The Adventurer's Guide to Treasure (and How to Steal It)

by Wade Albert White

  Above them all, however, sits an establishment that shall not be named. Its well-worn tabletops and mismatched chairs strike terror into the heart of even the fiercest warrior. Those brave souls who have summoned the courage to set foot inside its unevenly plastered walls speak of it only in hushed tones—when they dare speak of it at all.

  If you do go, be on your guard and make sure to comb your beard.

  Bob is watching.

  The Inn of Sensible Names

  The inn stood in the center of a small village on the northern slope of a large mountainous tier. The structure was three stories of white plaster framed by thick, dark beams. Double chimneys puffed gray smoke from the rooftop, and the smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the windows. A sign over the front door swung gently in the early-morning breeze. It featured a mounted knight in shiny armor carrying a sword and riding a black stallion. There was a red circle around the knight with a diagonal slash through it.

  “Er,” said Anne.

  “Are we certain this is the right place?” asked Hiro.

  “Trust me, this is it,” said Marri. “This is the most feared tavern in all the Hierarchy. We must be extremely careful.”

  They followed Marri up a ramp leading to the front door. As they entered, the heat of the dining room and the noise of the crowd nearly overwhelmed them. Several dozen tables were crammed together, filling every last inch of available space. Anne was surprised to see the inn so full, especially at this early hour and especially after Marri’s multiple warnings. There was a stone fireplace on the far wall, and the air smelled of spiced ale and roasted meat.

  Anne raised herself up on the tips of her toes to see over the other patrons. “How are we supposed to find anybody in all this?”

  “Hiro’s parents said to get a table and that Pirate Fifty-Three would find us,” said Marri.

  “So, what, we ask them if they have a reservation for a Darkflame, a Shatterblade, a Blackwood, and an Anvil?”

  “Hey now, that’ll be quite enough of that!” said a loud voice.

  The shout came from a burly man who was elbowing his way through the busy room. He was heavyset, had a thick black beard, and wore an apron that hadn’t decided whether it was having trouble staying on or had gotten stuck trying to come off. He marched directly over to them, his cheeks red and his expression stern.

  “Is there a problem?” asked Anne.

  “Can’t you read?” said the man. He pointed to a sign on the wall next to the front door. In bold black letters, it read:

  Beneath the sign was a small table. On the table sat an upturned hat with little slips of paper inside. Next to the hat was a pile of fluffy black lumps of cotton.

  “The name’s Smith,” said the man. “Bob Smith. And this here is the Inn of Sensible Names.”

  Penelope wrinkled her nose. “‘Sensible Names’?”

  “That’s right. I’m the owner, and I run a tight operation. Strictly on the up-and-up. We don’t have much tolerance for adventurer types around here, and we especially don’t go for any of those fancy-schmancy adventurer names. So mind your manners, or else Ogre One and Ogre Two will escort you back outside.” He directed their attention to two large ogres standing to the side. The pair were clearly of the bouncer persuasion.

  “I’m sorry,” said Anne, “the Inn of what?”

  “Sensible. Names.” Smith studied them closely, taking in their attire. “Say now, you wouldn’t happen to be some of those adventurer types yourselves, would you?”

  “Who, us?” said Hiro, laughing nervously. “Certainly not. Just some weary travelers.”

  “And their holographic sparrow,” added Jeffery, appearing in a burst of light. “What did I miss?”

  Smith frowned. “And what are your names?”

  Anne swallowed. “Mine’s Anne.”

  Smith leaned in closer. “What’s the full name on your ID?”

  “Anvil.”

  Smith cringed and asked for the rest of their names.

  “Penelope Shatterblade.”

  “Hiro Darkflame.”

  “Captain Marri Blackwood.”

  “Jeffery the Reluctant Map Eater.”

  “They tell me my name is the Construct, but I have this vague memory it might be Doomslayer the Terrible.”

