I say we hold a little court. Innocent, I’m a richer man. Guilty, well, what do you think, boys?” Benny and Wagner frowned, untangling the question. “If he’s lying!” Buddy snapped. “What should we do with him?”

This was more their speed. Inspiration struck Wagner. “We’s could throw him in the harbor.”

“Or in a pond,” Benny said eagerly.

“Harbor’s bigger,” Wagner pointed out.

“Well…just…,” Benny began, but Buddy slammed his mug down.

“High Master, you’re both sods. The harbor’s across the whole bloody city. Don’t one of you have a boat at the docks. I’ll tie him to the mast if he’s lying. There. Done. Now, which is it, boy?”

“Davis,” I said. “Davis Jester.” Even though I was sparring with a halfwit and two quarterwits, I could use some time to think. Spending the night tied to a mast at sea would not be ideal. After all, I was due to perform for the High Court in an hour, pig included. I’d had all day for the task, but of course the morning was spent stealing pies from the kitchen. The afternoon, unfortunately, had been spent poorly. Now, here I was, squeezing t he day’s work into an hour. Pressure makes the stone, after all.

“She’s hot for it,” I said. “Sent me right down here once she heard about them.”

Court was in session. “Sent you Wharfside, to the Cup?”

I winked.

“How’s she know about the Cup?” Benny said.

“It’s in her city, right?” Wagner said and Benny spiraled into mumbles.

Buddy leaned forward, his great sausage finger poking my chest. ““No really, she doesn’t know me from fish guts. How could she? Why’s she need my pig?”

“The resemblance is striking, for one,” I said. “But really, I can prove her interest.  I have a writ from-“

“Enough jokes, jester,” Buddy said. Whether these were men of letters I never learned because 6 hands seized me, and I was lifted like a net of fish, except they smelled of fish and I of blackberry pie. A great catch.

In seconds they had me out the door of the Cobbled Cup. The air thickened. I tasted salt. In the city of 1,000 Taverns, I’d chosen the one closest to the Low Docks. I’d hoped the rougher clientele might be quicker to loan a pig. Unfortunately, the hike to the fishing boats, my private prison, was also shorter.

“Come now, lads,” I said. “Two rounds on me at the Cup. Let’s just turn around then.” I jostled along, hung between them like a prized catch. We passed the merchant stalls clustered around the dock. I wiggled my fingers at a middle aged woman with a selection of sun-warmed fish. “A spot of help please? I’d love to buy some of your…stock.”

“Oh, they sell better the next day anyway,” she said. “Don’t trouble yourself son.” And then the men were carrying me down toward the lonely fishing boat bobbing at the end of the pier. The four of us were nearly as wide as the wharf, dark water rippling on either side of the planking. So close. Buddy had my feet, Benny and Wagner my shoulders. I had seconds.

“The writ is in my left pocket! Stop, and make yourself some quick coin. Rounds for a month!” I took a better look at his gut. “A week, at least.”

“No jokes, boy,” Buddy said, but Benny stopped, all faculties discerning which of my pockets was the left. Buddy stretched my legs another step, while Benny acted as an anchor, lost in thought. I let Buddy pull me like a bowstring, and then I snapped, thrashing with all my strength like some mythic fish. My back strained, legs kicked. I rolled and pushed and spazzed like a boy one hour from failing the most powerful person in all of Woeden. I waited for a limb to be freed, or the splash of a half-drunk dockhand falling into the water.

There was a moment of terrible silence. Something struck my forehead, and the world spun. I slumped like a clam out of its shell. Buddy coughed out another chuckle. “Wriggly, ain’t he boys?”

“Sure,” Benny said. “But about that paper he’s got. You think he meant his left or mine?”

They reached the boat. “A week of drinks,” Wagner said eagerly. “We ought to at least check it, shouldn’t we?”

My feet thumped to the planks as Buddy wheeled around. “We? The kid came to me!”

“Well, I’ve got pigs,” Wagner said.

My vision was clearing as Buddy stepped forward, nearly on me. His fists clenched. One swing at Wagner, and I’d be good as free. I tried getting my feet under me. Ready to run. The dockhand stood tall, eyeing Buddy, and said. “Wife’s been feeding the kids slop for years!”

Benny snorted, and something splattered my arm. My brief hope of escape faded as the tension vanished, and Buddy clapped Wagner on the shoulder. “That’s a man! Now, let me see the boy’s paper and be done with it. I ought to be back at the cup.”

“Likewise,” I said, as without ceremony, Buddy reached into my right pocket and tugged out a much-folded parchment. “No,” I said at once. “That’s the wrong note. Give it back! The writ is over here. On the left.” He began to open it. “That’s private! From a lady! I warn you!” 

My stomach plummeted as he unfolded the page and stared. He was confused, and then he was not. “Alright!” Buddy roared, hauling me to my feet. “I’ve got a surprise for you now. Boys, skip the rope. Grab the net!”

“Net?” My voice sounded high. I suddenly wished they’d just tie me to the mast and leave. It would be humiliating, and I’d miss the performance, but it would be better than whatever was now coming. The dread in my gut thickened as Benny and Wagner stepped into the boat and lifted the huge, heavy net. Salt-stained fibers groaned like an old man rising from a chair. They raised the net higher. My height.

I tried to keep my voice even. “Very impressive. Put it down.”

“With you in it,” Buddy said. “Just a minute under the waves. It’s good for you. Isn’t that right boys?”

Buddy’s weight shifted, preparing to shove me into the net. My last chance.

A stern voice cracked the night. “What’s here? Hands off the lad!”

Buddy flinched in surprise, grip loosening, and I sprang off the dock. I meant to, at least, but my lack of balance resulted in a flop. Cold water bit me like a thousand little fish. All was dark, and I took two strokes down into the blackness before headbutting the ocean floor. I swam blindly along the floor for as long as I could before surfacing. I was near a dock several down from Buddy’s. I darted under my dock and grabbed a slick beam. 

Buddy’s voice was a distant growl. “Swore I heard a guard! You heard it, Wagner!”

“I heard it!” came Benny’s voice. “But I don’t see one around. Strange, that is!”

“What’s here?” I said again, this time quiet. My voice bounced from water to pier and back to me, like I was in a cave. The voice was deep, rough, clipped. An amalgam a dozen guards. I’d even added a hint of the Fieran accent for good measure. It was a voice that had served me well, both on and off the stage. 

Buddy and his buddies waited around for a few minutes, as if I’d crawl out of the water, so they could give me a proper netting. The cold seeped into me, but I clung to my slimy wooden friend. I was uninterested in being half-drowned, or fully drowned, for that matter, but more importantly, I didn’t have the time to waste. I needed a pig for the show tonight. A simple enough task from Father, but a deeper implication. The Jester of Woeden wrote shows and performed, but there was also a world of logistics. Actors to find and train. Props to commission. I would do it all. I wanted it all, but the logistics were mean as a cheese grater.

Finally, Buddy decided a mug of Myster Mead sounded better than scowling into the Mooncap Sea. He threw my parchment into the water and stomped away, Herold and Benny with him.

I chattered out a sigh. I was safe. Safer, at least. I considered clambering onto the planking but stopped. I’d been in a pinch last week, hiding in a rancid barrel behind a butcher’s shop. I was pursuing my education, as it happened, though things had gone a bit off script. The butcher spent a good minute stalking around the alley, cursing me and my guts. He finally returned to his shop, and I popped out of the barrel. The butcher was a persistent fellow, to his credit. He’d been watching from a window from his shop, and as I exited my hidey-hole, he rushed me and seized the cut of steak I’d just stolen from his shop. 

I’d had to explain I was doing an experiment, for science. I’d already stopped by two butcher’s shops. From the first, I procured a very burnt steak. I transplanted it into the second shop, where I found a grossly undercooked cut discarded by the back door. That undercooked steak was now in his icebox, and all that was left was to put this raw steak in the first shop where the burnt one had been. He said the whole thing was stupid.

“That’s because you’ve spoiled it,” I had said. “Wouldn’t you like to see those butchers’ faces when they realize their steak has transformed?”

His face said he did not.

And so I did not climb out of the water.  I swam east. Castle Lunestone lay on the west end of Woeden, behind me. I’d need to reach the castle eventually, but my best chance at securing a porker now lay on the outskirts of the city, where the Highfields began. Before long, the docks lay far behind me.

I beached in the backyard of a dingy, leaning house. Crammed beside it was another. And another. And another thousand. All of windswept wood. I was in the Reef, the housing slum of the Wharfside district. Dripping wet, with strands of scum clinging to me, I drew stares even here. My fine clothes were now dark and clumpy. A mother paused in hanging wash long enough to eye me severely. Two boys fled into their homes crying of a sea monster. The only folk who liked me, funnily enough, were the fisherman. As I squeezed down a winding street, they nodded to me as though I too were just coming in after a long day. I was quite pleased. That was, until I realized they thought me a fisherman. I’d be a better man if I was, but I’m not. Recent experience pegged me as more of a fish than fisher.

I exited the Reef and hurried toward one of the sprawling squares near the edge of Woeden. One of the best places to trade livestock and goods. Sure enough, the night market was just wrapping up. That was when I saw him. My fairytale knight. Skinny, with a tangle of dusty hair sprouting from his straw hat. He was managing to whistle and chew on a stem of wheat. Best of all, the wagon he was packing up had a pig painted along the side. That, or maybe he’d tossed paint over some scarring in the wood. Only one way to know.

I strode up to him. “Are you aware of economics?”

“Can’t say as I am,” he said cheerfully, then  got a look at me. “You’re a sight, lad!”

I peeled something green off my hand and held it out. “Call me Davis.”

“Flub.”

“Flub?” I asked.

“Flub,”  he said.

“We are well met,” I said, falling into pleasantries. I’d never met a Flub before. I regained my footing at the sight of the three-legged pink blob on his wagon. “Great piece, here.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. “My sister painted it, you know. Very proud, we are.”

“To be sure,” I said. I tapped one of the long, mysterious swipes of paint. “Tell me more about this bit. What is it, exactly?”

“Oh, we just call it pink paint. Not clever, really, but you ought to stop by a shop and ask anyhow. They’ll know what you mean.”

“And I should ask whether it’s the right color for painting pigs?”

He laughed. “Well of course! Why drop pops if you’re getting it wrong? I paid 7 pops for this here paint.”

Target acquired. “You’re quite the business man.”

Flub’s wheat swung as he smiled. “That’s mighty clean of you to say. I just bring pork to market and let the High Master do the rest, like the servants say.” He gestured to a grey-robed man preaching beside a small church at the edge of the square. 

“Wonderful,” I said.  “Do you still have one? A pig, that is.”

Flub grinned. “Bright bit of luck today. Sold both for the first time in weeks!”

“My luck,” I muttered. “I’m in desperate need of a pig. Which butchers did you sell to?” Time was running away from me. Odds said the butchers would be closed. Maybe they’d already butchered the pigs. Even if they were still open, and had a pig, they would be wary to rent it out. I was not on the best terms with several shops. Unfortunately, it was still my best chance. Why hadn’t I listened to Father and just gone to the morning market to rent a pig?

A gleam caught Flub’s eye and he waved toward the Highfields. “Oh, I’ve got more pigs. Don’t worry on that, lad. I could come back for morning market.”

The morning market couldn’t help me. “Would you consider doing a bit of business tonight?”

“Tonight? It’s almost dinner, son.”

“But if the price were right?”

“Well…yes, of course.” and an honest, hopefully look came across his face. “If the price was right.”

My coin pouch held one dilly, 2 squabs, and 4 pops. My father had given me the dilly to rent a pig. That single coin was worth 49 pops, or 7 squabs. It was a fair sum, probably twice what Flub expected. It was a week  of tavern food. A solid set of new clothes. It was potential and freedom.  I hoped to keep it all. “Do you know the shop Tailored Tailoring near the Library?”

“Of course not,” Flub said, taken aback.

“It’s a…tailoring shop with a very interesting history. The father who opened the shop was tailoring a young boy’s shirt. He was the baron’s son. The tailor was so nervous he mistakenly sewed the sleeves together. Before he could apologize, the boy said it was wonderful, and he wanted another. Soon, half the boys in Woeden wanted a “uni-sleeve” shirt from Tailored Tailoring.”

“Are you,” Flub said slowly. “Offering odd shirts?”

“I’m offering to be your baron’s son,” I said. “You see, my father and I are performing for the High Court tonight, and we need a pig for the final act. This pig could  become famous. Discussed in prominent social circles. Ladies will be asking for cuts from ‘Flub’s Pig!’ Knights will fight for it. Taverns will try to keep portions for distinguished guests. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if the castle cook commissions the whole pig for a tournament!”

“A tournament,” Flub said, a faraway look in his eye.

“Folk would pay for a trophy pig.”

He was nodding eagerly. Then, he seemed to remember I was 16 years old, still dripping and slick with scum. “How’s this worked out before?”

This was not a line of questioning I liked. “Not a single hiccup, so should we wrap this-”

“And no one will try stealing Plodders from me. Once he’s famous and all?”

“I very much doubt it.”

Flub looked alarmed. “You don’t know? I can’t lose a pig. My family only gets by, and that’s without famous pigs stolen!”

“That’s why we promise you the coin if there’s a theft,” I said, pulling the parchment from my left pocket. It was quite wrinkled and discolored with water. I did not want to do this, but I had to. It was the only way. I handed it to him, watching to see if my whole plan would fail in an instant. It did not. He eyed the parchment carefully, looking back and forth.

“It’s all quite standard,” I said, pointing to the lines of beautiful, looping gibberish. “A culpability clause, payment pro-rated, and so on. Everything to make sure you get your coin out of a hairy spot”

“Hmm…It seems clean enough. And you just need Plodders tonight?”

“Less than an hour, I said. Just for the finale.

Flub chewed his wheat and reached out. “I’m your man.”

Relief washed over me, and we shook. “Amazing! How soon could you have one to Lunestone.”

 “Lunestone? The castle?” His wheat had fallen to the cobblestones. “Really, well that’s…that’s, it’s past the market! In the city!” He gripped his wagon wheel. “I don’t much like town past the market.”

“But you’ll just go straight down the main street until you hit the castle.” I pointed down the road to the distance form of the pale castle. Look, you can see the towers there.”

“That’s close enough,” Flub said sharply. He seemed a little pale himself. He was now leaning against the wagon as though I’d just punched him in the gut. The man was plainly petrified of the city.

“Alright,” I said gently. All this for a pig. I couldn’t do this to Flub. I’d find some other way. Something else to bring to the performance. Life was improvisation on and off the stage. “Flub,” I said. “I haven’t been plain with you. We’ve never made a pig famous before. The rich would not seek out Plodder for top coin. I doubt the High Court would remember the pig once it left the stage. I was just trying to be clever and borrow a pig for free. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

I pulled the dilly from my pouch and flipped it to him. The fat gold coin winked in the torchlight and landed in his surprised  palm. I was halfway across the square when his voice stopped me.

“You jesters,” he said, “are an odd breed. A dilly.” He chuckled. “I thought you mighta been tugging my tail, but to apologize in gold. Mighty clean of you.” He sighed, looking toward Lunestone, and said the last thing I expected. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Then he was back in the seat of the wagon, flicking reigns and heading east. “With Plodders!” He called over his shoulder.

The break was nerve-racking, especially when the belltower played 7 bells of a scale. My guts dropped as I realized the performance was starting, but I waited for Flub.  And waited. Another half hour tolled from the tower, and I began wondering if I’d been duped. Who would blame a farmer for lifting a Dilly off a stuck-up jester’s son that had only moments before tried to dupe him? Once he reached the highfields, he would disappear into an ocean of grains and cottages. He would be gone.

I laughed. It was the rich, honest laugh of a man that knows he is a fool. 

Several folks still packing up from the market pointedly ignored me. They’d seen enough thieves and thieved leave this stretch of cobblestone. The servant, sermon long concluded, was sweeping the steps of the small church. He glanced up and caught my eye, but I turned away. I stared stubbornly toward the east. Maybe, just maybe Flub was late. If not, I’d take an alley cat. Or maybe grab a-”

“The High Master,” came a gentle voice, “may find you a different pig.” It was the servant, of course. An older man, his robe probably predated me. Although the cloth was patched and worn, he was clean and well-groomed.

“I don’t have time,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even. “He’s late, but if he shows up in the next minute or two, we can still make it. Father can stall. He’ll wait for us.”

“Of course,” The servant said. His broom found a spot on the cobblestone and began its murmuring scratch. “And if Flub doesn’t?”

“I’ll find another way.”

“To be the son of a jester. I can’t imagine.”

“No, you can’t,” I said.

“Show after show. Act after act. Scripts and jokes and tasks and weight. There would be so much weight, all building to the day you will be the jester.”

“Not weight,” I said. “Purpose. Nothing could be more important.”

The servant chuckled, light as a leaf. “Oh, you may change your tune on that someday, Davis.”

I started. “How do you know my name?”

He patted my shoulder. “I’ve seen you and your father. Besides, you have a carrying voice, son. Remember that,” He sighed. “It’s time I return to my steps. May you follow the Master.” He ambled back toward the church, sweeping slowly. I watched him go, surprised he remembered me.

“Mighty sorry bout that,” Came Flub’s chagrined voice behind me. “My wife had a bit of fresh pie out the oven. I tried bringing you a piece. To celebrate, see.” He was seated in the wagon, a slice of something brown beside him. It looked as though you’d taken a slice of pie and shook it for an hour.

