by Chad A. B. Wilson
in Issue 94, November 2019
Kline moved to the side table and took the decanter in his left hand. “I assume you don’t object?”
“At midday? Of course not.” Brock moved to join him.
The brown liquid poured into the glass, two fingers tall. Brock drank. Kline was worth a visit just to get a taste of his comfort. The whiskey was good. Sweet. Smelled like flowers.
Kline quaffed his liquor and put the glass back on the sideboard. Then he motioned to the couch. Brock finished his and glanced at the decanter, wishing he could pour himself another. Alas. He set down the glass and sat opposite Kline and the kid.
The kid was obviously new. Didn’t take his eyes off Brock, a good sign. He was about 19, with two knives on his belt, not even bothering to hide them. Brock instinctively padded his own belly, checking to make sure his knife was still hidden there. Swords may have been illegal in Falsea, but knives weren’t. Brock, however, chose to wear his under his cloak and shirt.
“Who’s the kid?”
“What’s your name, kid?” Kline asked, and continued without letting the kid answer. “Kid’s looking for work. A bit fresh, but he’s done a few small things for me. He’ll be great someday. For you, my friend, I just don’t think I have anything.”
“Come on,” Brock replied. “Ghoul in the graveyard? Cretin on the street corner?”
“Afraid not. A naughty nobleboy’s been peckering a naughty noblegirl. Dad’s paying to teach the boy a lesson. But that’s about it. I figured the kid can take that one. Rest is already contracted.”
“Yes, sir,” the kid began to say, but Kline held up his hand to stop him.
“And I know you don’t like the more unsavory jobs.” Kline gave a slight smile.
“Disappointing,” Brock said. “I suppose I’ll have to rustle up something on my own.”
“I know where to find you.”
“Yep.”
Brock made his way back across the Leine into Hemis One and went into the first tavern he saw. He just wanted a beer before trekking back to the Barn and Bauble, his regular spot whenever he passed through Falsea. He stopped just inside the door. The Purple Cauldron was deserted.
Later that night, Brock stood in front of the Bronze Falcon, eating a hot sausage speared onto his penknife, bought from the grill set up just outside the two-story inn and tavern. The din from the singing drowned everything out. Audience member hopefuls pressed on the outside, trying to get a peek through the windows, either because they couldn’t afford to buy a drink or because the place was just too packed. Others sat in the upstairs windows serenading the streets below. Everyone appeared to enjoy the pandemonium. Brock shook his head and chewed his sausage.
Oh well, he thought, I guess I’m going to have to kill a bard.
He had to fight the throngs to get to the bar, fight to get the bartender’s attention, and then fight to get a hold of his beer. There, just to the right of the bar, a stool, the first open one he had seen. He fought his way to it and plopped down. Only half an hour to get a beer and a seat. Brock couldn’t help but wonder why people would put up with this crap.
Brock looked around. At first glance, it appeared to be a stereotypical tavern party, but Brock had spent countless nights in taverns, and this one was anything but normal. The beer was literally spilling over—the floor shimmered and squished—but no one cared. The faces were pinned in ecstatic smiles, loving every minute of the packed house singalong. Cheers between songs. Arms around best friends. Someone hit Brock in the arm, yelled “yeah!,” and then began swishing his beer back and forth in the air.
“What’s wrong with you, sourpuss?” the man asked, grimacing. “Don’t know ‘The Bitch of Bassington?’”
Brock didn’t. Never heard of her. But he did know something was off.
Brock had been to 23 taverns and inns that day, and every one of them suffered from the same malady as the Purple Cauldron and the Barn and Bauble. Most were empty. Less than half had one or two customers who had not bothered to visit the Bronze Falcon yet. Perhaps those leftovers just wanted peace and quiet. Brock sympathized.
He had even been to Gardenside. The Watch didn’t generally bother you in Gardenside, even if you weren’t nobility, as long as you didn’t do anything stupid. But if you offended anyone or started a fight or looked like you may want to steal something, the Watch would appear out of nowhere and take you into custody. They arrested first, then fined you, then asked a few questions. Not fair, but with nobles and commoners, nothing was.
