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9. The Thieves - A Horn and Bottle Joint

  As far as doors went, it was pretty standard - wooden slats with an open cutout at eye level - but he knew what lay beyond was often unpredictable. They were four days’ ride out of Buhlent, but it could be four hundred. Left behind were the chaos of the city streets and their fluid kaleidoscope of every race and culture the Eastern continent had to offer. This far inland, “civilization” consisted of a series of homogenous small towns of mostly humans, each with varying tolerance and perspective.

  They were wedged between the foothills of the Glimmerstone mountains and the Sshanderiusha River (locally referred to as the Shand). What is this town called again? Doesn’t matter. He knew the pub was still the best place to source information and funds. A familiar apprehension tickled the pit of his stomach. This far inland, the local reaction to his kind ran the spectrum from friendly curiosity to small-minded fear and hostility.

  He thought about his companion, a female halfling named Whydah, mildly resenting that she always fared better. I’m sure that has something to do with me. Her people were more numerous on the continent and closer in appearance, if not in stature, to humans. He concluded that when the company you keep is a nearly seven-foot-tall black house cat that walks on two legs and speaks, you’re easily dismissed as the lesser peculiarity.

  As his hand paused at the door, he looked at her, eyebrows raised, with a nod of questioning confirmation. She returned the nod, and he pressed inside, ducking below the door frame to avoid repeating a lesson he’d learned the hard way several times since he’d landed on the continent.

  Not a bad crowd for mid-week before sundown. His yellow eyes darted quickly, reading the room for some indication of the type of evening to expect. A low purr of pleasant surprise droned in his throat, seeing a blend of farmers and travelers of both sexes with a couple of dwarves and elves mixed in for good measure. The ubiquitous pause that accompanied his entry to any tavern was shorter than usual, with most everyone returning to their briefly interrupted conversation unconcerned. This was a good start.

  He took in their surroundings, formulating rapid conclusions that would shape the rest of the evening. The place itself prioritized function over form, with little in the way of decoration. Plain wooden tables and benches dotted the interior, while a basic bar counter occupied one end. The walls and ceiling were adorned with bundles of plants in various stages of desiccation, likely drying for cooking or medicinal purposes, or perhaps to blunt the general stank of pub that greeted his nostrils regardless.

  Glancing towards the other end of the room, he found what he was looking for – a small musician’s area currently filled with extra tables and supplies. A young woman in her mid-teens flitted among the crowd, bringing drinks and food to the patrons, and judging from the family resemblance, her father was behind the bar.

  As he approached, the man broke into a smile.

  “Welcome to Barrel’s Wash. I’m the proprietor, Egon Barrel - what’ll it be?”

  A glance behind the bar reminded him again of the limitations of their current geography. In Buhlent, he would have chosen a shot of Neverclear, particularly if the establishment had the catnip-infused variety, or perhaps one of the chic ‘cantails’ – cocktails imbued with minor magical cantrips that were currently all the rage. There would be none of that here. He could see immediately that The Barrel was only a horn-and-bottle sort of place, offering ale by the horn or local whiskey by the bottle. He observed nothing more complicated among the crowd.

  He looked to Whydah with raised eyebrows.

  “Ale?”

  She confirmed with another nod, and he held up two fingers to the bartender.

  Egon reached under the counter to retrieve two clean horns.

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  “Coming right up. I didn’t catch your name…”

  “This is Whydah, and I am Singing Bird, but you can just call me Bird.”

  The rolled ‘r’ in his name announced an accent different from that of the proprietor and not local.

  “Bird…but you’re a cat…” Egon said, his voice trailing off with a quizzical smile.

  “A tabby, yes, and believe me, I am painfully aware of the irony!”

  Egon chuckled. Unable to resist the opportunity for a dad joke, he shifted his gaze to Whydah.

  “Are you sure you’re old enough for ale, young lady?”

  Bird winced. Knowing his companion to be the no-nonsense halfling woman she was, he was certain Egon would be unhappy with the response to his attempt at humor. Whydah’s slightly declined head, single raised eyebrow, and icy side-eye didn’t disappoint.

