Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (2 page)

Whenever possible, Jarod gazed out beyond the wavy glass panes of the window next to him and saw himself leaping over the snow-encrusted Cursed Sundial just across the Wanderwine River to the center of Charter Square. He would be brandishing a sword or a yardstick or whatever weapon was at hand. Caprice Morgan, the beautiful, green-eyed daughter of Meryl Morgan, would happen to be standing in the square, petrified with fear. A terrible monster with seven heads—or maybe nine—would be attacking the village up the frozen river as he took her protectively in the crook of his arm . . .

Or sometimes he imagined swinging from a rope out of Bolly’s Mill just at the north end of Trader’s Square, sweeping up the vivacious form of Caprice Morgan out of the clutches of marauding pirates who would somehow have gotten lost and wandered up the length of the Wanderwine River’s frost-coated shoreline from the Blackshore Coast . . .

Or occasionally he would be at the head of a triumphant parade, with the enemies of the town in chains behind him as he rode a warhorse up Cobblestone Street. His crimson cape would billow in the winter wind as all the townsfolk turned out to cheer him—especially Caprice Morgan, who would look up admiringly through her grateful, tear-filled green eyes. He would reach down easily despite his brilliantly polished armor, grasping her waist and lifting her to sit in front of him as he . . .

The bell above the door jangled into life, jarring the young accountant back to his dreary world. A man with a narrow jaw and high cheekbones entered with a pronounced flourish of his very real if somewhat threadbare velvet cape. The chill winter air rushed past him into the room, billowing snow around his slight figure. His black mustache and beard, carefully trimmed to a point, only accentuated the general angularity of his appearance. His manner was far too flamboyant, but it was obvious to Jarod that excess in performance was not likely to be considered a bad thing by this man. His hat was an outrageous leather affair with a too-wide brim, in its band a feather from a roc that came nearly to the center of his back. He wore a thick, padded coat, kid gloves, and tall boots—the latter two items exceedingly fashionable and completely unsuitable for the weather. A bright doublet of red occasionally flashed through the open front of the coat with each gesture as he spoke. “I am Edvard the Just!” he cried, as though the counting room were filled with an appreciative audience instead of the one miserable accounts apprentice. “I am . . . the
Dragon’s Bard!
”

Jarod stared at him and said, “Close the door.”

“Surely you’ve heard of me,” the outrageously costumed man said through a beaming smile.

“Nope,” Jarod answered simply.

Instead of disappointment, Edvard bestowed upon Jarod a look of genuine if misguided pity.

The biting wind swirled icy snow into the room through the open doorway. The Dragon’s Bard was followed into the room almost at once by a short, slightly underweight young man who was nearly overwhelmed by a shouldered pack. Behind him came Xander Lamplighter, Eventide’s Constable Pro Tempore for the last eight years. The large constable with the intimidating scowl was known as one of the gentlest men in all of Windriftshire and one who also had an uncanny knack for catching pixies—a very troublesome local menace.

“Morning, Xander,” Jarod said with as much warmth as the room would allow.

“’Tain’t nothing good about it,” Xander replied as he pushed the door forcefully closed against the wind behind him. “Where’s Ward?”

“Gone over to the Widow Kolyan’s bakery,” Jarod said, though his eyes were on the pair of strangers and the growing pool of melting snow on the floor at their feet.

“Again?” Xander said, pulling off his thick gloves. “What’s her problem this time?”

“She claims that pixies keep magically changing her account balances no matter how many times Father goes over them with her. He could be quite a while.” Jarod shrugged, then reached over for an enormous leather-bound journal on his father’s desk next to his own. He opened the book and pulled a fresh quill from a collection he kept in a mug on his desk. Sharpening quills often took his mind off Caprice on long winter afternoons. It was becoming difficult to find an unsharpened quill anywhere in the office. “You here for the lockup?”

“It’s not necessary at all, I assure you,” Edvard said quickly before anyone else’s thought might intrude on his own. “I am Edvard, and this is Abel, my apprentice. We are mere travelers passing through this charming village . . .”

“Vagrancy . . .” Jarod muttered half to himself as he carefully dipped the quill in the inkwell.

“No, good sir! I assure you we are but storytellers . . .”

