[Meetings 02] - Wanderlust

by Mary Kirchoff

  Quickly the tinker collected his tools and paraphernalia and returned them to their proper places in his neatly organized wagon. His growling stomach reminded him he had eaten nothing since dawn. He contemplated a supper of dried meat and stale crackers in the wagon, prepared by Hepsiba in Dern the day before. But after such a day as this, he wanted laughter and good food. He knew from customers that there was an ale tent that stayed open long after the other merchants had closed down for the night. Locking the door of his wagon behind him, he set off to follow the sounds of merriment.

  The tent was run by the owner of the Trough, a disreputable drinking house Gaesil remembered passing on the southern road into Solace, and the only competition for the Inn of the Last Home. If the main pub was anything like the tent, it wasn't much competition, after all.

  Two dingy, flickering oil lanterns hung on poles before the opening to a sand-colored, square canvas tent with an angled roof, peaked in the center with a pole. One corner had collapsed and not been repaired. Thin, knotty planks were placed over the muddy walkways between the tables and makeshift bar, but they had long since sunk into the mud. Cold, dirty water lapped at the patrons' boots, to a depth that even straw or sawdust would not have helped.

  The patrons themselves reminded Gaesil of the sewer rats who frequented the dingy, low-ceilinged ale dens so common along the waterfronts in port cities. Although he doubted he would find either good food or laughter here, he was too tired even to contemplate the long walk across town to the Inn of the Last Home. Dinner was here or in his wagon. Here, at least, he wouldn't be bored. He wanted to celebrate his new good fortune, so he decided to stay for a few mugs.

  He made his way over the planks to an open table at the back of the tent, near the sagging corner. Waving his arm, he eventually caught the attention of someone behind the bar. A short, dumpy young man in an overly tight, mud-spattered tunic waded at a leisurely pace through the tables to Gaesil's.

  He scowled down with piggish eyes. "Yeah?"

  "I would like a mug of your best ale," Gaesil said pleasantly.

  "That it? We only got one kind, and you coulda ordered it at the bar. I only come around for food orders. You gotta order food if you're staying for the entertainment."

  Gaesil's eyebrows arched in surprise. He vaguely remembered seeing a sign attached to the outside of the tent that read "Amateur Night at the Trough. First prize, free dinner. Come one, come all." Gaesil decided the evening might prove diverting, after all. "All right, what are you serving?"

  Not meeting Gaesil's eyes, the unpleasant young man jerked his head impatiently toward the door of the tent. "Menu's up there."

  Squinting across the considerable distance in the dim light, Gaesil saw a small, ill-lettered sign propped on the bar that read, "Two eggs—one copper; Bread—one copper; Ale—three copper. Tonight's special: eggs, bread, and ale—five copper."

  "Uh, I'll have the special," Gaesil said with a gulp.

  The young man left, yanked a filled mug from the bar, and waddled back to slap it down on Gaesil's table, splashing out a foamy shower. "Food'll be up eventually," he said, slogging off to wait on another patron.

  Even the rude waiter could not spoil Gaesil's good humor. Taking a pull on his ale, he winced; it was, without a doubt, the worst ale he had ever had, tasting more like ditch water mixed with vinegar. Still, it made his head buzz after just a few sips, which was something to recommend it. In fact, the more the ale tugged at his senses, the better it tasted. Even the tent began to look, if not cheerful, at least less swamplike.

  By the time the surly young waiter brought Gaesil's eggs, their broken yolks swimming in watery, uncooked whites, the tinker was ready for another mug. He ordered two at once, to minimize his interaction with the waiter.

  "When does the entertainment start?" Gaesil asked.

  "I don't care." The youth marched back to the bar.

  Gaesil looked at his plate. A crust of moldy brown bread floated in the eggs. He snapped off the fuzzy part and used the good portions to mop up the egg whites. Popping a bite into his mouth, he swallowed after minimal chewing so as not to taste it for too long. Fortunately, he had an iron constitution and was accustomed to lousy cooking. The culinary arts were not Hepsiba's strong suit, as if she had one. Gaesil snorted, and ale foam stung his nostrils. He hadn't imbibed at any sort of drinking establishment since shortly after his marriage. Hepsiba definitely would not approve, if she could see him now. That thought, and the ale, made him feel very good.