  Smith scowled at them. “Everyone take a number,” he said, and he handed them each a slip of paper from the hat. Each slip was marked with the same number, 11630, in bold black print.

  “Why are they all the same?” asked Hiro.

  “Because it’s a completely dull and uninteresting number. Plus, it makes everything a lot easier. Except for taking the orders. It’s harder to keep those straight.”

  Smith pointed to the pile of cotton. “Make sure to put those on, too.”

  They each took one of the black lumps, which turned out to be fake beards. They put them on and looked at each other. The beards were so large that it would have been difficult to tell who was who were it not for their clothing and hair. They waded through a sea of bearded patrons to a table that had just been cleared. It was next to the kitchen, and the sound of clanking pots and shouting drifted through the door, along with the scent of chicken soup.

  “So, what are we ordering?” Penelope asked eagerly as they took their seats.

  “We’re only here long enough to meet with Pirate Fifty-Three,” said Anne.

  “Well, until we do meet with him, I’m getting something to eat.”

  “Pen—”

  “Yes, I know, we don’t have any money. I’ll start a tab. Look, we haven’t eaten since yesterday morning, and I’m not sitting here in the middle of a tavern and not eating something.”

  Without waiting to see if Anne agreed with her or not, Penelope flagged down a serving lad and ordered. Minutes later the server returned with a tray full of tankards of apple cider. Another server delivered a large platter of food: sliced roast beef and tender pork chops, mashed potatoes, carrots, green beans, peas, a jar of pickled beets, a jar of mustard pickles, and a bowl of thick gravy.

  Hiro surveyed the table. “Is this supposed to be breakfast, lunch, or dinner?”

  “It’s all of them,” said Penelope, stabbing a piece of roast beef with her fork.

  At the sight and smell of all the delicious food, Anne had to admit she was hungry. Everyone filled their plates and dug in. The Construct kept trying to pick up her apple cider, but her hand passed through the tankard every time.

  “How are we supposed to find anyone in here?” said Anne, scanning the crowd. “It’s like looking for a pirate-shaped needle in a bearded haystack.”

  Hiro tugged at his beard. “Speaking of beards, mine’s itchy.”

  “Pssst, wanna buy a vowel?” whispered a voice beside Anne.

  She jumped. A man slid into the empty chair next to her. He wore a red stocking for a cap and the wide-bottomed pants of a sailor and, of course, a thick black beard just like everyone else in the room. His eyes darted back and forth.

  “Do I want to what?” said Anne.

  “Do you want to buy a vowel?” the man repeated, sounding a little huffy this time.

  “I’m sorry, are you trying to sell me something?”

  “No. That’s my half of the code. Now I’m waiting for you to give the countersign.”

  “What countersign?”

  “Pirate Fifty-Three, is that you?” asked Marri.

  It was difficult to tell because of the disguise, but now that Marri said it, the man did indeed resemble Pirate Fifty-Three.

  The man looked at her suspiciously and scratched his beard. “Who’s asking?”

  Marri leaned forward. “It’s Captain Blackwood. The Wizards’ Council was going to arrest you, but we made a deal with them to let us come here instead. They gave us the message you sent.”

  He squinted at her. “If that’s really true, then why haven’t you given the countersign I mentioned in my message yet?”

  “Because you never mentioned a countersign in your
message.”

  Marri dug out the letter and handed it to him. He read it over carefully, looking increasingly perplexed as he went. When he finished, he placed the letter on the table.

  “Despite your failure to deliver the countersign I never mentioned, I’ve decided you are indeed the captain,” he said.

  “Listen, I’m really sorry about what happened,” said Marri. “You were right: I broke the rules by asking for the medallions back without offering any kind of compensation. I would be happy to have you rejoin the crew.”

  Pirate Fifty-Three nodded. “Thank you, Captain. I would like that very much. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I took the medallion. It was my ancestor who found the gold medallion and donated it to the museum. When I saw the same image on that copper medallion, I got excited. I guess I figured maybe I could do something similar.”