  After awkwardly chuckling at his joke, Egon muttered something about being right back as he moved to the other end of the bar where a tapped keg lay on its side on a rear shelf.

  He returned, momentarily carrying both horn handles in one of his hands, grabbing a small towel from a stack beside the keg and dropping it in front of them before serving their drinks. Its purpose became immediately apparent as the ale sloshed out of the over-filled horns with a flourish as part of the presentation.

  “That’ll be 4 coppers, please.”

  Bird fished the coin purse out of his leathers and produced the coins. Running low. He tucked it back under his jerkin. We’ll fix that soon enough.

  Egon nodded in appreciation as Bird passed him the coins and asked

  “Will yous be wantin’ supper?” Interesting. He masks his local speech with outsiders to build rapport, but he slipped.

  “Not just now, perhaps in a bit,” came the reply, to which Egon nodded

  “Last orders for food at eight. Maeve has a lovely roast lamb tonight if you’re interested.”

  Anticipating the gap in conversation, Whydah spoke for the first time

  “Is that a stage down at the other end?” She turned her head and pointed over her left shoulder.

  “What? Oh, yes, indeed it is, though we don’t get many musicians here at The Barrel, as you can tell by the state of it. I don’t think we’ve had any performers since last harvest when Elmer’s lad and a couple of his friends got up and did their best on feast night.” The proprietor’s head tilted in recognition. “Why do you ask? Are you musicians?”

  “Well, I am,” Whydah replied, “He’s the voice”. Only a hint of judgment that time, she was getting better.

  “Ahh, well there you go, Mr. Bird, you get back a few points against the irony of your name as a singer!”

  “Not exactly,” Bird sighed. “It’s more of a spoken word storytelling act, set to her music.”

  Egon chuckled again.

  “So, your name is Singing Bird, but you’re a cat… who performs… but doesn’t sing. You are an ironic riddle indeed, sir!”

  “I thank my parents every day, Mr. Barrel,” Bird smiled sarcastically.

  “Were you two looking to perform tonight?”

  “If you’ll allow us – just busking for coins, of course.” Whydah forced an influencing and hopeful smile onto her lips, which Bird knew to be purely for show. She’s getting better at that, too!

  “I don’t see why not!” the barkeep chirped enthusiastically. “It’s been a while, and I’ll bet the crowd would love it…something different!” Egon lifted his chin and spoke loudly past them, “Gella, can you make room on the stage when you get a minute, please? We’re going to have live music tonight!”

  The girl turned immediately, attuned to her father’s voice through the din of the pub, and nodded before distributing steaming plates of lamb, potatoes, and gravy to a table of four.

  “Maybe we will have some lamb before going on, if that’s ok?”

  Now it was Whydah’s turn to raise her eyebrows to him in an unspoken question. Giving her the slightest nod of reassurance, Bird retrieved one of the two remaining coins he had been rubbing together under his leathers and placed it on the bar. He felt optimistic about the evening’s prospects in more ways than one.

  “Of course, Mr. Bird!” Again, Egon lifted his head shouting to his daughter across the pub, “Gella, two specials down here!”, his outstretched hand gesturing above their heads.

  Bird continued to watch him as the proprietor deftly turned his attention to two new customers approaching the bar, welcoming them in his universally optimistic tone. Entirely genuine. Over his shoulder, he heard Whydah.

  “How about there?” turning back to see her pointing to a small table against the wall, halfway down the bar.

  “Perfect”

  He got Egon’s attention and wordlessly signaled their new seating destination in the universal pointing language of pubgoers everywhere. Answered with a confirming nod from the proprietor, the pair picked up their packs and horns, threading their way through the modest crowd to the vacant seats.

  They were indeed perfect. With their backs against the wall a few feet from the door and seated across from each other, their perch allowed for subtle observation of everyone in The Barrel.

  Far enough from the next table that quiet conversation wouldn’t be overheard, and should they need to make a hasty exit, that wasn’t far either. As an added benefit, Whydah’s legs didn’t dangle as obviously from the small benches. This will do nicely.

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