“An armored jester takes the stage,

Unseen amidst the revelry,

Beware ye revelers, fear the branch,

That stretches from the murd’rous tree.”

— The Ballad of Sir Joe, by “Golden-Voiced” Garbeaux.

My tour of the city was high-stress, but fun. Many of the bards who were a year or so ahead or behind me at the College were here, dozens, in fact, to the man (or woman) playing their instruments on street corners for coppers. Such an experience might lead a lesser man to question his life choices but, for me, it merely confirmed that adventuring was preferable to playing an instrument for a living. True, I did still yearn to hold my lute once more. A few lutes I’d own, actually. All smashed by a dead sinner hailed his whole life as a saint.

I’d filled my belly with samples galore, all manner of breads, some wrapped about bits of meat and cheese, enough to cause me an unfamiliar pain in my belly, when I saw it! There was a shop, just for Bards, the “Sonique Boutique”. I whispered the name, in awe of the instruments I saw; woodwinds, brass, strings and a bizarre combination of organ and lute labelled … the “Hurdy Gurdy!”

Remaining as aloof as possible I entered the shop. The arrayed wonders assaulted my senses! A performer’s formal concert wear section! There was a wall of enchanted instruments, each of which had a unique magical effect, some not associated with any known spell! Books of printed sheet music and on and on until I found myself looking down on the window display.

Up-close it was hard to believe that the thing was mundane. I turned a crank at the base and a heavy weight inside began to spin. A long line of buttons, twenty, perhaps more, in a line, demanded to be pressed! I did so and heard a G note! “How!?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone behind me spoke, “The metal weight inside pushes against the strings there like a violin’s bow.” Spinning about it was an old man, human but clearly of elven blood. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to scare you. Admiring the Hurdy Gurdy, are ya? Yup, she’s a beaut’. A marvel of engineering. Hence the price.”

Scanning about I saw it; “A h-hundred? That’s in gold? That’s more than a magic sword!”

“That’s right. ‘Course they cost a lot more when enchanted. Just the enchantment that spins the weight for ya doubles the cost.” The old man nodded, “You’re a wanderer, aren’t ya?” he asked.

“I am. I am the Bard of Sir Joseph Mulfinger!” I replied, assuming a noble posture and hoping deep inside for a discount.

“Ah, so, Nobility, eh? Shouldn’t be much to you then to come up with a hundred gold, right? A couple adventures with a Gold-Class adventurer like Lord Mulfinger, why, your cut should cover it.”

“Yes!” I grunted through gritted teeth, “I should probably get on with it then. There is adventure afoot!” I turned and left, quite defeated.

—

We lost more time than I wanted in the city, having not chosen a time and place to meet back up, but when lunchtime came and the food samples replenished around the square the three of us met up anyway. “Aimee!”, I shouted, “over here!”.

“Garbeaux! Good. We were all so excited, I didn’t even think about what to do after I sold that earring. Here,” and she pressed three gold coins into my hands.

My heart skipped a beat, “I … what’s this for?” I was utterly stunned. This was more money than I’d seen since leaving the Bard’s College.

“It’s, like, your share of the earring sale, silly. Are you okay?” she asked, “I thought you’d be happy.”

But I was both in shock at the sum’s great size and how miniscule it was. More than I’d had, so much less than I wanted, because I wanted an instrument over three-hundred times its value, “Yes, of course!” I affected joy, “it’s just shock. It’s been so long since we were paid.”

“I know, right!?” she exclaimed, and then a grinding, rumbling sound overtook us.

Casting about, along with hundreds of other people (again, it’s a festival), Aimee and I were confused until we saw the crowd part and a barrel nearly as tall as a man was seen to roll into the square. “Move aside! Damn you all, can’t you see how heavy this is!?” it was McGrue.

“McGrue!” Aimee ran up to the half-orc, “What is this?” We approached, seeing the man up close, he was pouring sweat and gasping for air. She grabbed his hand, pressing coins into it.

“What? Oh! Gold. Yes, thank you,” said McGrue.

Giggling, Aimee hugged him before booping his nose, “I told you you’d thank me.”

“Son of a … don’t make fun! This … okay, so, I sold those dresses for five gold, right?”

“Five gold for destroyed ladies’ dresses?” I asked, astonished.