  While he was reflecting on his situation, a short, obese man wearing a fancy green velvet coat with gold piping and buttons stretched to bursting climbed up on several bales of hay near the bar. His pug nose looked right in place on his jowly face and reflected as much light as his hairless scalp. He tugged constantly on the facing edges of his coat, belying an otherwise haughty pose.

  With no introduction, the man launched into a story. He got very little attention from the crowd—not because it was difficult to hear in the noisy tent, though it was, but because the story seemed to make no sense.

  "I was talking with the pig," he concluded with an expectant look, botching the punch line of the centuries-old joke. The noise level rose to a crescendo as boos, whistles, and hoots chased the fellow from his makeshift stage.

  The unfortunate bard held his head high as he walked back to his table, just one over from Gaesil's, his thinning pate ducking the chunks of moldy bread that whistled past him. "A bunch of ruffians and malcontents," Sir Delbridge muttered, rings flashing on nearly all of his pudgy fingers as he scraped his belongings from the table and into his pack. The jeers turned to whistles as a comely young woman in a tight gingham dress took her turn and began singing an off-key and off-color tune.

  "Buy you a drink, sir?" Gaesil called to him over the noise. "You look like you could use one."

  Delbridge Fidington made it a policy never to turn away anything free. "Thank you, good sir," he said with a nod. He eased his sizable form into the chair nearest the tinker. "I am feeling a bit parched. Performing drains one so."

  "Was this your first time on stage?" Gaesil asked, struggling to chew a bit of the stale, moldy bread. He hadn't thought the bard's act as bad as the rest of the crowd, but then bards weren't his area of expertise.

  Delbridge looked insulted. "Good heavens, no. Surely you've heard of Sir Delbridge Fidington? I received my title from Queen Wilhelmina of Tarryn herself, for service faithfully rendered as court bard."

  "Uh," Gaesil gulped, "I don't leave Abanasinia much, and seldom hear bards. I don't believe I've ever heard of Tarryn, let alone Queen Wilhelmina."

  "It's a small but vital kingdom in, uh, the eastern Plains of Dust." Delbridge dismissed the point with a wave of his hand, which also brought the waiter over.

  "My new friend here has insisted upon buying me refreshment," Delbridge said happily to the same fleshy youth who had waited on Gaesil. "A cup of your best mulled wine, my good man." To save himself work, the waiter had taken to carrying filled mugs; he dropped one before the bard.

  Delbridge peered with disdain over the rim of the mug. "But this looks like—"

  "—ale. It is." With that, the youth left.

  Gaesil smirked ruefully. "I'm afraid it's all they have. It's not so bad after the first couple of sips."

  Delbridge looked skeptical, took a sip, and nearly choked. "Say, you're right," he said after a moment, downing another gulp. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, nursing their drinks.

  "So why aren't you still court bard for Wilhelmina?"

  "Who?" Delbridge was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. "Oh, her. I grew weary of telling the same old tales. Bards need to hit the road, I mean, experience the common life every so often to refresh their repertoire." He glanced around with disdain at the muddy tent and its coarse patrons. "This, however, is a little more common than I had anticipated."

  Delbridge brushed a piece of lint from his velvet lapel, then straightened all of
his many finger rings. "I'll be heading someplace where you won't find such riffraff, I'll wager." He blew his pug nose with a great honking sound into a large, threadbare silk scarf. "I won't be sorry to see the last of this town, I can tell you."

  "Gee, I've had great luck here," Gaesil said, taking a swig of his ale. "Did more work today at the festival than any five last year." The tinker was having a difficult time staying on his chair. Or maybe the table was shifting; he wasn't sure.

  "Swell," Delbridge muttered, forgetting himself.

  "It's because of the dwarf's lucky bracelet, you know." He looked down at the legs of his chair, clutching the edge of the table to keep from falling. "Have you noticed the furniture moving in here?"

  "Lucky bracelet?"

  "What? Oh, the bracelet." He wagged his finger at the bard almost accusingly. "I saw it happen!" He drew back his cuff and held the bracelet up for inspection. "Four times today this very item got hot just before I had these strange notions, visions almost, and then customers showed up!"

  Delbridge peered closely at the piece of jewelry. "You mean you predicted the future?" he asked skeptically.