I jumped into the seat. “You said half an hour! Whatever, let’s go!”

“I had a few slices for myself,” Flub admitted, flicking the reins. We trundled forward onto the Furrowfare. The street was packed, potholed dirt stretching across the entire city to Lunestone. The main east-west road for merchants and wagoneers.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just a bit wound up right now. Anyway, let’s see the beauty.” I peered into the wagon and saw the fattest pig of my life. “You’re sure Plodders didn’t have a few slices?”

“Plodders don’t like pie,” Flub reflected. We pitched into a crater, and the pig jiggled like a plate of jello. “But we do feed him good. We like a little blub on the bacon.”

“A little meat too?”

The pie was still quite delicious, I found, as we trundled along the Furrowfare for another half hour. We drew strange looks. My clothes had dried considerably, and the purple of my shirt was drawing some eyes. The color of a jester, or his son. I still carried a healthy speckling of dock scum to accent the shirt, but it was enough to make people jostle others and point.

“Can your horse go any faster?” I asked Flub.

“I wish,” Flub said. He was tightlipped, eyes stuck to the point just before the horse. 

“We can turn around if you need to,” I said quietly, but he just pulled his brim lower.

The ride took ages. I kept waiting for the toll of the belltower. I tried busying myself by peeling off scum. I also discovered one adventurous snail that clung to my sleeve. As we approached Lunestone, Flub couldn’t help peeking up at the castle. I wondered if he’d ever seen it up close. Graceful white stone towers. Handsome bridges leaping across every expanse to form a spiderweb of gleaming, shining stone. Day or night, the stone could twinkle with light. With the Mooncap Sea shimmering behind, Lunestone looked of another world.

When we finally pulled into the Lunestone courtyard, the belltower rang out 8 descending notes. “That’s when the performance was meant to end,” I said. “Come on! Father can stall a few minutes, but we need to get Plodders to the Den!”

I pointed toward the path leading from the courtyard to the baroness’ grove of gardens. To the rather underwhelming building at the center of the gardens. “There!”

Flub took a wide board strapped along the wagon wall and laid it down like a ramp. “Easier getting pigs off than on, but never easy.” He wedged two stones at the foot of the ramp, and then he was in the wagon with Plodders. Cajoling, pointing, poking. But the pig had fallen quite asleep during our rocking ride. “My Master,” Flub muttered, staring hard at Plodders.  “Fine, you beast. Here she comes.”

It was the strangest thing I’d seen all day. Flub drew some kind of dark, shrivelled stick from his pocket and waved it around Plodders’ face. His voice rose into a bumpy lullaby. “Ms. Daisy, oh Ms. Daisy! Won’t you like some Ms. Daisy! In the fields she was so perky. In the cellar she is jerky!” As if by magic, the pig’s eyes opened. But of course there was no magic. If there was, Flub would be tackled by guards and thrown into the dungeon, or worse. I wondered how often the pig had heard that tune. It snorted, then caught sight of the misshapen hunk of jerky. Plodders jiggled forward, and then Flub was scampering down the ramp. 

She thundered down behind him, and I was sprinting toward the garden path. “Here!”

Flub was all knees and elbows as he raced after me, his wheat askew and straw hat bouncing. The jerky was in a death grip. The sound of Plodders’ hooves barking against the cobblestone followed us like a cavalry charge. I couldn’t help but laugh. I’d done it! My legs ate the ground as I stretched ahead of Flub and reached the Den. I bolted past the front entrance, and slid to a stop at the side door tucked between two apple trees. I threw it open.

I was in the side stage. A dark alley of a room, with racks of clothes, props, and oddities. Several actors startled at the sight of me, breathing hard and grinning madly. They wore a mix of peasant costumes, no doubt having just come off the stage. The stage. I raised my eyes and saw it. Aglow with torchlight, it was a stretch of handsome dark wood. From my angle, I couldn’t see any of the audience. Only my father. He stood alone in the center, grand as a king. Gestures wide, voice deep, he commanded attention. His solid frame and greying beard gave him a gravity that drew the spectator in, whether he were acting the king or fool. He was the actor in perfect control. Who knew the sketch through and through, yet never gave the audience a rote performance. Tonight would not be rote.

I clapped once, hard. My father did not turn, did not blink, but I heard the barest shift in his baritone. Something only I could hear through his king’s accent. Relief.

“Ok,” I hissed to the actors around me. Two seconds a pig comes through. Chase it across the stage!”

“Our son? I’m afraid not, my lady,” My father said.

“Pig?” A man asked, and then Flub shouldered past me, positively terrified. He kept running, straight across the stage. Plodders burst through the door frame after him.

“Go!” I shouted.

In two seconds, the stage transformed from a stately monologue to chaos. Flub froze at the sight of the audience and promptly fainted. Plodders, at long last, was scarfing up Ms. Daisy. The actors I’d startled were now a confused bunch standing around the pig awkwardly. All the better for the scene. And I was standing beside my father.

“This,” My father said, hand coming to my shoulder. “This is our son. Turn around, dear. That’s a pig.”

Surprised barks of laughter, followed by the swelling roar of laughter, cheering, whistling, and clapping that is the lifeblood of every performer. We waited for the swell to crest, and as one, we bowed. Curtains closed, and the audience’s approval gently faded.

Like watching ripples leave a pond, I saw the facade fall from my father. He sighed and headed into the wing, where he sat on a crate of masks. 

I emptied my coin pouch into my hand. 2 squab and 4 pops. Not much, but enough to settle my conscience. I roused Flub, who seemed quite out of sorts waking up in a strange place with a pig scrounging around his hand.

“A down payment,” I said. “A noble came by while you were out. He plans to stop by within the week to buy Plodders!”

“Down payment?” Flub asked weekly.

“And he said if he isn’t able to purchase Plodders this week, you should sell her at the market, just as you would.”

Flub pushed himself up, looking like a boy that found a pie on the sill. “Do you have any more performances for pigs? I’ve got lots of pigs!”

Considering this venture had cost me all my worldly capital, I was not keen for another round. “We won’t want to oversaturate the prize pig market, of course, but I will come straight to you the next time we need one.”

“You’re mighty clean,” Flub said appreciatively. He drew another shrivelled jerky from a pocket and began leading Plodders back toward the wagon.

That left me and Father. A waterskin rested beside his crate, always placed there before the show. That was supposed to be my job. I wanted to apologize for that. For being late. To explain what had happened. I had been selfish. I’d wanted to keep the dilly, sure, but more than that I wanted to find a different way to earn the pig. 

Father cleared his throat, dark eyes meeting mine. “How are you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I was trying to be clever, I shouldn’t have wasted the day and then-”

His hand rose, as patient and immovable as stone. He eased me down to the crate of prop shields I always took. “You smell of salt and mystery mead. Your clothes are a wreck. You gave a farmer all your coin, if I may guess. I’ll have the story later, but are you alright?”

“I am,” I said. “I learned so much today.” In younger years, I would have rested my head against his shoulder while we watched the torches burn low. Now, I stood and offered Father a hand. 

Father stood. “In your lessons?”

“Of course. I read there’s a pecan pie waiting for us upstairs.”

He was a wonderful actor, but now he tried and failed to look disappointed. “Another?”

“I merely saved someone the trouble of bringing it to our rooms.”

He chuckled. It was the best sound in the world.

Chapter 2: Eldergrain Grove

The morning would have been beautiful. Sunlight tumbled through our window, and a breeze tickled the curtain. Father slept in the fine bed across the room. My cot was tucked into the corner beneath the window. I caught the barest whiff of bacon and fresh bread. The staff was already making breakfast rounds in the hallway. We’d slept in. 

I swung off the cot and hurried into our sitting room. On one side sat a small table with two chares along with a bench. Another wall held three bursting bookshelves. Elsewhere there were a few cupboards. The middle of the room was curiously empty. I darted across the room and eased the door open. There, swaying down the hallway, was a glorious site.

The breakfast cart trundled along laden with platters of still-spitting bacon, warm bread with butter and honey, sausage. Pitchers of juice and chilled milk. Every bump the cart rolled over made the drinks dance, the column of steam break. Someone was pulling the whole thing along. But as the cart came level with me, my eyes fell on the tiny, wispy grandmother hobbling behind the breakfast cart.

“Mimi, you look wonderful!”

“Better than you, anyhow,”

“Fair enough,” I was not going to argue the point, especially before she’d filled our plates. “We’ll take-”

“You’ll take,” she said severely. “What I put on your plate. You know I’ve been doing this for ages.”  I’ve started her again, I thought. It was best to let her tire herself out. She pointed a gnarled finger. “I’ve passed plates since before you were born. Your father too. The only thing bigger than a boy’s stomach is his eyes. You’d take the whole cart if I let you! What then! I’d have let your mother make her own plate. She had sense. But a boy of…” She trailed off, though this was not the first time this month I’d had to buttress her lecture.

“16,” I said.

She thumped a bony fist on the cart. “16! Of course! You have it all figured. Well, you wouldn’t last a day in the kitchen. Proper work, that would be! We’ll see how smart your tongue is when your fingers look like this!” She held up her wrinkled digits threateningly. Her voice dropped. “That is, if you’ve still got fingers. I’ve seen fingers chopped. Toes, too! You might get burned, scalded, fried. My great grandson got switched up bad while peeling potatoes. He-”

“He sounds lovely,” I said. I had to stop her before she really got going. “You know, I was just going to say we’ll take whatever you please.”

“Oh,” she said, face clearing in an instant. “That’s a boy. Always mannered, you are.” She began loading up two plates with heaping portions. She smiled kindly. “I expect those manners are your mother’s coming through, even after…well, how long has it been?”

“Plates, plates.” My voice was starting to waver. Something blocked my throat.

She did not pass them. “It must be 15 years now. Yes, yes, it’s all coming back. Strange, how memory comes in clumps, doesn’t it? She was exiled from the city?” Mimi poured our cups absently. “Was that Baroness Helna’s business, or did we still have Baron Grimmox? Helna, wasn’t it?”

“Stop,” I tried to say. I felt too light, as if I might drift away in the slightest wind.

“My dear,” Mimi said. “I didn’t know you were still sore. You were only a baby, after all. We’ve talked of your mother before.”

“Not today.”

A long breath, and she understood. Then two warm plates were in my hand, and she was guiding me to my own table. Two glasses of milk appeared. My vision seemed to be blurring, shimmering.

Mimi returned with a pair of bread rolls, and slowly set to buttering them. “There’s salt in the butter for a reason.” She said gently. “You come down if you need anything.”

I was still staring at the roll when Father came. He settled into the chair beside me. “Mimi?”

I nodded. I was supposed to be the one cheering him today. I cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. She just surprised me. I wasn’t ready to think about Mother yet today.”

“Never apologize for love. Not to me. Your mother and I knew-” he coughed suddenly, and took a long drink.

“Knew what?”

“Knew we were in love.” Father organized his plate into neat piles of food. He laid a handkerchief across his lap, straightened his silverware. Finally, he looked up and smiled.

I studied his face, so familiar. Tanned and angled, it was a strong face. But was the smile a little forced now? An illusion? Was he putting on a show for me, protecting me? Time to return the favor.

I crunched into my bacon. “I for one am grateful for you and mother. She must have been lovely. Even with a clod like you involved, she still made me handsome.”

“Let us drink to that,” Father said, and we did.

When breakfast was done, Father said the words I always dreaded on this day. “Do you remember your mother’s last request of me?”

“Pray for her return.”

Father waited.

“At Eldergrain Grove. On her day of exile.”

Father nodded. “Then, let’s go.”

It was a quiet walk down the hall and onto one of the graceful arcing bridges. From the bridge, the view of Woeden was dazzling. A patchwork of streets, neighborhoods, shops, markets, manors. Dark woods and polished stones. Morning dew blanked it all and was ablaze with the sunlight. Everything seemed sharper today. Elder Way stretched to the north. The Furrowfare to the east. The two main roads divided the city into three sections. Elder Way headed north from Lunestone and separated the nobility’s Crownwood District from Fieldward, the heart of the city. The Furrowfare divided Fieldward from Wharfside. From our view, the city stretched out almost like a hand. Lunestone as the palm. The Crownwood District was the thumb. Fieldward was the next three, with Wharfside as the little finger. A very big hand. 

 The bridge led us toward the courtyard, from which we joined Elder Way. Three times as wide as most streets, it still managed to be congested. Noise swelled as we stepped onto the street. 

People stretched in a mile long river. The street itself could scarcely be seen. Merchants bellowed. People shouted. Children darted through the crowd like minnows. I smelled roast boar, and heard the discordant music that could always be found on Elder Way. A lutist was plucking with all the precision and care of someone pulling hairs. A man, not 20 feet farther along, was slapping an overturned barrel drunkenly. Elsewhere I heard pipes and the high, sweet noise of a flute. To my left, a woman was struggling to convert a crate of bruised apples into cider. A puddle of juice lay around her little cider press.

“Our lady sings at the Veil tonight!” a chorus of children called. “Lady at the Veil! Violet’s Veil! Tonight!” Cheaply hired, hollers were a common means to spread news. They could also be quite annoying.

“We ought to hire a group of hollers someday,” Father said.

I could see where this was going. “And what would they say?”

“Anything,” Father replied, and out came the half smile that beat a roaring crowd. “Our apples are mushy!”

I snorted. “Our ladyship requires lettuce!”

“Is anyone collecting furballs?”

We amused ourselves for several minutes with various slanders, quips, and gibberish, until the way grew impossibly thick. Solid bodies. We slowed to a shuffle, squeezing forward step by step. The source of the congestion turned out to be a group of pop players. Five in total, two of them held the backdrop--a painted bedsheet with the greens and muds of an abstract forest. The other three poppers were acting out some dramatic scene. I was too far to hear, details, but it seemed one stick was a sword, while a slightly longer stick may have been a wizard’s staff. The two were engaged in a duel that consisted mostly of facial expressions and slow, grand movements. The 5th and final player raised his stick gravely, pulling back an imaginary string. He sighted on the wizard. In one moment, the wizard realized he was caught between the sword and arrow.

A sudden thunderous crack filled the air, louder and sharper than a crashing boulder, and the wizard stood proudly over the fallen knight and archer. One of the players holding the painted sheet was sliding some glass vial into his pocket. Clever touch. Some sort of chemical reaction, probably purchased from an apothecary. The investment paid off. The bubble around the entertainers popped as folk hurried forward to drop a pop into a bowl.

“Surprise,” Father said, “makes us young. A child in a wide, bright world.”

I saw no reason to disagree.

Before long, the crowd began to thin, so slowly you hardly noticed. You didn’t have to squeeze sideways through gaps. Then, you began to see the rare path forward for several steps. And then the crowd began to consist of large groups rather than one bubbling mass. Finally, it thinned to a comfortable flow.

“We’re nearly there,” Father said.

To our left stood Rounds, a plain, sturdy looking inn that was a favorite of the nobles. Across the street grinned Majure’s, like a weed beside an oak.  Exotic smells flooded from Majure’s little tavern. I’d heard stories that the tavern served nothing but bugs, roots, and rainwater. Still better than most, probably.

We turned off Elder Way and suddenly there were no merchants, no hollers, no players, no crowd. Instead, there was a high, black gate running around a small, dark forest in the heart of Woeden. The Eldergrains. Two knights in gleaming plate stood beside the entrance. These were not typical city guard. These men stood two heads above my father and rested their hands on the hilt easily. 

“We’d pray,” Father said.

“Names,” the first knight rumbled.

“Herold Jester,” Father said. “And Davis Jester.”

“You have one hour,” the knight said. “You will not touch a tree. You will not take anything from the Eldergrains, whether it be on the tree or on the ground. Do not speak with anything in the wood. Only sit on stone. Do you understand?”

“We do,” Father said.

They swung the gates open, and the other knight said. “Break any of these, and we will not rescue you. We will leave you.”

Lovely. We entered the wood, and sound died as I stepped onto the bed of fine grass. There was a small spray of green, lush grass before the forest erupted. A few walking paths squeezed between the black trunks, but it was the canopy that drew the eyes. Nestled among the dark green leaves were apples, blackberries, apricots, pecans, and cherries. Strawberries hung like vines, and a dozen other fruits and berries shimmered among the darkness. But it was not the fruit for which these trees were guarded and worshipped.

The gates locked behind us, and Father took the middle path. There was only a whisper of wind, as though the trees were breathing around us. The air was moist and sweet as a bathhouse. We moved slower than in the thickest of crowds, careful to stay on the path and avoid the limb of mangoes to our right, the crown of gooseberries overhead. We were sidling between two thickets when I saw the eyes. Two luminous coins gleaming from a high branch. They blinked, pupils yellow as egg yolks. 

“What lives here?” I asked.

“It’s of no matter to us,” Father said. “Remember the rules.”

“What happens if we speak to something?”

“We won’t be finding out.”

“If we’re talking and something in here overhears, does that count?”

Father stopped cold. “Do not make a game of today.” There was nothing in his tone to belay the anger. His stance was relaxed. But I knew I’d made a mistake. Today was not about my curiosity. Eldergrain Grove was not a place for my small jokes. My purpose here was to support Father. 

“I’m sorry,” I told Father. I seemed to be apologizing a lot lately. “I’ll follow your lead.”

