“It’s a common song, nobody owns it or wrote it,” the bard said.

“But where did you learn it?” the Comtessa pressed.

“From my master, as he learned it from his master, and back in time, master to master.”

“I thought it was special in some way,” the Comtessa said. She slumped back and tears started in her eyes again. She pulled her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“She doesn’t remember where she comes from. She thought that song would bring back more memories,” Hope said to the bard.

“Ah,” he said. He mused over his lute. “I’m sorry, but this is a common song, you could have heard it anywhere in these lands.”

“I must have sung it with my sister. I remember a woman playing the harp. And we would dance as well, oh happy days.” The Comtessa was lost again in her thoughts.

The bard plucked the strings of his lute, waiting for a song to come to him. His fingers swept an idle melody, then catching the start of a jig, they played a merry melody. The strings’ bright tones and the elegant singing resonance of the lute’s body merged into a skipping rhythm that made them all nod their heads or tap their feet.

The Comtessa rose slowly, her hands swayed to the tune. The melody caught her and she was dancing. Her feet stamped into the ground, her dress rose and whirled as she span. The bard played harder, his knuckles rapped the lute in a beat that supported the melody and twinned with the sound of the Comtessa’s dancing boots.

Baram and Brunhilde clapped along, the twins tapped their feet and even Hope found herself nodding her head along to the song.

When it finished the Comtessa was flushed and sweaty, with a smile on her face. “I know this dance, I- I can’t remember anything else, but I know I’ve danced this,” the Comtessa said.

“You danced it so well my hands could scarce keep pace,” the bard said.

“Where do they dance this?”

“I am sorry to say this is another common tune danced all over these lands. I fear that any tune I could play is the same. Wherever I roam amongst the cities, they all know these tunes.”

“Let me come with you!” the Comtessa said. She was alive after the dance

“I will play here for some time, before I make my way back to the coast, but I really-” the bard started.

“Let me come with you! I can sing, you can keep the money, but oh let me live these happy days. I want to feel more songs move me,” the Comtessa pleaded. She fell to her knees and grabbed his arm.

He was shocked and speechless. He clasped his lute and mouthed words.

“Let her sing with you for a while,” Brunhilde said. “She can help you sing some duets.” She was smiling as wide as the Comtessa.

“Yes, yes, just a few more songs, let me hear some more,” the Comtessa said. She stroked the bard’s arm like a lover persuading their paramour to favour them with some affection. Her dull and damp attitude was being kindled by the fire of the music and dance. Colour still flushed her cheeks.

“Take her with you!” Brunhilde roared. She clapped her hands.

“Well, there are duets I don’t get to sing as often as I would like. You really want to come and sing with me?” he said. He looked at the Comtessa. He had seen many noble folk with similar looks in their eyes; bored courtiers who thought that the life of the bard offered adventure and romance. Which it surely did, along with night-time terrors of the road and the prickly navigation of peasant suspicions and noble egos.

“Of course, you can keep all the coin. Just let me hear more.” The Comtessa pleaded.

“Let me play for some other pilgrims, and I’ll come back,” the bard said. He stood and bowed, but before he could make his exit the Comtessa had already grabbed her possessions. She followed him as he tried to explain something to her. Then they were lost amongst the camp.

“She won’t come back,” Hope said.

“May she find her memories,” Brunhilde said.

“Look at that. The Comtessa has an empty head like a blank tombstone, but she found something to lighten her dreary mood.” Hope scolded the remaining pilgrims. Baram looked at the floor sadly, the twins stared back indignantly, and Zorzio quietly accepted the verbal blows.

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“Leave them to their pilgrimage. It’s their choice,” Brunhilde said. She stood to look for the Comtessa and the bard. She had a huge smile on her face still. “Ah, what a quest. To remember yourself. May she create stories that spit in the face of Old Man Moon.” She lifted her wineskin, but only a few drops trickled from it. “Come on, I need to drink to her future, let’s find something more to drink.”

Brunhilde forced the remaining pilgrims to stand and come with her. The camp was so large there must be a drinking place here.

They passed more surprises as they searched. Two men wrestled as others made bets around them. Brunhilde paused and considered waiting for a bout, but Hope pushed her onward. Next, they saw a merchant auctioning ponies for the journey on to the Sponsor. Then a solitary monk meditating in his robes. A light flitted about his head, a familiar or manifestation of his powers. Two drunkards lay arm in arm, spraying each other with complements sincere and addled. The camp bustled like a great city, but a city with no streets, and no buildings.

“How can so many people stay here?” Brunhilde said.

