The problem with rescuing ladies locked in towers is they don’t tell you when they’re married. So you climb, hand over hand, up five stories of golden hair lugging a rope ladder and a pair of scissors. And you explain about your friend who makes magical wigs, and how you can split the profits, and what coin is, and yes, that should be enough to start a new life.

And they’re grateful–very grateful–grateful enough to drag you straight to their bed, and things go well from there. Until you wake up to a jealous warlock. And there’s shouting and threats. And that’s how you end up naked in some dungeon inside a cage of what you hope aren’t human bones.

It could have been worse. At least I’d held onto my lute. My fingers instinctively wrapped around the worn wood neck, grounding me in the one constant in my drifting life.

I’d be happier if I also had pants.

This was what I got for playing with the Bard’s First Rule: Sing of Heroes. Do not become one.

I sighed.

On the other side of the cage sat two other unfortunates, a dwarf woman and a human man. Unlike me, they’d kept their clothing. The dwarf wore leather armor gloves. Her blond hair was short, spiked and damp, dripping over her face. The human had the broad shoulders and barrel chest of someone built for full plate, which he wore with ease, looming over the seated dwarf as he stood. Both pretended not to look at me. Neither were good at it.

“Welladay,” I said cheerfully in Common. “I’m Les. The rest of it is a mouthful, but Les is good enough.” I smiled. Always best to start with a smile.

The dwarf woman didn’t agree. She glared, a well-worn expression on her considering the furrowed grooves between her thick, sandy brows. “What happened to your clothes?” she asked, breathing out a cloud of frost as she spoke.

“Don’t be rude, Eira,” the human cut in. He had to be a paladin, as regular fighters rarely had such shiny armor. Not to mention the pendant. It was gold, of course, with a glowing sigil in the center.

“The man’s naked,” Eira said. “Are we supposed to ignore that?”

“Perhaps that is the way of his people,” the paladin gave me a tentative smile back, a flash of white against his dark brown skin. “I am Zareb Ironheart, sworn to Khemri, the Goddess of Sun and Rebirth.”

There were over 30 Light aligned deities. I’d never heard of Khemri, but you never admitted that to a paladin. They’d either take insult, or worse, they’d try to convert you. Considering my life choices, I did my best to avoid catching the attention of gods. “Sounds mighty,” I said, vaguely. “I am glad to have you at my back.

Zareb’s gaze swept over the all of me before fixing on my face. “Do not mind Eira. She is still upset we tripped the spell trap.”

“I don’t care if he minds me or not. I’m allowed to ask questions,” Eira said. “And the man’s not hideous. A bit skinny, but well-formed arms. For a human.”

“Thanks. I think.” I gave Eira a wink. She did not look impressed. I doubted much impressed her. My gaze shifted from my new companions to the area where we were being held. At least there weren’t any bones inside the cage. It was clean, as cages went, with a two-inch layer of straw covering the stone, or maybe granite, floor. The straw itched, but at least it was warm and dry.

“I didn’t know the villagers hired another campaigners. What happened to your party?” Eira asked.

“Just me. It’s a long story. You wouldn’t happen to know if we’re still in Rhûn?”

“Of course,” Zareb said. He wasn’t from my home kingdom of Aurelian, not by the accent, but he had a precise way of speaking that felt noble. Like my father. And brother. And sister. And me when I got angry. Luckily, that didn’t happen often.

“Good.” I let out a breath of relief. Hopefully the warlock hadn’t zapped me too far from my horse. “Any thoughts on how to get out of here?”

“Not yet. Can’t do magic in this cage. The bones eat it,” Eira said, gesturing with her chin at the cage.

I looked through the gaps between the bones–those were definitely person-sized rib-bones and best not to think about it–to the rest of the room. Or cavern. It wasn’t a cave exactly. For one thing, the walls were made of sand-colored blocks that fit together a bit too well. Wizard work. More troubling was the giant cauldron bubbling over a crackling fire in the space between our snug bone cage and a giant archway. Steam drifted from the cauldron’s surface. From it wafted the smell of soup stock, and my stomach growled.

