Gleeman’s Tales
Also by Matthew Travagline
The Gleeman’s Tales Duology
Gleeman’s Tales
The Harbinger of Change
Other Works
The Humanity Edict
Gleeman’s Tales
A Novel
(Book One of the Gleeman’s Tales Duology)
Matthew
Travagline
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2020 by Matthew Travagline
All rights reserved.
First Edition
Cover Design by Gabriella Padilla
For Sara, who, across every draft, read, annotated, questioned and commented. For she, who worked double as a typographer on my behalf, since I am about as design literate as a lemur. Before I had even put pen to paper, she wondered about the titular bard and his adventures in Lyrinth.
Gleeman’s Tales, The Harbinger of Change, The Humanity Edict, and every ounce of ink that hereafter, pours forth from my fingers will be eternally better for having her input.
There is a certain irony here. Her eyes will not have seen this before its immortalization, and it just might be the only stretch of writing without her critique.
In the spirit of bards and the bardic arts, I would like to share a small passage from the most famous bard.
“Look, how this ring encompasseth finger.
Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart;
Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
And if thy poor devoted suppliant may
But beg one favour at thy gracious hand,
Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.”*
-The Tragedy of King Richard the Third [1.2.204-209]
Sara, I have one favor to beg at your gracious hand. Will you confirm my happiness forever?
“There was a time when the best seat by the fire was reserved for the storyteller.”
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 1
As Gnochi approached the carpenter’s quaint storefront, his boots scuffed up sawdust. The finite particles and their dry musk assailed his nostrils and tickled at his throat. The artisan’s sign swung in silence above the door, its oil-coated hinges the only indication that anyone kept an eye on the front. An intricate design of the words. ‘Mirage Woods,’ decorated the sign. Flanking one side of the otherwise plain door was a long window, its frame rusted by years of salty ocean-air and the glass coated in opaque grime. He fumbled at the handle and pushed into the store.
A thick wave of warm dry air that smelt of polish and wood-shavings welcomed Gnochi. An involuntary shiver rippled down his spine as he hadn’t realized how much of a chill the air outside held. As the door closed in his wake, the residual ring of the small bell above the door faded into a darkened room. The outside breeze failed to sneak through the cracks around the door or windows, so a deafening silence soon covered his ears like wool.
A woman’s faint voice, rooms away, fluttered to his ears. “I’ll be right up. Just taking a batch of catgut off the boil.” The hollow sound of footfalls announced a woman’s approach, though they stopped just short of the storefront and the rough sound of heavy brushing came through the door.
Gnochi’s lips split in a rare smile. He paced the storefront, kicking a fine layer of dust into the air.
“I apologize for my tardiness and appearance,” she said, pushing through to the storefront. “You leave the cat on for too long without working it and all sorts of bad critters start peeking in.” She continued brushing dust from her dirty coveralls and plain jerkin. She stopped slapping at her clothing, resigning to the dusty look, then stooped below the counter and emerged with a lantern. In a moment, it was lit, though it only put off faint light.
Gnochi eyed a decapitated guitar resting on the counter. A singular notch that corresponded with an opening on the body of the guitar was hollowed into the neck. He took mental measurements of the niche with his mind.
The shopkeeper, aided by her lantern, took one look at Gnochi and scowled. “Exactly my point. Had I taken care of this before, I wouldn’t have such a pest besetting my wares.”
Gnochi smirked at her remark.
“There’s only one bard—or man for that matter—who can take such a rip with a grin atop his lips.”
At the mention, Gnochi’s face resumed its neutral frown.
“As I recall it, I would never see you again,” Mirage said, tapping and scratching her short hair in thought. “What was the phrase you used? Something from the first age, no doubt. Oh yes,” she snapped. “When hell freezes over. Still don’t know what hell is, but it’s probably frigid there now, eh, Gnochi?” The woman laughed.
“Your memory is sharp as ever, I see, Mirage,” Gnochi muttered, his voice, scant-used of late, croaking as though it pained to speak. Making a show of looking around the empty store, he asked, “Business not treating you well? Oh, and by the way, I could’ve filched half of your merchandise before you even came around to the front,” he bragged.
“But your pervasive honesty prevented you, I see,” Mirage said, poking him in the ribs. “It’s good to see you again, Gnochi.” She smiled, revealing a set of polished wooden teeth which shined in the faint light. “What have you been up to? Enjoying retirement, you old man? Where’s that niece who was supposedly going to sap all of your time?”
The echo of a scream split his skull, the foggiest memory dredging itself through his mind from the recess where it remained dormant. Gnochi looked to the floor, not trusting his eyes to conceal his anguish.
