My quiet reverie was interrupted when two men burst through the door, both panting and wheezing. One, young and scrawny, had a scraggly brown tangle on his chin reminiscent of the type of hair you hope never to find in your bed at an inn. The other, red-faced, bulb-nosed, and stocky, shook slightly, though his tremors stopped the moment he spied the ale taps. Nerves restored, he turned his eyes to the room’s most beautiful occupant and stumbled over, his pubescent, pube-faced friend in tow.
“There she is! She’s the one I told you about—Hermione, Hermione the bard!”
“Sort of close,” I said by way of response. “Lot less nerdy, little classier, just as smart—it’s Heloise, actually.” I directed this comment at the younger man.
It could have been a combination of awestruck wonder at my beauty or simply a lack of intellectual horsepower, or maybe both, but the only response the lad could muster was to say, “What is ‘nerdy’?”
“I’d show you, but I don’t have a mirror handy just now,” I said, finishing the last swallow of ale in my mug. I signaled to the barmaid for a refill.
“Me too!” the older man shouted as she turned toward the bar. “I’ll have one, I mean.”
“And you’re buying, right?” I said.
The two men looked at each other.
“Are we?” asked the younger one.
“Alderman give you any money?”
“Just what we said we’d give her.”
“Then yes, we’re buying.”
“That’s very kind of you,” I replied. They stood awkwardly next to my table, the older one fiddling with his fingers and the younger one shifting his weight from left to right and back. “Would you care to sit?” I looked at the younger one. “Or maybe pee? Because there’s a privy in the back…”
Scraggly chin mumbled something incoherent and bolted to the back of the tavern, slamming the privy door behind him. The older man sat down as the barmaid brought our drinks. I nodded my thanks and took a sip; the man did the same.
We sat in silence for a moment. “We need your help,” the man said finally, after he’d drained more than half of his drink. He seemed considerably less fidgety.
The younger man, looking both relieved and embarrassed, returned and sat down. The barmaid motioned toward the ale I was drinking and looked at him. He turned bright pink, looked at the table, and mumbled, “Not old enough.” The barmaid sniggered and left us alone.
“So, you need help,” I said. The older man nodded. “With what, and why me?”
“It’s our town!” blurted out the younger man. They proceeded to tell me about the dragon, the attacks, and their inability to find a group of willing adventurers to take up the quest to slay the beast.
It wasn’t quite a tale as old as time, but it wasn’t exactly the Foriginia in its originality either. (The Foriginia, for those who don’t know, is a recent stage phenomenon that features a company of elves pretending to be dwarves pretending to be dragons pretending to be flowers. It’s unlike anything else. It’s also pretentious, terrible, and unwatchable.) Consequently, I wasn’t particularly moved by their plea for help. “Well, gee, gentlemen, I’m very sorry to hear that,” I said with what I hoped was convincing sincerity.
“You have to help us!” pleaded the younger man.
“The only thing I have to do is find out who brewed this ale, because it’s delicious,” I replied. “Maybe we should back up a step—you haven’t even told me where you’re from, what your names are, or why, beyond being a humanitarian of the first order—which I’m actually not, incidentally—I should help you.”
The two men looked at each other. The younger one, clearly deferential, nodded to his older companion. “Well,” said the older man, draining the rest of his ale, “I’m Goodman Drunkman, and this is Goodman Youngman. We’re from Skendrick.”
“Seriously?”
“Skendrick is a fine town, a fine town!” bristled the younger man.
“Skendrick is mildly less boring than Borden, which is one of the five most boring places I’ve ever been to, and I’ve been to a lot of places,” I replied. “Though it’s a perfectly valid place to be from. I wasn’t seriously-ing your place of origin; I was seriously-ing your ridiculous names.”
“Well, now, Ms. Heloise,” replied Goodman Drunkman, “it may not be so in other areas you frequent, but ‘Goodman’ is a pretty common form of address in many towns around—”
“Oh, come on! You can’t possibly be this thick.”
The two men looked at each other. Youngman’s eyes were wide, and Drunkman just shrugged.
“Or, maybe you are.” I sighed, but Drunkman’s attention was on the barmaid, attempting to get her to bring more ale, and Youngman was looking down as he fiddled with a button on his tunic. “Fine. Goodman Youngman and Goodman Drunkman of Skendrick, tell me why I should help you, and exactly how you think I can do that. Because, amazing though I am, dragon-slaying is not, at least as of yet, among my accomplishments, and, frankly, it’s not likely to be anytime soon, mainly because I’m a pretty big fan of not being killed.”
“Don’t…don’t all adventurers help people out of the goodness of their hearts? And because they want to right wrongs and fight injustice wherever it may be found?” asked Goodman Youngman tentatively.
“Bwahahahahahaha!” Maybe not the most ladylike response I could have offered, but, under the circumstances, I thought it was at least more polite than some other things I might have said. “You’re sweet, Youngman. Completely misguided and an idiot, but sweet.”
The barmaid brought another ale for Drunkman; after he sucked the head off and downed a generous portion of the mug, he sat back and sighed, seeming fully relaxed at last. “Hey, he’s young, right?”
“It’s right there in the name, yes.”
“Listen, Ms. Heloise,” said Drunkman, leaning in. I immediately leaned out, overwhelmed by the rank stink of ale on his breath. He took no offense at my attempt to distance myself, but neither did he pull back. “We’ve got gold.”
Well, a girl does need to eat. And boots. A girl needs boots. “I’m listening…”
“Here’s what we want you to do,” continued Drunkman. “Spread the word about our town. How we need help. Write a song and make it sound like this is the greatest opportunity ever for a group of adventurers. Convince them that if they don’t come to Skendrick, they’re missing out on the adventure of a lifetime. And the treasure of a lifetime in the dragon’s lair.”
I nodded. “I could do that. I could do it for…how much gold did you say you were offering?”
“I have been authorized by the town council of Skendrick to pay five gold pieces to hire you.”
Before I could respond that five gold wouldn’t even buy a night with Drunkman’s mother—just a negotiation tactic, because it certainly wasn’t true (I’d bet you could have had Drunkman’s mother for no more than three silver)—Youngman interrupted. “Excuse me, Goodman Drunkman, but Alderman Wooddunny gave us ten gold pieces to hire Ms. Heloise.”