He led us deeper, and suddenly the trail blossomed into a broad clearing of grass and wildflowers surrounded by the dark, fruited eldergrains. In the center of the clearing stood a single tree, gray with age. It was twisted, humpbacked as an old man. A scraggle of warted walnuts was all this tree could produce. And yet a stone bench sat before the tree. We moved closer, and the center of its trunk, at eye level, began to look strange. Some kind of hollow. Closer still, and a carved figure emerged in the heart of the tree. The High Master, carved into priceless eldergrain wood.

Father bowed low, and I hurried to follow suit. I was out of practice at bowing to trees, but I managed. Father and I sat. We were close enough to see the strands carved into the shoulder length hair. The angle of his chin. A ripple of his cloak. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen a better carving. I could admire the artistry, and the minutes dribbled by as I noticed the finely whittled fingernails and belt buckle. No detail was overlooked. But even a perfect carving is still a chunk of wood. It was my misfortune that three things happened at once. First, I lost interest in my object of examination. Two, Father chose that moment to move from the stone bench to kneel directly before the tree. Third and worst was the yellow eyes returned, blinking to my right. 

I tried to ignore them, honestly. I stared hard at the icon of the Master, but the weight of the eyes was like ants crawling over my back. I considered telling Father. He would know what to do, but how could I distract him from the one thing Mother had asked him to do. In the end, I did what seemed best to me, as happens with most mistakes. I stood quietly, careful not to disturb Father. I was quiet as a snake as I slipped through the grass toward the yellow eyes at the edge of the clearing. I would just shoo off whatever was watching and return to Father. I could sit and stare at a tree for the rest of the hour, thinking of jokes and ways to brighten Father’s day. It was the least I could do after the morning I’d given him. But when I stopped before the first of the trees, the eyes had gone out like a pinched candle. In their place was a very odd sound indeed. Something you’d never expect to hear in the heart of Eldergrain Grove. Talking.

“Magic is never your aegis. Mages are never your allies.” The voice was exhausted, slurred.

Strange words to be spoken in the dark of a wood. Words taught to every child. You’d find nobody to disagree with them publicly throughout the entire Barony. Still, folk avoided the topic like, well, magic. 

“Mango today, apple tomorrow. Then grapes. So many grapes! But I must wait. Patience. Always patience.”

The voice sounded close. Maybe a dozen steps away. If I just pushed aside a branch. I glanced behind. Father’s back was to me. He was bowed in prayer. I might disturb him when I returned. I might as well stand here for a while. I eyed the foliage and shifted to the side. Still thick as a fresh coat of paint. I moved farther. Farther. That’s when I found the gap. Though it was only the size of a dilly, I saw something fascinating.

A small glade lay behind the eldergrains. A rill, only a handspan wide, gurgled across the space. It passed near a tree tucked into the clearing. From my angle, the tree seemed tiny, miniature. Maybe up to a man’s chest. Still, it boughed beneath the wait of fruit like any healthy eldergrain. This was odd enough, but odder still were the dark iron rungs embedded in the trunk. Chains hung from the brackets. I stood on tiptoes, and saw what the iron links imprisoned. Who they chained.

He was an old man with the filthy, tangled beard that is a mark of pride or disgrace depending on your social circle. He sat against the trunk, with the rill running just beside him. His eyes were turned toward a plump mango growing just over his shoulder. 

“So close,” his voice pierced the stillness. His hand drifted up, and he pulled it back down. “Almost ready, but wait! Do not rush now! Not after watching for days. Do not ruin it.” He took three deep breaths, settling back into the trunk. The shadows must be playing with my eyes because the whole tree seemed to hug him, as though the trunk were indented and the branches curved around his resting place. How long has he been here? He sighed, eyes on the mango. He closed his eyes and turned away. “Magic is never your aegis. Mages are never your allies. Magic is never…” He went on. Voice growing sleepier and thicker with each verse of the litany. Finally, he slipped into sleep. 

I might still have returned to Father and left the grove without violating a rule, but I was moved with pity for this poor man. He was literally chained to a tree, rationing out his meals. I checked once more that Father was deep in prayer. I, too, wished for Mother to be able to return. For Baroness Helna to lift the exile. But I didn’t need a tree. I could do it.

I pushed through the eldergrains. The leaves were like warmed velvet brushing my arms and face. The whole world was cloying soft and sweet. Lavender, citrus, peppermint. Like the strongest tea kettle. I was stepping from the trees when something seized my arm. Panic spiked, and I yanked hard, but my arm wouldn’t budge. I thought of the glowing yellow eyes, and I threw myself forward. There was a hard, biting pain across my forearm, and I was free. I dove into the glade, scrambling to escape whatever was chasing me, but there was nothing. I looked back and saw a gently swaying vine. It must have trapped my arm somehow. I took a slow breath. It was alright. Now, time to help the man.

“You’re a sprightly lad!” 

It was the man, of course, sounding much more alert than the drunken slur of his mantra. I was standing five paces from him, just outside the reach of his little tree. The rill bubbled between us.

“Sorry,” I said. I really had to stop saying that. “I had a bit of a scare. I thought something in the trees tried to grab me.”

“It’s only Luna and the birds,”  he said like he was an innkeeper informing me of the dinner options. “I’m afraid neither would do that for you.” He nodded to my arm, which I was shocked to see. My sleeve had evidently ripped off at the elbow. A scrape ran across my forearm, red and angry.

“Great, now I’m bleeding. Listen, sir, I just came through to pick you some fruit. I have to get right back to Father. What would you like to eat?”

That drew a dry, wheezy sound from him. I worried I’d killed the poor fellow until I saw his beard bouncing up and down in laughter. 

“What’s so funny?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in his chain range quite yet, so I pointed at a farther tree laden with fruit. “What do you want? Strawberries and apples?”

“Not for me.”

I paused, already halfway to the tree. The man looked in no shape to be picky. “Do you want something more? Nuts?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.”

Father could discover me missing any second. “I have to leave, but I really wanted to help you. There’s a whole tree here. What do you want?”

“I want it all,” he said. “I want to hold a cup. I want meat. A bath and a shave. Everything.” He sighed, and his gray, watery eyes found his mango again. “But this is all I can have.”

“Nobody’s guarding you,” I said.

This drew another wheeze, and my patience expired. Suddenly I was at an eldergrain, pulling down apples, grapes, pecans, oranges. I carried the heaping armload to him and set it over the rill, just at his side. 

“Enjoy!” I called over my shoulder. “If someone cares, blame it on me.”

But there would be no enjoying. I heard cracks like branches breaking in the dead of winter. Hisses like a cat. When I turned, the fruit I’d given him was gone. Instead, there was a mound of brown, shrivelled lumps. Before my eyes, they disintegrated and dripped into the grass like tar.

“My curse,” he said.

It’s hard to laugh when your stomach is in your throat. This was no drunken whisper of magic. This was a man chained to a tree in the heart of Woeden. The grove that the entire city blossomed around. I watched the black muck bleed into the grass. It was like oil. Glossy, viscous as it pooled into the grass. And then, all trace of the substance faded. My eyes were glued to that patch of pleasant, green grass. There was nothing there. It didn’t make any sense.

“I’ve seen that face,” he said.

“Was that…”

“Magic,” the old man sighed, “was better left in stories.”

“No,” I said automatically. Then, I thought about it. Every story I knew involving magic led to warts, death, or someone being stuck as a rabbit forever. There was also the permanent threat that the Caelish would sail cross the Mooncaps, invading Barony with magic. Folk worried they could fly across like eagles, or simply appear wherever they willed. Folk had fretted for a hundred years with hardly a single mage even crossing the sea to keep the fear alive. At least, that’s what I heard. I was proud to maintain a strict practice of neglecting my studies, which included the Histories of Barony. In one of those dusty tomes, there was surely a list of each mage, magical or fraudulent, that had entered the country since the Chasm some 500 or 1,000 years back. The date of that war was undoubtedly hidden in a book somewhere. I’d recently heard from a cobbler, however, of the last wizard to come through. The man had apparently washed up a few years ago. He’d been nearly mad and harmless as a slug. After a stint in the dungeons, he’d prattled around Woeden for some time before wandering off. “Not all magic ends badly,” I told the man. 

I wished I had more details to support my argument because his face hardened. “Magic is never your aegis! Mages are never your allies!”

“Ok, ok. I agree,” I said. He’d certainly had a bad go of it, considering the curse and all. “How’d you get here, if you don’t mind saying?”

He settled back against the trunk, looking relieved. His eyes drifted back to the mango.

I kneeled down just beside the water. “What’s your name?”

He flinched at the sight of me. “Great gods, lad! Find your manners! Sneaking about!”

Something clicked. I didn’t know the play, but I knew the part. I bowed from my crouched position. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to surprise you.”

“Well, that’s very good of you,” he said. “What do you need?”

I needed 20 minutes to hear his story and find some way to help him, but I couldn’t have it. “I’ve been instructed to deliver this letter to you,” I said, handing him a parchment from my left pocket. His manacles jangled as he reached and took the letter gingerly as a blade. 

He broke the seal and frowned at the script. “What is this?”

I feigned confusion and peered at the parchment. It, of course, contained a scrawl of gibberish. “Sincerest apologies! My master often tinkers with his pet languages. I must have taken the wrong parchment by mistake. Would you ever mind signing the page, just to…” I scrambled. “My master collects signatures, is all.”

He didn’t bat an eye at my blasphemous mention of a master. He just gave a half shrug. “Odd sort. You’ll bring that letter soon? I haven’t gotten letters in…” he trailed off as I dipped my broken quill and passed it to him. He poised the nib over the paper. Ink budded. He shifted his grip, and ink dripped once, twice. He cleared his throat as the blot began to spread. Finally, he pushed the quill and parchment toward me. “Nothing comes to mind. It’s really the strangest feeling.”

“Would you go by Talabaster?” I asked. “It’s a fine name for the time being?”

“Yes,” he said absently, eyes already rising to his mango. “Talabaster.”

“I’ll be back soon,” I promised, tucking my supplies away. He’d returned once more to that secluded corner of his mind, and I slipped quietly into the eldergrain hedge. My plan was nearly blown as a silver cat sidled past me, huge yellow eyes watching. It had no horns or stingers, as far as I could see. It purred as it brushed by. When all was still, I entered the clearing with Father.

He was still bowed in prayer. For that, I could thank the High Master. I brushed off some twigs and leaves as I looped behind him to settle on the bench. I looked mostly normal, save for the long scrape across my forearm. I’d have to cover for that. I waited several long minutes for Father to straighten from his bow.  I steeled myself. Stupidity pays twice. He sighed and began to stand. I lurched forward and let my weight pull me off the bench. I landed hard on my arm and cried out. Father turned to see me in a pile. 

I groaned and pushed myself up. “Leg fell asleep. I scraped my arm pretty well though.”

Father eyed my arm and helped pull me to my feet. “You’re alright, though?”

“Yeah, my leg’s feeling better already.”

He was quiet. After a look around the clearing, he began leading us back along the path. The reaching limbs and vines now seemed more inviting, less aggressive. We were in the thickest of the wood when Father stopped me.

“You went off. Against the knights’ command. Against me. Against your mother.”

I couldn’t deny the fact. “I didn’t mean to. I wanted to scare off Luna--the cat--before she distracted you. But I saw a man chained to a tree. I had to help him.

Father sighed. “You were right to, but you shouldn’t have. You know that.”

I fiddled with the quill in my pocket.

“But you couldn’t help him,” Father said.

I looked up. “How do you know?”

The ghost of a smile. “I did the same at your age.”

“You broke the rule?”

“I made the rule,” Father corrected. “I had a bit of a sketch with him. Moony, I called him. I’d bring folk out to watch the skit. But the baroness wasn’t fond of so many people seeing the curse. It made them uneasy. She posted the knights, and I doubt Moony has seen more than a few people in the years since.”

“Why was he cursed?” I asked. “And how long has he been there? Why didn’t you visit him today?”

“I don’t know,” Father said. “Some things are best left in memory. You’re young. Your best memories lay ahead. Mine don’t.”

“But we must live as if they do. Isn’t that what Mother wanted?”

“Your mother,” Father said, and now he did smile. “I see her in you. Your best parts.” He brushed a burr off my shoulder. “But you’ve also got me.”

Chapter 3: To Hear a Song

You can overhear a great deal while hiding in alleys. I preferred barrels, but it didn’t matter much whether you were under a cart or behind crates. You just had to be quiet and hidden. I’d gone for a different approach this time. I was sprawled across a Crownwood District alley, kissing cobbles as they say. I’d spent the morning holed up, reading Shape of Mind under Bethany’s blinkless gaze. Most tutors changed professions or caught a cold after a few sessions with me. Bethany was a stubborn sort, and this morning she’d vowed to keep me in the chair until I could recount Alzaman’s five streams of thought. I’d spent the first few minutes learning about Hunters, Helpers, Healers, Hiders, and Howlers. The next hour was devoted to wearing Bethany down. She was nearly as old as Mimi, and seemed in no rush to enjoy her remaining years on this side of the grass. Finally, I gave in. She may be content to twiddle away the day, but I wasn’t. I rattled off the definitions and was finally released. In 20 minutes, I found myself face down on cobblestone, something cold wicking into my sleeve. 

I could have borrowed a nice barrel for my excursion, but those streams of thought had gotten me thinking, much as I hated to admit it. I was curious. I looked like any drunkard drowsing off too many mugs, and I wondered how someone would react. Which stream of thought would emerge? Would I be hunted for coin, of which I had none, or would some healer make sure I was alright? I also hoped Bethany might become alarmed at my scholarly fervor and decide to tutor another pupil. Most importantly, I was just bored. And so here I was. An edge of stone patiently bit into my knee. A lump of something was wedged under my shoulder. I hadn’t picked the most comfortable patch of stone, but that was all part of the performance.

I was already soaking up some unnamed liquids, so I focused instead on soaking up the scents and sounds. This alley had the usual earthy musk you’d expect, but there were exotic, fruity notes too. No wonder. The building beside me was Violet’s Veil, one of the finest and newest taverns in all of Woeden. So named after the story of the woman who wished for riches and was cursed to cry tears of gold, silver, and copper. Folk at the higher tables drank Winnow’s Wine and Mintwood Brandy. Even at the lower tables there would be good ale and plenty of leaf for the smokers. All free. Folk at the Veil paid with conversation, not coin. I could see one high window from my humble view, and it was no surprise that a steady arm of smoke reached up the side of the wall. I also heard the murmur of music.

I watched the crawling smoke for some time before I was mugged. It was all quite casual. The man whistled his way down the alley before pausing beside me. He reached down to my coin pouch like he was scratching a cat. He shook it, sighed, and left. He didn’t even bother to check my other pockets, or the soles of my boots, or under my tongue. Sure, I didn’t have a pop to my name, but it would have been nice of him to give me a little credit. He was the laziest thief I’d ever met, including myself.

He was turning the corner when I heard the sound that changed my life. The music that would ultimately move me to bravery, stupidity, and all the rest. Her voice was the faintest whisper through the window. Too soft for words. Just the gentle drip of honeyed sounds dancing through a song. I’d heard nothing like it. I needed to see her. In a moment, I’d gained my feet, rounded the corner, and barreled into my thief. 

“You!” he cried, but I was already pushing past him toward the crowd bubbling at the front door of Violet’s Veil. The signpost showed the lazy form of a curling, purple veil. The clot of people blocking the door was as varied as they came. Bankers, farmers, cobblers, cooks, musicians, and noblemen, all with the goal of getting through that door. My goal. And time was running. What if she was gone before I saw her?

The doormen were thick and unmoving as trees. The two men were planted beside the door as plea after plea assailed them.

“I made ‘lady’s soap’ this morn. It’s a story!”

“You drink Hillhigh Ale?” a stocky man asked. “Of course you do. Well, thank me. I was involved in brokering the deal with Lady Reave to provide Hillhigh here at the Veil.”

One of the doormen turned an eye on the young man. “Chavalae lets no one near his deals.”

The young man turned red. “Well, I still drove the ale here, didn’t I!”

The doormen shook his head and waved the man off. It was like water. Others flooded toward the new opening.

“I broke a bone this morning!”

“I broke three!”

“I dug up a troll tooth!”

That caught appropriate attention, and I couldn’t help but pause. The woman was dirty from the elbows down, apron spackled with dirt and clay. She held something lumpy and yellow overhead. It looked vaguely like a small helmet had been overlaid with earwax and left to dry in the sun. Both doormen waved her forward. For a moment, I considered trying to slip by while they were focused on her, but the single door was too narrow. Even for a sprightly lad like me, there would be no sneaking. Not through the door, at least. My eyes turned toward the alley.

I was back under the window, breaths of the girl’s beautiful song drifting over the rumble of conversation around the corner. 20 feet of pockmarked stone stretched between me and the window. The grooves between the stones were almost nonexistent. Poor handholds, excellent workmanship. I cursed Lady Reave’s seemingly inexhaustible wealth. She’d even hired the best masons for her new rumor mill. The only mason I needed was one that was 20 feet tall to hoist me up there. 