“Oh, I didn’t—”
“It’s a long story,” Gnochi said, wincing at his unfortunate choice of words. “Listen, I need your help.”
“I figured as much. The only time I see your hide in here is when you need something from me. I should rename my shop: Gnochi’s Brothel.”
“I came in here thinking I needed something, but what I really need is a guitar.”
“Well you’re in luck. It just so happens I was making one right here,” Mirage gestured to the guitar sitting unfinished on the counter. She muttered about while rummaging through a cabinet.
Gnochi dragged his attention to its unattached neck. “Let me try something.” He fished through his pack and retrieved a slender hiltless blade.
<
br /> Mirage eyed the dark tempered blade in his hand. “You always carry an unmade sword with you?”
Ignoring the question, he slid the grip of the blade into the slot through the neck. About a finger’s width of grip jutted out of the neck. The blade itself, at a half-arm’s length, would sit through much of the guitar’s hollow body. “Can you specially carve that cavity around this grip?”
“What kind of guitar are you looking for, exactly?”
“I can’t really go into it.”
“Well, I’m not about to defile one of my children without any explanation. Spill, Gleeman.”
“I have a contract,” he said, pausing and planning his words. “I must smuggle something into Blue Haven. This blade.”
“You’re clearly in with the wrong people right now Gnochi. I know some people who can hide you for a while. Or take you out of Imuny. Out of Lyrinth, if need be. Your sister and niece too.”
“No,” Gnochi said. “This isn’t something I can back out of.”
“Okay, okay.” Mirage looked hard at Gnochi, her eyes asking the questions her mouth feared. “I’ll do it.” She began chiseling a deeper cavity.
Gnochi watched for a minute, then wandered through the store, eying other wares. He saw her samples of wood dangling from the ceiling like a chandelier. An idea formed in his mind. “Mirage, do you have winterbush wood in stock?”
“Not enough for a full guitar, but I should have some scraps lying around, why?”
“Can you make the headstock out of it? One that is extra wide, so that you can insert bigger caliber tuning prongs inside.”
“I could, but you know that winterbush is poisonous. You pull them out and they’ll be small poisoned daggers.”
“I’ll be careful,” Gnochi said. He hoped that his turned-back and quiet tone made further questioning more awkward than it was worth. Outside, he heard the pained yelping of a dog.
Mirage looked at him from across the store. “That’s going to take some time. I’ll need a day to work on it.”
“I’ll be in town.”
A man’s shout silenced the barking. Gnochi walked to the counter.
“Good. There’s the matter of payment,” she said.
Gnochi pulled the pouch from his belt. It jingled with loose pence.
“No, I don’t want your money.” She pushed his hand away. “You can repay me another way. Are you familiar with the dock district’s most regaled inn, The Red Queen Bee?”
“I’m retired.”
“There is no other payment I’ll accept. It’s a story at the inn, or I take this monstrosity back.”
Gnochi huffed to himself and smoothed down his wiry moustache. “Fine. One story. Tomorrow night.”
“Good. We’ve got several boats scheduled to dock tomorrow, so the inn should be packed.” Mirage rubbed a sheet of sandpaper on the inside of the guitar’s neck. She blew a loose strand of rusty copper hair from her eyes, launching a billow of dust into the air. “Harry! Jules!”
Two children padded into the front room, their faces also smattered with grime and dust. “Yes, Mistress?” the boy asked.
“Go to Sipp’s inn,” Mirage said, squatting so she was level with the children. “Tell her that Gnochi will be her entertainment for tomorrow night and to prepare for her biggest crowd. Then tell your friends who are criers that there’ll be once in a winteryear entertainment at the Red Queen Bee tomorrow night.” Mirage put the neck down, fished a few coins out of her pocket and handed them to the children. “These are for the criers only. I don’t want to see you two sneaking any sweets or I’ll make you sweep out all the dust from the back room, understand?”
The children nodded and ran out into the street giggling amongst themselves.
“Just like old times I see,” Gnochi remarked.
“Different apprentices, same troubles.”
“That’s not what I meant, Mirage.”
“What? You kept telling me that the reason you had two fancy names was because you were a master bard. Well, I’m helping you maintain that status,” she said with a wink and a smile. “Now get out of here. I have more work to do before I can finish your freakish guitar.”
Chapter 2
Over a year before the present day.
A generous fire granted warmth to the chilly office. Cleo sat before the hearth, spreading her toes in the fine fur carpet that anchored itself in the center of an otherwise rough wood floor. She stared at the leaping flames, daydreaming. A wiry voice pulled her from her thoughts.