Those two Gardenside inns had had a few more people sitting around drinking wine than the ones in the commoner parts of Hemis One, but they were still nearly empty. “Half full,” one proprietor told him. “Many of my regulars would never go to a tavern in Hemis, but some of them say the bard’s worth it.”
“What about night?” Brock asked, as he sipped his ale. It was damn good. His fifteenth one of the day so far, not counting that whiskey with Kline.
“Empty,” the man said. “I had to fire my own bard. I’ve got one, you know. Most of us here in Gardenside do. We pay them to play a few nights a week; they get room and board.”
“Sounds like a good deal.” Brock had no idea whether it was.
“Sure, but not when the customers ain’t comin’. For a whole week, it was just him and me, and I don’t even like music. Not hearing the same damn thing night after night. So I let him go.”
Brock glanced around. Two groups of men sat in armchairs, all smoking, drinking, laughing, and talking to one another. Nobles didn’t really talk to the proprietor, Brock knew. Unlike nobles, commoners were just looking for interesting conversation, be it with a bard, an ale-slinger, or a traveling salesman. Nobles wouldn’t condescend to such. Brock breathed in a bit of the smoke and sighed, wishing he could afford tobacco. Alas, noble pursuits.
“I may be interested in solving your problem,” Brock told the man. “How much is it worth?”
“Hmm. You get rid of the bard and get my customers back, sure, I’ll pay. How’s two gold?”
“Just fine.” Brock stood, rapped his hand on the bar, said “I’ll be back,” and left. He had had to haggle the others to get them up to one gold piece each. If he could get a few more from Gardenside in on it, he could be set for life. Pending getting rid of the bard, of course.
Right now, at the Bronze Falcon, he had come to a conclusion.
The first thing, obvious to everyone, was the crowd. Anyone who saw the bard abandoned every other tavern, only wanting to keep going back again and again. What seemed really unusual was that everyone sang along, even ones like Langdum, who Brock noticed sitting by himself in the midst of the cacophony, grinning from ear to ear and swaying to each tune. Brock recognized Langdum as a regular at the Barn and Bauble, a place that never had music, yet here he sat, as if music were his passion, and he would only ever frequent an inn with a bard.
The crowd’s happiness struck Brock, as well. In the hour he had been there, he had not seen a single fight. He had been pushed and stepped on and everything else. He had wanted to start a few fights himself. But others, what about them? If he was getting stepped on, others were, too. What kept them from getting their hackles up? But everyone just smiled and sang along.
The bard was decent, but Brock didn’t see anything special about him. He sang; he played the lute. He rhymed everything, even his banter between songs, which was unusual, but it didn’t explain the crowd. And he sat or stood, sometimes doing both in the same song. Most people sat or stood in place, but not this guy. Even as he walked around and sang at the same time, his fingers flew over the lute. Brock couldn’t count the number of strings, but the guy had completely memorized every part of the instrument—the neck, the strings, and where his fingers were at all times. He never made a mistake, either. No off notes, either in his singing or his playing. His singing was good, and the playing sounded good, but Brock couldn’t understand how he could banter while moving his hands all over the neck and still be able to walk around and then move right back into singing.
The bard’s clothes matched his abilities. With this kind of crowd, he could afford whatever he wanted. He probably had people buying him drinks left and right, even giving him money besides what the tavern was paying him. His clothes were a measure of the audience’s love. A maroon velvet shirt and tight black pants with a sashed belt and a silk cravat. A noble’s suit, indeed. His hair styled in ringlets, made up perfectly.
The lute, however, didn’t match the rich boy’s attire. It was worn, old, and it wasn’t that nice even when it was new. No inlays, no nothing. It sounded fine, but a rich man would have had gold and pearl and exotic woods. The lute contrasted with the pretty boy’s finery. A rich bard may have a sentimental lute, sure, but this guy wasn’t the sentimental type. He was too flippant. His laughs, his jokes, his silly songs, his fine clothes. He would have a rich man’s lute.