I settled for climbing. I was not the best climber, and this wall was not the best surface. I hoped the two would cancel out. Just in case they didn’t, I rolled a cart of molding food scraps under the window. A ladder would have been better, but there were only a few barrels about. With my safety plan firmly in place, I began to climb. At least, I tried to. I positioned my feet and clung to the meager handholds with all my strength. I reached, grabbed, and pulled, but my weight suddenly pulled me off the wall like a barn door, and I flopped into my rotten vegetable pool. Now, the back of my purple shirt was wet as well. No matter, I squelched free from the cartbed, clambered up to my starting position, and took a breath. I could still hear her, but I sensed the end of the song coming, just as you can sense the end of a conversation you’ve only just overheard. My fear lent me strength, and I made it another five feet up the wall before my foot slipped. Then, I slipped. Then, I was back in veg.

Her song trickled to an end as I splattered into the cart for the fourth time. I rested there, defeated. Bits of tomato and apple peel sprinkled my arms. Something very sticky had collected in my hair. Juice dribbled over my shoulder. I was wild. Wild was strange. Strange was interesting. Interesting was passage. 

When I rounded the corner, I doubt even my thief could have recognized me. My hair was slicked back into several dark horns. I looked like I’d just tunnelled through a garden bed. Folk moved out of my way. No credit to kindness. I smelled like I’d bathed in slop, which I had. I was soon standing before the doormen, fumigating proudly.

“Need coin?” the first asked me.

“Just a chair.”

The second man chuckled. “Then take a seat. You’re not even the dirtiest beggar today.”

“That’s kind of you, but I have a date inside.”

The first doormen didn’t bat an eye. He pulled out a list of neat script. The list of everyone in Woeden currently granted a seat in the Veil. “Name and tier?”

“Not sure on the name,” I said. “But she was on the stage.”

The other one snorted. “He’s never been inside. Thinks folk sit on the stage.”

My odds of seeing the girl were plummeting by the second. “Look, she was just singing a moment ago. I’m to recruit her for a performance at the Den.”

The second doormen leaned in as close as he could before my full stench hit him. “You’re the jester’s boy, ain’t you? I saw a show last week, but you were cleaner then. What’s got you in this shape?”

“No name, no entry,” The first said, looking up from his list. “Off with you.”

The second gave him a look. “Just let the boy stand. He don’t need a table.”

The man looked like a goat who’d just been told grass caused indigestion. He hunched over his list, mumbling, “No standards for standing. Let’s just let anyone through, why not?” A pen appeared in his hand.

“Davis Jester,” I said.

His face was quite red when he met my eyes. “I am not an idiot!” His pen now clenched like a dagger.

The other one eased the tall door open, smiling apologetically. “The list can make him get funny. Go on and stand in the back there. At least you’re in.”

I was in. “Thank you,” I said, turning from the door to Violet’s Veil. The tall, open room was split into three tiers, rising toward the stage. Copper, silver, then gold. Beyond the gold tier, a tall, shifting veil hung in the center of the stage, hiding the musician. Tables packed each tier. Bracketed torches lined the walls. Gleaming walls of dark wood. Lady Reave had spared no expense. A few smoke windows created a crosswind to suck out smoke and inject fresh air into the room. I imagined it smelled like an apothecary shop. Perfumes, musks, leathers, spices. All dancing through the music. I hardly spared a glance to the man now performing some ode of King Minya. She had left the stage.

I was standing on the silver tier, in the middle of the room, and I began walking down toward the back. With each step down the gentle stairs, the patrons to my side rose higher and higher. Their laughs grew quieter, the twinkle of their glasses dimmer. The copper tier involved much more thumping, roaring, and drinking, often in that order. I kept walking, and that’s when I reached the Back. The Back turned out to be a crowd very much like the one I just left. A milling, hungry group waiting for an opening at the copper tables. There were a few such empty seats right now. 

A heavyset man in silks nodded to himself and strode toward a table of four. His smile was wide and plastered. “Say, I’m Bosenthal. Aren’t you a merry bunch!” The men at the table looked anything but merry, and it wasn’t long before Bosenthal excused himself. It was like social jousting. Opportunist after opportunist charged the empty seats with their best compliments, jokes, and threats before stumbling away in mumbles. Actually, it was more of a social siege. As I observed more failures, I wove through my crowd, asking anyone for a description of the singer. Most looked at me blankly. Their focus was on the tables, not the entertainment. They were here to earn a place, not enjoy the scenery. Still, I heard from someone she was light haired. Another said dark. A nervous-looking man said she’d been wearing a golden dress, or maybe it was just a robe. So hard to tell, from the distance. After hearing another ten contradictory descriptions, I determined this group could not be my compass.

A few of the tables seemed to enjoy the sport of turning newcomers away, but the more I watched, I realized one table was bending beneath the onslaught. The only similarity between the four men seated there was their collective frustration as folk like Bosenthal interrupted them. These men were having a great time, broken only by the pesky interruptions. I could stop those.

“Wish me luck,” I told the guy beside me. I strode up to the table and plopped into the empty chair with a sigh as though this were my bed. Conversation stopped. I sank into the chair. Leaned back like a nobleman’s son. I did not ask permission or approval. I did explain why I was worthy of their table. I just nodded to each of them. “Davis.”

The largest of them smirked. “Plucky. I ought to haul you out myself.” He was a middle aged man robed in handsome cloth and gleaming broaches in the noble style. He smelled too clean, like he’d eaten a bar of soap, but for all that there was a dirty twist to his smile.

“Easy on him, Sir,” a younger man said. “For one, he ain’t kissing your boots. Ain’t kissing your nose either, if I’m frank.” The man was only a few years older than me, with bits of straw still tangled in his hair. He reached over to shake my hand, and I felt the strength of his grip. “Bren.”

“Wallace,” The third man said, waving absently in my direction before turning back to the well-dressed noble. “But really, he raises a point. Should a man take greater pleasure in his station or his senses? I’ve given this consideration, of course, and I must disagree with the premise entirely- In fact-”

The noble slammed his fist so hard I jumped. “You’ve been selling to the philosophy students again! And they have no idea!”

The two men burst into laughter like this were an old joke. “Selling…like…mad!” Wallace wheezed, holding his considerable gut. “Oh, my! You know, I’ll need some more soon, once you’re ready.”

“Once you’ve paid,” the noble said, humor vanishing. 

It seemed Wallace would disagree. Then, he grinned. “For the good Sir Harrister.” Harrister, I knew the name. The aged knight turned swindler. The tell-tale clink of dally kissed the air as Wallace passed something under the table. Gold has an unmistakable sound, especially when you have none. Arresting as the sound of splintering wood to a sailor or cracking glass to a chemist. I was in no danger of begging, but still, I felt the gold shift hands.

I made a show of inspecting the table to avoid revealing how obvious the exchange had been. It was round, worn, and the proper size for three. We were five, so Bren sat to my right, the unnamed man to my left. In the center of the table sat a pitcher of wine and another of ale. The higher tiers, I noted, had several more jugs to choose from. Still, not many would complain of free drink. Beside the drinks was a small bowl of ground up leaf. The tall candle burning in the center of the table was ringed with unlit, finger length candles for lighting pipes.

Another jingle as Harrister slipped the coins somewhere safe, and he clapped the fourth man on the shoulder. “I’d recruit you too, Gray. If you could speak!” This brought another roar from Harrister and Wallace, but Gray, the last man, merely knocked back a tumbler of something that could stain boards. He was gray from neck to boot. The colorless, parched cloak and pants that have seen too much sun, too many years, and not enough washing. He smacked his lips appreciatively and drew a flask from his coat, splashing a bite of brandy into the tumbler. Gray smelled of pine and smoke. I was unsurprised to see the hilt of a dagger at his side. He didn’t earn a living with flowery words, like some did. His next swish of drink went down, and he produced a fat-bellied pipe. He transferred leaf from the table’s bowl into the chamber. Added a little more. Then, he took one of the smaller candles, lit it, and started his pipe. 

“Off he goes,” Harrister mumbled as Gray took a long pull and sighed into himself. A lutist began to play. Harrister focused on me, seaweed eyes calculating. “Right, so why’s a boy like you in the Veil?”

“Fortune and friends,” I said. “And a girl.”

“No trouble in that,” Bren agreed.

“If I may,” Wallace said. “You look in need of all three.”

“What else is there?” Harrister grumbled.

“You all could help me with the latter,” I said. “There was a girl singing just before I came. She had the most beautiful voice. Did anyone see her?”

“Blond, wasn’t it?” Bren said.

Harrister’s arm snaked across the table and slapped Bren. “Shut it! You sweep stables because you don’t have a mind for business. Never give what could be bought!”

“My family always swept.”

“And once you find a horse wife, your kids will sweep too.”

Bren folded over his mug, unused to the sharp tongue of nobility. I wasn’t.

“Easy on him,” I said. “He’s worked harder than you and me put together.”

A bit of the disgraced knight’s old temper burned. “Careful, boy. I’ve got a walking stick that works fine. Care to see?”

“And how much iron is in this one?” I immediately regretted the words.

Harrister’s mouth opened and closed, a nasty purple blooming across his face. “I don’t know what you mean,” he finally bit off. From the look on Wallace’s face, neither did he. He didn’t even know who Harrister really was. After winning a great deal of dally and fame at a tourney, he’d been found with iron-reinforced lances, much stronger than the standard tourney lances of ash wood. The champion’s gold had stayed with Lunestone. The nobility received a show and a juicy story. Everybody won, except Harrister. His fame had quickly turned infamous, though it seemed his story was less known outside Lunestone. At least, with Wallace.

Harrister and I seemed to realize the same thing together, and with a great deal of effort, he relaxed back into his chair. I let out the absentminded huff I’d been practicing for the next performance. “Iron! I’m so used to asking about it. I’ve spent the whole day in the apothecary weighing iron! There’s an entire barrel that needs to be sorted, weighed, and catalogued for-” I drew a name at random. “Talabaster’s work.”

“Curious,” Wallace said, giving Harrister the sort of sly wink that is painfully obvious to everyone else. “And what, my good boy, does this iron go into?”

I’d never been in an apothecary. “Mostly iron shavings. Iron powder. Anything with iron, really.”

Wallace licked his lips delicately. “Does Talabaster specialize in any nutritive enhancements. They sell themselves, you know.”

My part was obvious. “Is that so?”

“Quite so, quite so,” he said, eyes flashing in triumph like any man closing a deal. “In fact, Sir Harrister and I have some experience in this realm.”

“I do,” Harrister butted in. He was smirking like a cat in the sun. The worst had come and gone, and I’d covered for him. We were not allies, but I was no longer his enemy. I was just a means to coin. He leaned forward. “I’ve developed a potion of vitality. Something that can strengthen the young man, or protect the old from sickness. Keep the blush in a woman’s cheek. Even sharpen the mind, from our tests.”

“That sounds like magic!”

Bren choked into his mug, and Wallace flopped onto the table like he’d been shoved. “No, no, no, no, no! Not in the least, my good boy!” He glanced around to make sure nobody had heard. “We’ve done this all above the table, I assure you. I do! We’re actually hearing very positive reviews from students at the University! Yes, the very antithesis of magic!”

“The hale pail.” Harrister said with the proud look of a man introducing a child or a good woodworking project, “It’s changing lives, and we’re only just getting started.”

“I would never mean to imply,” I said. “I only meant this…hale pail sounds completely remarkable.” If I could only butter them a little more, I’d hear about my mysterious singer. “And how would one acquire a potion like this, above the table, I mean.”

“That’s what’s best,” Wallace said. “We deliver! Top-shelf nutritive care from the comfort of your house or stable or wherever you are. It couldn’t be easier!”

So they had no storefront, and it seemed neither had a house suitable for public life. “Amazing!”

“Let’s get you squared right now,” Harrister said. “Folk usually pay per bottle, but I like the look of you. I want to give you a month’s supply right out the gate.”

They paused as if I was supposed to say something. The lutist had ended, and a harpist began to pluck her way into the next song.

“But Harrister,” Wallace said. “A boy like Davis can’t stand 10 dally.”

Harrister gave me the widest, greediest smile. “I’m offering a whole month for just three dally! What do you say?”

I was too shocked to speak. Three dally was a ridiculous sum of money to ask of any 16 year old, let alone one as filthy as I was. I couldn’t imagine what they’d rob from a cleanly adult. Even at my rate, they only needed to find a handful of fools a month to make a good living.

Wallace hurried to cover my speechlessness. “But that’s too generous! He could sell each bottle at market value and make 3 or 4 dally over his investment! I implore you! Rescind your offer, Harrister!”

It doesn’t take an actor to spot bad acting, and this was atrocious. I was curious to see what they’d do if I stayed silent. The script always ends somewhere. But I relented.

“Let us drink to that,” I said. I didn’t have a mug, so I waved to a serving girl, and after a quiet exchange, received a tall flagon made from a wood so dark it was nearly black. “To our health,” I toasted, and we all, Gray especially, took a healthy drink. Bren had also recovered, now that the conversation was returning to safer ground. I sighed and smacked my lips with the rest of them. My flagon, as always, had water. A jester, even a future one, should have a clear mind. The thing about dark flagons in ill-lit taverns is they cast every liquid as some sort of deep red wine or heavy ale. Whatever prop was needed. Or whatever excuse.

The flagon met the table with a weighty thump. “Am I glad for the Veil today? I’m dirty and coinless. I’d be thrown out of any other tavern before I even got it, but not here.”

Coinless. The word stiffened Harrister and Wallace. A quick look between them, and Harrister said, “There’s no place like it. So much opportunity. Climbing these tables.” He looked toward the silver tier, and his eyes were not envious but furious. “Opportunities. But first you need connections. Agreements.”

“We’re all friends in these walls,” Wallace said. “Making enemies is poor sport if you wish to sit with gold, or even silver.” Father had often enjoyed the highest tier. I doubt anyone at this table could say the same.

“Then let us agree to further my good health at a future date, when my coin pouch is amenable to your terms.”

We drank again. I considered the matter closed, but Harrister did not. “When?”

“Sorry?”

“When will you have the coin?”

The man was a dog at a stick. “I can’t say for sure. Maybe a few weeks, unless I make a big purchase.”

“And where’s the apothecary? Wallace will find you. Check on you.”

Just what I needed. “It’s called the Sea Stone, right on Wharf Street.” It was the farthest apothecary from Lunestone I could recall. 

“Good.” Harrister finally said, settling back in his chair. “Excellent.”

I wouldn’t have a better chance. “Speaking of excellent, I was struck by the singer I heard from outside, just before I came in.” Now I leaned forward. “What was she like? Have you seen her come through?”

A breath of silence. “I didn’t see her,” Harrister said, and I actually believed him. The man was focused on one thing, and it was not music. “But,” he continued. “She did come out from the veil. I’m sure someone saw her.”

It was like wind bursting through a shattered window. Ale splashed onto the table as Bren hammered his mug. “She was blond, now I’ve thought about it. A fair sight if you can take it from me. About your age, and cleaner.”

That described most girls. “And how would I recognize her from a serving girl?”

“There’s nothing off with serving girls.” Bren said stiffly.

“Of course,” I said. “But if we assumed, theoretically, I had to distinguish her from a crowd?”

Bren was mulling this over when Wallace said, “High Master! She had a silver gown in the elder style. Fine taste, I admit. She was of usual height and in possession of a lovely singing voice. And before you ask, we don’t know if she’s still here or long gone. There, consider our information exhausted.”

Well, a well walled well will wane and wind up waterless, as I say. They didn’t know whether she’d left or not, and that meant she may still be around. She may still perform tonight. She could walk out from the door beside the stage any time. I could still see her. I knew I would.

But not tonight, it seemed. Though I stayed for several hours, the mystery girl made no appearance. My eyes wandered up the tiers time and again in fruitless search. I may have stayed until the morning if it wasn’t for Parick. The foreigner, husband of Lady Reave, sat at gold of course. His finances had covered the veil. His table held noblemen and craftsmen alike, all engaged in spirited conversation. Except him. He scanned the room with the intensity of one sighting an arrow. Occasionally pausing to stare for blinkless seconds. He did not appear to be one of the richest, most powerful men in Woeden, or even in the whole fief of Muse. He was. He was the windfall behind Lady Reave’s sudden ascent into the upper strata of nobility. She left Woeden a widow and returned married and grossly rich.  Wealth of that sort drew rumors. Questions. 

“Where did Parick Reave get his gold” I asked.

Harrister chuckled, cheeks now quite rosy. “I’ve heard stories, boy. Hard knowing what to believe about a man like that. Odd sort, but my theory says-“

I didn’t hear the theory because I felt a finger turn my head and lift it toward the high tier, and there, staring at me through the forest of tables and people, was Parick Reave.

Chapter 4: Labidander

When I woke, I did not intend to violate Barony’s most sacred law. The thought came as I was finishing my eggs. It was Barrowday. That glorious day where even the smith’s apprentice could put down the week’s work and rest. True, most of my days were mostly leisure, but I couldn’t pass the opportunity to whittle away an entire day. Today, though, my whittling had a purpose. Parick had unsettled me. The coincidence of him finding me. The strange tugging sensation as I met his feverish eyes. The dull feeling that had overtaken me, like I was sitting beside the fire after a big meal. I liked none of it, and I was uninterested in spending more time around the man, or his tavern, than I needed to. I had to adjust my strategy to find my singer. I could not afford to waste opportunities to impress her. I could not afford anything at the moment, for that matter. When I finally chanced upon her, I needed some way to amaze her, to make an introduction, a talking point, anything. I needed something captivating. And so you see how reason led me awry.