“Liars,” Jarod said to himself.

“We go from town to town spreading cheer and wonder . . .”

“Ah, rogues,” Jarod noted on a parchment he had pulled from his desk, not wanting to risk the vellum of the arrest ledger until he had all the particulars.

“Never! We are honest men who take it upon ourselves to gather stories from everywhere we go . . .”

“Thieves,” Jarod commented. He was writing as quickly as possible on the parchment, trying to catch up on the litany of evils he was concocting for the official record.

“Begging your pardon, Jarod, but that ain’t why I arrested ’em,” Xander spoke up.

Jarod looked up, relieved he had not inked any of this onto the precious vellum just yet. He had intended to make a more careful copy in the book so that his father would not have any further excuse to criticize his work. “Oh, of course, Xander—sorry. Constable, of what are these men accused?”

Xander straightened up and squared his wide shoulders. “These men were arrested by me—Constable Pro Tempore Xander Lamplighter—on charges of suspicious activities and annoying behavior.”

Jarod looked up from his scratch parchment sheet. “Is that a crime, Xander?”

“’Tis so far as I’m concerned,” Xander said with the conviction of a man who had no idea that he was wrong. “The complaint were lodged by the Widow Merryweather and several other ladies of Cobblestone Street at the insistence of Ariela Soliandrus.”

“The Gossip Fairy?” Jarod smiled. “She’s the one who’s behind this?”

Xander blushed. “Well, this-here gentleman—” the constable gestured at the Dragon’s Bard—“he were asking the ladies all sort of questions ’bout they personal lives and pasts and such.”

“Which,” Edvard interrupted, “they provided most graciously and freely, I might add.”

“Free or no,” Xander continued with a cold glance in the Bard’s direction, “when Miss Ariela arrived and heard what were happening, she flew straight away to each lady’s ear and told ’em that this-here stranger were a bounder and were using his wiles and magic and such to ruin them all and most likely murder them in their beds this very night and steal they best clothes!”

Jarod had stopped writing. “The Gossip Fairy told them this man would murder them in their beds?”

“Aye,” Xander nodded, then blushed again. “That or—well, you know—ravish them mercilessly.”

Now it was Jarod’s turn to blush. “You mean . . .”

“Well, that were what the Gossip Fairy said,” Xander sputtered. “It were a good thing, too, or I might not have gotten these two free of them women without them doing some harm to ’em. Widow Merryweather were ready to do ’em in with her hatpin right there in the street, and Missus Taylor swore if someone would point her to a cutlass she’d run ’em through on the spot. But then the ladies fell to arguing about which among them were most likely to be ravished, and that gave me time to get these gents here to the lockup whilst they were still debating among themselves.”

Jarod closed the arrest ledger. He thought briefly of the strangely dressed man in front of him carrying off Caprice Morgan and how he, Jarod, might rescue her. In that moment, he knew he could not possibly write any of this in the ledger. Better to leave it to his father, who, he considered wisely, might be able to keep a steadier hand about such things than he could. “This is a matter for my father to consider,” Jarod said, sounding as official as he could. “You’ll just have to wait until he returns.”

Xander groaned.

“Is that a problem?” Jarod asked.

“Well, look here, Jarod,” the constable whined. “I’ve got to see ol’ Dudgeon about that new banded-iron door for the lockup in the basement, see. That’s where I were going when all this started, and you know how he gets about folks what’s late. Look here, these two are considered prisoners now, ain’t they?”

“Aye,” Jarod nodded. “You arrested them, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t be.”

“Well, it be coming up on noon as it is,” Xander said. “These prisoners are under the care of the village, so they need to be fed.”

“I don’t see what . . .”

“Well, you could take ’em over to the Inn while I see the blacksmith . . . get ’em both some lunch and a bit for yourself as well,” Xander’s voice seemed to gather speed as the idea took form in his head. “You can tell the Squire I said to put it on the village accounts.”

Jarod grinned. He would do about anything to get out of the countinghouse, stretch his legs, and let some time pass with a more pleasant speed. “Why, that would be our duty, wouldn’t it, Xander? I’d be glad to help.”

The assistant to the Dragon’s Bard had said nothing, but he rolled his eyes as the conversation came to its mutually beneficial conclusion.