  “Where is the copper medallion now?” asked Anne.

  “I hid it before coming in here,” said Pirate Fifty-Three. “Not long after I left the ship, I realized I was being followed. It was some of the guards from the museum. When they learned I had been let go from the crew, they approached me and offered me a job.”

  “Doing what?” asked Marri.

  “Capturing you.”

  Everyone dropped their utensils and started to back away from the table.

  “Wait!” said Pirate Fifty-Three. “I said no, of course. I would never betray a fellow pirate. But I’m pretty sure they kept following me. That’s why I chose this place, because at least everyone is in disguise. But I’m pretty sure there are guards from the museum here, just waiting for us to leave.”

  Hiro glanced around nervously, no doubt suspecting everyone he looked at was a museum guard in disguise. “So how are we going to get out of here?”

  “Don’t worry, I have a plan for that,” said Pirate Fifty-Three, and he stood up.

  “What are you doing?” asked Marri.

  Pirate Fifty-Three cleared his throat. “My fellow diners!” he shouted. “This is wrong! All wrong! We should have more self-respect. More dignity than to bow in the face of such oppression. Can’t you see, my friends, that we’re all living a terrible, terrible lie? Don’t you understand what this is doing to us? What are we without our names? Where is our pride? This tyranny must end!” He shook a hand in the air for emphasis. Unfortunately, it was the hand holding his mug, and he slopped warm apple cider over the people at the next table.

  The two ogre bouncers began shoving tables aside to reach him.

  “What are you doing?” said Anne. “Sit down!”

  Pirate Fifty-Three’s voice became strong and defiant, and he ripped away his beard. “I’m more than just a number. My name is Pirate Fifty-Three, and I’m proud of urk—”

  A huge ogre fist clamped over his mouth, and another grabbed him by the throat. The bouncer then picked him up, carried him across the room, and, adding insult to injury (and also injury to injury), dropkicked Pirate Fifty-Three out the front door. Silence followed.

  Smith cleared his throat. “Now hear this! I run a clean establishment, and I’ll tolerate no more outbursts of that sort! I hear one more silly name, and someone’s going to pay dearly!” Someone snickered at the back of the room, and Smith whirled in that direction. “Did I just hear an X and a Q in the same syllable?” And with that, he was gone again. The room gradually settled back to its previous low rumble.

  The other ogre ushered the rest of the group toward the door. No one argued. Anne and the others quickly made their way through the throng and back outside, dropping their numbers and beards on the table as they went. As they exited the inn, Pirate Fifty-Three was just picking himself up.

  “Are you okay?” asked Marri, looking concerned.

  “It was unpleasant, but hopefully we gave them the slip,” said Pirate Fifty-Three.

  “Er, not to criticize, but how exactly was causing a ruckus and drawing everyone’s attention to us supposed to give them the slip?” asked Anne.

  “People get thrown out of there all the time. I doubt anyone even noticed.”

  “Oh, we noticed,” said a voice behind them.

  A dozen bearded individuals spilled out of the inn. The one who had spoken tore off his beard and revealed himself to be the chief of museum security. The others were obviously more guards from the museum.

  “I may have miscalculated,” said Pirate Fifty-Three.

  “You think?” said Penelope.

  The chief pointed at Marri. “You and your avocado-stealing friends are coming with us.”

  “You don’t have any jurisdiction here,” said Marri.

  The chief pulled out his sword, and the other guards followed suit.

  “I’m getting the distinct impression they’re not worried about jurisdiction,” said Hiro.

  “You’ll have to catch us first,” said Anne. “Where’s the medallion?” she asked Pirate Fifty-Three.

  “This way!” he yelled.

  Pirate Fifty-Three led the group around the corner and down the alleyway beside the inn. The guards chased after them, shouting for them to stop. Rather than providing an escape route, however, the alleyway brought them up short, blocked by a stone wall. At the base of the wall stood a small wooden structure with a single door.