“There are a lot of cowards in the world. They get stuck here, no heart to go forward and no brain to go back,” Hope said. She stared disapprovingly at the pilgrims.

They came to an enormous tent filled with scents of food. A mess tent with long tables and benches lashed together from abandoned luggage or dismembered carts. Brunhilde ushered them to a fallen log serving as a bench by a table.

The far end of the tent was dominated by an unruly mass of pilgrims. They crowded round a long serving table, berating the servers and clamouring for food and drink. Brunhilde made her way to it, and Baram followed, intrigued by the smell of cooked meats.

“This is bloody chaos,” Baram said.

Brunhilde elbowed through the pilgrims, a roar of complaint arose and then died down as she cuffed the louder complainers round the head.

“Ale, and a joint of hog,” Brunhilde said. The harried boy behind the counter took her coin and shouted out to the makeshift kitchen behind him. All the cookers and servers were youngsters, she could see no adult or elder in charge.

A girl took a knife and hacked hurriedly at a cooked hog. Baram winced at her clumsy attempt. “By my bloody fingers, no, no,” he cried out. He pushed passed the serving table. One of the boys tried to stop him, but a hungry pilgrim grabbed the lad by his sleeve to demand attention, and Baram slipped by.

“That’s not how you cut a leg off,” Baram said. He grabbed the knife from the girl and lay it down, then he pulled a more suitable blade from his collection. “Like this see?” He grabbed the leg and with a quick and smooth slice took it off. He demonstrated again, and then let the girl try. With a few practises she caught on and Baram left her to it. Satisfied with this he turned his attention to the mass of pilgrims.

“Get back, get back. Oi, you!” Baram shouted. He pushed against them, fighting to get them into a reasonable line. Brunhilde pitched in, pushing pilgrims away with one hand whilst she ate her joint of meat with the other.

There were complaints, but after the two patrolled the line and pulled back those trying to skip, they eventually settled down.

“It was like this every morning back home. Sometimes I had to pull grandmothers apart so they didn’t brain each other over the first choice of cuts,” Baram said.

“You have a way of leadership,” Brunhilde said.

“Nah, I just like to be organised,” he said. He rubbed his face with his hands. The youths were still hurrying to serve, but without the shouting crowd they looked much happier. Baram headed back into the kitchen to show them some more of his skills. Brunhilde left him and returned to the others.

“Is there no food for us?” Liara asked.

“Go and join the line,” Brunhilde said. “I’m a bodyguard, not a serving girl.” She pointed to the line of pilgrims.

“I don’t mind queueing up on your behalf, hnmp,” Zorzio offered in a voice that implied he would very much mind.

Liara and Nevio rose to fetch food, without looking at him.

“I try to help people, but rarely do they accept my generosity, hnmp,” Zorzio said. He dragged his case to the end of the line behind Liara and Nevio and perched on it.

“Do you want some?” Brunhilde said, holding out the joint.

Hope looked at the flame-seared meat. She wanted full course meals, with desert, served in delicate bowls that refracted the sunlight. And after a dance, with other young nobles intent on politicking and plotting on the dance floor. “No,” she said to the proffered dish.

When the pilgrims returned Baram was with them. They brought back a tray heavy with stews and cooked fish. He thudded the feast down on the table and eagerly tucked in.

“I sorted ‘em out. They have no master, what chaos,” he said through mouthfuls of fish.

“Stay and help them,” Brunhilde said. She ripped the last piece of flesh from her joint and licked her lips.

Baram looked unsure. “I thought my fate was to see the Sponsor. I gave up on everything back home…” He chewed on his meal, deep in thought.

“Why are they out here?” Liara said.

“They’re orphans. Of the Sponsor I suppose you could say. Their parents and guardians went to see the Sponsor. And they were left here,” Baram said. He rapped his fingers on the table. “They do need a lot of help.”

“Go and ask them if they need more help from you,” Brunhilde said. She slammed the bone down onto the table.

“Maybe. Maybe they do need a bit more help,” he said.

After their meal he went back to the kitchen. Brunhilde watched with anticipation from her seat. He talked for a bit; some stopped their work to look at him. He looked awkward and shy under their gaze, he was fumbling for words. But when he finished the youths look at each other in shock, then when they saw his sincerity, they clapped and cheered. Some hugged him. He looked even more awkward, but happy now.

“Another pilgrim saved from their own doom,” Brunhilde said. “I think we’ve been an inspirational influence on them.” She pried a long splinter of wood from the table and picked her teeth with it.

Hope looked at Zorzio, sitting on his case and clutching his bowl of stew. “Maybe we can inspire another pilgrim to find renewed pleasure in life,” she said.