“Here we go, ever forward,

For we haven’t got the will,

Never back, raid the cupboard,

Fate will not let us sit still.”

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

I awoke with a terrible heaviness, mouth dry and with a pounding headache, “What in the nine hells is ‘Waste Juice’ made from?” I asked nobody, for I was alone, “They didn’t wake me?” Rising, I saw that I had slept in the fine clothes borrowed from the body of dearly departed Zarbonzo. They were frumpy and crumpled. “Ah, how I wish I had an instrument. Maybe I should get something cheap, like a slide whistle, just so I can cast a cantrip or two.” Leaving the closet, I headed out into the dining area, where McGrue and Aimee sat.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” said McGrue. “I was starting to wonder if you were dead!”

“Yes, awake. Why didn’t you two wake me up, anyway?” I asked, peevishly.

“We tried!” exclaimed Aimee, talking mostly with her hands, “I suggested we take you to a witch doctor but McGrue said you were fine.”

“He’ll live,” grunted the half-orc, “I said ‘he’ll live.”

“Same difference. Come, Garbeaux, have breakfast with us.” With that, Aimee scooted the chair opposite her out from the table with one foot.

I sat, but leaned heavily on the table rather than flagging down a serving wench, “I don’t think I can eat. I feel sick from last night.”

“You have to eat something,” said Aimee with genuine concern.

“Eat a damned roll,” said McGrue, pressing a small, hard-crusted loaf of bread into my hands. “You need to fuel your body. Otherwise you won’t be good for anyone. Not gonna let you slack just because you can’t handle your drink.”

“Thank you,” I said, hoping to blunt McGrue’s obvious moodiness with respect. Grabbing my knife I deftly slit the crust down the middle and spread a large amount of butter across its soft innards. With luck it would lubricate the food enough to get it down my dry gullet. It worked well enough, actually helping my stomach. Finishing the dregs left in my companions’ cups, I finally felt like I could start the day.

—

Stepping outside, we turned left towards where the carriage was parked. Where a few dozen various carts, wagons and carriages were parked. “Gabbo?” growled McGrue, “where the hell is the carriage!?”

“Huh?” where, now, nothing was parked. “I looked and saw nothing but a sullen boy dangling a rat by its tail, “You there, boy! Last night there were a great many horses here, yoked to their various wagons and such. Did you see them?”

The lad dropped the rat, which squeaked as he kicked it out of the air, “You mean the parade floats? Yeah, I saw ‘em.”

“Floats? I … no, they were… My master’s carriage was in that line of wagons, boy! Where did they all go!?”

“Don’t raise your voice at me! Sound like my mom. Stupid carts are all rollin’ in the parade. They roll from the inner walls, all around, spiralin’ in towards the square and then there’s a big party. How don’t you know that?” The boy pursued the rat cruelly, it was stunned but crawling away.

I stood in shock. The silence behind me was deafening. Turning, I found Aimee and McGrue staring at me, equally shocked. “Parade?” growled McGrue in a low whisper, “Joe is in that carriage, Gabbo. Remember? Never got him into the barrel. By now he stinks like a devil’s codpiece. If anyone finds out we’ve been hauling the hero of the realm around, dead, then we’re dead.”

“Okay,” the boy was still too near but, luckily, didn’t seem to care about anything adults said, “Let’s walk this way…” I led my companions up the street, “We just need to get someone to relieve … whoever is driving the carriage! That’s the only person we need to worry about. I mean, it couldn’t be driverless, after all. Should be easy.”

—

“All hail Lord Veineux!” shouted the town crier, one of several who marched along the parade route, “Grand high Duke, owner of all you see, and benefactor of the poor!” People cheered as we searched the procession for our carriage, or at least Grizzly, the vicious horse who should have killed whomever took the carriage. “Anyone saying ‘Grain Monger’ will be flogged!”