“Yeah, well, they were silk. The cordier just started shredding the silk into strips. He twisted a length, gave the strips a good pull and it was good enough, and said ‘here you go.’” He leaned forward, hands on his knees.

“Oh, wow, that’s … wow. Kind of hard to split five gold. Think you could’ve gotten six?” asked Aimee.

“Eh, well, about that. Obviously, I didn’t get this keg from nowhere. Whew, parched from all the sweating. One sec…” unsteadily McGrue drew out a mug from his pack, filling it from a spigot on the barrel. A tart, acrid scent filled the air and he took a big pull. “Ah, that’s better than it should be.”

I was curious but also suspicious, “So you’re saying you spent the money from the dresses on, what, beer?”

“No, it’s not beer, Gabbo. Give me some credit. It’s pickling solution. Though there is alcohol in it. For flavor!”

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Aimee lit up, “let me see,” and she grabbed the mug, taking a sip. “Not bad. But … not a beverage.”

Shrugging, McGrue said, “Not technically, no.”

“Is there Elven wine in this?” asked Aimee, smacking her lips before taking a bigger shot of the stuff.

“Among other things. This is the barrel he was dumping the juice from pickle jars into when he’d sell single pickles at his stand. Waste juice.” said McGrue with a smile.

A horking sound escaped Aimee and she looked at him, wide-eyed, “By the gods what did you just get me to drink?”

“Calm down! It’s not like the stuff is backwash. It’s salt, various liquor and every spice ever used to flavor a pickle. We need to get enough out of the barrel so we can store, y’know … Joe. Best way I can think to do it is by drinking!

Aimee stifled her nausea, took a deep breath, in and out, then smelled the pickle juice. “It’s not bad. Plus it gets you drunk!”

“It does!” exclaimed McGrue.

“Okay, I’m sold. How much?” asked a random passerby.

“Oh, it’s not–three coppers!” exclaimed McGrue, eyes as big as freshly-minted coins. “Uh, but you have to use your own cup. Yup.”

“Whatever,” and he held out the wooden cup already in his hand, stained red by the wine the passerby had drunk. McGrue eagerly filled it.

It was a frenzy. The typical cost of a drink in your average nowhere tavern, when demand was low was three coppers, but in a festival like Grainfest, McGrue was underselling all the competition. For two hours they did nothing but drain the barrel, until “Shit, we’re out! This is the only extra barrel the man had. Maybe I can get the pickle man to sell me something without the herbs and flavoring. Uh, but, wait, we should get it on the carriage while it’s empty! I can’t believe how heavy it was full.”

“Sure,” I said, “that makes sense. We need to check on Joe anyway.”

“Okay! Gangway! We’re fresh out! Thank you for your patronage! Get the fuck out the way!” shouted McGrue, intimidating the now-drunk crowd. McGrue and Aimee, too, were partaking and wobbly.

I had less, and so led the way, “Follow me! I remember the way back to the stable. McGrue rolled his barrel easily but had to lean on it to walk, Aimee clinging to his hips and giggling all the way.

“Am I drunk or did my pack get a lot heavier?” asked McGrue, groaning.

“It’s all the coppers!” exclaimed Aimee, “I have no idea how many there are but I had to split them among our packs!” She may have been more drunk than McGrue.

Me, I wanted to check my pack and start counting, but there was no opportunity. Surely the coppers numbered in the thousands, but I’d drunk some of the “Waste Juice” myself and math had become a foreign concept. Surely it would put me on the path to purchasing my very own Hurdy Gurdy!

—--

It fell to me to check on Joe, as my companions were three sheets in and looking like they were about to lie in them. Ignoring their hushed conversation as they drunkenly pressed near one another was difficult but I managed. It would have been more difficult but I was a sheet or two in myself. Retracing our early steps was necessary since, again, I’d been drinking too. We’d gotten here early in the morning and left Joe in the carriage near the inn. We couldn’t just park the wagon at the inn due to Grainfest; The Grainmonger’s (Lord Veineux’s) massive celebration of all things grain. Really, it was just an excuse to celebrate the harvest, sell, drink, and eat that the people treated as a major holiday.