“Yes, I think that should just about solve everyone’s problems.” Xander smiled back as he reached for the door. A cold blast of wind, snow, and bright light burst into the room, and Xander was gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

Jarod hopped off the stool and walked across the fitted floorboards to a row of pegs arranged with careful and equal spacing on the wall. He plucked a heavy, hooded cloak from a peg. Jarod was all arms and legs, tall and muscular but not yet grown into his grace. He had a handsome face that was still a little soft, with no real beard to speak of. A few stray hairs along the ridges of his jawline made a valiant if lonely effort at a beard, but their population was not yet sufficient for a reasonable quorum to convene. He was a man striving to break out of being a youth. He was not quite free of his chrysalis—a butterfly who did not know that his wings were still wet.

Jarod pulled the cloak about his body, turned to his two charges, and said, “Well, come on. Let’s get . . . oh, bosh! I almost forgot!”

Jarod rushed past his prisoners to the desk next to his own. There, hanging from a hook at the side of the desk, was a set of keys on a looped steel ring. Jarod snatched the ring from the hook a little too quickly, pulling the desk slightly across the floor with a grating sound. The young man gave a quick look of exasperation, stepped back to the desk, and carefully pushed it back into its accustomed alignment.

“My dad is very particular,” Jarod said with a quick, nervous smile. “Come on.”

“Indeed we shall,” Edvard chimed in with his usual overwarm grace and exaggerated charm. “Show us the way, my good friend Jarod, and we shall follow in your steps as boon companions!”

“What?” Jarod was not sure what the man was talking about, but he ushered both the Bard and his companion, who obviously suffered in silence, through the door.

The bright sun shone down through a clear winter sky, its light reflecting off the snow that still covered areas of the square. A bitter wind cut through the town out of the north, blowing stinging snow—ice crystals formed from the previous partial thaw—that caused Edvard to grip the brim of his hat against the moaning gale and Jarod to hold the edge of his hood down so that he might protect his eyes. That was of little help, since any moisture had been frozen out of the air and Jarod was forced to blink anyway just to keep his eyes moist. The apprentice gently pushed the Bard and his servant out of his way as he turned to the door of the countinghouse and, using one of the keys on the enormous ring, locked it behind him.

“So, my good man, tell me,” Edvard began, pitching his voice to carry over the wind. “Have you lived in this charming town all your life?”

“Yeah, that’s about right.” Jarod glanced at the Bard and then started walking northward across the large square.

Edvard quickly fell into step next to him, leaving Abel, with his weighty and overstuffed backpack, struggling to keep up. “Then perhaps you might acquaint me with your village. This square, for instance: what is its history and what deeds have been played out upon its surface?”

Jarod shrugged as he walked, his head turning slightly toward the Bard as they walked. “Well, this is Trader’s Square. There’s a lot of selling that goes on here during the spring and through fall harvest. It’s not actually a market because the village elders don’t want to become a township, so they just call it Trader’s Square rather than an actual market, see?”

Edvard nodded and smiled, but he clearly had no idea what the young man was saying to him. “What’s that large building over there?”

“That?” Jarod glanced up at the long architectural hodgepodge that lined the northwest side of the square. “That’s the Guild Hall. That road beyond it goes to Meade, maybe five leagues to the west. South, back there,” Jarod pointed behind them, “that’s Cobblestone Street and Chestnut Court—but then you were arrested there, so I guess you know all about those. Up there,” he pointed ahead of them this time, “is Bolly’s Mill. It’s just above Bolly Falls there on the Wanderwine.”

They came to the northeast edge of the square, which was defined by the steep banks of the Wanderwine River. A low wall of fitted stone ran from the mill all along the riverbank on both sides, with a stone bridge crossing just before the falls and connecting Trader’s Square to another square lined with buildings on the far side of the river.

Edvard stopped on the bridge for a moment, gazing at the wide waterfall just to his north. “So that is the famed Bolly Falls!”

Jarod looked back at him. “No.”

“But you just said . . .”

“We call it Bolly Falls, but that’s not its name,” Jarod replied.

“Ah,” Edvard replied, but Jarod continued walking over the bridge, and the Bard and his companion were again forced to catch up.