“Good people of Skendrick!” I called out to the dozen councilmembers, most of whom looked bored, asleep, or murderous (or some combination thereof). “As promised, I, Heloise the Bard, renowned throughout Erithea for my peerless voice, unmatched bravery, and abundant virtue—well-earned acclaim for almost half of those qualities, I might add—have returned with joyful tidings. The brave band of heroes you engaged to slay the terrible and mighty dragon that has plagued your town lo these many years—”
I was interrupted by an unintelligible (and angry) shout of, “Haen’t bin boot sivin moonths sence th’ vile wyrm f’st spewed fir aboot all ‘n sundry!”
“Farmer Benton?” I said, trying to recall the moron’s name.
“Aye.” He touched his straw hat. A tiny pig squealed in his lap. An old woman snorted and said something under her breath. In response, Farmer Benton shouted, “Crone!” The tiny pig squealed again.
“Now, now—Farmer Benton and Widow Gershon, please…our esteemed heroes have returned.” Alderman Wooddunny smiled at me. “Please, ah, continue, Miss the Bard.”
“As I was saying,” I said pointedly, “before being so rudely interrupted by tomorrow morning’s bacon, we have returned, and we bring great tidings!”
I looked around the room, expecting jubilant shouts, or at least a high five or two. Silence. Alderman Wooddunny gave me an encouraging smile and motioned for me to keep going. “We’re eager to hear your news. Pins and, ah, needles, as it were,” he said, looking around at his bored fellow councilmembers.
“You seriously can’t guess what I’m about to say?” I said.
One councilmember fell off his chair, snorting himself awake in the process.
“Just tell them,” said Nadi, exasperated.
“Fine. We’ll skip the preamble. All right, pay attention, people—here’s the deal: you had a dragon problem, now you don’t.” (I chose my words carefully.)
“Meaning?” said a young, serious-looking woman who was one of the few paying attention; if only her intellect matched her focus.
“Meaning,” I said with exaggerated patience, “that we took care of the problem. The dragon won’t attack anymore. You’re free from oppression. Mission accomplished. Heckuva job. Huzzahs all around. All that sort of thing.”
“Do you mean to say,” said the Alderman slowly, his eyes widening, “that you’ve, ah, actually slayed the dragon?”
“Like I said,” I replied, “we took care of it. You’re safe now.”
It took a moment, but, finally, at long last, cheers exploded throughout the room (well, “exploded” might be a less accurate description than “wheezed”), punctuated by a shout of “Harlot!” from the Widow Gershon (I think it was directed at me, but I’m not entirely sure).
“How?” asked the Alderman. “How did you do it? I thought that you had no chance.” He grimaced. “Er, that is to say, that the, ah, dragon was a formidable foe, and that—”
“Save it, Wooddunny,” I said. He looked taken aback. I didn’t particularly care. “Your concern for and confidence in us was overwhelming. Truly.”
A young girl stood up and gave me a suspicious look. “What proof do you have? How do we know you even saw the dragon?”
“Betty Sue makes a good point,” said the Alderman, though his tone was conciliatory. “It’s not that we doubt you, mind you—it’s just that, ah, it’s truly an extraordinary accomplishment to slay a dragon, especially one as powerful and vile as the one that has plagued our fair town.”
“Village!” shouted Farmer Benton.
“Whatever!” responded the exasperated Alderman. “Gods! You people really need to get a life.” He took a deep breath as he marked the scandalized looks on the faces of his constituents. “Now then,” he said, his tone somewhat contrite, “we really are incredibly grateful for your, ah, assistance in our most dire hour of need, and we would love nothing more than to celebrate—and spread word of—your feat far and wide and burnish the legend of your hearty band of warriors.”
“But you need to put your money where your mouths are,” said Betty Sue. “We’re not all as stupid as he looks,” she said, gesturing to Farmer Benton. Farmer Benton didn’t respond, though the piglet squealed meekly in his defense.
“Funny you should phrase it that way,” said Whiska with a wolfish grin. She pulled out a large, heavy-looking sack, dropped it on the ground, and it tipped over, spilling gold coins and jewels across the floor. The good people of Skendrick had played right into our hands.
“It’s no secret,” I said as I stepped forward and began to pace back and forth in front of the assembled council, “that when our merry little band rolled into Skendrick, we were, well, short of funds.”
“It’s true,” said a solemn, middle-aged man who sat next to Farmer Benton. “That one there”—he pointed to Whiska—“she asked me for a coin to purchase a small beer. Threatened to explode my bowels, she did. Waved her fingers and muttered some ancient curse, and I felt my guts turn to water. I gave her the coin, and she laughed.” He shook his head. “She’s an evil, powerful wizard. But a destitute one, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, for the love of—I didn’t do anything to the loose-boweled idiot,” grumbled Whiska. “I made up a few words and wiggled my fingers at him and he shat himself. And then he gave me a coin.” She knelt down, picked up a coin, and flipped it to the man. “Here—I’m paying you back tenfold. Also, your village’s small beer tastes like your loose bowels.”
“Town!” shouted someone.
“How do you know what his stool tastes like?” asked Rummy innocently.
“The point,” I said, forcing everyone to focus on me once again (we bards excel at that), “is that we did not have heaps of treasure when we arrived. Now, however, we do.” I gestured to the bag Whiska had tossed down. “Whiska?”
Whiska pulled out five more sacks of treasure that she placed next to the first. For good measure, she tipped them all forward and let them spill across the floor.
“And that’s only half of it,” I said. I reached into my own pouch and pulled out a massive gold coin—a real one—and handed it to Alderman Wooddunny. “Take a bite of that, my good man.”
He looked confused. “Is it chocolate?” He picked at the sides, trying to find the edge of a wrapper.
“No,” I said in a display of infinite patience, “it’s just that some people test whether or not a coin is made of gold by biting on it. Gold, as you may not know, not having an abundance of it, is a soft metal.”
Alderman Wooddunny nodded and bit hard on the coin. “Ouch,” he said. He grimaced. “That tastes terrible.”
“It’s not supposed to be a tasty treat, sir,” I said, somehow keeping the exasperation from my voice. I really am a paragon of magnanimous virtue. “It’s supposed to be worth a lot of money. Which it is.”
The alderman nodded. “It is a rather, ah, magnificent specimen of coin. Though now it, ah, has teeth marks in it.”