“That damnable horse,” McGrue seethed, “How in the nine hells did anyone get him to go anywhere? I’ve seen the workers in this city, even the guards. Level one, maybe level three peons. No way they could’ve made him do anything he didn’t want to do.”

“Actually,” I cringed, “That might not be true. The guards, they had a feedbag, filled with, you know, grain. Smelled like fresh barley.” Squirming away as McGrue rose up, hands forming into clutching claws, I really felt he might hurt me this time, “Maybe we should have been doing that instead of beating him?”

This deflated McGrue a little, but only a little, “We didn’t beat him, Gabby. I beat him. I beat him because he was trying to kill me and we didn’t have the fucking money to be buying him sacks of fucking grain!”

Well hell, if it was a fight then it was a fight, “And another thing. My name isn’t Gabby! It’s … it’s Garbeaux.”

This made McGrue laugh through his anger, “I know that! When I call you Gabby it’s because you talk too damned much! I know your name is Gabbo!”

“But that’s still wrong!” I started to protest but had to stop.

“Boys! Look!” cried Aimee. We all looked where she pointed and saw the very still form of Joseph Mulfinger, our dead employer, slavedriver, and abuser, slumped back into the driver’s seat of the carriage. He was lashed by the wrists to Grizzly who, no doubt, had an even fresher sack of barley to chew on, working his jaw around the way he was.

“D-do something, McGrue!” I stuttered.

“Like what? Wave my dick at the crowd while you steal the corpse!?” Only the din of the crowd kept our whole conspiracy from unraveling.

Aimee slapped McGrue in the back of the head, “Do you want to confess any louder? Now, you two, shield me from view. I’m going to move him around so people think he’s alive.

We did so. Aimee worked her hands around, the dim light of her minor magics barely visible to us and invisible to anyone surrounding. Then a flash, a crackle, a yelp, and Aimee put her finger in her mouth. I felt a terrible foreboding; something had happened. Something bad. “Aimee? What was that?”

“It … it was a backlash. Oh, ye gods, I didn’t think to use my focus, wasn’t ready for the pain, wasn’t ready to hang onto the magic…”

Straining to remember what this meant for a Hedge Wizard, I cast about, “So wait. Where did the magic … go…?” It was then that I saw it. Sir Joe the Bold, flailing about as the crowd cheered him on. All that kept him in place were the reins lashed about his wrists. “Was that Mage Hand?”

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“It was supposed to be. I fear the backlash took most of my energy along with it. He’ll be at it for hours.” said Aimee, looking faint.

“Cor … this is insane,” said McGrue, “C’mon. We need to catch up to him. There has to be an opportunity to slip in through this nonsense. We’ll join the parade where the crowd is thinner and try to slide in stealthily further down the route. Grab on, girl.” Grabbing Aimee with what looked like a handshake, McGrue turned, pulling her arm over his shoulder. Instinctively Aimee climbed up, slumping with her head resting on his shoulder. The beast that McGrue was, he was able to push through the crowd at a brisk walking pace. I actually had trouble keeping up.

—

“Aimee,” I hissed, looking around, suddenly realizing that I was alone in the crowd. I’d kept up with McGrue for a time but, after a while, the crowd made it impossible. Too many Grainfest revelers were a head taller than myself and either already drunk again or still drunk from the previous night! They certainly weren’t stepping aside and, indeed, most failed to notice when they’d been moved.

Finally, a stroke of luck as the crowd thinned out and, finally, was gone entirely. Perhaps now I could catch sight of my companions. Or so I thought, “Ah, Garbeaux, right?” came a voice. I froze in terror; this voice did not belong to one of my party, and yet this person knew my name. “Don’t be shy, now. I don’t bite.”

Finally, I turned my head, hopping a little to put my feet under me. “Ah! The G–, I mean, Lord Veineux!” I gave a courtly bow to this foppish, chubby man on a throned litter, gilded, stained and lacquered wood, shaded and fanned by servants using the dried leaves of some exotic plant. He smiled, but it was more of a sneer; clearly, this was not a pleasant man. I just thanked my lucky stars to have seen a painting of his family for, surely, a noble of his ilk would be offended if not recognized.