It all added up to one thing: the bard was charming them. That was the only explanation. He just didn’t know how. He knew why he wasn’t charmed, but he didn’t know why the others were. Brock touched his chest, feeling the ring on the chain around his neck, just making sure he did have it on him. It protected him, he knew.
An old man had given him the ring many years ago. It had been the old man’s only thing of value, and it was Brock’s reward for taking care of a group of raiding kobolds that had taken several of his livestock and killed one of his sons. He needed them gone. The old man didn’t have any money, so he gave Brock the ring, instead. Said Brock could take it to town and sell it. “Should be worth something,” the man told him.
When Brock saw the writing on the inside, he figured the old man was right. The words were in Kaelish, and the Kaels didn’t exist anymore. Some insisted they never had. When they did supposedly exist, they were powerful magic users, but then non-magic users got too scared and wiped them out. Brock took the ring to a wizard he knew, and the wizard tested it. Took him several days, but he eventually determined that it would allow the wearer to resist charms. Brock had worn it around his neck ever since. He never knew if it had helped him or not. That was the thing about charms: you never knew you were being charmed; therefore, you never knew you were not being charmed.
But today, Brock knew. Without the ring, he would be a besotted fool like the rest of them. He might have been singing along. He wouldn’t be in his right mind, of course; even a drunk Brock would never sing along. But the charm was keeping him level-headed, and it allowed him to see how everyone else was being duped.
Presently, the bard held up the lute and announced, “Almost 11:00 on the nose, time never stops, it goes and goes. Now’s a good time for a break, before it gets too late. I’ll be back, squash your fear, use your time to buy beer!” And he bowed, to the tremendous applause of absolutely everyone in the room, even the bartenders and waitresses. Then he left the stage and exited through a door in the back of the room.
Brock hurriedly asked for two mugs of beer and pushed through the crowd with his hands full. He found the bard in the alley smoking a cigarette. The lute sat there on the ground, perched against the wall beside the pretty boy. He had his leg propped on the wall of the inn, and he was leaning against it. The alley was otherwise dark, deserted.
Brock handed him the beer, and the bard smiled, taking it. He looked at Brock. Stared at him, in fact.
“I noticed you,” the bard said.
Brock put on his best smile. It was difficult. “Quite a performance.” He drank.
“You didn’t seem to be enjoying it that much, my friend.”
“Oh, yeah, I was singing along to everything!”
The bard sniffed. “You have no idea. I can see everything up there.”
“Hmm.”
“So what did you figure out, old man?”
Old man, huh?
“No rhymes now? I figured that was how you always talked.”
“Only when I’m on the stage.
They both drank. And stared at one another.
“It’s the lute, isn’t it?” Brock asked, finally.
“Yep. Everyone loves the lute.” He blew smoke into the alley. “So why don’t you?”
“I’m immune. Never liked music much,” Brock told him.
“Well, whatever you’re planning, I suggest you don’t. You may have a few more years in you, old man, and you want to make the most of them.”
Brock snickered. “Wow, you are cocky.”
“Eh, not me. I can’t fight for shit.” He inhaled and blew out a nearly perfect ring.
Brock watched it. He had never seen anyone do that. The ring floated, hanging there for a few brief seconds before it disintegrated slowly, becoming disparate particles and then disappearing.
“How about I just take the lute, then? Nobody gets hurt, everyone wins.”
The boy laughed. “I wish. I’m not doing this by choice, you know? It makes me do it. Night after goddamn night. The same songs. Over and over. You don’t know how tired I am.” He blew out a cloud of smoke and tossed the cigarette end. “But I wouldn’t try that if I were you.”
“Is it cursed? If I touch it, I become its slave? It poisons me?” Brock was serious. He had heard of items like that, even seen someone die when they picked up a cursed hand mirror.
“Not exactly.” The boy smiled.
“Then what is it?”
“Difficult to explain. Might just have to see it. Be my guest. Take a gander.” He gestured to the lute.
Brock reached under his shirt and pulled out his knife with his right hand. With his left, he reached down for the lute, slowly. When his hand was about six inches away, something hit him. He saw the movement, but he didn’t know what it was, and he didn’t know where it had come from. All of a sudden, though, there was a gash on his left arm, just above the hand. His cloak was ripped through, and Brock could see the blood welling up through the sleeve. He could feel it beginning to run down his arm.