At the top of what looked like a giant stepladder sat a goblin woman. She had white threading through her thick navy hair, wore an ugly canvas gown over her plump–very plump for a goblin—body. The canvas did nothing to complement her dark green skin. In both hands, she held the shaft of a long, heavy ladle, stirring a large circle as she hummed to herself.

The cauldron was too tall for me to see inside, though as she lifted the giant ladle up to taste the broth, something that looked like potato or maybe half a carrot wobbled and toppled back inside with a splash.

“Excuse me, Miss,” I called out in Common.

She muttered something in Goblin, which after a few seconds of dredging through my memories of a particularly interesting few months I’d wintered with a goblin noblewoman in her pleasant underground estate, I was able to piece together, “No like food talk.”

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That sounded bad. Like things I’d really been trying hard not to think about. “Food?” I repeated with an appropriate trill of question.

The goblin woman’s head snapped up. “This food proper talk? Snikkle mistake hearing, surely?”

It was exactly as bad as I’d been not thinking. “No mistake,” I said, falling into the rhythm of the language.

I’ve always been good at other languages. Not so much reading and writing, but talking I can do. And I liked Goblin. The sentence structure was basic, as subtext and subtlety came through the supporting grunts, trills, teeth clicks, and the occasional stomp for emphasis. This made most non-goblins assume goblins were stupid, and many were. Especially those who had succumbed to cinnamon addiction, which, judging from the reddish-brown stains on Snikkle’s teeth and fingertips, she probably had.

“You fancy speaking? Where learn?” Snikkle wrinkled her large, bulbous nose. “Better than Snikkle, you think?”

“No!” I slapped my bare foot against the floor to emphasize my point. I couldn’t help that I’d learned most of the language underneath a goblin viscountess. And Fireheart Korma Nightshade (her whole name was longer with three stomps but she made allowances) had been an excellent teacher. The take charge type.

The take charge type.

Eira leaned over and whispered something to Zareb. Hopefully it was more, ‘interesting the naked bard speaks Goblin, maybe he’s helping’ and less ‘the goblin and naked bard are plotting something, skewer him now.’

But I had to get through to Snikkle before she started loading us into the stewpot. “Snikkle hard working!” I said with another foot slap. “Why Snikkle alone working?”

“No respect!” Snikkle shouted, waving her ladle. Soup broth flew in an arc, splattering the edge of the cauldron and the floor in front of it. “Snikkle work! Everyone eat! Snikkle only five snorts red spice end of day given. Five snorts!”

“Sad shame!” I sympathized. No matter the species, disgruntled workers were always the same. I’d done this enough, chatting with gate guards, scullery maids, and ash collectors on grand estates. Most just wanted appreciation. “Better Snikkle deserves!”

“Yes!” Snikkle swung the ladle in the other direction. “Eight snorts Snikkle owed. Good snort! Big breath. Sparkle joy spice!”

“But Snikkle too hard work. Snikkle too hard work, but no music for Snikkle joy. Shame!”

“Music?” she trilled. Her navy brows, threaded with white, lowered as she leaned closer, almost falling off the bench in her interest. “What music?”

I picked up my lute. Now came the tricky part. If I suggested she let me out of the cage play for her, even a cinnamon addled goblin would guess something was up. I would have to be subtle. But not too subtle. She was a cinnamon addicted goblin.

I lifted the lute onto my lap. To play easily, I had to cross my legs, which exposed my… endowments… more than I liked. But it was that or stand, which was worse. Taking a breath, I rested my fingers on the strings. Eira had been right. The cage bars were actively draining the magic inside. Instead of humming on the strings, Mischief, the spirit bound to my lute, now curled up in the talisman in the instrument’s belly to hide from the spell. Nothing I said or did would drag the spirit out now. Not that I would risk it, even if I needed Mischief’s help for this.

