The Drunken Bard
The Drunken Bard Tavern, formerly known as the Dancing Bard, got its new name the exact way you might imagine: from a reputation of nonsensical and often inebriated bards. The tavern’s owner, Oda Varro, had a tradition of hiring a poet to perform every night. What she should have made tradition was taking a look at the bard’s poetry before allowing him onstage.
“I may be drunk, lass,” a customer would tell Oda, “but I know as sure as me life that that ain’t no poetry.”
“Ah, well,” Oda would say as the bard recited another verse in an awfully pitchy voice. “Good thing we’re all drunk, then.”
So when the Drunken Bard was bard-less one night, people wondered if something had happened to Oda.
“Maybe she can’t afford ’em no more,” a patron told his friend. “I’ve always wondered how she paid them. She charges a piffling for ale!”
“Shh! Keep it down, you idiot! Don’t want her raising the prices, do ya?”
“He’s right, you know,” said Maiko, one of the waiters. She winked at the first patron. “You can complain about anything in the world, my friend, but never about cheap ale. Isn’t that right, Gima?”
Maiko’s twin brother, Gima, was carefully preparing a mug of Dragon’s Eye wine and didn’t seem to have heard her. If one didn’t know before, they’d never have guessed that Maiko and Gima were twins. Where Maiko was tall and well-built, with a head of cropped hair, Gima was lean with delicate features. His hair, long and dark as night, was always tied in an immaculate half-knot. Gima would never allow even a single strand of hair to be out of place.
“Wha—?” He looked up. “Oh yes, of course. Cheap beer is good.”
Maiko sighed. “He’s hopeless.”
“And good at making drinks that pay your wages,” retorted Gima.
A soft chuckle, quickly silenced, came from a slight, spectacled youth just a table away. They were Qyi Shuang, another waiter at the Drunken Bard. The three of them—Maiko, Gima and Qyi Shuang—made up the tavern’s crew, and they were occasionally joined by Oda’s daughter, Ingra. Tonight was such an occasion.
“Mai-i-ko! Gi-i-ma!” Ingra called in that sing-song voice of hers. She skipped over to the twins, wagging a finger solemnly. “Mama says no arguing at work.”
“Believe me, Ingra dear, that wasn’t an argument,” said Maiko.
“Not even close,” said Gima.
“Besides,” Ingra dropped her voice into a whisper, “you don’t want the whole pub to hear you.”
Maiko was about to say that was impossible, but she then realised that the tavern, sans wailing poet, was unusually quiet. People shifted in their seats; the lack of background noise meant they had to make small talk or suffer an awkward silence, and they’d begun to feel antsy.
But Oda knew this, of course. The innkeeper had counted the minutes it would take for conversation to grow stale, for people to be desperate for any form of entertainment, they wouldn’t mind doing it themselves. So when she clapped her hands and climbed onto the stage, everyone turned their eyes to her.
“My friends!” she said. “Tonight is the night where I give in to all your nagging and complaining. I have, as you have been telling me for years, decided not to hire a bard.” Cheers went around the room. Oda flashed them a winning smile. “Tonight, the stage is yours. I invite one of you brave, mysterious souls to come up here and tell us a story, and if it is a good one, ale’s on me for the week!”
The crowd broke into excited chatter. Friends began pushing each other toward the stage, chanting names and nudging ribs. At last, a young man with broad shoulders and wispy, blond hair stumbled onto the platform after being pushed by his friends. He cast them a look of betrayal, but the smile on his lips said otherwise.
“Bael Kofler!” said Oda. “Welcome, welcome. And what tale do you have for us tonight?”
The patrons watched Bael expectantly. Some wore sneers and dubious looks. A low, humming excitement hung in the air, and Bael could feel it in his belly, like a hundred fluttering wings.
Despite his nerves, Bael drew himself up. He knew what the town thought of him—that he was the blacksmith’s son who preferred a paintbrush over a hammer yet couldn’t earn a living with his art—but he refused to cower.
He took a deep breath. In his mind, he painted the woods, its lights and shadows, the many shades of green he would need. And there, with the darkest brown, the silhouette of a bear. White and grey for a girl with fair hair and eyes that marvelled at everything.
When Bael opened his eyes, the tavern was gone. He was deep in the forests of Llyth.