“Enough, be at ease,” said his mouth, but his eyebrows knit into a scowl, setting me at anything but ease. “Why, your master just passed by. How were you two separated? You, the ‘Golden-Voiced’ Bard, most famous for not singing and not playing an instrument. Still writing that story, are we?”

I opened my mouth several times, confused by his language, “Surely you mean ballad? ‘The Ballad of Sir Joe’?” It seemed logical.

“Yes, ballad. Ha, these silly Bard words. You know, Garbeaux, if you were able to draw that tale to a close, you would be free to write others. I do pay more than some boorish adventurer ever could, you know.” Now he grinned widely, but the smile was more of a cat and canary variety than anything wholesome.

“Certainly tempting, milord, but I must catch up to … to my Lord. You understand.” I laughed, nervously.

“Of course. Guards, see this man to the carriage of Sir Joseph Mulfinger! Posthaste!” At that I was snatched up by a pair of guards who followed a second pair. The pair following focused straight ahead while the pair in front brutally clubbed the festival-goers, forcing them aside, bowling them over, and generally making them into victims.

“Gentlemen! It’s not necessary to brutalize the other patrons in order to get me to the carriage! Just let me down in the stream of the parade and I’ll run to catch up!” I thought to squirm but it would be pointless; their grips were enough to bruise my arms.

“Sorry, sir. When the Grainmonger says to do something, we do it, quickly and without question.” rattled off a guard.

“But he didn’t say to beat people!” I protested.

“He said ‘posthaste’, sir. Posthaste means to beat people.” Well, I stood corrected.

“I don’t think that’s true–oof!” I had been thrust into the driver’s seat next to Joe, on my belly, legs dangling.

“You are on your master’s carriage, our duty is fulfilled. Have a nice day, now.” rattled another guard, and the foursome departed.

Before me thrashed the armored juggernaut, looking for all the world like a living man who was also having a seizure. “Joe?” I asked, experimentally. No, he still was not present among the living.

What could I do? Settling in, I’d guard him, hoping that I didn’t have to explain or fight back fans of the “Greatest Hero of the Realm”. At least the Grain Monger’s brute squad was likely to prevent people from approaching. Meanwhile; where were my companions?

—

After sustaining a rather thorough beating from the flailing (yet not undead) corpse of Joe, I managed to aim him at the outside edge of the carriage so that the only people getting hit were the occasional drunken idiot getting too close to us. Each time this happened the beaming commoner gleefully thanked Joe, clearly considering getting hit to be a badge of honor. Idiots.

Finishing the parade route I found myself ever angrier; there were three of us, why was I the only one dealing with this!? We were expected to attend the party on the square, having been in the parade, and Joe was perhaps the most famous person attending, so I made sure that we were at the furthest edge of the square, around a corner that obscured the carriage and, with much struggle, taking a few more gauntlets to the back, managed to get Joe inside, still thrashing. Arms anchored by our bags and cases, he still moved, but mostly just his hips and head.

The carriage moved only slightly, which was the best I could hope for, and so I went into the square, hopefully to find Aimee and McGrue. The tail of the parade still stretched into the distance, the square was still empty, and I allowed myself to breathe. The still air was nice, quiet, and a true relief after the madness of the previous few hours. “Well, hello dearie,” said a lady behind me. Whipping around, surprised, I laid eyes on a lovely older woman with matronly curves. “You’re Garbeaux, no?” Half-elven, chestnut hair with white streaks, she was no doubt over a hundred years old, but she aged like an elf and so her face was more like a human woman in her early twenties. “My husband said you were having troubles so I thought I might check on you.”

“H-husband?” I asked, perplexed. Looking the lady up and down, she was well-fed, buxom, laden with jewelry, painted like a princess and wore the mark of House Veineux. “The Gr-I mean, you are Lord Veineux’s wife?”