Brock stepped back and held the arm, eyeing the bard. Then he put the knife back in its sheath and pulled out a rag from one of his cloak pockets. He pulled up the sleeve of the cloak and saw the four-inch gash. It was deep. He would need to sew it. For now, he wrapped the rag as tightly as he could. “What is it?” he demanded.
“Got me.”
“That’s it? Got me? How about I just kill you, then?”
“I wouldn’t try that,” the bard said, finishing his beer and tossing the mug down the alley. It didn’t break; it just thudded a few times.
“It protects you, too?”
“Yep.”
“You know there are ways to get rid of it.”
“Maybe. But maybe not before it gets rid of you. Listen, old man, I figure you’re working for one of the other taverns. I know how they feel. They can’t compete, blah, blah, blah, and that’s just the way it is. But I’m fair. Listen: I have only been here two weeks. That means I came from some other place. But why would I leave? Well, I’ve learned. I can stay in a place about a month before they get really tired of me and start threatening to burn down the inn with me in it. I barely escaped one inferno. I learned my lesson after that. So give me two more weeks, and everything will go back to normal. I’ll move on to the next town, and your taverns get their customers back.”
Brock probably couldn’t collect his fee if that happened. He couldn’t put them off that long.
The bard picked up his lute, nodded to Brock, then walked back inside.
Brock made his way down the alley. Would have to stop at an apothecary and get the arm sewed up. Doubted he could do it himself. Tomorrow, he would have to figure out a plan.
The next night, Brock made his way back to the Bronze Falcon, but he didn’t go through the front door this time. Instead, he went straight back to the alley and waited for the bard to come smoke his cigarette.
The bard appeared with lute in hand. Just like the night before, he set down the lute and then went about rolling his cigarette. Then the door opened again, and the kid exited and turned to the bard. “That was great! How did you learn to sing and play that way? Man, you are amazing!” the kid said as he handed one of his mugs to the bard. Then the newcomer nearly fell over as he took two steps into the alley.
Convincing, Brock thought. He wondered if the kid really was drunk.
The bard shrugged. “Years of practice, my friend.” He took a swig of beer and lit the cigarette with a match.
“Practice? I’ve practiced shooting a bow for years, and I still can’t hit a goddamn target! You must’ve had a great teacher!” The newcomer never stopped moving. He kept bouncing back and forth almost as if he were falling and catching himself every few seconds.
“You have no idea,” the bard said. “Sometimes I feel like the lute is the one teaching me.” He smiled.
Yeah, I bet, Brock thought, watching from the rooftop across the alley, two stories above. The lute had the talent, alright. The boy probably couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket without it.
“Maybe you could teach me! I always wanted to play!” The newcomer took a long swig and smashed the mug on the ground right in front of himself. The shattering of glass, the crunch as he stepped on it.
“I don’t think talent can be passed on,” the bard said, taking a long pull of his own beer.
“Ah, maybe not, but you can always try. Hell, maybe even get a job at a bard college or something!”
The bard took a step away from the wall, both the mug and cigarette falling from his hands, and he fell over, directly onto his face with a thud, barely missing the pile of glass shards.
The lute leaped up on four tendrils that appeared from nowhere. The tendrils embedded themselves in the rock wall, and it climbed up the wall itself in just a few movements, each tendril causing a miniature explosion when it struck, with mortar and bits of rock flying into the alley. Then it was in the air and flying. The kid, his mouth wide open, somehow managed to pull two knives from under his cloak, and he batted away the flying lute. The lute flew back a few feet, landing on three of its tendrils. The other tendril reached out toward the kid, wrapping around his leg. With one jerk, the kid was on his back with a grunt and a thud, one of the knives flying through the air behind him, and he was struggling to regain his foothold, clambering with his hands to keep away from the lute.
The lute transformed. The neck flexed backward to reveal what could only be described as an open maw, one with huge, pointed, white teeth and a tongue that was now reaching out for the kid’s leg. No eyes, but the mouth was everything. Brock watched the mouth open, much larger than the lute itself, and it was as if the kid realized at that moment that he was going to be devoured. The kid began scrambling every which way, trying to escape the tendril’s grasp, but it was now pulling him toward the maw, which chomped twice.
