Gaesil's eyebrows arched in surprise. He vaguely remembered seeing a sign attached to the outside of the tent that read "Amateur Night at the Trough. First prize, free dinner. Come one, come all." Gaesil decided the evening might prove diverting, after all. "All right, what are you serving?"
Not meeting Gaesil's eyes, the unpleasant young man jerked his head impatiently toward the door of the tent. "Menu's up there."
Squinting across the considerable distance in the dim light, Gaesil saw a small, ill-lettered sign propped on the bar that read, "Two eggs—one copper; Bread—one copper; Ale—three copper. Tonight's special: eggs, bread, and ale—five copper."
"Uh, I'll have the special," Gaesil said with a gulp.
The young man left, yanked a filled mug from the bar, and waddled back to slap it down on Gaesil's table, splashing out a foamy shower. "Food'll be up eventually," he said, slogging off to wait on another patron.
Even the rude waiter could not spoil Gaesil's good humor. Taking a pull on his ale, he winced; it was, without a doubt, the worst ale he had ever had, tasting more like ditch water mixed with vinegar. Still, it made his head buzz after just a few sips, which was something to recommend it. In fact, the more the ale tugged at his senses, the better it tasted. Even the tent began to look, if not cheerful, at least less swamplike.
By the time the surly young waiter brought Gaesil's eggs, their broken yolks swimming in watery, uncooked whites, the tinker was ready for another mug. He ordered two at once, to minimize his interaction with the waiter.
"When does the entertainment start?" Gaesil asked.
"I don't care." The youth marched back to the bar.
Gaesil looked at his plate. A crust of moldy brown bread floated in the eggs. He snapped off the fuzzy part and used the good portions to mop up the egg whites. Popping a bite into his mouth, he swallowed after minimal chewing so as not to taste it for too long. Fortunately, he had an iron constitution and was accustomed to lousy cooking. The culinary arts were not Hepsiba's strong suit, as if she had one. Gaesil snorted, and ale foam stung his nostrils. He hadn't imbibed at any sort of drinking establishment since shortly after his marriage. Hepsiba definitely would not approve, if she could see him now. That thought, and the ale, made him feel very good.
While he was reflecting on his situation, a short, obese man wearing a fancy green velvet coat with gold piping and buttons stretched to bursting climbed up on several bales of hay near the bar. His pug nose looked right in place on his jowly face and reflected as much light as his hairless scalp. He tugged constantly on the facing edges of his coat, belying an otherwise haughty pose.
With no introduction, the man launched into a story. He got very little attention from the crowd—not because it was difficult to hear in the noisy tent, though it was, but because the story seemed to make no sense.
"I was talking with the pig," he concluded with an expectant look, botching the punch line of the centuries-old joke. The noise level rose to a crescendo as boos, whistles, and hoots chased the fellow from his makeshift stage.
The unfortunate bard held his head high as he walked back to his table, just one over from Gaesil's, his thinning pate ducking the chunks of moldy bread that whistled past him. "A bunch of ruffians and malcontents," Sir Delbridge muttered, rings flashing on nearly all of his pudgy fingers as he scraped his belongings from the table and into his pack. The jeers turned to whistles as a comely young woman in a tight gingham dress took her turn and began singing an off-key and off-color tune.
"Buy you a drink, sir?" Gaesil called to him over the noise. "You look like you could use one."
Delbridge Fidington made it a policy never to turn away anything free. "Thank you, good sir," he said with a nod. He eased his sizable form into the chair nearest the tinker. "I am feeling a bit parched. Performing drains one so."
"Was this your first time on stage?" Gaesil asked, struggling to chew a bit of the stale, moldy bread. He hadn't thought the bard's act as bad as the rest of the crowd, but then bards weren't his area of expertise.
Delbridge looked insulted. "Good heavens, no. Surely you've heard of Sir Delbridge Fidington? I received my title from Queen Wilhelmina of Tarryn herself, for service faithfully rendered as court bard."
"Uh," Gaesil gulped, "I don't leave Abanasinia much, and seldom hear bards. I don't believe I've ever heard of Tarryn, let alone Queen Wilhelmina."
"It's a small but vital kingdom in, uh, the eastern Plains of Dust." Delbridge dismissed the point with a wave of his hand, which also brought the waiter over.
"My new friend here has insisted upon buying me refreshment," Delbridge said happily to the same fleshy youth who had waited on Gaesil. "A cup of your best mulled wine, my good man." To save himself work, the waiter had taken to carrying filled mugs; he dropped one before the bard.
Delbridge peered with disdain over the rim of the mug. "But this looks like—"
"—ale. It is." With that, the youth left.
Gaesil smirked ruefully. "I'm afraid it's all they have. It's not so bad after the first couple of sips."
Delbridge looked skeptical, took a sip, and nearly choked. "Say, you're right," he said after a moment, downing another gulp. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, nursing their drinks.
"So why aren't you still court bard for Wilhelmina?"
"Who?" Delbridge was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. "Oh, her. I grew weary of telling the same old tales. Bards need to hit the road, I mean, experience the common life every so often to refresh their repertoire." He glanced around
