by Sean Gibson
The Alderman was interrupted when a young girl stood up and said, “Excuse me, Mr. Alderman, sir?”
The Alderman raised an eyebrow in surprise. “The floor recognizes Betty Sue Etterkin. You may address the floor, Miss Etterkin.”
Seven-year-old Betty Sue Etterkin looked around with unsettling poise and more maturity than most in the room could have mustered. “Well, Mr. Alderman, sir…maybe we need a little marketing help.”
“Marketing?” replied Alderman Wooddunny, confused.
“Yes, marketing.”
“What do you mean ‘marketing’?”
“Something hip. Something catchy. Something sexy. We live in a boring village that—”
“Town! We live in a boring town!” someone shouted, which resulted in five minutes of yelling and grumbling before order was restored.
“Please continue, Miss Etterkin.”
“Thank you, Alderman. It’s just, who would want to come rescue a boring village that’s losing a bunch of boring vegetables, especially when the call for help we sent out is so dull?”
The Alderman, who had authored the call for help, frowned. “And just what would you propose?”
Betty Sue shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m seven years old, remember? Shouldn’t you all be coming up with ideas?” Everyone in the room looked at each other sheepishly, but no one said anything. “I’m just saying that we could probably sex things up a little.”
“Harlot!” shouted the Widow Gershon.
“Thank you, Widow,” said the Alderman.
“What if we, I don’t know, hired a bard to spread the word?” said Betty Sue.
“A bard?” said Goodman Youngman. “Won’t that cost money?”
Betty Sue shrugged again. “Like I said, I’m seven. Figure it out, grown-ups.”
Alderman Wooddunny rubbed his chin. “It’s not a bad idea. And if the bard is good enough…” His voice trailed off as he considered the girl’s suggestion.
When he still hadn’t spoken a moment later, the Widow Gershon kindly reminded him that they were still waiting by shouting, “Finish your thought, virgin!”
“I was just thinking,” replied the Alderman, refusing to rise to the Widow’s bait, “that if the bard is, ah, persuasive enough, perhaps he, or she, can emphasize the dragon’s considerable hoard of treasure, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to suggest that our messenger lie, per se, a judicious embellishment of the truth might suggest that the dragon’s gold and jewels might be sufficient enough reward.”
“Well, then, get a song whore in here and be done with it!” shouted the Widow Gershon.
“It does sound good in theory, certainly,” replied the Alderman, “but that leaves us needing to find a bard…I don’t suppose anyone here knows one?” he asked, his tone somehow both hopeful and doubtful.
“I was in Borden just last night,” offered a slouching, middle-aged man who smelled faintly of stale ale and had a stocky frame now gone to seed, his paunch jutting just over the lip of his belt. (In other words, a representation of my core audience straight out of central casting.) “At the tavern there, Big Bob’s, was an elf girl…had a real pretty voice. Funny, too, but bawdier maybe than the Widow Gershon might like.” He nodded in the Widow’s direction.
“Elven song whore!” yelled the Widow Gershon.
“Had a real nice can, too, if it’s not improper to say,” continued the man.
“It actually is,” replied the Alderman. “Exceedingly improper, in fact.”
The slouchy man nodded. “Well, all the same, her can was just the sweetest.”
“Mebbe we brang the wee lass wi’ the swee’ can aboot so might she sing the fowel beastie inta slumbrin’ times, what say?” said Farmer Benton.
“I’m not sure we’re focusing entirely on her best and most relevant credentials,” said Alderman Wooddunny, “but it seems as though she may be about as good of an option as we can hope for. And, at least she’s nearby.” He raised his hands and then dropped them, a gesture that could have been an expression of either exasperation or an involuntary twitch. “You say she was in Borden last night, Goodman Drunkman…do you know where she was headed afterward?”
The man shrugged. “Not sure, Alderman, but can’t imagine she’s gone far. Maybe I could go back round to Big Bob’s and feel her up to see if she’s interested, if she’s still there.”
“Feel her out, you mean. Not up,” replied the Alderman.
“Right. Feel her out.”
“Well, ah, I would suggest that you go as quickly as possible. Goodman Youngman—please go with him. I empower you both to offer her the sum of up to ten gold pieces from the town’s coffers.”
“We’ll leave right now, Alderman,” replied Goodman Drunkman, sipping from a flask he had produced from somewhere beneath his gut.
“One last thing,” Alderman Wooddunny said as the men moved toward the door, “what did you say this bard’s name was?”
“Heloise.”
And that’s when the real hero entered the story.
Chapter 9
THE MODEST BARD ENTERS AND HUMBLY OFFERS HER SERVICES
And so did Goodman Youngman and Goodman Drunkman, Skendrick’s capable and clever emissaries, depart for the town of Borden to seek out the bard known variously as Heloise the Beautiful, Heloise the Tuneful, and Heloise of the Sweet Can. They found her there, in the common room of the inn where Goodman Drunkman had seen her the evening before, strumming her lute and bringing it into perfect tune.