“Get it!” he shouted. “Kill it!”
The lute batted away Brock’s first arrow. He didn’t know how the lute did it, but it had seen the arrow coming, and one of its tendrils swatted the projectile into the ground nearby. Brock loosed three more arrows in quick succession. The lute swatted two of them, but the third sunk in a few inches. The lute monster didn’t stop. Instead, the maw turned toward Brock, tongue darting nearly three feet straight up. Then it let go of the kid and reared back.
No way, Brock thought, right before the lute launched into the air. Brock scrambled to his feet and saw the lute come all the way above the rooftop, its maw open, its tongue darting, its tendrils flailing. Two of the tendrils latched into the roof itself, pieces of clay breaking apart. Then it pulled itself almost like a slingshot, and it flew at Brock.
Brock threw the heavy spear he had carried onto the rooftop, smuggled through the streets under his clock. The four-foot shaft skewered the lute, wood and fleshy pieces splattering the tile. Then both spear and lute tumbled out of sight. Brock walked over carefully, unsure whether the thing was beaten. He looked over the edge, and he smiled.
The spear stuck straight up, embedded in the ground through the body of the lute itself. The mouth gaped, the tongue writhed, trying to reach anything it could. Luckily, there was nothing within reach of the tongue or the four flailing tendrils. The kid stood six feet away staring at the insanity impaled in the ground. He looked up at Brock.
Then the kid stepped closer to the lute beast. “Take that, you goddamn musical monstrosity!”
Brock climbed down the rope he had used to get up onto the roof, and he stood watching the creature flail around for a few seconds. Then he looked over at the bard, who was lying face down in the alley, his hands at his sides.
“Find the pretty boy’s matches,” Brock said.
The kid brought him the small box of matches, and Brock handed him a gold coin. “Tell Kline I appreciate the help. And he owes me one.”
“No one tells Kline anything. You been around long enough to know that. By the way, for a minute there, I thought you were gonna let that thing eat me.”
Brock sniffed.
The kid took the coin, tossed it into the air, caught it, smiled to Brock, pocketed the coin, then turned to leave.
“Think you forgot something, kid,” Brock said, holding out his hand.
The kid turned. “Right.” He lowered his head and removed the necklace with the ring attached to it. He tossed it to Brock, who swiped it out of the air and immediately put it around his own neck. “Guess it worked, huh?”
“Guess so.”
The kid nodded and left.
Brock was on one knee when the bard woke up. There were a few false starts where Brock thought the boy would come to, but then he would collapse again. Finally, he lifted his head and looked at Brock. He was propped against the wall near the back door to the inn. Brock slapped him. He flailed about, waving his arms ineffectively. “Hey!” he said as he tried to shield himself from future blows.
Brock slapped him again.
“Hey!”
The bard saw the blaze behind Brock, and his mouth fell open.
“Is that?”
“Yep,” Brock said. “I suggest you get out of town quickly. The people who own this place aren’t gonna like you skipping out on them. Neither is the madhouse of fans waiting on you. You need to run. Here’s a gold piece to help you buy a new lute.”
Brock stood and tossed the gold piece into the bard’s lap, but the boy just sat there dumbfounded, not able to do anything except watch the fire in front of him. One of the tendrils flew into the air suddenly, and the bard tried to push himself further into the wall.
“Is that?”
“Yep.”
Brock walked off down the alley. Pretty boy would come out of his stupor sooner or later. Hopefully before the mob got him. But Brock knew that he, too, had to be out of there before the people inside realized the bard wasn’t coming back, or they would just as likely crucify him for ruining their fun.
He had a busy day tomorrow, anyway. He would have to walk all over Falsea. But first, he had to remember which of the inns owed him what.
©November 2019, Chad A. B. Wilson
Chad A. B. Wilson has been published in Schlock! Webzine, and will appear in the upcoming Rogue Blades anthology Slaughter is the Best Medicine. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.