This seemed to me a strange celebration given the nations near constant shortages, but it allowed the Grainmonger to rent out every inn in his city to pilgrims. And vendors. And horrible extraplanar monsters who also came during Grainfest to spend coin in Bagatelle. As such every inn was full to bursting. Rooms, as it turned out, were free, with innkeepers instead getting a cut of taxes collected during the festival. The catch being, to get more people in, no baggage or other personal items were allowed. Our room was an obvious broom closet with rough-hewn bunk beds and a hay bale to sleep on.

This was explained to us at length by the innkeeper, who impatiently shouted down the drunken McGrue. “As you can fucking see there is no space for so much as a backpack! Last private room in town. It’s this or risk getting robbed in the common area. Take your pick.”

“It’s fine. Guys, it’s fine,” I said, “Let’s just load everything into the carriage. I’ll take it back to the stable … I guess.” By this point everyone was tired and unable to do much. We loaded up our life’s possessions, hoping a stable boy could keep it all safe.

“We’re heading back to the closet, I mean room. Probably be asleep by the time you get back,” said McGrue.

“Of course. Of course,” I defeatedly got into the driver’s seat, whipping the reins lightly, “Hyah.” I said, my eyes heavy. Then, as we started moving, I was shocked to see a line of carriages and wagons, all covered up, securely, with town guards patrolling. “Hello!” I called.

“Oi? What’s that?” called a guard, immediately noticing the mark on the carriage, “Sir Joe!? Sir Joe’s carriage!?”

“Uh, yes! Yes it is. I thought nobody was allowed to park on the street during Grainfest.”

“Oh, that’s different! Of course we want the great Sir Joe here, sir! Come! We’ll make space!” The guard hustled, huddling with several others to make space, grabbing reins and having horses pull their burdens until there was a perfect space. “Okay! Let’s have them reins!” called the first guard.

“No! He’s a guard horse. Or, y’know, just vicious. He pummeled one of your number at the front gate.”

“Ah! I heard about that. In all the raucous action today I’d forgotten. I know what to do about that.” Snatching up a feed bag he approaches slowly. Grizzly reared up at first, but did not strike, then lowered his head, sniffing. “Yes, you want the oats, don’t you? Oh yes, enough oats for a whole day it is…” Shockingly, the horse who hated everyone took the oats and allowed the feed bag to be strapped on. Soon, the carriage was in line.

“Wow! That was great. Thank you.” I called, hopping down.

“Ah, t’weren’t nothin’, sir. Anything for Sir Joe, given that the festivities continue tomorrow at dawn, starting with the parade. Meanwhile, we’ll cover this over so no one molests the good Sir’s belongings.”

I thought to motivate the guard, “That is great, because you know what would happen if Joe’s possessions were to disappear.”

“Sir Joseph would kill us all, yes sir. It will all be right here for you fine folks when the festivities begin,” he replied grimly.

“Excellent! Well then, I shall retire for the night. Good morrow!” I said with a courtly bow, and walked away.

Perhaps two minutes had passed when I staggered back into the closet I would be sharing with my companions. “Shit!” cried McGrue.

“What!?” I shouted in sudden panic, whipping around to find both McGrue in the bottom bunk. “Oh! I…” they were both crammed into the bottom bunk. “Oh, I didn’t realize–”

“Nothing to realize!” shouted Aimee. She adjusted her nightclothes, “Sargon here was just … helping me with a headache.”

“I was? Oh, right, I was,” said McGrue in a sad tone, “dammit,” he muttered.

“I’ll just … get into my bunk,” she said, climbing up. “There. Ready to sleep.”

“Gabby, why are you back so quickly!? You just left!” growled McGrue, balling up his fists then slamming them down on his thighs as if upset.

“Oh, that, yes,” I slurred, suddenly aware of how drunk I truly was, “the guards have set up parking for very important persons just around the corner. It was glorious. All our belongings are currently guarded by the combined might of Bagatelle! Isn’t that wonderful?”

“Yeah, great. Go to bale,” he replied, turning to face the wall and covering his head. My, he certainly seemed upset.

“Oh, right…” I had forgotten that my bed was nothing but a bale of hay with a sheet and a blanket. The pillow was just more hay in a case. It would be an itchy night, or so I thought. With the pickle “Waste Juice” in my system I slept the sleep of the dead. It was a dreamless, empty void. An abyss, and it claimed me the second my head touched hay…