Luckily, while I would never be a great bard, I wasn’t a terrible one either. So, I started softly strumming a bawdy goblin tune turned I’d learned from Fireheart Nightshade’s kitchen servants.

Snikkle’s long ears twitched as caught the tune, and she leaned over the stewpot, straining to hear. “Louder!” she shouted, banging her ladle against the side of the cauldron.

I played a bit louder, and Snikkle laughed. “Ahhh, Ye Old Four-Eyed Goatherd, Three-Legged Stool, long time no hear!” she exclaimed. “Louder! Louder!”

Now for the subtle part. I made a show of using more force on the strings and then shook my head. “No louder make,” I shouted. “Sorry.”

“Snikkle want more hear!”

“Les want more play, but…” I waved a hand in front of me, showing the space between us. “Too far.”

“You out get!” Snikkle waved me towards her. “Now come!”

I smothered a grin. “How?” I asked, elongating the trill at the end to emphasize my powerlessness and desire to serve.

Snikkle let out a massive sigh and, resting the ladle against the side of the cauldron, scrambled down the stool. Like most goblins, she walked barefoot, her long toes gripping the stool’s legs to steady herself.

The scrape-tap of shifting plate armor let me know Zareb had moved. I dared not look at either of my two companions. Well, soon to be companions, if things went to plan. That was a big ‘if’ in my experience, but I wasn’t dead yet, so luck favored me, more or less.

Snickle hit the floor, toes splayed and arms out for balance, and walked to the cage, muttering to herself.

I held my breath as she reached into the pocket of her gown and pulled out what looked like a massive ring of keys. Large keys and small ones, different sizes and makes, and at least four of them the same shade of white as the bones of our cage.

“Meensy, Minesy, Teensy, Tinesy.” Snikkle’s voice rose in a sing-song intonation as she flipped through each key, painstakingly one at a time. I stopped holding my breath. Passing out wouldn’t help anyone. Finally, she flipped to the smallest key and, in Goblin, said, “Stupid door make open!”

And the bones between me and Snikkle warped, like putty pinched and pulled aside by giant fingers. As the gap in the cage widened, I stood, pulling the lute strap over my head. That would keep my hands free. Once I was out, I’d be able to use the spell in my lute to filch the keys, and then--.

THUMP! THUMP! The pounding shook the stone ground beneath our feet. The ladle, balanced on the cauldron’s edge, clattered off the bench and hit the ground.

“Snikkle!” a second voice boomed from the shadowed archway in the opposite wall, ten paces behind the stool. “Where dinner?”

Snikkle froze. A shiver swept over her body as she reached frantically into the pocket of her canvas shift. “Snikkle hard work, dinner make,” she shouted. “Nargle watch! Snikkle meat get! Look!”

Of course, that was when the paladin made his move. “By Khemri!” Zareb shouted as he thundered towards the opening, a rumbling, clattering form of armored fury.

Snikkle, in her panic, yanked the key away from the cage bones, and the opening started to close. I dove for it, sliding through on my side as the bones closed in like a vise. But lots of castles were little better than old forts with narrow windows and an abundance of spikes, and slipping in and out of them was a specialty of mine. I slithered on instinct, and my worst injury was a bruised heel as I yanked my foot through.

I stood up again, a bit wobbly, as a massive, mottled green hobgoblin stomped through the archway. His feet were the size of melons, the toes knobby with tufts of navy fur, clawed toenails sharpened into wicked points. He lifted a lumpy hand, pointed an even lumpier finger, at me, and bellowed a rapid-fire rant of Goblin curses, some I recognized. Snikkle turned back, face slick with snot and tears as she grabbed something from the pocket of her shift.

Desperate, I set my fingers to the lute strings in the loudest, brightest, and steppiest goblin reel I knew.