  "I guess you could say that." Gaesil peered at him through bleary eyes. "That would make a good story, wouldn't it? Do you suppose it's an omen?" Quickly he tossed the Eye behind his hand. He thought he saw Water, the sign of ill luck; he blinked to clear his vision, but he could barely make out the symbol in the dimly lit tent.

  Watching him, Delbridge laughed and rose to his stubby feet. "I think it's a sign that you've had too much to drink and you're mind is playing tricks. Perhaps I should help you home."

  The tinker shook his head until it lolled, and waved off the offer. "No need. I'm staying in my wagon on the grounds here and can do jus' fine."

  "Then I'll say good night." The bard patted his round stomach and clapped Gaesil on the back good-naturedly. "My thanks for the drink and the talk. I hope your luck continues and mine improves." With that, he turned up his lapels in anticipation of a brisk spring breeze and left the noisy tent.

  Gaesil downed the last of his ale and decided to head home as well. He fumbled through his coin purse and paid his bill, leaving a copper for the rude waiter out of habit. Stepping from the tent, he was confused about the direction to his wagon. Spotting a familiar sign above a booth near his, he hunched his shoulders against the wind and staggered toward home.

  He was pulling his boots off inside his wagon when he felt a now-familiar warming sensation in the skin under the bracelet. Too tipsy to focus and too tired to care, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. But they flew open as he felt the copper bracelet being wrenched from his limp and bloody wrist. Shocked upright, he felt something hard crash upon his skull, and he wasn't sure if it was vision or reality. And then he saw nothing at all.

  "Funny thing," said Sir Delbridge Fidington over Gaesil's collapsed body. "I may not be a good storyteller, but I do seem to excel at thievery."

  Chapter 6

  Lady in Waiting

  "Honestly, Flint, it's not my fault," said Tasslehoff, skipping along to keep up with the pounding pace set by the angry hill dwarf. Even Tanis had to take long strides to stay next to Flint as they hurried along in the darkness of very early morning.

  "All of this is your fault, kender!" the dwarf growled. "If you hadn't lifted the bracelet to begin with, I wouldn't be on this wild-goose chase in the dregs of the night!"

  "But I've told you, I don't know how the bracelet got into my pocket the second time. And I was trying to return it. . . . Why else would I give it to the tinker? You've got to believe me, Flint."

  "I don't have to do anything but get my bracelet back," the dwarf said, turning his bulbous nose on the kender. "And stop calling me Flint. It makes us sound like friends."

  "What should I call you, then?" asked the kender innocently.

  "I'd rather you didn't call me anything at all! I'd rather you didn't speak to me!"

  "You're awfully testy. You're probably just tired from all this walking, what with those stubby legs of yours," Tasslehoff said. "Speaking of wild geese, my Uncle Trapspringer used to chase them—for the feathers, that is. Oh yes, it's true. Goose feathers were all the rage among the rich in Kendermore. Males and females alike would wear them in their hair, put them in their pillows. Uncle Trapspringer made quite a tidy sum, he did. Spent it all on a trip to the moon.

  "I almost went to the moon once myself, with a magic teleporting ring—"

  "Stop that infernal chattering!" Flint screamed, clapping his thick hands to his ears.

  Tanis struggled to keep a solemn face. "You were the one who insisted he come back with us when we found him in Windy Vale."

  "As a hostage, not as a torturer! I wanted him with us in case he was lying about giving that infernal bracelet to the tinker." Flint's eyes narrowed maliciously. "Say, aren't hostages usually bound and gagged?"

  "Yeah, but then you'd have to carry him." Tanis laughed, then pointed ahead. "Besides, that's the bridge over Solace Stream. We'll be in town shortly, and soon after we'll find that tinker and you'll have your bracelet back."

  "I only hope Selana hasn't come looking for it yet," Flint muttered.

  "If she has, I'll tell her it wasn't really anyone's fault, but that somehow—"

  Flint whirled on the kender and hoisted him up by the collar of his furry vest. "You say one word to her about this," he threatened, "and I'll cut out your tongue, fry it, and make you eat it!" He released Tasslehoff's vest and continued his march.

  "Well," Tasslehoff huffed, giving Flint a haughty glance. He brushed his clothing back into place as he trotted after the dwarf. "That certainly isn't friendly of you. I was just offering to help."