Father was invited aboard the Mooncraft, so while he and the high court drifted on the beautiful ship, I was free to seek my amazing introduction. The only trouble was that nothing seemed amazing. Assuming I had a few pops, I could buy a neat craft from a market. I could write a poem or walk the western shoreline and find all manner of oddities. Shells, washed up teeth, ship debris. But anyone could do that, and I needed to stand out. It’s unfortunate that good intentions and bad judgement are often friends.

The object of my quest lay at the end of a rumor, and I’d heard a great many. In Lunestone, you’d hear whispered eccentricities of the Lanters or some other noble family. Relationships that had bloomed or spoiled among the younger nobles, and the resulting ripples among the great families. Every steward swore they’d overheard some outlandish trade deal between Muse and another fief. The amount of gold and favors on the table. Or whether Taperton would really increase their exports of grains and vegetables to Muse in exchange for a dozen traveling circuses.  For many days, the kitchens were ablaze with the notion that Lord Stanton, the coin keeper of Muse, had bartered with Hox for all new pots, pans, and cutlery. I had no need for spoons or onions. 

But there were other places to hear things. The early morning markets as merchants put up their stalls. The Lute Bowl during the noon hour was always a beehive of hearty food and heartier hearsay. The massive tavern sat on the Fieldward side of the Furrowfare and fed such an array of folks it was said a man could staff a kingdom from those tables. And the whole place buzzed with stories. I’d spend a great many days listening in that long, warm building. One could not neglect to mention the dungeon or the training grounds either. 10 minutes outside the sparring ring could teach you more than how to swing a sword.

As I finished my eggs and trawled through the haze of rumors, one rose with striking clarity. It was the sort of story you heard again and again, always different but always the same. 

A mad hermit in the woods. A self-proclaimed sorcerer outcast from Woeden and hidden in the forest. A harmless old man, one with nature. I’d heard enough variations to believe there was something very interesting in the roots of the stories, and I had all Barrowday to investigate Greensway Forest.

The forest lay to the north of Woeden and stretched far up the coastline into Fiero, circumscribing the western edge of Barony in deep woods. It was said that every plank in Woeden had come from the Greensway. Even now, the southern tip of the Greensway was constantly devoured as Woeden expanded. A forester would fell a tree, and a carpenter would raise it 100 feet south in the growing Crownwood District. The northern district chased the retreating treeline like a plow yoked to an ox. And just as the rings of a tree tell a story, so did the wood of Woeden’s structures. As I waded up the crowded Elder Way, I noticed the color of the buildings gradually brightening. Near Lunestone, wood was often grey, the color leeched by salted winds and the freeze-thaw of many years. As I walked, the boards and log frames warmed to golds and tans. Up in the noble’s Crownwood district, the morning dew could be mistaken for sap dripping from planks brown and fresh as kitchen bread.

Finally, I left the swarm of carpenters and masons working to roll out the next lurch of buildings in Woeden’s endless chase of Greensway. Ahead stretched a stumpy clearing of overturned earth, discarded branches, and ashes. Then, like an army of green giants, erupted Greensway Forest. Even across the barren space, I smelled pine and composting leaves. I double checked that my waterskin was full. I patted my weapon, a butter knife from breakfast. Safety first. With all precautions taken, I crossed the clearing and entered the Greensway.

By sometime in the afternoon, I’d lost my knife, emptied my waterskin, and emptied my stomach after chancing across some bad berries. In my defense, I’d watched a bluebird peck at a few berries before trying a handful for myself. Evidently, song birds were made of strong stuff. I would have decided to return home after this incident, but I was quite lost. I was in a forest of forests. Wave after way of tall, proud trees stretching forever on. An underbrush of umbrella like mayapples and humpbacked mushrooms. After my mishap with the berries, I had no interest in further experiments. So there was not much to do besides wander and hope I stumbled across a stream, or an apple tree, or someone selling meat pies. Maybe even a sign or a path to some road. At first, I was filled with a strange sort of naked excitement. I was without coin, food, water, and help. I had only myself to save me. It was a wild sort of freedom. But as the sun sank toward the horizon, my elation eroded into fear. A small stream had quenched my thirst, but my hunger was deepening. I was surrounded by vegetation, berries, and nuts, but I didn’t recognize anything. I was as likely to sicken myself as to satisfy. And night’s cool breath was somewhere just over the horizon, waiting.

There was also the matter of Father returning home soon. I increased my pace, continuing as best I could in a straight path. I figured I had to hit something important eventually. I would have passed right by the hut if I hadn’t heard his voice.

“Aren’t you all out of sorts!”

I crept closer, and realized one overgrown shrub actually had hard angles beneath the greenery. The setting sun winked through the trees and backlit the whole structure, casting it in an otherworldly blend of light, shadow, and silhouette. I soon heard a series of little squelches.     

“Here’s a fresh sheet for you,” the voice creaked. “Now straight ahead! Run! That’s it!”

Nobody burst from the little shack. In fact, I heard nothing but the wind. I rounded the corner and saw the western wall tucked behind a bramble. Nestled into the grubby wall was a highly-polished half-moon door, slightly ajar. Inside, something moved.

If I was wiser, I would have ran. But I wasn’t. I was hungry and curious. I’d long ago decided to make something of the day, and here was my chance. 

I approached the open door and knocked like I was entering the cobbler’s. “How we doing in there?”

The rustling behind the door ceased. A gnarled hand appeared on the doorframe. It gradually swung open to reveal the oddest man I’d ever seen. He was peering into a wooden box, his wispy bird’s nest of white hair reaching toward me. Around his neck jangled a necklace of painted snail shells. He glanced up from the box, revealing lightning blue eyes and gleaming teeth. 

“You heard about the races?”

Of all the ways to greet a stranger in the middle of the Greensway. “Yes, sir.”

His grin widened to show gums. “You’re just in time for round 93! Come watch!” He shuffled back into the hut and set his crate on the table. On the wall above the table stood an eye-boggling contraption of wooden funnels, chutes, levers, and gates, all trickling down to 10 cups stationed across the table. On a shelf sat 10 tankards full of odd coins, foreign coins. The man fluffed his hair as he consulted a parchment black with numbers scrawled over a sea of digits. Then, he reached for the contraption and began opening gates and shifting chutes. 

“Right, that ought to be close.” he said, pulling a final lever. He eyed the mechanism suspiciously and pulled it once more. His elbow caught my ribs. “Now, aren’t you betting?”

I croaked something and shook my head.

“Then time for the show!” He peered back into his box. I joined him and discovered his box held snails, each painted as a knight’s shield. I wasn’t all that surprised to count 10. They seemed randomly placed on one half of the box. A line stretched across the other end.

“It’s a race,” I said, my breath returning. Talk about entertainment. I’d joined in the middle.

“All part of their education,” the man said proudly. “A little exercise and competition is good for the mind.”

The snails inched randomly around the box. Eventually, a snail with a red and blue swirl was pointed in the right direction. The man leaned over the wall like someone shouting into the lists before a joust. “Speed! Go, Trevel!”

The snail slurped forward until it spotted something very interesting, its antennae eye stalks focusing on a swirl in the wood. A gold and green snail surged forward over the next minute. It eclipsed Trevel and made for the line. The wooden apparatus suddenly shifted against the wall. Chutes swung down to new gates like their strings were cut. A lever cranked up as though pushed. A handful of pebbles skittered down from the bucket atop the contraption. I watched in sheer confusion as a funnel tipped upside down and became a mountain rather than a whirlpool, dispersing pebbles rather than collecting them. The gravel clattered down into the cups on the table.

“Bog this,” the man said, and muttered something I could not understand. Trevel floated off the wood as though lifted by a hand. He glided forward and landed near the other snail, and the two hurried toward the line with all the speed of honey. It was still too fast for me. I was staring where Trevel had been, not comprehending the flight and landing. The wooden mechanism behind me rattled dangerously. A clattering of pebbles or coins rained down the chutes.

The man beamed like mad. “Quickly! The odds are good!”

Travel seemed to understand. The red and blue snail stretched forward, eyes locked on the line. It put on a touch of speed, then more, pulling ahead in the last few inches to cross the line.

“Brilliant!” the man cheered, just as the wooden contraption groaned, and an avalanche of pebbles rumbled down the chutes and landings before drumming into the cups. The cup painted red and blue was filled to the brim, while most others were around half full. 

I was still blinking when he shook my hand like we were old friends. “Good show! And now for the patrons,” he began counting the pebbles in each cup. For those with few pebbles, he stole some of the odd coins from the corresponding tankard on the shelf. Some received a few coins, but the tankard with the red handle and blue base enjoyed an influx of bronze and gold.

The site of shifting coins pulled me from my daze. It looked like the payouts after a tourney joust, except here the athletes wore shells instead of steel. He was gambling on snails against some kind of magical mechanism. And he used magic, true magic, to lift the snail. He was a sorcerer. A wizard. I struggled to believe the man rearranging snails in his box was magical, even as he mumbled another spell and Trevel unpuckered from the finish line and glided back to the other snails. Fear tickled my neck, though not as badly as it should have. This was illegal. If I was discovered right now, I would be thrown in the dungeon. I would be questioned and potentially exiled from Woeden or even from all of Barony.  But more than fear, I was thrilled. I’d discovered the truth at the bottom of the rumor, a real wizard. And his magic was charming. Far from the terrible, forest-razing power in the stories. And he liked snails, so how bad could he really be?

“You’re gambling on snails?”

“Of course not,” the man said. “I simply…invest…in probable outcomes. I must occupy myself somehow while I’m instructing them.”

“The snails?”

“Who else,” he said, refilling the bucket atop the contraption. 

He was certainly crazy. Just what I needed. “I’m Davis.”

“Labidander,” he said.

“And you’ve always been interested in snails? I didn’t realize there was so much to teach them.”

“They’re actually quite dull,” Labidander said, “so they have lots to learn.”

“Do they know any tricks? Anything that might amaze or surprise?”

“This is an especially thick batch.” I snorted, and he mistook my expression for outrage. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve told them before. If you came by last year, I had rollers and singers and one that was quite good at snatch, if you can imagine.”

I wasn’t even good at snatch, despite practicing against University students in the library whenever I could. If his current snails were lackluster, I needed a different angle. “When Trevel levitated…you know snails around here don’t do that.”

The man wheezed. “You think they do across the Mooncaps? At Hazeltop? No…snails are just snails until they’re trained up with a bit if magic.”

“And have you trained anything else, besides that?” I nodded to the wooden apparatus.

“Loads of artifacts, squirrels, walnuts, even a fish once. Anything, really.”

“Wonderful. I’d love to do a bit of business,” I said. “Anything magical works for me. Whatever you’d like taken off your hands. Petrified squirrel or frog bones. Whatever’s taking up room around here.”

His easy, puttering manner slowed. Those shocking eyes found me, twin wells of blue ice.  The weight of his attention settled on me like a bear pelt. “There’s no business here. My tinkerings are mine. Alone.” I was pinned beneath the gaze. How had I forgotten this man was a wizard? He could light me up. Turn me into a snail. My mouth was too dry for words, but he continued. “It’s why I crossed the sea and live here in the Gillengut, or whatever this place is called. You’re the first to find me in weeks, maybe months.”

I was not contradicting an angry wizard. I swallowed thickly. “I’m sorry. I’ve only seen magic once before, and I couldn’t help asking.”

“You were looking for me.”

“I was just trying to meet a girl.

“Ah, trying to impress her,” he corrected, and the hard edge softened. My spirits rose. “I’m afraid there’s no spell for that.  I’ve only got snails, after all. You’d better try a joke.”

I’d been reading audiences before I could read, and he was an open book. This was my turning point. My chance to win a wonderfully strange artifact. “I’ve got a joke for you, just outside.” All I needed was a joke.

I might have slapped him with a steak. “A joke?”

“Yes.”

“Outside?”

I pushed the door wider. The setting sun stretched between the trunks and striped the room in blazing orange. Labidander came forward a few steps before a look caught his eye. “Tell me the joke here.”

I stepped outside and pointed randomly. “It’s just over there. You’ve really got to get the full effect.”

He looked as if he might slug me. Finally, he sighed and shuffled out. “Alright. What’s the joke?”

I nearly said the joke was out standing, but I didn’t intend to live out my days as a slug or snail. Instead, I used one of a jester’s greatest tricks. The one tool that can rescue you when your mind goes blank on the stage. Distraction.

“There it goes!” I cried, pointing past his stack of firewood into the trees. 

“Where?”

“There! Let’s go!” I strode around the firewood and into the underbrush. Leaves rustled around me. A branch cracked underfoot. I hurried forward, but there was no sound behind me. Labidander stood beside the hut, immovable as an old man when asked to charge into a forest. My bad. 

For a moment, I considered slipping into the trees. Forfeiting my chance at a magical artifact felt awful, but it was better than sliding around on a slimy stomach forever if things went sideways. I already had a wild story to bring back to the Veil. I could tell my singer of snail races, and the hut, and Labidander. If she was curious about magic, it may be enough. If she wasn’t, I could run really fast before she called the doormen to throw me out. But I wasn’t the sort to leave before the finale. Never dilly when you can dally? 

A jester must be fast on his feet, confident. I was still blanking on the best joke for Labidander when I strode toward him. “The joke is-” A log caught my foot, and I tumbled forward, splattering into the only compost mound within 5 miles. I tried to brace myself, but my arms sank to the elbow in rotting walnut shells, pulp, and bones. The whole mass shifted beneath my nosedive, and a pungent burp erupted as confined gas was released. 

Labidander howled like the mad hermit he was said to be. I rolled over, onto the grass around his hut, choking on laughter and acrid air. What were the odds? I’d fallen into his scrap pile so well hidden at the edge of the clearing. And it talked. It wasn’t a quip I could have imagined. It was better. Still, I was making a bad habit of soaking in slop. Something to work on, I guess. 

Labidander had regained his breath and was shaking his head. “Oh, that’s good! Good!”

“Watch the step.”

This brought a round of chuckles as I shook the largest masses off. I was still painted in a slimy filth, but it was better than sitting on a decomposed watermelon shell. Most things were, generally speaking. “If you ever need to make someone laugh, you’ve got backup now.”

“Indeed,” Labidander said, “and you’ve earned yourself a trinket to take home before it’s too dark.” 

I grinned, savoring the triumph. At the same time, I shuddered to think what Father would say. This was magic. Quirky, cute magic, but illegal all the same. There would be consequences if I were discovered. I might be exiled. But there were always consequences, and what was worse than meeting my singer and failing to impress her? I could always throw away the artifact once it had served its purpose. “What do you recommend?”

Labidander fingered his necklace of snail shells, face quieting. I realized these still held a ghost of the brightly painted designs I’d seen inside. His old snails. He began counting off the shells with the gravity of a Servant. “Too strong. Too strange. Too dangerous. Too risky…” he continued from the leftmost shell, sighing and frowning. But as he counted up the right half of the necklace, his voice lifted. “Odd, watery, useless, curious, playful.” His finger stopped on the last, and his face lit up like he’d found a blackberry pie. 

He worked the necklace’s knot loose and freed the shell. It was an old, dusky blue, the color of the sea under a thundercloud. He murmured something and traced the looping shell. “This was my little Yelp. She was as fine a snail as there was. Not the fastest, but well meaning.” His smile wobbled. He was looking beyond me. “I remember when she first spoke. Such a little thing. I was so surprised, and she kept talking. How we talked! Well, the magic is fading, but there’s some left.”

He turned the shell over and rubbed the winding shell. “This was my little Yelp. She was as fine a snail as-” His lips were not moving, but his voice rolled on. “I remember when she first spoke. Such-”

“She’s talking!” I cried.

“Repeating,” he said, a catch in his voice. “But who can say when that too will fade, and she’ll be quiet forever? I don’t think I can see that day. It’s selfish. I know, but…” He wound down into himself, and I couldn’t help it. I embraced him.

“I will stay with her until the end,” I said, and I meant it. A gift so well-loved deserved that.

Labidander pushed the shell into my hand. “I know.” He huffed and turned toward his hut. “A small perk of magic--reading the untrained. I expect that has more to do with this place’s hatred of magic than anything else.”

He stopped as if he might look once more at Yelp, then he shuffled into the shack.

Reading someone? I wondered what it meant, what it was like, but I had more pressing concerns. Lunestone was many hours away. I was once more alone in the Greensway, though now I had a friend. The sun kissed the horizon as I traced the shell. “Let’s go home.”

I rubbed the other side, and my voice came clearly. “Let’s go home.”

Chapter 5: Trillence’s Tonics

With Yelp in hand, I just needed to find my singer. It proved rather difficult. After visiting Labidander, I’d returned to Lunestone in the early hours of the morning. I was stained with compost, sweaty, and exhausted. Father was furious. He was already stressed after a day with the High Council aboard the Mooncraft. Other adventures had also kept me out late, but this was the first to earn me a double date with Bethany for a week. She was thrilled with the opportunity to redress my floppy understanding of arithmetic, history, and most other subjects during her four grueling hours each day. The woman was patient as a fish net. She gradually trapped my excuses and failed escape plans. I was forced to learn. Worse still, the extra tutoring and nightly performances at the Den kept me from seeking my singer. 

