Nadi just stared at the crowd. “Say something,” I whispered.
“I…I…right. Yes. We’re here to, um, help. With the dragon. The one that’s…that’s burning things. Here. In your town.”
I wouldn’t have figured Nadi for the stage-fright type. But there’s a reason that not everyone’s a bard, beyond not wanting to compete with the likes of yours truly.
“What she means to say,” I interjected, “is that her group’s experience in fighting—and defeating—creatures of all types will stand them in good stead in their quest to kill the beast. For make no mistake, friends—it is no small thing to slay a dragon, and though this group be mighty, their success is far from guaranteed. The way will be full of peril, a harrowing journey to find a creature so foul and so mighty that only a handful of people in all the world would dare brave its wrath—and even fewer still who could survive the encounter.”
Nadi gave me a look. “Don’t worry,” I whispered, more quietly this time so that only she could hear, “it’s all part of the show. If they thought it was easy, you wouldn’t get any credit.”
“They’ll be killed!” yelled an overserved man in the middle of the room, his bushy mustaches quivering. “They haven’t a chance!”
“We appreciate your confidence,” said Rummy, rising to his feet, a less-than-intimidating physical feat that engendered a hearty round of snickering from the crowd. He walked over to stand next to Nadi. “Fine,” said Rummy. “How about if that guy stands up?”
Rummy gestured toward where he had been sitting. A moment passed in silence as the crowd looked around, confused. “Me?” said the mustachioed man, rising to his feet.
“No, not you—him!” Rummy pointed again.
Another moment passed. Old walrus mustaches spoke again. “Is one of your party members invisible?”
Finally, Borg stood, and the crowd gasped. He rolled his shoulders back, his massive biceps rippling and his hard skin glinting in the firelight. He stared down at the man with the mustache, who quailed. “I think…this is actually…a village. Right?” said Borg.
As if having a rock giant towering over him wasn’t enough, Whiska jumped to her feet as well and pointed her staff at the quivering Skendrickian and said, “How about we show you what we’ll do to the dragon?” Her staff flared. “Or maybe I’ll just turn that lip rug into a kavarat!”
(A kavarat, incidentally, is a little bit like a wolverine…if a wolverine were three times larger, five times stronger, and ten times nastier.)
The man, already pale, turned whiter than a Fluvian death mask and stumbled backward, tripping over his seat and landing hard on his backside.
“Whiska!” yelled Nadi, back in control. “Back off! Rummy, help him up.”
Rummy was already moving toward the man and extended his hand. The man gripped it nervously, but allowed Rummy to pull him to his feet. “No hard feelings?” said Rummy. “I’d say yes, because I’m pretty sure the rat lady was serious about that kavarat thing.”
The man nodded vigorously, the tips of his ridiculous facial adornment bobbing up and down, his flop sweat having caused the ends, carefully waxed just moments before, to fray. “No, no, no hard feelings at all. You all look very capable, very capable indeed! I’m sure you won’t die.” He bowed to Whiska, an awkward gesture that almost sent him tumbling to the floor again. “We’re lucky to have you!”
I sighed. “I’m glad that’s settled.” I salvaged the evening with a rousing rendition of “Drink Up Today, For Tomorrow We Die” and sent the crowd home happy, though I noticed more than a few questioning looks directed toward my companions.
It looked like I still had some selling to do.
The next day, I left Nadi and the others (still sleeping) at the inn and headed to a meeting of the town council.
After my performance the previous night, Alderman Wooddunny had sent an urgent summons asking me to appear bright and early the following morning to answer a few questions the council had regarding their would-be saviors. I was actually relieved that my companions hadn’t been included in that summons; it would be much easier to plead their case without them present to undermine everything I said.
It looked like the council had turned out in full force. I couldn’t decide if that boded well or not. It’s entirely possible they just didn’t have anything better to do.
Did I say “possible”? Because I meant “certain”.
The council had some business to address before it turned to the matter of the dragon, so I sat quietly while they heatedly debated a number of essential issues, including whether to allow a rogue group of chickens to continue to nest in the village square (no, but the vote was close, and permission was given to one resident to eat any uncooperative chickens—raw, at his request); which color should be considered “official” for the painting of the weathervane that sat atop the town council building (options included mauve, lilac, lavender, violet, and light purple—consensus was not reached due to a vehement disagreement over whether one displayed shade was, in fact, either lilac or light purple); and whether to approve a tax to raise funds to make improvements to the local school, which seemed like a sensible issue to discuss until it became apparent that the school was, in fact, for chickens, and its falling into disrepair may have been the cause of the first issue discussed.
Once these pressing issues had been eloquently debated and resolved or tabled for further discussion, Alderman Wooddunny asked me to stand. “We now recognize Heloise Thebard, who has come to present us with a band of, ah, brave adventurers who have volunteered themselves to try to rid us of our dragon problem. Do I have that right, Miss, ah, Thebard?”
“The. Bard. Not ‘Thebard,’” I replied.
“Beg pardon?” replied the Alderman.
“It’s ‘Heloise the Bard,’ not ‘Heloise Thebard.’”
“Are you sure? I’m quite, ah, certain I was told your name is Heloise Thebard…”
“It’s a description of a vocation, not a surname. I mean, is your given name ‘Alderman’?”
“Actually, yes, it is. I realize that it’s a little bit like a shoemaker whose surname is ‘Cobbler,’ but, well, the, ah, truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, as they say, right? Prescient parents, I suppose.”
“Wait,” I said, holding my hands up and looking around the room. “You are Alderman Alderman Wooddunny?” No one else looked confused or surprised by this revelation.
The Alderman nodded. “Yes, Miss The Bard, I am.”
“It’s not Miss The…you know what? Skip it. Never mind.” I shook my head. “Now, do you mind telling me why I’m here having this barely-a-conversation instead of sleeping?”
“Well, ah, while we are grateful for your help in seeking out a hearty band of adventurers to slay the dragon that plagues our fair village—”
“Town!” shouted someone (I’m not sure who—after a while, all Skendrickians start to look alike.)
“Hang hie yer mongrel mooth, then, an’ away wi’ yuir blasapheemin’! Alderman Alderman’s a’ th’ purdium, an’ hay’ll spake et fit and has th’ right o’ it!” said a gnarly looking older man wearing overalls and a dirty hat. For reasons unexplained and unremarked upon by anyone else, he was holding a baby pig.