Renaldo stopped playing and looked down into the large cooking pot the innkeep let him use to collect payment. Gold crowns made a distinct sound when dropped amongst the copper and silver. He’d learned over the years to pick it out, even from amongst the noise of a large crowd such as the one packed into the Steaming Turnip.

He looked at the man standing at the edge of the small stage. Wide, honest eyes set in a chiseled, age-weathered face and a compact body.

“Please,” Renaldo said, his accent heavy, no attempt made to hide his disgust. “Remove your coin and then that shipwreck of a face before you scare my customers away.”

Heden looked down into the pot and then back at the bard. “I just put a gold crown in there.”

“I will lose two just by talking to you and my stomach just by looking at you. Now be a good little priest and go away.”

“I…” Heden stopped and looked around. The tavern was packed with people, none of them seemed to pay either he or the minstrel any mind. They jostled him.

“Hang on,” Heden said. “Let’s, ah, let’s try this again.” He started to speak but then Renaldo began to play again, nodding at the pot.

Heden took a deep breath, bent down and fished his coin out. He stared at it in his hand, and then looked back up at Renaldo.

“I was just hoping to….”

Renaldo played louder.

Heden clenched his fist around the gold crown and surveyed the inn. It was smaller than his. There were maybe 60 people packed in the common room which could not comfortably seat more than 30. None of these folk cared. Most of them weren’t paying Heden any mind, but some were. Some were. Heden thought he recognized some of the men from the gate. They were spreading the word and in a small town such as this, the word didn’t have far to go.

Heden didn’t think he could get what he needed from any of these folk and there was a kind of unspoken agreement, a tradition. Heden couldn’t put words to it, but he took it for granted, and Renaldo was breaking it. He knew Riojans liked drama.

The windows were wide open, letting the spring air and bright sunlight in. The sun and air fought the fug of farmers greasing their joints with ale. The minstrel probably worked hard to get these people to trust him, based on Heden’s experience at the gate. He’d know that being seen with Heden, another stranger, would alienate some of his paying audience, and so wanted to avoid it. Another time and Heden would have respected this. But he’d come a long way, and done at least one awful thing to get here, and now he needed information.

Heden turned back to the minstrel, stepped up on the tiny stage picking up the pot as he did so. He turned and in one smooth motion he pulled his arm back, preparing to fling the cooking pot, heavy with coin, out the window.

He felt the cold bite of steel at this throat and tensed in a blink. Motionless, his arm still flung backward, he heard the sound of the chair tipping over and hitting the stage, along with the clash of strings from the lute hitting the floor. Black gods he’s fast. Heden was in real danger and there was a certain thrill to it. He wanted to test the minstrel, but dared not. Men in the inn would die in the battle. There was a time when he’d not have given these people a second thought.

“Now I must ask you,” Renaldo said, and everyone in the inn was watching, “to trust me.” His voice was casual, light. Uncaring. At the word ‘trust’ he pressed the blade and it bit into Heden’s neck. “For you feel the blade is thin and you think ‘’tis but a trifle.’ Think you can make some move, push the blade away. Please believe me when I say; you would be on the ground bleeding your life out before you moved an inch. This is no broad sword like you have there, not one of those great two-handers I could dance along the blade of before a man swung it once around. Far deadlier in fact. So please do not make the mistake so many of your countrymen have made. You will naturally want to fight back…”

“Not against Jacanda steel, I won’t,” Heden interrupted, not moving a muscle, trying to ignore the audience watching.

“You…ah. What?” Renaldo stammered, backing out of the dancing pose he held. He pulled the blade away and looked at Heden anew. Heden moved only his eyes and raised one eyebrow.

“Not against a Riojan troubadour, I wouldn’t.”

Renaldo assumed a dueling pose, his rapier pointing straight down, tip touching the stage. One hand on his hip. His mouth was open.

Heden saw the man had assumed a deferent position, and he allowed himself to move.