Finally, it was Barrowday. The High Master’s day of burial. More importantly, the Servants had long ago declared the day to be one of repose for the whole Barony. The drudge of daily life paused for a day. According to Bethany, people had honored the declaration for many years until a few realized the gold that could be made as the only cobbler or merchant open on Barrowday. Other opportunists set up shop, so now there was a portion of store owners and merchants that always stayed open. Thanks to the High Master, literally, Bethany was in the majority of reposers. So, I was free to dally until the performance that evening. No rest for those who jest, unfortunately. In fact, Barrowday was the busiest of the week for any musician or singer, but the Servant’s didn’t mind.

As I left our room, Father’s voice stopped me. “On time and clean. And practice your lines again.”

“Clean as a Servant’s steps,” I promised.

I hurried to Violet’s Veil. I had access to the copper tier until I was voted out by tablemates, so after a quick work with the doormen, I found myself at a copper table with some sharp-tongued, tipsy seamstresses. We had a grand time, but as the hours slipped by with no sight of my singer, worry crept into my mind. I hadn’t truly considered how hard it would be to find her. I had no idea how often she sang. That could have been her first and only time, or she might only sing on Morinday. That theory failed the next day, as I sat at another table and debated a musician, a tailor, and a Servant on the merits of buttered crab. Over the next two weeks, I was at the Veil more often than not during my free time. The folk were always interesting, but my disappointment and restlessness grew with each hour in the chair. Parick Reave was there as often as not, always at the same table and chair. I fought hard to ignore his entire table, like you might avoid touching a wart, or a chicken prone to pecking you. If he pinned me beneath another stare, I don’t know. My ignorance soon became a habit, and I began to forget the strange, numb feeling when I’d last met his eyes.

As time passed, I also struggled to remember the exact pitch of her voice, the rhythm of it. There had been a sweetness to the sound, but it became harder to recall. I would still recognize her when she finally sang, surely, but the brightness of her memory was fading. I felt a real loss. That memory had been my fuel during the long hours in Violet’s Veil. It was my motivation. An unwavering star to follow. Without its weight, I needed another rabbit to chase, as is said in the Highfields.

It turns out climbing social ranks is a busy business. 

My choice to rise through the ranks was not made from mere boredom. Sitting among silver or gold made for a better impression. She would see me as someone of interest. Maybe even importance. Climbing the ladder was also a challenge, jester’s son or not. Everyone in the city competed for the few tables in the gold tier. Those tables meant powerful connections, stories, and secrets. They gave you leverage. They marked you. A single night at gold might introduce a chandler to the exotic merchant who could provide him with rare herbs and spices for his candles. Two innkeepers may exchange prized recipes. A gambler might work with a knight to rig an upcoming tournament. I knew from Father’s stories the gold tables were mystery and opportunity. As the future jester, I needed both.

I listened for my singer, but now I also watched for anything, or anyone, that could lead me into the silver tier. So was the rest of the copper crowd. I quickly realized asking my table mates if they recognized anyone in silver was unproductive. Any connection they might have was theirs and theirs alone. What dog would share its only bone? I spent several more fruitless evenings reading eyes and untangling the hidden motives behind the words. 

The only progress I could claim during this time was helping Father write three nights at the Den. The performances all followed a bumbling tailor and his seamstress wife. As they stitched and sewed, they traded barbed compliments and remarks. Both thought themselves clever. Both were deaf to the other’s sarcasm. The shows drew chuckles and snorts. They were not belly busters, but I was proud to have lightened Father’s workload for a few days.

Luck struck on the third week. Sir Harrister was sitting at copper along with Wallace and two women I didn’t recognize. I took the fifth chair, and over the next hour, worked to compliment Harrister into a drunken stupor. The fact that he started in a drunken stupor made my job easier. Either way, he was right where I wanted him.

“So,” I said, “I’ve given serious thought to your offer. Three dally for a month of hale pail, right?”

He nodded hungrily.

“Well, I don’t have the coin, but I’d like to offer service instead. I’ll sell for you. Like Wallace.”

“You’d sell…hale pail?”

“Indeed, and I can leverage connections in Lunestone. Make introductions. Especially if you know someone who may be interested in your product.” Wallace frowned, but Harrister was already drifting into some distant, golden dream. My eyes wandered to the silver tier. “Someone of class,” I continued. “Someone who knows influential people. Our stepping stone to real gold.”

He turned toward silver. A slow pause, then, “Better yet…bring me the Buttoned Brewer. Marto Trillence.”

Wallace’s voice rose. “You’re sure? Again?”

Harrister slammed the table. “I want him! 10 dally if he joins my service. No, 20! High Master, the gold he’d make me. Sleazy little-”

I followed Harrister’s stare and found Marto Trillence at silver. He was a short, spindly man with darting eyes. His hair was black and long, combed until it looked like one of Father’s backstage wigs. Some sort of oil or gel kept the hair from hanging naturally. Marto wore a gold and orange vest, tightly buttoned diagonally across the front in a custom style. The sleeves blossomed around the arm before cinching down to a cuff halfway between the elbow and wrist, exposing a pale plank of bony skin. His thin fingers drummed the table feverishly, some silver trinket passing between the digits like a snake through branches. His black pants were loose, and more buttons looped around each leg. His shoes were actual wood. 

“Quite the man,” I said. “What do I need to know?”

There was much to learn. Marto Trillence was evidently one of the best brewers of healthful drinks in the city. Harrister hired hollers and shouted from street corners just for the chance of a sale. Marto’s clients submitted formal letters for the chance he would pay them a house visit and brew a personalized nutritive tonic. Expensive, nutritive tonics. Less work, more gold. His network of wealthy, obsessively health-minded patrons was Harrister’s dream. Harrister had twice tried recruiting Marto. Both visits had earned Harrister a battering of condescending compliments. Wallace had fared worse. I learned Marto was prideful and meticulous, two endearing qualities to his clientele. He examined each client’s health like a jeweler scrutinizing a gem for flaws. He brewed with the reverence of a Servant. He was, all told, a challenging man to befriend. Still, I had some small connection to him. I knew something about him, which was more than I could say for the nameless crowd around him. He was my best lead. Also, my only lead.

He left within the hour, excusing himself from the table and marching out the door. I was up immediately, passing the attendant at the end of the tier who was already checking in the next silver patron. I hurried out the door and through the crowd just in time to spy his spidery frame scurrying toward Elder Way. His buttons winked in the torchlight, and he was gone. I ran. My lack of laces, buttons, and wooden shoes made me feel like a hawk catching a sparrow. 

I turned the corner and was on him in a few strides. “Marto! It’s wonderful to meet you at last!”

His shoes clopped to a stop. Up close, his eyes looked huge and surprised as a frog. “Yes?”

“My lord has heard much…admiration for your artificery. He’s sent me to gauge the truth of the matter before enlisting your service.”

“Your lord?”

“Shall remain unnamed at this time. He will not have his reputation sullied if your acclaim proves misplaced.”

“My honor will not be questioned!” Marto declared. “Your lord has no right! I’ve served the finest in Woeden. I’ve poured for the Lanter’s. I’ve brewed for Chavalae’s sons!”

“My lord deals carefully in reputation,” I agreed, “but you will be well rewarded, once you’ve earned his trust.”

Marto’s bulging eyes assessed. I was well spoken. Dressed like any noble house’s steward. My lord was haughty. It all spoke of old, deep coffers. “And how would your lord observe my skill?”

I gave a slight, neat bow. “In the act. I would join you tomorrow.”

I was a fly on his log. He wasn’t sure whether to eat me or see if I brought friends. Finally, he revealed a set of gleaming teeth. “Tomorrow.”

***

All in all, I was rather nervous for my day of ‘work.’ The excuse to observe him had come naturally, providing me with an opportunity to leverage his own pride for a full day with The Buttoned Brewer. After that, who knows? Time has a way of tilling up the garden, and I had to trust my opportunity would come to join silver. But first, there was work.

I wore a tidy tunic and a cap to cover my black curls. I looked like any number of stewards out on their lord’s business. As I strode along the Furrowfare, I couldn’t help but think how I’d burned my connection with Harrister in exchange for this opportunity with Marto. I’d won invaluable information by tricking Harrister into believing I could recruit Marto. But I’d known Marto could not be hired. Not easily, at least. By leading Marto to believe I was a steward, I’d chosen a different character than the one Harrister knew me as. If I failed today, I’d not only lose Marto. I’d lose Harrister too and probably be voted out of bronze. 

Shopkeepers started to throw open doors, ring bells, and begin their vigil at the windows. I continued east until the city’s edge was just a few minutes away. There, I found Winnow’s, just as Marto had said. I’d never seen the home of the famous Winnow’s Wine before. The tavern looked well kept, with a fence enclosing something in the back. I felt an urge to enter, but I had business. I turned south, passing ranks of Wharfside shops. The air grew wet and thick. Finally, I stopped on the outside of the Reef at the intersection Marto was to meet me.

The morning catch had come in, and merchants were already boasting fresh clams and flounder. A stream of fishermen made for the taverns. I always enjoyed the difference in the men at this hour. There were those with bright faces. They cursed with glee, drank ale, and altogether acted like children. Then, there were the downcast or angry men. They trailed the laughing men like dead logs on the edge of the fire. Quiet, hard drinkers that might erupt if the wrong spark landed on them. But not for long. A new round of faces would be dealt tonight depending who had the lucky net. These men were reflections of their last catch. Lender-Hall and the other taverns were like coves absorbing the incoming waves of men. As music rose and died around me with the swinging of a dozen doors, I wondered which face I’d wear tonight. I found myself holding Yelp. Her steady, patient weight was reassuring.

“Davis, my man,” Marto said, jogging me from the daze. His shirt was lemon peels and raspberries with his distinctive buttons arcing from shoulder to hip. His leather bag was near bursting with vials and pouches, but best of all was the kettle looped through his arm like a purse. The black kettle held the dangerous sheen of a noble’s over-polished sword, nearly blinding me as he pointed into the Reefs. “First stop is the Fish Fist.”

He started forward, shoes like bad wagon wheels on the cobblestones. I stayed behind his arcing bag and kettle. “Fish Fist? I’m afraid I’ve never heard of it.”

“Him,” Marto corrected. “Does your lord enjoy the lists?”

“Of course.”

“Brutish sport. He’ll meet the Fish Fist in the next tournament. Beastly boy knows the lance, I hear.”

“And he’s hired you because…?”

“He wants to be the strongest,” Marto said. “Most squires gorge on mutton and bread. Like pigs on slop. To be better, you must be different. I know this. Rory knows this, and he pays for my tonics.”

I eyed his bony frame. “And what do you make him?”

A snort. “Stronger.”

I had my reservations, but I followed Marto deeper into the Reef. The merchants and shops were soon replaced with the crowded, driftwood houses that flooded this area of the city. Nets hung to dry as often as clothes. Schools of children drifted about, laughing and shrieking. I wondered where they came from, where they went. They almost seemed part of the landscape, like the frogs stocked in the noble house’s ponds north of Lunestone. I wanted to talk to some of them, but Marto turned down a side street. He snaked through the alleys like a lifelong sailor until we reached a stretch of three houses. They leaned against each other without a breath between them, sunburned planks almost melding together.

“Behold my work,” Marto said, and knocked on the door. It creaked open. Then, the Fish Fist loomed from the darkness like a shark from deep water. He was freakish. My age, by his face, but muscled as the thickest smith or mason. His shoulders ground against his jaw with each step. Pillars for legs. He might have skill with a lance if he didn’t break his horse’s back. Maybe he didn’t have a horse. He probably just stood there and tackled the opponent’s horse. Or ate it.

Light hit him as he stooped under the doorway, revealing quick green eyes. “Three more weeks, and I could be Baroness Helna’s lance! You’ve brought the drink?”

Marto frowned. “The ingredients. You know it must be brewed fresh.”

“Hot enough to burn going down,” he said with a grin. He saw me behind Marto and reached for my hand. His shoulders caught the doorway, and I worried he’d knock the whole house forward. He flushed and sidestepped outside. I tried giving him a wave, but my hand was suddenly crushed in a vice grip. Knuckles popped.

“Davis,” I groaned.

The look on his face was that of a dog that’s licked off an important button. “Sorry. Everything’s so…different. I’m Rory. You must be Marto’s friend. He’s always-”

“Show us in,” Marto said. “I haven’t all day.

Rory released, and my hand breathed like a diver surfacing. Marto and I followed him inside. There was something strange here. The boy was too new to his strength. Too unfamiliar with his size and power. He waved Marto toward a table, and knocked a chair over as he sat down. He was a boy in knight’s armor.

Rory eyed the bag. “The strong one.”

“Three dally.”

“Gladly,” Rory said. Even with my stage training, I hardly kept my face neutral. Three dally for a drink? More than Chavalae’s Mintwood Brandy. But Marto was already producing bottles, powders, and measuring bowls. A mortar and pestle appeared, followed by a small kettle with a graceful spout. Where did the boy get the coin? A nobleman’s son, sure, but for a boy from the Reef? I wondered whether I was the only actor at that table. Did Rory’s smile seem a little wider as Marto counted some sort of beetle shell into the mortar. He took the pestle and began to grind with smooth, exact circles. I leaned closer. I was interested, but more than that, I wanted to distance myself from Rory. He had leaned onto the table hungrily, each forearm the size of my thigh. Marto followed no recipe I could see. Into the kettle he poured a measure of a clear, acrid liquid. He scraped the powdered beetle shell into the kettle, then three more powders. A clump of short, thick hair. Several drops from vials--red, orange, and gold. A ground up root cluster.

“Fire,” Marto proclaimed, and Rory’s chair toppled as he hurried to the fireplace. He knelt and lit the tinder with his steel. As the boy worked the fire, Marto’s arm disappeared to the elbow in the bag. His other ingredients had been near the top, but now he was fishing. He soon withdrew an unremarkable, slim vial of a rust-colored liquid. He worked at the cap before it came free with a hiss. A dropper appeared, and from the vial he sucked up a bloody bead. His fingers trembled. He squeezed it into the kettle, and then the tiny drop was gone. As Rory turned, the vial and dropper vanished into the bag. All was quiet. The tonic hushed as Marto resumed stirring. He inspected the swirling liquid like a Servant would a book. It looked like apple tea to me. He bent, nose curving over the rim. I wondered what he could be looking for in that watery tea. His lips moved. 

Light blinked across his features like a candle lit and snuffed. Like the sun winking through shifting leaves. The whole thing might have been my imagination, but now Rory looked like a dog pulling at the leash. 

The corner of Marto’s mouth lifted. “One minute,” he said, setting the kettle over the fire.

“And you’ll be back before the tournament?” Rory asked eagerly.

Marto made no response.

“After I pay, of course.”

Marto only stared into his tonic.

The table groaned as Rory pushed up, rummaging in his coin pouch. He retrieved three fat, gold coins and offered them to the Brewer. The man did not turn. Rory lumbered forward a step, and his hand swung into Marto’s shoulder. 

“Master’s mites!” Marto cried, and Rory flinched, the coins falling to the ground. “37 or 39? You idiot! Where’s the time? 34?” He watched the kettle feverishly as the seconds tick by, muttering numbers. Rory shrank as much as his frame allowed. I was holding my breath when Marto yanked the kettle off the holder, produced a cup, and poured the steaming liquid. “Drink, and pray you haven’t ruined it!”

Rory’s face spasmed as he downed the cup in two long swallows. But wonder soon replaced the pain. He had a faraway look as he righted his chair and sat. Something glimmered in Marto’s hand as he tucked the rest of his supplies into the bag. He wrapped the cup in a linen cloth and took the still-warm kettle by the handle. Then, he left.

“A pleasure,” I told the drowsing Fish Fist, and hurried out the door. I was in no hurry to see the boy again. Little did I know I’d one day be on the wrong end of his lance. 

Outside, Marto was squinting down the street, boot tapping a staccato into the morning air. “Well, you see the fruit of my work. The boy’s a whale. A shark. Two months of Trillence’s Tonics.”

I smoothed out my sleeve. So much of nobility, even nobility’s servants, was a measure of self-absorption. “My lord would be most impressed. You’ve performed an…extraordinary feat with the boy. Do all your clients see such results?”

“I am the best in Woeden.”

“What makes you the best?”

 “Your lord could ask any client. I brew uniquely effective tonics.”

“How?”

He gripped the bag. “You press too much! I’ve no need to prove myself. If he wants the best, he will hire me!”

I nearly apologized, but I was not here to take orders. I was the footman of a rich house. And I was here to leverage Marto’s greed into a seat at silver. “You’ve spent little time among the rich if you think he’ll piddle around like a shopper on Elder Way. You must convince him of your value, your singular value, or his dally will go to the next brewer. There are many.” Marto started to speak but I cut him off. “You make yourself a thorn thinking it will snag him, but you must be the flower. Be sweeter and brighter, not sharper, and you’ll earn a place in the garden. The alleys are full of proud, prickly weeds. The gardens are not.”

“Survival can depend on thorns,” he said, still as a snake. I worried I’d pushed him too far until his face sunk into a cunning smile. “But I feel I spoke in haste. I above all can appreciate a man who takes precautions. Who is discerning in his associations. Who knows exactly what he wants.” Marto nodded to the northwest. “I have one more visit today. Lady Henter.” My face betrayed me, and Marto’s smile sharpened. “Yes, old family. One of my finer clients, I admit. A better display of the service your lord would receive. For the gold.”