They made their impassioned entreaty, describing the horror-filled shrieks and rivers of blood that ran through the streets of Skendrick as the mighty and fearsome Dragonia ravaged their land, and the brave resolve of the townspeople in the face of such pain and suffering. They told her of the town’s desperate plea for help and the heroic attempts made by some of Erithea’s most legendary adventuring groups to render their aid, only to be detained or delayed by other, even more epic quests. And they begged her to lend the vastness of her storytelling powers in the service of the town, to save its people from certain extinction should the dragon be permitted to continue its ravages unchecked.
The humble and self-effacing bard nodded as the townsmen spoke, expressing her sincere sympathy for their plight, and she rose boldly to her feet as they finished their tale, exclaiming passionately and for all in the crowded inn to hear that she would not only aid the good people of Skendrick in finding their champions, but would hear no talk of reward or payment for her services—the people needed her, and so she would risk life and limb to find the heroes the town so desperately sought in its hour of need simply because it was the right thing to do.
Goodman Drunkman fell to his knees and wrapped his arms around the great bard’s legs, sobbing his thanks, as Goodman Youngman, overcome with gratitude and emotion, sank into the closest chair just before he fainted.
Heloise the Bard calmed and soothed the men and raised their spirits high, making them feel as they had not felt since before the terrible dragon’s wrath had been unleashed upon Skendrick. She brought them both back to their feet and bid them follow her, leading them out of the inn on a mission to find their saviors.
She knew she would not fail, for she could not—lives hung in the balance, an entire town depended on her, and so the noble bard with perhaps the world’s silkiest hair would rise to the occasion.
Chapter 10
IN REALITY, THE PEERLESS BARD RESPONDS INDIFFERENTLY TO AN ABSURD LOWBALL PROPOSAL
If this were a performance and I were describing Borden, I’d probably call it tranquil and idyllic, but those are really just polite ways of saying boring and filled with lazy people, and since I don’t need to be polite here, I’ll say this: Borden is a boring place full of lazy, and frequently chauvinistic, people. On the plus side, lazy chauvinists do love to drink, and so the few taverns there tend to do a rousing business, though where the patrons get the money they spend every night on drink and what is, in all honesty, a pretty homely bunch of hookers
is beyond me. I assume that something illicit is involved, but have never been inclined to do any sort of actual investigating.
Suffice it to say, Borden’s not exactly a star-making destination for bards on the rise, but it does consistently offer gigs with solid pay, so if I’m in the region, I make it a point to stop over for a night or two. Around the time the people of Skendrick were so desperately seeking assistance with their little dragon problem, I was in the middle of a two-night stint at Big Bob’s, the nicest tavern in Borden, which is a little bit like saying it’s the least drunk sailor in a dockside bar. Still, the disappointingly regular-sized Robert, the proprietor and namesake of the establishment, didn’t ogle me, paid performers well, and at least had a decent selection of ales, so it was my preferred stop when I was in Borden.
After an epic performance the night before that had featured a packed house pitching in on a rousing singalong of “Back to Borden” as well as four black eyes (all of which were gifts from me to a cheeky Arachnidian who decided that all eight of his legs would be best served attempting to touch various parts of my person…I should note that the spider-like Arachnidians also have eight eyes, so I was kind enough to leave half of them uninjured), I was enjoying some downtime in the taproom with a cold ale as I thought through which songs I would perform for my second show later that evening. There were maybe three or four other patrons scattered across the room lazily sipping drinks, half-asleep in that late afternoon hour at which the body is naturally inclined to want to doze—though, to be fair, I think that description applies to every hour of the day in Borden.
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.”
“You’re mistaken, lad,” said Drunkman, an edge in his voice. “It was five.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it was ten,” replied Goodman Youngman, pulling a small purse from his belt. “See here?” He dumped the contents onto the table, drawing the attention of the few other patrons in the room. “One, two, three, four, five,” he counted, methodically picking up each coin and putting it back into the pouch, “six, seven, eight, nine, ten!” He plopped the bag in front of me, a look of triumph on his face. “I knew it was ten—I wouldn’t forget a thing like that! My mother says I have a head for sums.” He smiled sheepishly.
To his credit, Drunkman, though clearly dismayed at the opportunity to potentially pocket five gold, rolled with it. “I guess I misremembered. Yes, it looks like we’ve been authorized to offer you ten gold pieces to help us.”
I looked at the purse, but didn’t reach for it—yet. “And how much of a reward are you offering adventurers to slay the dragon?”
Goodmen Drunkman and Youngman looked at each other awkwardly. “Well, about that,” began Drunkman slowly, “we were sort of hoping you could play up the size of the dragon’s hoard and convince people that it’s so huge that it would seem like a big draw just by itself…”
“Not offering anything, are you?”
“We don’t have much to spare, given that the dragon keeps destroying our crops,” said Youngman.