It was quickly approaching night by the time Holsley had returned to the city.

Krell had given him a ride back to the docks, and the elevator had carried him up the rest of the way. As he hurried along the many streets that made up Tressa, he caught himself in a trail of thoughts, most of which revolved around the redrose lute. The instrument was slung over his back, the strap fixed, and his own instrument was still being kept out of sight in his satchel.

Why did it feel so wrong to have the lute?

A part of him was tempted to take it back and break off the debt, but he knew he needed it. That, unfortunately, led him down a darker avenue of questions, like, did he actually want to be a bard? His initial thought was yes, but the more he considered the question, the more he thought he might be kidding himself.

The elves hadn’t thought he was talented enough to continue playing, and he’d grown so out of practice this last half year that he couldn’t even thumb his way through a song. It had been his dream once, but now it seemed rather silly. Childish, even. Holsley had grown to almost hate the lute recently — it only ever seemed to cause him anguish.

Maybe that meant it was okay to use the redrose lute and hinder any talent he possessed. If Holsley was already a bad bard, then what did it matter? Still, he resolved only to use it in dire situations, like when life or death was on the line, at least until he figured out if he wanted to play the strings or not.

With these sullen thoughts haunting his steps, Holsley quickly found his way to the markets and moved beneath the grand archways that marked their location.

Passing through, he found a large square on the other side filled with an abundance of shops to meet every desire, all squashed together in a circular pattern around an impressive fountain and a large area of flagstones meant to keep the crowds at bay. Of course, there was the presence of scaffolding everywhere, but it wasn’t as intrusive in this ample space.

Many of the shops had already turned their signs to closed and snuffed out the lights, but there were still that kept their windows bright. Thankfully, the tailors and the old music shop were counted among those that were. The only two he needed right now. Well, and maybe the leatherworkers.

Holsley knew he didn’t have long to peruse them, so he kicked up a rush as he marched towards them.

The music shop was first, which was aptly called Strings N’ Things. It was a charming little place that he was glad to see still held a prominent position in Tressa’s markets. The window displays were adorned with all manner of instruments, and the lambent light coming from behind the frosted windows was enticing and warm.

A faint jingle of the shop’s bell made him feel twelve again, back to a time when he had come in here for fun to investigate the fantastical objects that he could never afford. He moved across the threshold and was taken in once again by the sights of the many intricate instruments on every shelf. Freshly made ones, in complete juxtaposition from where he had just been.

A stranger sat behind the counter, his whiskers hungrily catching the crumbs from the scone he was scoffing. When he saw Holsley, he almost choked and managed to upright himself into a more welcoming demeanour.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, quickly dusting off his vest. ‘I was just about to close.’

‘That’s okay,’ Holsley replied sheepishly.

The young bard sauntered up the middle aisle towards the counter. He could feel the broken lute in his bag, poking him with each step he took. When he finally reached the gentleman, he hoisted his satchel onto the countertop.

‘I am Igbold Darrenbow, current owner of Strings and Things,’ the proprietor said proudly. ‘What can I help you with today then, young sir?’

Young sir? Holsley shook off the insult. He upturned the bag and allowed the broken lute, still severed in two places, to speak for him.

A moment or two passed as the man examined the individual pieces, even playing a little with the strings, which were the only things connecting the two halves together. Then he looked up at Holsley.

‘I see,’ he said gravely. ‘I suppose you want me to dispose of this, young sir?’

‘No!’ Instinctively, Holsley made a grab for the two pieces. ‘I want you to fix it!’

‘Fix it?’ Igbold looked perplexed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yeah.’ Holsley nodded. ‘I’m sure. How much would that cost me?’

‘Well…’ Igbold breathed in and out. ‘The damage is quite excessive, as you can plainly see. It wouldn’t be easy to fix?’ Holsley waited as the man tapped his chin, counting up the costs in the privacy of his own head. ‘Ten gold crowns, I’d say. However, you could buy a new lute much cheaper. Why, I could even show—’

‘I’ll pay the ten crowns.’ Holsley watched him for a moment longer as he hurried the change into his hands. ‘How long will it take to repair?’

‘Three to four days, I reckon,’ replied Igbold. ‘You can either pick it up past midday on the fifteenth or in the morning of the sixteenth. It won’t take longer than that, I promise.’