“Lead the way,” I said. 

As we walked, I recalled all I knew of the Henters. It wasn’t much. They were old nobility, true enough, with some kind of connection to gems. Maybe they owned mines in the hillsides surrounding Woeden, or maybe it was something with jewelry. Another blurry token from a tutor. The only Henter I knew was Jared, a sagging grape of a man who was always carted out of the jousting tournaments. Felled by wine, not a lance. Father and I often bet whether Jared would outlast the ceremonial roast hog. Other than the wineskin, I’d never seen a Henter.

The sun was rising as we crossed Woeden, moving from the southeastern Wharfside to the Crownwood District on the northwest of the city. Dew gleamed on cobbles. Marto’s shoes gave him no trouble, though they nagged me. I’d rather follow a 6 legged horse than listen to his plodding feet and popping knees. Maybe I could trade my boots for his seat at silver. The quality and scale of the buildings gradually improved, until we forded the busy Elder Way and entered the Crownwood District.

I knew my way around, and so did Marto. He led us down well-kept streets, up alleys, and through some public gardens. Thankfully, he led us around the frog ponds. Nobles loved delicacies, they weren’t keen on people falling in their ponds. We moved deeper into a neighborhood, very much like Rory’s in the reef except here each house was three stacked on top of each other. Lacquered timber gleamed everywhere. Wildflowers bloomed in barrels and crates around the houses. 

“Here we are,” Marto said before one of the manors. Before I could respond, he pushed open the door. “Lady Henter!” He said, tone bubbling to a soapy mush. “Marto’s here!” He sounded so cheerful, I wondered if he had his own Yelp. 

“My Marto,” crooned an old woman from deep in the house. The Brewer sprang inside like it was his house. I followed carefully. I’d never been in a noble’s home before, and I couldn’t help staring. Tall, gilded portraits framed the main hallway. I snuck glimpses of the side rooms as we passed. First, a parlor with couches and a harp. A handsome library. Some sort of workshop with lenses mounted on velveted tables. Farther along, I noticed odd gaps in the sequence of portraits. The next two rooms were completely empty. Were the Henter’s waxing or waning? Growing into the home or selling heirlooms?

“Marto, dear!” Lady Henter called around the corner. 

Marto scurried forward, and we came into a warm sitting room. Literally. A well-stocked fireplace crackled. The bearskin rug was two feet from lighting up the house. Pedestals of jewelry guarded the room like sentinels. Well, that explained the family’s riches. Amidst the podiums sat an ancient woman at a small table, inspecting an emerald through a lens. Gems glinted on knuckles, necklaces, and in her hair. She was swaddled in velvet, like a bejeweled cushion with a head. This was old wealth. I had no doubt she was well connected with folks at silver and gold. Maybe she even held her own seat. 

Marto bowed, and Lady Henter tutted. “You’re too sweet, my boy! But who’s this?” She straightened at the sight of me, like you would if a stranger walked into your sitting room.

I bowed lower than Marto. “Davis. A steward of a lord in search of fine drink. Marto has graciously allowed me to observe today.”

“A steward,” Lady Henter said. “But you are still a boy! Do tell me you’re exceptionally young for a steward. Or have I just grown too old to tell?”

“I am the youngest in my lord’s service,” I said smoothly. “But age is not always so clear. I dare say I mistook your eyes for emeralds in the firelight.”

“Then you’d best find an eyeglass,” she said. “60 years ago I could work a jeweler down with a look. I spent a few weeks at Nortall, making trips into Du Hoven.” She saw my surprise. “Oh yes! The barbarians couldn’t speak a word, but I traded for barrels of gems. We dumped wine to make room on the trip home! It’s always the eyes, young man.”

I’d met so few people who went north into the Hollowed Hills or Du Hoven. I forgot entirely that I was supposed to be a steward. “What were the northmen like?”

“Terrible bargainers,” she said fondly. “Wiry, wild men who choose steel over gems. No wonder they’re still warring with the trolls.”

“Are they really the size of trees?”

Marto stiffened as she chittered out a laugh. “No, my boy! Of course I didn’t see a troll. You think the guards let the beasts near Nortall? Not even the savages are allowed near the fort.”

“But we are not savages,” Marto broke in. Lady Henter blinked as though she’d forgotten he was there. I nearly had. The Brewer joined her and placed the kettle on the table. “We are proper folk. Civilized and mannered. Leave sticks and blades to the northerners. We know the best weapon is the mind, and let us sharpen yours.”

“Indeed,” Lady Henter said, settling back into her chair like it was a seat at the Den. “I’ve  felt a bit dull today.”

   “Then you need a drink,” Marto said. He began drawing the vials and pouches much like he had for Rory. I was uninterested in watching the Brewer’s silent vigil as he prepared the tonic. I was about to ask Lady Henter something when Marto spoke. “It looks like Jared has been helping with the renovations.”

“He does a fine job.”

Marto pricked the vein of a frond and squeezed sap into a bowl. “He must have a favorite area to help.”

Lady Henter drew a slow breath. “Paintings,” she said. “He likes looking for new portraits. You know there’s so many artists in the district to visit. We’ll only take the best, of course.”

“Naturally,” Marto said. “I wonder if I might be able to see one of the new pieces he’s acquired? I must admit my admiration of artwork high above my means.”

“I had no idea you were so interested,” Lady Henter said with the slightest edge. 

“I’m quite obsessed,” Marto said with another soapy smile. “It would truly make my day to see a new piece.”

Something was off here. Lady Henter fingered her emerald. “The new paintings are still being commissioned, but you ought to see the family portraits on your way out. Old work. You won’t find finer artistry in the University itself.”

Marto was still smiling at Lady Henter, and he pulled a pouch from his tote without looking. “Lovely pieces. I would just look forward to seeing something new next time.” He hung in the pose a little too long. He was like a fresh actor on the stage. Marto knew his lines but couldn’t quite embody them. Where were the lines coming from? What game was the Brewer playing?

“Be happy you’re seeing my gold,” Lady Henter snapped.

“My apologies,” Marto said, smile lingering a second too long. He settled back into his routine again. There was a stiffness to Lady Henter now. She watched Marto work the mortar and pestle. I was reminded of Rory’s house as we listened to the spitting fire and the grinding of stone on stone.  Gradually, she relaxed. 

I wanted to watch Marto’s every move, but I had more pressing business. “My lady, it’s most fortunate Marto visited you today, as my lord could benefit from the wisdom of a master jeweler?”

“It would be my pleasure, though I don’t recall your lord’s name.”

 Neither did I. “I’m afraid I’m operating on rather private business today. My lord’s interest in Trillence’s Tonics is of a personal nature.”

“I see.” Her green eyes grinned like a cat who’d cornered a mouse. “If I am to share wisdom, I must know who will hear it.”

“Wisdom ought to fall true on all who hear it.” It sounded like something my tutors would say.

She nodded. “But the smith and the chandler live very different lives. Could I tell a smith to ‘kiss the wick’? What use has he for a chandler’s superstition?”

“Smiths ought to take luck from anywhere,” I said. “There are blacksmiths who’d kiss every candle in Woeden if they could get their hand back.”

She watched Marto set the kettle over the fire as she chewed the thought. “Take a Fieran soldier and a student in the University. You may argue both should keep their weapons sharp. You might say proper training will prepare one for the Fiero Trials or the exams. But what wisdom is there for a student of music to know how to bleed a troll?” 

I thought of a dozen of Father’s best plays. “Great art can come from blood and filth and loss. Music needs notes both high and low.”

“But to bleed a troll?” she said. “There’s really no sense in something so…brutish.”

“Then bleeding them is unwise from the start.”

She laughed. “Aren’t you a whip! You’re worse than a Glamel banker!” Marto jerked beside the fireplace, though his back was to us. Lady Henter sipped from her wine glass. “Let us imagine my wisdom will help your lord’s situation, whoever he may be.”

I bowed. “My lord’s son is interested in a young lady. A singer. The son needs guidance on the best stone to gift the lady. Something to impress her. Make a show of his affection.”

“They are courting?” she asked.

“As I understand it, my lord’s son has not met her.” Saying it aloud sounded rather ridiculous, even for me.

She frowned. “A fixed marriage?”

“Merely a young man’s fancy.”

Marto returned with the kettle and poured a steaming glassful. Lady Henter grimaced and drank it in three quick swallows. 

“Ah,” she said, face clearing. “I should have guessed. Half the jewelers in Woeden stay open on cheap trinkets for such occasions. They are the lifeblood of the unskilled jewelsmith. But a lord’s son can’t hand out a half-polished stone like some commoner, and so your question…” 

She took another sip of wine as Marto cleared the kettle and glass. “When is a riddle a riddle? The boy will find different answers from each he asks. The poets promise there are four words to win a woman’s love. The armorers say a man’s sword only chooses him once it has tasted blood. A Servant, if the son bothers to ask, believes love is like a campfire, with patient arrangement of tinder and logs. Everyone has their claim, and here is mine: give the girl a ruby. Diamonds are for oaths. Men swear over blades; women over diamonds. They hold all colors inside, like a wife does her children. They are sharp and strong as a lady’s tongue. But diamonds are a mother’s stone. Emeralds are for remembering. There’s much to be seen in their dark depths, and they whisper to those who have seen much. A grandmother chooses the emerald. But a girl could have no better stone than a ruby. A ruby is a kiss of fire. It blazes in the light. It is a spark on kindling. A ruby catches the eye and the breath.  Bold and Mysterious as any girl could dream of, and it says much about the gifter.”

This was all great, but I preferred blue. “How about a sapphire?”

“A sapphire!” She cackled. “Who would ever give a girl a sapphire?” She wheezed over the table and bumped the wine glass. It fell and shattered, but she just howled louder. 

Humor is a strange business. Well-aimed jokes can miss and random lines can chance over some unknown goldmine. You can play the same show three nights, and each audience will react differently. Delivering your best lines to silence is chilling. Being surprised by a roar of laughter is euphoric. I laughed with Lady Henter as the wine spread across the planks.  

Finally, she wiped the wetness from her eyes. “Oh, what fun! You’re too sharp for your own good! Oh, what fun! I feel better than I have in months.” Her wrinkled hand caught my wrist. “Come back next week! I need more laughs, and you just tell your lord I have the perfect ruby for his boy. A gift, not that it matters?”

“I would be most pleased,” I said, and I was. I’d established my own connection to one of the most reputable jewelers in the city. Not through my name or reputation, but charm. I grinned like a fox. After spending the last few weeks in compost, brambles, and the hard seats of bronze, this was a definitive step forward. In my next visit, I would ease a few names out of Lady Henter. But for today, there was one final matter. An opportunity to not only stay in good standing with Marto and Harrister, but to elevate my position.

As Marto and I excused ourselves and returned to the street, I took his elbow. “I must admit I have not been entirely plain with you today.” His jaw clenched, and I continued. “You see, my lord is in need of a great brewer, which I now know you to be. But he is in need of your reputation, not your skills.”

“My reputation?”

“You are the Buttoned Brewer,” I said. “Your craft is undisputed, but I see that is not your only asset. Your reputation is worth much to my lord. To have such a respected brewer at his side is a mark of status and taste.”

Marto frowned. “But he has no need of my skill?”

I grimaced and leaned close. “My lord has already found a drink that serves his needs. He would connect you with this brewer and bring him the bottle as you would your own tonic.”

“I am not some errand boy!” Marto snapped, tugging his bony arm free and clomping off.

“20 dally a delivery,” I said.

***

That night, I told Harrister that Marto Trillence, the Buttoned Brewer, had business with him.

“Right!” Harrister barked. “And I bet he’s giving me his recipes too.”

But his snorts were not long to last, as soon a familiar clopping approached from silver. Marto Trillence stood on the ledge over our table with a sour look on his face. “You are Sir Harrister.”

Harrister stood, nearly eye to eye with the spindly brewer despite the step. “Brewer.”

“I’ll require a bottle of your hale pail every week, without delay.”

“I won’t share my brew with a competitor.”

“I’ll pay well,” Marto said. “Four dally a bottle.”

“Not for sale. But you can earn it.”

Marto chewed his lip, buttons winking in the torchlight. “Seven.”

“You’ll sell for me,” Harrister said. “Two new clients a week, and the bottle is yours.”

“Greedy hog,” Marto said. “10 dally, and that’s it!”

“12.”

“10!”

“10,” Harrister agreed, a broad smile dawning. He reached to Marto as though offering to help him down. “To a long partnership.” 10 thick dally clinked into his hand. “I have a hale pail outside for just such an occasion. Let me and my associate grab it for you.”

Harrister lifted me out of the seat and half carried me out the door. When we turned the corner, he howled like a wolf. His face was wild as he shook me. “You did it! High Master you winked the bloody brewer! Here, take your keep.” His coin pouch opened like a mouth and cool, solid weight tumbled into my hands. I’d never held so much coin, and I had to empty the walnuts out of my own pouch to make room. “I need a bottle! For the Buttoned Brewer!” Harrister wandered off, laughing and rambling in his delight.

My legs were leaden from a day around the city, and my eyes were growing heavy. But I returned to Violet’s Veil and took my seat at the table. Minutes later, a breathless Harrister returned and hurried to Marto in silver, patting a bottle of pink swill. I made a big yawn, stretching wide, and left the Veil. Unsurprisingly, a claw like hand caught me outside.

“Where can I find your lord?” Marto said, working to keep the eagerness from his voice. He cradled the pink bottle like a newborn.

“It’s been a day,” I said. “Allow me to deliver this first bottle for you.”

Marto’s scowl melted as my coin pouch sighed open. I counted out my entire purse with the patience of a servant. 20 dally 0. 

He took the coin. “To many more!”

I took the bottle, and my chance at silver. “To many more.”

Chapter 6: Snatch

It was never my intention to disrobe in the library. I usually reserved such activities for the bathroom, but today I was playing snatch with Jerard Presley. He was light-haired, my age, and richly dressed in a striped vest over long cotton sleeves. For now.

“Ready?” I asked. 

He nodded, eyes locked on the table between us. We tipped the cup, and six dice tumbled across the table. 

Jerard’s hand slammed on three dice. “11,” he said, revealing a two, three, and six.

“A coordinated poet,” I grumbled. I was already missing my hat, a boot, and a sock. I unlaced my other boot, checked for walkers, and tossed it out the window. The boot plummeted three stories and crashed into the growing mound of clothes.

“You insist we drop the clothes?” Jerard asked. “You’ve already lost both boots! If Madam Rosehand saw you…”

“And when the Witch spots you without shoes?”

Jerard paled. “We’ll be done by then!”

I smiled like a gambler with a full pouch. Indeed, I was already down four articles of clothing, while Jerard was only missing a scarf. All signs pointed to me losing the game, and swiftly. A small sacrifice for the larger victory.

“Again,” I said, returning the dice to the cup. We tipped. I spied my numbers and reached, but Jerard’s hand flashed like a snake.

He was almost apologetic. “11.”

My last sock fluttered down past the windows. I wiggled my toes. Jerard surprised me with an honest laugh, and I found myself joining him. Nobleman’s sons are usually prickly, self-absorbed creatures, but Jerard was as wholesome as Lady Henter described. His father oversaw the shipping chart to the High Docks, and it paid to know when ships would be arriving with exotic gems. A few questions, a quick joke, and I learned Lord Presley’s son sat for him at silver. The boy was kind, lovesick, and an awful poet, not that any merchant could admit it. 

My standing with Marto would fade over the next weeks as I dodged his questions about my mysterious lord. But Jerard was my perfect opportunity to befriend someone in silver. I allowed myself to imagine the stage up close. How sweet and crisp her voice would be. Her amazement as I excused myself from powerful nobles and merchants and came to her. All this work, leading to our shining moment. 

I was grinning like the fool I was when Jerard patted my hand. “You can quit.”

“When I have you right where I want?” I said easily. “That would be tragic.”

“Tragic.” Jerard sighed and swished the dice around the cup like ale. He swallowed. “Thorns and roses. He proposes. She opposes. Their door…closes.” A tremor caught the end of his verse. He was the antithesis of every downhearted fisherman, from his noble blood to the honeysuckle smell of him, but there was a weight to his words. The same weary sound a dockhand makes as he slides onto the stool after a day of empty nets. It centered me. I found myself watching him. The boy sitting across from me, not the boy sitting at silver. Jerard cleared his throat and tried for a smile. “My apologies.”

“Keep them. I know the feeling.”

He looked up. “You lost a girl?”

“A woman,” I said, and that familiar lump climbed my throat. “My mother.” A long pause. I couldn’t quite find his eyes, and he couldn’t meet mine. 

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “I’ll find another girl, but you only have one mom.”

I nodded. We watched the dice climb and fall in the tilting cup. The sound reminded me of Father tapping a beat against the tabletop. The birth of his newest song. The rhythm of a line. The cadence of a character’s voice. Pop players would steal these strokes of genius at the next performance. Woeden would catch fire with its jester’s latest masterpiece. Imitated on street corners and in taverns. Studied in the university. Recorded in The Book of Jesters in this very library. All blooming from Father’s drumming fingers. I wondered if the same would someday be said of me. If hundreds, maybe thousands of struggling performers would look to me for the song or play that could lift them from obscurity into a respected troupe. I’d always dreamed of replacing Father, but for the first time, I began to worry. Not that the day would come too late, but that it would be too soon.