“And not against a playwright of the Leaf,” he said, smiling.

Renaldo clasped his free hand to the top of his head, a reflex from one used to wearing a hat.

“I…” he said, and frowned, looking around the stage as though he’d misplaced his own name.

He noticed the folk staring. He took a deep, resigned breath, and let it out slowly.

The Riojan waved a hand while he sheathed his rapier with a flourish and whistled a sharp three tone scale, a perfect imitation of the call any of these farmers might have used to disperse their pigs.

The inn went back to its collective business, the show was over. Renaldo plopped down on the stool, still frowning, still confused.

“Dangerous way to start a friendship,” Renaldo murmured without looking at Heden. “Give me the money,” he out his hand.

Heden gave him the gold.

Renaldo waggled his fingers.

Heden fished out another gold crown and handed it over.

“I will make no more coin this afternoon,” Renaldo said, and pocketed the money as he stood up. “These people do not like being reminded I am a ‘ratman,’ as they put it. Two of us talking to each other, and now I am a stranger again.”

Renaldo put on his hat, picked up his flask of wine and his lute, and walked past Heden. He stepped lightly off the small stage and a table cleared for him before he reached it. These people held him in high regard.

“A ratcatcher,” Heden said, turning to follow.

“Eh?” Renaldo said. He sat down and a maid pushed through the crowd to bring him a glass for his wine, but he shoo’ed her away and plunked the wine flask in the middle of the table, cradled his lute in his lap.

“They call campaigners ‘ratcatchers,’” Heden took the chair opposite.

“Ah, yes. That makes some sense to me. I see the similarity. Filthy jobs, sometimes necessary.”

“And best forgotten,” Heden said.

“Well it is a dangerous business,” Renaldo said, picking up a fluted bottle of wine and drinking directly from it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, peering at Heden. “Though you seem well-suited to it.”

“Was,” Heden said, looking Renaldo up and down. He was dressed in what Heden knew a Riojan troubadour would consider a discreet outfit. The wide-brimmed green hat on the floor held only one brightly colored peacock flavor. Around his neck, a single blue scarf, no pattern. The collar of his doublet open only a few inches revealing a tan chest and some wisps of curly black hair. The doublet had gold sewn into it, but no jewels and his red hose ran with tasteful pinstripes rather than the brightly colored checkers favored in Capital when Heden left.

The people here would think he was a jester.

“I work for the church now,” Heden said.

“Yes, I know. A priest. Very valuable in any company.”

Something occurred to Renaldo and he flinched as he looked at Heden.

“The church. So you are not from the Jack?” his black eyes flashed, his eyebrows long, thin, and flourished like the stroke of a pen.

“I don’t know what that is,” Heden said.

“It is a who.”

“Oh,” Heden said. “Well, ah…no.”

“You have not come to extract some kind of vengeance then?”

“Nope,” Heden said.

This seemed to deflate the man even more. “Ah well,” he said.

“That disappoints you?”

“Many things disappoint me,” Renaldo said, taking a weary breath. “The world seldom lives up to its reputation.” He shrugged. “You are here for some mundane reason then and I will have forgotten you in the time it takes to drag a nail.”

“You’d prefer it if I wanted to kill you?”

“Well,” Renaldo gestured with a hand as though making an obvious point. “Yes.”

“Give me a little while,” Heden said, “I’m warming up to the idea.”

Renaldo smiled a very little at this and raised his eyebrows. “Bravely said.”

“So who’s the Jack?”

Renaldo shrugged. Heden liked him.

“You know the Leaf, you know my steel. I thought perhaps you knew my work, were sent by a man I recently maligned in a popular production.”

“Recently?” This was not in accord with Heden’s knowledge of geography.

“Oh, a year,” Renaldo admitted. “I confess I rather appreciate the idea of a man pursuing me for a year. No epic tragedy ever featured a man who was pursued for a day, or, 32 weeks,” he said, picking a random number. “It must be a year, you understand.”