  Pirate Fifty-Three pointed at the structure. “In there!”

  Everyone squeezed in, including Marri in her chair, and they slammed the door shut and barred it.

  “Um, not to point out the obvious, but I think we just locked ourselves in an outhouse,” said Hiro.

  “That would explain why it obviously wasn’t built to hold five people,” said Penelope.

  “Not to complain,” said Pirate Fifty-Three. “But one of the members of your group is standing in me.”

  The Construct was almost completely inside the pirate. Only her head and shoulders were sticking out. In the cramped space she simply had nowhere to go.

  “Just hold your breath,” said Penelope.

  Anne sighed. None of the heroes in the stories she’d read had ever locked themselves in an outhouse. This was definitely the low point of her adventuring career, and that was saying something, considering the questionable places their adventures had taken her.

  Pirate Fifty-Three shrugged. “It was the only place available on short notice.” He reached into the rafters, and when he brought his hand back down he was holding the copper medallion. He handed it to Anne.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  A voice came from outside. “Give yourselves up. We have you surrounded.”

  “You can’t have us surrounded,” Penelope yelled back. “The outhouse backs against a stone wall.”

  “Fine. We have you semicircled, then.”

  Penelope grimaced. “They’re using math against us.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice,” said Marri. “We’re going to have to fight.” She attempted to draw her sword, but she had difficulty getting it fully out of its scabbard in the cramped space.

  “Wait!” said Anne. She pointed to Hiro. “Do you have any spells that could help?”

  Hiro swallowed. “Maybe. I had to tape my spell catalog back together after Marri cut it in half, but there’s one spell that might—”

  “Cast it.”

  “Okay, but you should know—”

  Anne felt her frustration building. “Look, I don’t want to know, okay? Whatever it is you’re going to tell me, I don’t want to know. I also don’t want to be the antagonist on this quest anymore; I don’t want to collect medallions and stop some doomsday castle; and I don’t want to be semicircled in an outhouse. So just cast the spell already and get us out of here.”

  “Okay,” Hiro said meekly.

  Everyone shifted position to allow Hiro to stand next to the door. He peeked through the little half moon carved in the door and took out his spell catalog. Then he lowered his head and began chanting.

  Anne pressed her face to a crack between the boards so she could see what was happening. The guards seeme
d to be arguing about something.

  “Look, all I’m saying is, semicircles aren’t very scary,” one of the guards was explaining. “How about we threaten them with a square? At least it has sharp corners.”

  “I bet if we tried a rhombus, that would get them out of there real quick,” suggested another.

  “You’re both missing the point,” said a third. “You’re trying to apply four-sided geometry in what is clearly a nonquadrilateral situation.”

  As Hiro continued chanting, an eerie calm settled over the village. The museum guards ceased their bickering and looked up. The wind gusted. A loose shutter on a nearby building began a slow drumming. Dark clouds gathered overhead, and bursts of lightning flashed within. A deep roll of thunder rattled the walls of the outhouse. Everyone shifted uneasily.

  A solitary white object plummeted from the sky and landed on the ground with a splat. A runny yellow substance spilled out.

  One of the museum guards crouched down and examined it. “It looks like an egg, sir.”

  The chief looked up, and Anne followed his gaze as best she could. Several white feathers floated down. One even landed on the chief’s bulbous nose.

  Then came the chickens.

  Not just one chicken or two chickens or even a handful of chickens. It was a deluge, a torrential downpour of poultry.

  The museum guards ran for cover, but it didn’t matter. Chicken after chicken after chicken hailed down upon them. Several of the guards were instantly knocked senseless. Others received a severe pecking. As if that weren’t enough, once the chickens landed they began firing lightning bolts out of their beaks. The few guards who had managed to avoid injury in the initial onslaught were quickly zapped.