"He didn't make them up! I told you earlier that he overcame those quetzals. And before that, he scared off bandits by using magic to make a hammer burst into flames."
"Hm." Wren didn't seem convinced.
But Garin's thoughts had caught on something else. "That name you called him — Magebutcher. I'd never heard that in Tal's legends, but King Aldric called him it as well. What's the story?"
The girl's eyes narrowed. "I'll tell you if you tell me why he's here."
Curiosity and loyalty waged war for a short moment. But after all that Tal had done for him, he knew how he had to answer.
"I can't," he muttered, not meeting Wren's gaze.
She lingered for a moment longer, then stalked off, leaving him alone in the dark corner with his guts twisting together.
Ox, one of the troupers, slipped up next to him, moving nimbly for a big man. "Need to sharpen your skills, my boy," he rumbled in his deep voice. "A girl like Wren won't be easy to please."
When Garin stared at him blankly, Ox laughed. "I speak of the highest art in all the lands, Garin! Of mashing one's lips together with a girl — or boy, we're not picky in the Dancing Feathers — in a way pleasurable for both!"
It took a moment longer for comprehension to settle in. "I wasn't—," he spluttered. "That is, we weren't—"
Ox bellowed another laugh and clapped him on the back, sending him staggering forward a step. "Never fear, lad! Falcon isn't that sort of father — he's a lover, not any kind of warrior. Besides, he knows Wren can take care of herself. Now, the secret to a proper kiss is—"
Garin was already running for the door.
The Song
As Tal entered the Smallstage, a cacophony of noise welled up to greet him, and he smiled as he took in the scene.
In one corner, Jonn and Ox were showing Garin how to juggle — or attempting to, for the lad didn't seem to have the touch for even three apples. On the stage, other players of the troupe were performing a raucous stomping-and-singing routine, their accents mimicking those of the provincial Nortveld folk to an offensive degree. He could barely glimpse Wren through the door to the backroom as she bent over a project.
His smile widened. For all its royal patronage and expensive costumes, the Dancing Feathers was every bit the same troupe as when he'd left it.
"Practically a menagerie, isn't it?" Falcon appeared from nowhere, not seeming to have lost the stage trick of stepping softly. "I find they're safer viewed from behind bars as well."
"With manacles bolted to the wall, no doubt."
Falcon beamed over the spectacle with all the pride of a parent. But as he looked back to Tal, his smile faded. "Somehow, I don't think you've come to join in the revelry."
"Not today. I need your help."
"My help? Are you sure that's wise?"
"I can't tell you everything. But if you come now, I'll explain what I can on the way."
A smile curled the minstrel's lips. "A mysterious errand. A set-up fit for the stage, wouldn't you say?"
Tal raised an eyebrow. "Don't be too eager. It only involves a case of madness and poisoning nightmares."
Falcon gestured widely toward the door. "Pull the rope already. Your noose is around my neck."
Garin glanced over his shoulder as he slipped into the backroom. Having only just escaped from Ox and Jonn's tireless efforts to turn him into a jester, he felt as if he were only just taking his first breath since entering the Smallstage. Seeing the room was empty, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, letting his spinning mind settle.
"Even I think they're a bit much sometimes."
His eyes flew open to find the room not as empty as he'd thought. Wren's head was cocked and her eyes narrowed, wearing an unnervingly similar look as his mother when she was trying to decide which animal to butcher for the Harvest Festival.
Just as he was wondering if he should have said something in response, she spoke again. "Can you keep a secret?"
It was his turn to narrow his eyes. "I suppose so."
She sighed. "It doesn't exactly inspire confidence, but… Silence take it all."
Wren turned toward the back of the room and beckoned him closer. He followed, curiosity urging him forward into the recesses of the dim room.
They passed between rows upon rows of hanging costumes, between half-finished props and parts of backdrops, to the very back of the room. Garin's stomach turned over and over, wondering what she meant to show him, not daring to believe his hopes, unable to do anything but hope.
Reaching the back, she faced a backdrop of a forest that hung from the ceiling like a drape, then brushed it aside and stood back to let Garin see beyond her. He blinked, staring at the object set upon a squat table.
"A barrel?" he asked dubiously.
"Not just any barrel. A tun." The gold in Wren's eyes seemed to brighten for a moment, then she gestured him in, and he bowed in under the backdrop and squeezed by her into the small space beyond. Though they often had close contact while sparring, their proximity seemed far closer there in the backroom than it ever had under Master Krador's watchful gaze.
Garin swallowed as he stared down at the tun. As Wren let the drape fall back, the sparse light from the room beyond was nearly extinguished, so he could barely see her crouch before the keg.
"It's full of Jakadi wine," he heard her say, a note of smug satisfaction to her voice. "Paid a kitchen boy to haul it up here during supper one evening."
"Jakadi wine." He didn't know what exactly made Jakadi wine special compared to any other wine, but he'd heard enough reverent talk of it to be impressed. "No one's noticed it's here?"
"No one who's said anything to me. Here, hold out your hand."
He obliged and felt the cool metal of a cup pressed into his palm. Raising the cup to his nose, he sniffed, and the scent of spice and grapes filled his head. At Wren's urging, he tipped it to his lips. It tasted similar to its scent, only worse, and he was glad for the darkness to hide his expression. Not something he'd have chosen to drink; but then, he supposed it was the same as with Crazy Ean's marsh whiskey: you had to develop a taste for it, and once you did, nothing else could replace it.
He saw her rise, heard her drink, then chuckle. "Still tastes as bitter as doing penance, if I'm honest."
Garin grinned into the darkness. "If I'm honest, it tastes even worse."
Wren clinked their glasses together. "Then we'd best drink it fast."
For once, Garin found his doubts and worries had gone silent, and he tilted his head back and drained the whole glass.
Tal gestured to the door. "You should knock."
Falcon raised an eyebrow. "Why me?"
"Everyone loves bards."
"Everyone except marchionesses with unmarried daughters."
Tal grinned his concession, then knocked.
The butler who answered looked them over with a scrutiny that showed no trace of impropriety, yet managed to look disapproving all the same. When he was through with his examination, he escorted them upstairs to a study where they found the marchioness waiting.