“I understand,” Heden said.

“The Jack is a very powerful master assassin,” Renaldo said, submitting this fact for Heden’s approval, obviously hoping it would earn Renaldo some esteem in his eyes.

Heden nodded. “I was friends with the Wire.”

Renaldo scoffed. “The Wire has no friends.”

“I was,” Heden rephrased, “someone it amused him not to kill.”

“Yes, he has many amusements. I, for one, remain content to bore him. So you have been to Rioja.”

“I lived in Capital for six years.”

“Pagh!” Renaldo said, and mimed spitting on the ground. “Built by your ancestors to rule my ancestors. All true Riojans despise that city.”

“Sure,” Heden said. “What are you doing here, Renaldo?”

“Ah no,” the troubadour said, taking another pull from his wine. “You have me at a disadvantage. We are not Wizards you and I, but names first, nonetheless. It is polite.”

Heden nodded and told Renaldo his name. Renaldo doffed his hat.

“I am Renaldo de Merisi, a temporary exile brother Heden. The master of the Leaf thought it best if I spend some time abroad after Catch as Catch Can opened.”

“Your play,” Heden said.

“A play? No I do not write plays. I wrote plays when I was a lad, now I craft carefully aimed and highly entertaining attacks on the enemies of the Leaf. In this case, the master of the Fulcrum.”

“Not wise to upset the men who hold the money.”

“I reasoned they were a small guild, only newly come to power. They would retaliate certainly, but how bad could it be?”

“They could try and have you killed.”

Renaldo deflated at that. “Ah yes, this is true. When they assassinated my leading man, I knew it was time to take a trip. And so here I am!” he gestured to take in the entire inn. “The Steaming Turnip. Which I, not properly decoding the sign out front, took to mean the Steaming Turd.”

Heden snorted at this. The woodcarving sign outside did, indeed, look like a steaming turd.

“You imagine my disappointment,” Renaldo said. “I so preferred the Turd. I thought perhaps I could steal the sign, take it home. Lie about the name. I feel the Steaming Turd so perfectly captures the…you know. Wouldn’t be much of a lie. It can hardly be my fault if the innkeep chose the right sign but the wrong name.”

“How did you know I was a priest?” Heden asked, remembering the minstrel’s earlier words to him.

Renaldo deflated a little and gestured to the room.

“They told you?”

“I am a troubadour,” Renaldo reminded him.

“Just seems fast is all,” Heden said, turning and looking at the townspeople. “I came straight here.”

“A mile for a man is a yard for a tale,” the minstrel said.

“That’s good,” Heden said, appreciating the quote.

“That’s mine,” Renaldo said.

“You’re good,” Heden said.

“Occasional flashes of legend amidst a tempest of brilliance.”

“Ok,” Heden said. No point in getting carried away. “How much does the two gold get me?”

“How much do you need?”

“I just got here,” Heden said. “You tell me.”

“Fair,” Renaldo said. “Less than two gold’s worth, certainly.”

“Everyone said there’s an army of urmen marching.”

“That is what everyone says,” Renaldo said. No way for the minstrel to tell if it was true, they both knew. “I think it likely. These people have experienced this phenomenon before, they know the signs.”

“They don’t seem worried,” Heden said. The townsfolk were smiling and laughing and eating. Enjoying the circumstances that had them all pressed together in the town. “Why is that?”

Renaldo plucked a chord on his lute and then pointed to his head. “The tempest of brilliance.”

“I see,” Heden said, giving up.

Renaldo sighed.

“They await the arrival of an order of knights, the Green, who defend these lands from all manner of incursion. They believe the order will save them.”

“Oh,” Heden said, deflating a little.

“Ah-hah,” Renaldo said. “You know something of their conspicuous absence.”

“Not yet,” Heden said. “But I think I will soon. It’s why I’m here.”

“I think I understand. Well good luck finding them, my friend,” Renaldo played a little tune.

“Why?” Heden asked, frowning.