“Her name was Bella,” Jerard said.

“Lena,” I said. It felt strange to say my mother’s name. Herold and Lena. The jester and his exiled wife. Another die fell, and I wondered what life would be like if Woeden was different. If Mother could have stayed. If a man could be a husband and a jester in this city. Merrymen in Barony’s other fiefs could marry and raise families. But here in Muse, in Woeden, the jester was bound to the city. He might marry. He might have a son. But when the needs of his wife or children affected his performances…Mother was proof of the consequences. Father’s life was staked to the oak planks of the Den. Until I eclipsed him. Then, he could return to Lena in Taperton and live out his days with his wife. The thought kindled that hot coal deep in my chest. Someday, I would give him that. A warm sunset above a wheat field.

I settled into my chair and found my hand tapping something. “What was she like?”

Jerard sighed unhappily. “What is the moon like? Beautiful? Graceful? Strong? How could words ever catch her?”

“Sometimes they can’t,” I said. “We fool ourselves, thinking words can carve the world into nice little pieces.” I met his eye. “But some things are invulnerable. Wind around a sword. I don’t need words to see your girl. I see her in your eyes. I see what she meant to you. I see what you saw in her. How you admired her and hoped. How you broke when she left.”

“And I’m the poet?” he lamented, and then the tears started. The cup fell and dice rolled across the table. Jerard sobbed into his hands. I’d only just met him, but there was something I recognized in him. I felt no unease as a girl emerged from the bookshelves and frowned at us. I waved her off and waited with Jerard. Slowly, his snivels slowed to huffs. He blew his nose into his sleeve like a farmhand and surprised me with a brave smile. “I’m hiring you for my final essay. Name your price.”

I counted the dice into the cup and pushed it to him.

He cocked his head. “You want…Snatch?”

“Gold can’t buy you a good game of snatch.”

He laughed. “Who says you’re having a good game? You’re three turns from being arrested!”

I smiled. “Only if I lose.”

We rolled. For all Jerard’s teary-eyed blubbering, his reflexes were still sharp. I managed to win the first round and had the satisfaction of watching his boot nosedive out the window. I lost the next round. Unfortunately, I had a difficult decision. Shirt or pants? I did not have much to hide upstairs, so I let the breeze take my shirt. Now was the time to stop. Three rounds ago was the time to stop, but this was my last chance.

I felt a dangerous smile starting. The same one that always led to trouble. I grinned at Jerard. “Again.”

“No.”

“Roll the dice.”

“I won’t!”

I took the cup and began to fill it. I felt eyes on my bare back. Students peeking through the shelves like deer in the woods.

“You’re insane,” he said in wonder. He watched me like a kid at a magician’s show, waiting for some great reveal. Some trick. I put the last die in the cup. There was no reveal. No plan. Only instincts.

The dice spilled over the wood, and my hand sized four dice of its own accord. One, three, three, four. “That’s 11,” I said, half surprised.

Jerard chewed his lip. He looked awfully worried for only missing a scarf and a boot. “I can’t lose the sock. Madam Rosehand would skin me.”

“Once she’s done with me,” I agreed. 

He sighed. “How did you ever convince me to play? The poet must draw from life, they say. Well, this is life!” His other boot sailed out the window. “Last chance, Davis! Do you quit?”

I won the next round. My hand was a hawk diving the dice before they even settled. Jerard was pale as his sock joined the pile. He was afraid, but he was also proud. He would fold if it came to risking his shirt or pants, but he still had one sock. If you were missing one, you might as well risk the other. His last chance.

We rolled again, and I moved fast. He moved faster. A bystander may have noticed my fingers drumming for a heartbeat after the cup tipped. If someone stood behind Jerard, it might have seemed like I was watching his face rather than the table. 

Jerard stole the winning dice the moment before my hand slammed down. He sprang to his feet. “Yes! I’ve done it!”

I shook his hand and tried to smile. “Well played, my friend. You literally beat my pants off.” He laughed, but my gut was quickly becoming a sour twist. I’d known the game would end like this, but now the moment was here. Jerard was grinning like a cat with a cornered mouse. No doubt the rustling behind me was red-eyed students spawning from the woodwork to witness my demise. I let out a deep breath, fighting my sudden nerves. I wasn’t here to win snatch. I wasn’t even here to lose the stupid game. I’d sat through hours of Lady Henter’s gossip to discover Jerard. I’d scoured the university grounds for him. I’d persuaded him into a game I knew he would win. I’d added a single new rule. All this, so we would both be trapped in the library. Hunted by the Witch and her rule-abiding followers. Prey. 

Still, it’s hard to drop your drawers in a library. As intimidating and shocking as plunging into an icy water trough. A few searing, burning seconds, and then a blooming numbness. I figured this would be the same. I took firm hold of my underpants with one hand. With the other, I pulled my pants off. I braced for the biting laughter, but there was only rustling in the shelves. I tossed my black pants outside, but there was no cheer. No rush of giggles. In fact, there was nothing. I turned. The students were gone. But why?

“Where are they?” came Jerard’s petrified voice. He sounded like a boy at the bottom of a well. He was pale as cream when I turned back. An even paler foot protruded from his otherwise respectable attire. His violet sock was another delicious violation for the Witch. He was a fly in her frog pond. Given that I was only covered from my waist to my knees, I looked like an actual white-bellied frog. There would be no missing my ghostly frame gliding between the shelves.

“They’ve gone to the Witch,” I said. “She’s coming here. Now.”

“Madam Rosehand?” Jerard whined. “My Master, why did I ever agree to this? A Presley, nearly nude in the library! What would Father ever say? I’ll be deserted in the Hollowed Hills! With trolls!”

“Let’s worry about the Witch first.”

“Or he’ll sell me to the Caelish to clean rat guts out of cauldrons! I’ll be stained with magic like…like…”

“Jerard, we’re not getting caught.” I nodded into the maze of bookcases, trying to look confident. “Come on.” 

He looked at the window, considering his chances of surviving the fall. “We can’t walk out. She has so many eyes on the door.”

“We can’t walk out like this,” I agreed. “And we won’t. We just need some clothes.” 

“Just…clothes?” Jerard moaned. “You do know we’re in the library, not the tailor!”

“Libraries have clothes.”

“Really? What kind?”
“Used.”

That’s when we heard it. Thump-crack thump. Thump-crack thump. The three-legged march was distant, across the third floor, but a chill ran up my spine. I had no idea what the Witch would do to us, but we wouldn’t be leaving with free pies. Unless we were in them.

“We can do this,” I told Jerard. “You just have to trust me.”

“I’ll never play snatch again,” Jerard prayed earnestly. “Or any game that involves the removal of clothing. Or the breaking of any of the good Madam Rosehand’s rules. May you grant her mercy, patience, and forgiveness.”

The thump-crack thump stopped. There was a voice like nails against steel, and a student began to cry. “Maybe she’s getting it out of her system,” I offered. The triple step resumed, and I entered the first row. “We have to go. Now.”

Jerard followed hopelessly. We moved deeper into the maze of the third floor shelves. For not being a student, or studious, I had a great knowledge of the library. I’d lost many an afternoon among these dark, oak bookcases. To some, these were the third-year research tomes: Anthologies of pre-Chasm Caelish poetry, bestiaries, biographies of playwrights and jesters, histories of music. To me, they were camouflage.

We stayed in the densest, darkest aisles, peering into the well-lit walkways like moles from holes. Sneaking around in underpants felt odd, even for me, but shopping for used clothes is a strange business. You only know what you’re looking for when you find it. We snuck past tables of students. Some were hidden behind columns of books. Others clustered around a single tome like moths around a candle. I didn’t know what I was searching for until we heard the girls.

“They sound scared,” Jerard mumbled.

I peeked around the edge of the shelf, but the nearest table was empty. And the next. A high voice hissed something behind us. “They’re deeper than we are,” I breathed.

I led us another three rows into the forest. Here, the overhead torches were rare. These texts were old, nearly forgotten. Long blankets of darkness lay between the weak torches. Only the best students would bother to come here. Or the worst. The whispers were growing louder. Jerard was slowing down, lagging behind, but I pressed on. This would be our answer, somehow. 

“Nelly the…Smelly!” came a hurried voice.

I peeked around the corner. I blinked. There were two girls. One was frowning at a scroll. The other held up a scarecrow with a painted face and daisy-yellow overcoat.

“Try the next one,” she hissed.

“Larry O’hairy,” the other read.

“Nothing?” The scarecrow girl cursed. “What a bloody scam! Just hurry through the rest.”

The other girl mumbled a litany of half-hearted hexes. “Marcus’ carcasses. Beth the death-breathed? Clark of the Pockmarks…”

The scarecrow was unfazed. I found myself wondering why it wore the coat. Finally, the reader smiled apologetically. “Maybe they’re bum spells?”

“Or they don’t work on scarecrows. Here, give me the scroll.”

“Why?”

“Give it!”

“I’ll tell Madam Rosehand!”

An idea seized me as scarecrow girl wrestled for the scroll. I spun to Jerard, who was hunkered beside a wall of texts on spunkbug anatomy. “Don’t scream.”

“What?”

I pounded both feet into the floorboards and wrapped my knuckle against the shelf. My voice rose to a high-grating sound. “Girls! What unholy creature is this!”

There was a cry and the scuffling of footfalls quickly fading. I leaned over and shouted after their retreating forms. “Beasts! You foul my library with beasts!” The voice wasn’t quite right, but it was apparently close enough. All that remained of their illegal, blasphemous activity was a scarecrow. And its daisy-colored coat. A glorious sight for someone in underpants.

I hurried forward and harvested my loot, pulling on the stiff, starched coat. The original owner must have been small. It was short in the arms, but a big improvement nonetheless. I looked like Marto. The coat even had a few buttons, which I fastened up the middle to cover up. In the end, it looked like a shrunken, yellow shirt.

We had a moment to bask in the victory before I realized the Witch’s tell-tale trudge had quickened and was closing on our position. Her scouts could already be encircling us, tightening the noose. I’d traded our lives for an uncomfortable shirt.

Jerard had realized the same. His lip quivered as I took him by the arm. “Listen, we’re not done yet. We just need to hide until she turns on someone else.”

“There’s nowhere to hide! They’ll rake each row like dogs.”

I looked around. There was nothing. No cover. Only long, naked corridors between the shelves. The shelves. “Jerard, follow me.”

It was another minute before a scout discovered the scarecrow. She was a very pretty girl with red hair. For a second, I forgot my situation and hoped she was my singer. What an unlikely meeting this would be! That dream was dispelled when muttered something in a high, nasally voice. She hurried away, and the Witch’s pace increased further. Then, she was upon us. My stomach flipped as Madam Rosehand shuffled into the aisle like some giant, three-legged spider. Hung over her enormous frame was burlap. The scratchy, fraying kind you’d find in a wagon bed. It surrounded her as a nebulous mantle. It whispered a dry, hissing threat against the floorboards. Her breathing grated against the stillness as she hurried forward, feet appearing and vanishing. Her broom punched the wood every other step. Jerard flinched again and again as her broom handle cracked down. It was the symbol of her office. The broomstick served as the base of her cane. The brambled head was skyward. Impaled on the twigs were scraps of parchment. The perfect staff, tool, and weapon. 

She labored forward like a drunken bear, and I held my breath. She stopped five feet from us. I was silent as the dead. Jerard and I lay flat atop the bookshelves on either side of the scarecrow. It was our only option. They were just tall enough, and wide enough, that nobody could see us from the ground. Hopefully. My view was of the cobwebbed ceiling. Boots clapped and slippers sighed as more scouts arrived at the scarecrow below us. There had to be a dozen, all breathing hard in breathless silence. Just like a troll hunt, Father would say.

The Witch spoke. “Block the exits. Watch the windows. I want every girl with straw in her hair. Every boy that smells of it. Now.”

The students shot off. I waited, gut in my throat. Time stretched on, but I heard nothing. No broomstick. No breathing. I should have heard her leave, right? But neither was there noise below me. I was treed. Trapped. To look over the edge would risk everything. Slowly, glacially, I tilted my head toward Jerard’s shelf. He was in shadow, but even as I watched, the rise and fall of his chest quickened. The same thoughts ran through his mind, but he was losing. His arm twitched. Toes curled. He drew a deep breath, and I instantly recognized that he was an actor about to break. I didn’t think. I did something brilliantly stupid.

I rolled off the shelf. Half a second before I obliterated the scarecrow. Wood splintered and skittered down the aisle. Straw and dust erupted. As the racket faded, the library suddenly seemed deathly quiet. I became aware of the pain blossoming at my side. I reached down and discovered a finger length of wood protruding from my stomach. I blinked stupidly. How did it get there? The pain grew red, blazing. It burned through my haze. I realized I’d have to pull it out. Breaths came fast, but I pushed myself to all fours. Sagged to my haunches. Prepared to pull the shard. Something shifted behind me, and I turned just as the broom cracked down.

***

The world was blurry, spinning, pungent. My head felt like it had been cracked open and dunked in seawater. My mouth was gummy and sticky. I blinked hard, and the swirling bookshelves slowed.

A sagging face appeared over me. “You broke…my…broom.”

My mouth made a gloopy sound.

The Witch shook me. “Oak! My mother’s oak!“ I coughed thickly on her fumes, and she let me slump to the floor. She picked up two lengths of snapped wood. Cradles them like newborns. They could have passed for chair legs if it weren’t for the briar of twigs. Another pain twisted my gut alongside the wooden stake. I’d really broken her broom. The Witch’s broom. I might be a hero, someday. If I survived. A pale face appeared above the witch. Jerard. He took in the scene with wide, terrified eyes. 

“How could you?” The Witch spat.

My mind was clearing, but my mouth was clay. “This isn’t your fault,” I croaked.

“Have you lost your mind!” she roared.

I might have fainted if it weren’t for the chalky oval over her shoulder. Its weakness gave me strength. “I’ll be alright. Take care of yourself.”

“Worry about yourself, boy! A scarecrow in my library…” Excitement crept into her voice. “Oh, how fitting. You’ve got the shape for it. I’ll string you up outside to ward off criminals!”

It shows the state of my pain and fear that I found no insult in her words. I tried to smile and grimaced. “Criminals will run away. When you’re…tying me up.”

“I know just the tree,” she crooned. “Now, come here.”

My skin prickled at the pleasure in her words. I fought the weakness, the pain, and rose to my knees. “They will run. And I’ll find them in the infirmary…or dungeon.”

She lurched toward me, claws outstretched, but I was scrabbling away. I pulled myself up against a shelf and staggered away. Agony bit my side with each step, and the Witch howled behind me. I stumbled into the next aisle, sparing a single look back at the figure shambling along the shelves, and then I was gone. Or, I would have been. I made it three rows before I was face to face with the red-haired girl. Any other night I would have bounded off like a deer, but tonight I had a quarter of an arrow in me. I wasn’t a deer. I was venison. 

She tackled me, and pain exploded. I was falling, falling, falling into blackness. As my vision darkened to a cloudy tunnel, the Witch appeared, and she was smiling.

***

I was in a room of lemons. Yellow walls painted with daisies. Yellow sheets. The air was clean and dry. On the bed stand next to me sat a glass of water with a lemon slice. The Infirmary. There was a dull ache at my side, and I felt the bandages secured around my torso. The wood was gone. So was the Witch. I sighed back into the pillows of the bed. I was ready to relax after nearly being killed by a librarian.  I wondered if Jerard had made it out during my distraction. Was he still perched atop the bookshelf like a petrified squirrel? I’d hoped to lead us both out of the library, fully clothed. It would have made for a great story. A memorable start to our friendship, even if I still wanted him to help me into silver. I touched the tenderness at my side. Every story has a twist. I just had to hope this one would work in my favor.

The door opened, and a tousle-haired nurse peeked in. “Good. Sir High Physician Hig Frey III will check on you soon, dear.” Her head retreated.

“Hig Frey?” I asked the empty room. Her words were unintelligible as a trollish curse. Maybe the blow to my head was serious. I wondered for a moment what would happen if I lost my wits. It was a dizzying thought. But before I could spiral too far, the door burst open and in hurried a sputtering Jerard.

“High Master, Davis! I thought she’d killed you, but you just snapped her broom! You must be strong as a troll to bleed like that!”

“I am strong headed.”

He shook his head in wonder. “You don’t know what you’ve done for me. You saved me. If I’d been caught…You were like a knight blocking an arrow, or a knight…stopping…a spear!” He finished clumsily.

“We were both brave today,” I said. “We risked something for a greater cause.”

“I’ll be brave for Bella,” Jerard promised. “I’ll find a way to prove my devotion.”

“Poetry in motion,” I said.

He threw up his hands. “You’re better than Professor Helven! I swear I’ll pay you to write my essays.”

I chuckled, and then there was quiet. The tired, satisfied sort all actors share after the curtain closes. That soldiers share after battle. We let it stretch. That restful stillness did more for me than anything the Infirmary could offer. I would have savored the peace until the physician came, but I was to have another visitor.

Father entered the room. He took in my bandages. The bruise across my head. He moved slowly, calmly, toward the chair, but there was an iron tension in him. There was worry in his eyes, but beneath that was a well of disappointment. Guilt. I felt it, worse than wood in the gut. Somehow, he blamed himself. My exaltation died.

“See you later,” Jerard said with a small smile and bowed out of the room. 

I was alone with Father.