Part 27 of Rob Donovan’s free serialised story set in the same world of Frindoth as his newly released book “Ritual of the Stones”. In this story we follow the journey of Pewtory the Lesser bard as he travels to Lilyon to witness the Ritual.
Pewtory the Lesser Bard part 27 – Three tricks
It had been a long time since Pewtory had set foot in a town as large as Boscalt. Despite the hustle and bustle around him, he could not help but stare up at the towering spires and impressive architecture. Intricate detail adorned the rooftops, from floral patterns on pillars that looked like they were real flowers to gargoyles that really appeared as if they would swoop down and bite you if you stared at them too long.
Everywhere Pewtory looked, vendors advertised their wares, whilst the aroma of all manner of food and spices enticed him towards various stalls. Cinnamon, sage, rootfleck and garlic mingled with roasted pork, beef and chicken. There was so much choice the Bard did not know where to look.
Pewtory found himself swept along in the crowds, moved by the sheer mass of people. If he stopped and stared too long at something, he would receive angry sighs or curses from individuals who were eager to get to their destinations and could not tolerate such indecision from a visitor.
Even Pewtory’s flamboyant appearance did not look out of place in Boscalt. The purple streak in his hair and feather that hung from his ear looked almost normal compared to what the other towns folk were wearing.
Pewtory knew he could indulge in wandering round the stalls to his heart’s content later. His priority was to procure himself a purple ribbon. As he studied the energetic crowd around him that would be easier said than done. Not for the first time he thought how much easier it would have been to deal with Elsie and Arthur whilst they were alone in the woods with no one else around.
He could not honestly say why he had not. Was he starting to doubt himself after being so convinced? He did not think so. Pewtory saw how much Elsie and Arthur enjoyed his performance around the fire. Two kindred spirits like that deserved to go to the Masker’s ball before they died. It also gave Pewtory a chance to perform one last time on his biggest stage before he became infamous.
He lightly grabbed an old lady who shuffled along as she cradled some silk scarves. She glared at him for the intrusion and shrugged his hand off her arm. Embarrassed, Pewtory quickly withdrew his hand and attempted to smile.
“My apologies, I am after a purple ribbon, any ideas where I can get one?”
The shrill burst of laughter that escaped from the old ladies lips made him jump and made others turn and stare. She walked away cackling and shaking her head. Something told Pewtory that obtaining entry to the Masker’s ball would be far more difficult then gaining entry to Boscalt.
“I can help you,” a high pitched whisper came from the crowd. Pewtory glanced around him and it took a moment to locate who the speaker was. A thin, wiry man with a bald pate and untidy, brown curls at his temple stood about three metres away and stared at Pewtory.
The man wore a blue shirt that had seen better days. The sleeves were threadbare and the collar torn in patches. He wore brown trousers that were caked with mud and tatty sandals that revealed dirty black feet. The man looked about him nervously before he beckoned Pewtory towards him.
Pewtory was enough of a performer himself not to be fooled by the man’s shifty behaviour. Who exactly the man was looking for was a mystery and if he wished to be that cautious then surely he would not have shouted out to Pewtory.
Still the Bard indulged the man due to being short on any other leads.
“What can you tell me?” Pewtory asked when he reached the man.
The man risked a look either side of him and then briefly behind him down an empty alleyway. Pewtory likened the man’s head’s movement to an owl the way it bobbed and weaved.
“Is goona cost ya?” the man said in broken tongue and held out a grubby hand. His breath was foul. Pewtory reached inside his cloak and pulled out a copper coin. From the way the man bounced on his feet, the Bard suspected he was in need of a fix of some sort and would be willing to accept any sort of payment.
The man’s eyes lit up at the sight of the coin. Pewtory dangled it above the man’s open palm but before he dropped it said, “Information first, then the coin.”
The man looked as if he was about to cry but nodded and ushered Pewtory further into the alley. Pewtory followed but kept enough space between them in case the man decided to make any sudden movements. As soon as they were off the street the din of the crowd faded significantly. The man glanced over Pewtory’s shoulder a final time and then leaned in and began to whisper.
“Tis alley leads to Kaynard’s street. On left tis a sign wit a fox on it. Inside are gamblers, gooduns mind. I eard them saying they had a purple ribbon but didn’t care for no Masker balls. Mite be you ave some luck winning it off them.”
Pewtory struggled not to heave at the stench of the man’s breath.
“What games do this people play?”
“Dice, cards, straws anytin as long as they can win money.”
“How long ago were you there?”
“Minutes ago. I ask’d them to spare some coin for a umble beggar,” the man smiled to reveal rotten teeth.
“Did they give you anything?” Pewtory asked.
“Nope. Why do you tink I am saying this to you?”
Pewtory smiled through the rank smell. He dropped the coin into the man’s hand and then as an afterthought added a second. The beggar beamed in response and then began to shuffle away.
“Wait friend,” Pewtory said. The beggar stopped but not before he secured the coins somewhere in his trousers. There was no chance that he would be giving up the currency now. “What is the name of these gamblers?”
The beggar was unable to keep the laugh from his lips. “Damone Thurrock.”
Pewtory frowned. “Should I know that name?”
The question caused the man to laugh some more.
“You know that tall female captain on the gate as you came in?” he said. Pewtory found himself nodding reluctantly. “He is her husband,” the man barked a final laugh before disappearing into the crowd.
“Of course he is,” Pewtory said.
Excellent writing, good suspense