“Because the forest will not permit it.”

Renaldo played softly, looking down at his instrument. Heden didn’t say anything for a few moments, he just stared at a point on the wall a few feet behind Renaldo.

“Wonderful,” Heden said.

Renaldo stopped playing and laughed. “You have a unique sense of humor brother Heden.”

“A thousand people waiting to be crushed by an army of urmen’s not my idea of funny.”

“Ah well,” Renaldo said, “as to that. These people have been saved by the order before. That they cannot contact these knights is strange, but it does not worry them overmuch.”

“What did you mean by ‘the forest will not permit it?’” Heden asked. Knowing the wode, he anticipated a gruesome answer.

“The Baron sends men into the forest to find the Order’s priory. Their gathering place.”

“I know what a priory is.”

“Of course you do. My pardon. They return unscathed but unfulfilled.”

“Well,” Heden said and reached out to take a swallow from Renaldo’s wine, “could be worse.” The wine was fantastic, better than anything he had at the Hammer. He looked at the bottle and noted it bore a faded Riojan label. He decided not to ask how this man traveled thousands of miles with his own bottle of wine.

“How long until the urmen?”

Renaldo shrugged. “How to tell? Days it seems.”

“Days,” Heden said.

“A few days.”

“You’re not worried about a thousand urq days away from crushing this place?”

Renaldo’s head lifted from concentrating on the strings of his lute, and he looked off into the distance as he considered Heden’s question. He pursed his lips.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Oh,” Renaldo said, “because I will run away.”

Heden nodded as if confirming a suspicion. “Smart,” he said, looking at the townsfolk.

Then he looked out the corner of his eye, suspicious of the minstrel’s motivations.

“So why not run now?” Heden asked, and turned back to confront the minstrel.

Renaldo appeared to be ignoring him.

“How much money are you going to make in the next few days?” Heden asked. “And do you need it? Why are you still here, Renaldo de Merisi?”

Renaldo sighed and lay his lute in his lap, cocking his head as he looked back at Heden.

“Very well, you have me. I hope to convince these people to flee.”

Heden sat back, smiling smugly.

“Seems somewhat out of character, don’t you think?”

Renaldo frowned. “I enjoy casting against type,” he said. “Like you, I fear the knights will not come, in which case the only hope these poor idiots have is flight. I sing them songs to highlight the wisdom of saving one’s own skin. They, of course, do not realize my intent, or my meaning. I find being direct so artless.” He smiled widely bearing perfect white teeth. “They know only that the songs are brilliant.”

Heden nodded, humoring him. “Brilliant,” he said.

Renaldo looked at him, studied his face.

“You will head into the forest looking for this Order Green,” Renaldo predicted, his brow furrowed as he played out the events of the next few days. “Tell me, my friend. Do you think it likely your immediate future holds tales of adventure, heroism, and miraculous deeds?”

Heden stared at the Riojan.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking at the bar. He turned back to Renaldo and looked at him with misery. “Probably.”

Renaldo smiled slowly until his grin turned into a hungry, feral thing.

“Then I must attend you. Your death will, I surmise, fuel an excellent tale.”

“My death,” Heden said.

“I am an optimist,” Renaldo said, shrugging. “Heroic tragedies are very popular in my homeland right now.”

He adjusted his instrument and began to play. “Please come find me once the Baron is done with you!”

“What?” Heden asked. Renaldo looked meaningfully behind Heden.

There were two guards behind him, one at each elbow.

“Hallo sunshine,” one of the guards said with a mean smile. “Now why don’t you stop bothering our little sparrow here and come with us?”

Heden turned slowly and looked at the two men, each taller than Heden. One round and old, the other whip-thin and young. He pointed at the fat one.

“I know you,” Heden said. “You were at the town gate.”

“That’s right. And I don’t know you. The Baron likes to meet new people,” the thick man said, smiling.

“Oh. Good.”

On to Chapter Nineteen!

Chapter 18