Abruptly, the wagon rattled to a stop on the south edge of town before a cheery-looking inn whose shingle identified it as The Crashing Boar: A large, snorting boar smashed through a gate while a man snoozed peacefully on its back. Newly planted flower boxes graced the two windows, whose interiors were framed by ruffled white curtains.
"End of the line," called the farmer.
Delbridge thanked him and hopped off the wagon to look at the inn. Certainly it was as good a place as any to find out what was happening in Tantallon, and Delbridge needed a meal and a place to sleep. But while people would often give away information for free, room and board cost money.
This was also a good a place to test the abilities of the bracelet, he decided, which he must certainly do before investing money in a new ensemble. He reached into his shabby pouch and pulled out the bracelet. Cupping his hand, he forced the slim copper band over his fingers and onto his pudgy wrist. "Who was this made for, a pixie?" he snarled as it pinched his soft flesh. He needn't have worried about losing it, for he doubted that it would ever come off his wrist.
As he pulled the door open, he paused to examine an obviously new piece of parchment nailed to the door. It was an official announcement of some sort. Delbridge stepped close to read it in the fading light.
Royal Court
His Lordship Sir Curston will, on the third day of Yurthgreen, 344, hear and judge the grievances, pleas, and boon requests of his loyal subjects. All those wishing an audience with His Lordship must appear in the hours between sunup and the beginning of the evening watch.
"Quit blockin' the door, you great hog. Are you comin' or goin'?"
Delbridge blinked and stepped back. His sight fell on an angry, hawk-nosed fellow wearing a sparkling white apron: the barkeep, apparently.
"Huh? That is . . . Pardon me, I was just reading the door," Delbridge stammered.
The owner frowned. "Well, shut it. I'll not be heatin' the outdoors."
Delbridge remembered himself. "My apologies, good sir." He straightened his back and smoothed the bulging front of his velvet jacket, but the man had already returned to his work inside.
Delbridge waddled his way inside before the door closed fully. The room was cozy and warm with a haze of smoke in the air. Eight other patrons sat around several tables. Most appeared to be laborers or craftsmen, but two were obviously soldiers. A small fire burned in the hearth, just right for the warming season. All eight stopped their conversation to see who had rushed in.
The barkeep had barely stepped behind the bar when he looked up and saw the man he had just spoken to in the doorway already standing at the rail. He glanced back toward the door, then squinted at Delbridge. "What do you want, stranger?"
"Nothing, I'm sure," replied Delbridge, trying to look surprised. "I only wanted to discuss a simple business arrangement with you."
"I don't give out no free rooms." Having settled the matter, the barkeep turned back to his work behind the bar.
A hand flew to Delbridge's breast. "Heavens, I never expect anything for free! Did I say free? I don't believe so.
"No, what I propose is a legitimate business transaction. I get something, you get something. As you so insightfully guessed, all I want is supper and a room for the night. But you . . . you get my services for the evening."
The barkeep snorted. "And what is it you do? Wait, let me guess. Sing? Dance? Tell stories? And for that, I get to feed and house someone who eats like a pig and snores like a siege engine."
He blew his hawk nose into the hem of his white apron. "Sorry, stranger, we don't need any entertaining. Why don't you try the Stumbling Goose Inn, down the street."
Several of the other guests laughed out loud at the bar-keep's insults, but Delbridge was unperturbed. Instead of bristling, he drew himself up as tall as possible.
"I am no common entertainer. I am an oracle. The future is mine to see and predict."
A chorus of snickers and guffaws rattled the room. The barkeep leaned in close and said, "I can predict your future, stranger. I predict that if you don't haul your shifty, fat carcass out of here yourself, it's going to get tossed out." The volume of laughter rose, and Delbridge noticed for the first time that it had a distinctly unpleasant edge.
Bracelet or no bracelet, Delbridge knew it was time to plunge in and either sink or swim. In the past this sort of life-and-death pressure had always sharpened his wits wonderfully. He closed his eyes and placed one hand against his forehead while gripping the counter with the other. His mind raced ahead, searching for some sort of vague prediction that he could make and then verify moments later.
He was lucky that he had one hand on the counter, otherwise he would have fallen when the stream of images burst into his mind. As it was, he reeled sideways and prevented a fall only by clutching the bar reflexively.
In his mind Delbridge saw one of the other patrons, a balding, middle-aged gent with arthritic hands, gulping an enormous mouthful of baked trout. Instantly he began choking and gasping for breath. His eyes bulged out, his hands circled his own throat, and his tongue swelled obscenely until, within moments, he fell from his bench to the floor. There he kicked and squirmed several moments more before lying still.
A stumble was not what Delbridge's hecklers expected. They watched with genuine curiosity now, wondering what this apparent con artist would try next. When he stood and wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, he saw them staring, half amused, half bewildered.
If this was the work of the bracelet, thought Delbridge, the tinker from whom he had stolen it was prone to