“That’s right,” she said, brushing the hair of my chops behind my ears and grasping my face. “Your face is flushed as if exercising, and you were resting as I found you. Where is Joseph? Why is he not with you?”

“Where!? I, ah, he is … very tired from engaging with his many fans, madame. He rests in his carriage and is not … not to be disturbed!” I struck the balance as well as I could between authoritative and deferential. To ward this noble woman away from Joe’s corpse was possible only if she felt empathy for his plight.

She recoiled, “Oh no, the poor dear! Well, this does explain why he hadn’t come to see me while he was in town. Of course, we must let him rest. Why don’t you head in and start the party? I must attend my husband, so that we may oversee the affair together, of course.” I gave silent thanks. She may have been a stranger to me but, apparently, she and Joe were good friends.

To avoid any further issues, I headed into the square to search for my friends and, if nothing else, act in Joe’s stead so that no one questioned his absence. That was when I heard a voice, “Yeah, that’s right. You’re a dirty bitch, you are.” That was McGrue’s voice. It was quiet yet still present, somewhere nearby.

Tracking the amorous grunts, feminine squeals, and meaty, tenderizing sounds of impact, I found a covered wagon, rocking violently. There were more voices, not as loud as mighty McGrue; the man’s volume was disturbing, but very much present. The wagon bore the markings of a clothing store and, indeed, I could see that it was being used to store ream after ream of fabric. “Aimee? McGrue? What the hell? You left me alone!”

A small peep escaped and I heard not one, but two women’s voices. “Who was that?” asked one.

“Aimee,” came the other, “Who are you?”

“Oh! Gods, wait,” the curtain was jerked open and a redheaded human girl, covering herself in a ream of cloth, looked out, flanked by McGrue. Looking at me, then back at him, she screamed in terror.

‘Ah! What!?” cried McGrue, “who are you!?”

“Jenkins! What have you done!?” cried the girl, rising and showing far too much of her smooth skin. Casting about, she made eye contact with a bulky youth who jumped when he saw her then, looking down, cried out himself.

The curtain closed again and the wagon began to thrash as its occupants started moving around all at once. Within seconds McGrue slid out, buckling his pants and clutching the rest of his clothing. He wore a haunted expression and blinked very little.

“So,” I began, “While I was trying to fix things you were cavorting with some strange woman?” I asked. McGrue’s only answer was a flat palm to my face, blocking my view of him.

The thrashing continued and three distinct voices could be heard, two female, one male. Suddenly, Aimee emerged, disheveled and still working on her clothing as not everything was strapped in correctly. Presumably, she’d rushed to re-dress herself. “You, too, Aimee?” Her answer was a cold stare that, were it a spell, would have been truly deadly.

Finally the chaos in the wagon calmed and, near as I could tell, the strong youth and his redheaded lover were reconciling. Finally, Aimee said something, “So… Did you give it to her good?”

Eyes darting shiftily, McGrue struggled to grasp what she meant, then smiled a little, “Her toes curled.”

“Color me jealous, the stable boy was so-so at best.” I flinched; that was the stable boy! The one who had helped us as we came into town. He looked so strong with his shirt off.

There was a sadness around McGrue, but he chuckled, “I think the baker might be more interesting for you. Have you seen his hands? Kneading all that dough…”

“You don’t say?” said Aimee. I was slowly starting to comprehend what had happened when a woman’s cry rang out from whence I came. The three of us ran back to the intersection. A gaggle of town guards were hustling away from our carriage as a half-dressed woman slammed the door shut.

The three of us stood agape as the force of violent law enforcement passed us by. So distant was our carriage that I saw little of the woman other than a shock of chestnut hair with white streaks. “Oh … shit…”

“What?” asked Aimee. McGrue kept watching the guards, glancing back and forth apprehensively.

I pulled at my hair, distressed, “I’m pretty sure that Duchess Veineux is fucking the dead body of Sir Joe the Bold…”