The sixteenth — that was the day Roland was due to be executed. If everything went to plan, Holsley had hoped to be out of the city long before that day arrived. Holsley didn’t surrender the pieces of his lute just yet, not even when Igbold reached out his hands to take them.

‘Is there any way you can do it faster?’ asked Holsley. ‘Maybe by tomorrow?’

Igbold shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. We have a list of repairs and tunings. Quite busy, you see, for the next few days.’

Holsley thought on it a moment longer. ‘Could I come and get it before it’s been repaired?’

‘Sure,’ said Igbold. ‘Though, you won’t get a refund.’

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

‘Okay.’ Holsley handed him the pieces, and Igbold took them happily. After a receipt was made up for the repair on a slip of paper, the young bard left the older store owner to his unfinished scone.

The bell chimed, and once again, Holsley was standing against the cold. He wasn’t even sure why he was bothering to fix the bandaged lute. No, he knew why — it was for sentimental reasons. While he hadn’t played it much these past six months, the lute was still the only thing he owned that was truly his and connected to a part of his past he never wanted to forget.

Before he left the market, Holsley made two additional stops.

The first was to the tailors, a short walk from the music shop. Initially, the short tenderfoot refused to give him the time of day until Holsley rattled his change purse. Over the next twenty minutes, Holsley purchased some new clothes, including a couple of frilled shirts, brown trousers, and even some knee-high socks to keep his ankles covered. He had enquired about a jacket, but it had been too expensive.

That had set him back two nobles.

The next stop he made was to the leatherworkers, run by an old turtle that didn’t seem to realise the day had slipped by. Here, he spent four gold crowns on a new set of boots inlaid with some intricate stitched patterns, which he desperately needed, seeing as half his own ramshackle boots were still in the Bard’s Drop.

Holsley also enquired where he might procure some fixed dice at these places, but he didn’t get any useful answers. None knew where he could start looking, nor were they particularly willing to share such information if they did.

With that out of the way, though, he now had to figure out his next move.

As of now, he didn’t have a single plan. At his disposal, Holsley had a charm spell, which only worked half the time and only against the most dim-witted of creatures. Even with the redrose lute, he doubted it would work on Fox. By Roland’s description, the creature sounded wily and cunning.

He had been hoping to have enough time to learn some pub games and figure out their tricks, but there was very little time for that now. So, it seemed that he was left with but one option. Holsley would have to win the old-fashioned way instead.

***

Life always seemed a little brighter after a hot bath.

Holsley had found his way back to the Fetch Inn and didn’t waste time any time, he quickly got to cleaning himself up. If he was going to gamble with gamblers, he needed to look the part after all, not like some young grubber who didn’t belong, but a straight-backed, clean adult with gold to burn.

The young bard passed by a mirror in the hallway on his way to the bar and stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t remember the last time his hair had been this clean — the muck and mud staining it was gone. It was replaced with natural auburn locks that framed his rosy cheeks and the distinctive gap between his front teeth.

He smiled, and his doppelganger smiled back.

Then he winced and clutched a hold of his stomach. The day had taken a toll on the young bard. He’d been up and down the bureaucratic ladder, in and out of dungeons, top and bottom over cliffsides, and making deals with half-dragons and instrument men. It hadn’t left much time to spare for a quick meal.

Fortunately, he could rectify that right now.

Holsley dragged his feet across the fraying, smoke-stained carpet and, to his surprise, found Merhim sat in the same seat he had been this morning. The gnome was casually sipping up some rather enticing stew while making easy work of a tankard nearby. Without delay, Holsley sidled up in the chair opposite him.

‘Back, eh?’

‘Hungry,’ replied Holsley, his tone exhausted. ‘So. Hungry.’

Merhim looked over to the barwoman, Gannamane. The catfolk gave him a quick nod back before turning away. That was all it took to order a meal in a bar like this. Soon, Holsley would find a bowl of delectable stew in front of him, which would satisfy his hunger and sure up his nerves.

‘How did it go?’ Merhim turned back to him. ‘Did you appeal the decision?’