“Your father will not be pleased to know you have skipped your lessons to snoop through his private library,” Pallius said. “And now, to see you lounging in his study as though it is a mere parlor.” The scrawny man sucked on his teeth as if breathing the same air as Cleo was hazardous. “Yes, I imagine that your father will be rightly miffed at your continued insubordination.”
Cleo disregarded Pallius’s words. After a moment, she looked up at him and said, “You are not my father.”
“As is evident. No ilk of mine would run amuck as a petulant beast.” Pallius scribbled his sharp pen on a paper, then deposited the paper atop a mountain of various reports and folders that adorned the oaken desk.
“You must be the snootiest general to have ever served under my father,” Cleo said, stretching.
Pallius appeared to contemplate a retort, his forehead creased in thought, but stopped as he glanced out the grand window. “Oh, look. Here my lord arrives. I shall go out to meet him.” He exited the study. Cleo leapt up and ran to the window. Looking down, her gaze passed from the manicured horizon through the endless ocean of sun-gold flowers that flanked the immense manor. More than a dozen gardeners and laborers toiled in the cool sun. She spotted her father’s carriage as it came to a halt in front of the manor’s secondary promenade. She watched as Pallius opened the carriage door and bowed as her father descended into sunlight. Cleo could not tell, but she was certain that a grimace adorned her father’s face. She watched Pallius’s hands and arms shoot off in mad gesture. In response, her father nodded and glance up at the study window behind which she stood. She felt as though the stare pierced through the window straight into her skull. She stepped to the side to avoid his gaze.
He finally lowered his eyes, giving his attention back to his general. The pair disappeared as they entered the manor below.
Cleo shivered and took a seat in her father’s armchair, stretching her short thin legs over the leather rest. Listening, she heard the conversation as he and the general approached the study.
“—is constantly pestering myself as well as her instructors. Something needs to be—”
Cleo strained to hear her father’s comment but could not. His voice, even in the moments where its tone sat unrivaled by the most fearsome tempest, held itself softly. “Yes, of course, my lord. I shall await your word.”
Cleo watched her father open, enter, and close the door in one quiet motion. She waited for his reprimanding words, but he ignored her, approaching the desk and rifling through the stacked papers decorating its polished surface. He furrowed his brow and gnawed on a fingernail. From a drawer, she saw him retrieve a thick cigar and set it to burn over a brass ashtray never out of reach. Cleo gagged at the pungent scent of tobacco, then cleared her throat.
“Back-talking your politics and government instructor. Calling your second-age instructor something that I do not quite understand, which made her cry. Skipping your self-defense lesson entirely to sit in the library and,” he said, pausing to look up, his light green eyes roving over Cleo’s face. “What exactly do you do in the library? All of those texts are first age, and in a meaningless language you cannot hope to read,” he said, shaking his head. When she offered no excuse, he asked, “What am I to do with you, Cleobelle?”
“How about,” Cleo said, catching her voice before it could betray her age with a crack. Her face reddened at the thought of the staff hearing their conversation. “Stop babying me,” she said. “I’m not a lit
tle girl anymore. You’ve never let me leave the manor. No boys my age are permitted entrance to the manor, not even for work.” Cleo forced air from her mouth in a loud, frustrated gesture. “I’m not even supposed to be outside.”
“And yet I hear that you’ve been giving a hard time to the gardeners?”
“I offer my artistic opinion, that’s all, Father. I am a prisoner here. I am accompanied everywhere by someone and everyone always wears earplugs around me. Am I that horrid that no one can stand to hear me?” Cleo buried her face in her hands.
“I’m just trying to protect you, my sweet belle. The world is a dangerous place. You’re not ready for it,” he said, squinting. “Rather, it is not ready for you.” A gentle knock at the door admitted a servant bearing a letter. Her father diverted his attention for a moment.
She moaned and stretched further on the worn chair, watching him rip open the letter and busying himself on its contents.
His eyes rose to Cleo, then he said, “Perhaps you might—”
“What?” she asked, sitting up and lunging at the desk.
“No, you wouldn’t want this.”
“Tell me! Please,” Cleo begged, the blood pulsing through her body left her dizzy.
“Embark on a journey with Bollo on a boat traveling to the western continents. He is to—no that’s not of your concern. Just know that you’d be under his supervision, under his word as you are under mine. No questions. No back-talk.”
“And Pallius?”
“Unfortunately not my belle, I need him here with—”
Cleo jumped, then kissed her father on the forehead before running to the door. “I’ll start packing.”
“Wait, Cleo! Pack sensibly,” Cleo’s father advised, shaking his head. “At least wear a sturdy pair of boots.” She rushed for the handle. “Could you go get Pallius and send him in please, my dear?”
Gleeman's Tales Page 1