  Tanis patted the kender on the shoulder. "I believe Flint feels you've helped enough for one lifetime, Tasslehoff."

  Flint just snorted.

  They reached the south edge of Solace just as the thin edge of daybreak showed in the east. Tanis was all for going home first to wash away the grime from a day on the trail. A faint stubble of beard that no elf could grow covered his cheeks, an inheritance from his human father. Flint would have none of it.

  "You can wash and change all day long after I get my bracelet back." If the tinker was using Hint's stall, as the kender had predicted, then he probably had spent the night there in his wagon like most out-of-town merchants, the dwarf reasoned. He marched the kender and half-elf to the festival grounds on the west edge of town. A few of the fair workers were up and moving about, collecting water and starting breakfast fires. Flint ignored their friendly calls and marched the bedraggled party straightaway to his booth.

  "He was here, all right," the dwarf said, noting the sign above the planks, as well as some tools inside the curtained area. Flint pushed his way through the curtains and emerged out back to find the tinker's wagon.

  "That's it! That's Bella!" Tasslehoff crowed as he pushed his way through the curtains and around Flint. The horse was tethered to one of the stall's supports.

  Shoulders set, Flint stomped toward the door at the back of the wagon. Tanis grabbed at his belt and yanked him to a stop.

  "You can't just barge in on a sleeping man at the crack of dawn and demand your bracelet like a lout," the half-elf cautioned.

  "Whyever not?" Flint demanded, eyes narrowed. "It's my bracelet and I want it back, and he's sleeping in my stall and I want it back as well."

  "OK," Tanis said, conceding his points, "but at least try to be civil with him. It's not his fault he has the bracelet." Two sets of eyes, one furious, the other mildly amused, turned toward the kender.

  Seeing the conversation taking an ugly spin, Tasslehoff danced to the wagon's door. "He knows me. I'll go first. It's probably locked, so I'll just—" Most people would have said "knock," but Tasslehoff was about to say "pick the lock" when he noticed that the door was already ajar.

  "That's strange," Tas said softly. "You'd think he'd be more careful. I don't mean to sound unkind, but people who work fairs are
not considered to be the most trustworthy types."

  "Something they have in common with kender," Flint muttered. Tas's little face glared down at him. "But you're right, something seems amiss here." Frowning, Flint climbed the two crates used as steps, elbowed his way past the kender, and pushed the door open gingerly. Peeking under Flint's arm, Tas gasped.

  The lanky tinker lay on the floor amid his tools, his head, and the floor around it, caked in thick blood. The dwarf scrambled through the door and dropped to one knee to check the human for a pulse.

  "Is he dead?" both Tas and Tanis asked.

  A fairly strong throbbing met the two fingers Flint pressed to the man's wrist. "No, luckily. It must look worse than it is. Kender, go find some water," he instructed without looking up. Tasslehoff grabbed a copper pan from a hook on the wall and dashed out the door, for once without a question.

  Tanis located a passably clean cloth and ripped it into strips, while Flint raised the tinker's head onto his lap and cautiously examined the wound. "He has a lump the size of a harpy egg." The man groaned and stirred when Flint gently probed the tender spot.

  The man's bloodshot eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Flint's ruddy cheeks in confusion. "Don't I know you? . . . yes . . . What are you doing in my wagon?" He winced, raising a hand to the lump on his head; he shivered when he saw the blood. "Good heavens, I feel like a sausage. What happened?"

  "We're hoping you can tell us that," Tanis said at his side. He handed Flint one strip of cloth and mopped at the blood on the floor with another.

  "I'm not sure . . . wait. . . . The last thing I remember was the ale tent. I was celebrating something . . . drank too much of that rot-gut. . . ." He rubbed his temples. "That's it! I'd had a good sales day, because of . . . the bracelet."

  "The bracelet is why we're here," cut in Flint. "Where is it?"

  "Oh, yes, the kender . . ." Still a bit groggy, Gaesil shook his head to clear it, then groaned from the throbbing pain. "I would have given it to you on the bridge if I'd known who you were. .. . It's right here on my wrist, for safekeeping." Gaesil groped around on his right arm, his eyes growing wide in confusion, then concern. "Why, it was right here!"