‘Uh, it went bad,’ replied Holsley, sitting up a little straighter. ‘I met with the Lower Warden, but he didn’t much like what I had to say about Roland. Even now, I don’t think he wrote anything down.’

‘I guess that’s that then, eh.’ Merhim snorted. ‘Will you attend the hanging?’

‘There’s not going to be a hanging.’ Holsley had said that a little too loudly. The young bard looked around, checking the faces of the other sullen patrons to make sure either none heard him or that none cared. It appeared to be the latter. ‘I’m going to save him.’

‘How do you plan on doing that, exactly, kid?’

‘We’ve got a plan.’ Holsley smiled. ‘I managed to sneak into the dungeons to see him, and we came up with something. I’m going to gamble that magic wand I took off the wizard we saved from the goblins.’

Merhim’s eyes flared wild. ‘Wand? You stole a wand from the wizard!?’

‘I didn’t steal it!’ Holsley replied, affronted. ‘I just, uh, kind of forgot to give it back in the confusion is all.’

‘You ain’t making a lick of sense, lad,’ said Merhim. ‘Gamble it for what? How’s this going to get your friend out of the dungeons exactly, eh?’

‘There’s a thief that has this magic item. It’s a ring that allows someone to slip through slight gaps. If Roland can get his hands on it, he can break out of the dungeon no problem.’ Holsley beamed as if he had all the answers in the world. ‘To get it, though, I need to win it in a gambling game.’

‘Oh, Holsley.’ Merhim put his face into his hands. ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. You plan on breaking out a convicted criminal from the dungeons of Tressa!? Tressa! Of all places? You’re going to get yourself hung along with him.’

Holsley bit his lip. It was the first time it had crossed his mind that he might not succeed at doing this. What else was there to do? Roland was his friend, and only cowards abandoned their friends when their lives were in danger. He’d get Roland out, no matter the cost — even at the risk of his own life.

‘What if you don’t win against this thief?’

‘I’m sure I will.’ Holsley gave a half-hearted shrug. ‘I’m good at figuring this stuff out.’

‘What you playing against him?’

‘Uh, as in, like, what game?’

Merhim nodded.

‘I don’t know,’ said Holsley. ‘In truth, I don’t know many gambling games.’

‘Okay, well, first of all, they’re called games of chance.’ Merhim brought his chair forward a little. ‘There’s quite a few, but some are harder to pick up than others.’

‘Hiya huns!’ Gannamane, the picturesque catfolk, appeared beside the table with a bowl of stew, a few slices of bread, and some cutlery wrapped in a napkin. ‘Is this for you, Holsley hun?’

Holsley rubbed his hands together. ‘Thank you so much.’

She placed the bowl in front of him and gave his hair an affectionate stroke. ‘Now, if you want some more, you just give me a holla, okay?’

Holsley nodded eagerly and watched her a little as she sauntered back to the bar. Then he returned his attention to the conversation at hand and, of course, to the beef stew that was now rapidly cooling on the table before him.

‘Have you thought about cheating?’ Merhim asked as Holsley unwrapped the spoon.

‘I did try to find some crooked dice in the markets, but no one seemed eager to let me know how to buy them.’

‘Funny that, eh.’

‘I do know some magic that I can use to produce, like, tiny illusions, but they’re not very good, and I don’t think it’d fool anyone who could see it.’

‘Hmmmm.’

Holsley dug into his dinner hungrily, shovelling each spoonful in and not even bothering to savour it. It was his nerves that needed feeding the most. This conversation with Merhim did not make him feel better about his plan or what may be coming next. The one thing he could control was how full he would be when he got to Fox.

As Holsley devoured, Merhim reached into his satchel and retrieved a small coin pouch. From it, he withdrew several six-sided dice and gathered them before him. Holsley watched eagerly between mouthfuls of well-seasoned beef rich in stock and spices. Merhim brought the dice, maybe twenty in all, into his palms and gave them a rattle.

‘Even though I think this is a right foolish endeavour, I can’t in good conscience let you go without knowing a single game of chance,’ said Merhim. ‘Best I can do then is prepare you, lad. There’s one game that’s become quite popular in the recent year, and there isn’t a tavern in Tressa that ain’t playing it neither.’ Merhim uncoiled his fingers and revealed the various bone dice he still held. ‘The game is called Towers.’