The troubadour had almost reached the end of his first verse when someone tugged his sleeve.
“Was there a dragon?”
“No.”
“Could there be?”
“Not if you keep interrupting.”
This earned a chorus of giggles from the children gathered around his stool and a few sympathetic laughs from the nearer tables. The troubadour lifted his lute out of reach of a small, inquisitive hand and began again.
At Merebrook Ferry the boatman swore,
He’d carry my love to the farther shore.
But my purse was light and the fare was steep...
“Did you swim?”
“My dear child, this doublet is velvet.”
“Did your love swim?”
“She had rather more sense than either of us.”
The Sapphire Moon answered with laughter. Someone called for another round. Beside the hearth, a dog opened one eye, judged the company unworthy of further attention, and went back to sleep.
The troubadour struck a brighter chord.
So I sang for my crossing and sang for my bread,
With the waters of Malec’s Tarn shining ahead.
And I followed the road where the old stones are...
“Is that the road to the dwarves?”
His fingers paused.
“It is.”
“Have you seen their gates?”
“Aye.”
“How big?”
“Big enough that you would have to stand on your brother’s shoulders, and he on your father’s, and your father on a very patient horse, before you could knock upon the knocker.”
The smallest child considered this solemnly.
“Did you?”
A smile moved beneath the troubadour’s moustache.
“No, I'm afraid... the horse objected.”
Another ripple of laughter passed through the room. But when he returned to the strings, the tune had changed.
At Karrick-Hâr stood the gates of stone,
Where a traveller need never sup alone.
There was fire in the hall, there was gold in the cup,
And a song from below when the moon came up.
The children settled closer. At a table near the door, two men garbed in well-used black leather scales lowered their voices. Their grey gambesons identified their affiliation: Argent Order Wayfinders.
But now the road is still, and the hearth burns low,
And none come out from the halls below.
“Why?” asked the little girl at his knee.
The troubadour looked down at her. For a moment, there was only the crackle of the hearth.
Someone shifted a chair. Behind the bar, a cup was set down carefully.
“They say there’s no one left inside to open them,” the troubadour said. His voice carried farther now that he was no longer singing. “That every dwarf beneath that mountain has perished.”
A man near the hearth shook his head.
“And others say something has come up from the deep places... something that has swallowed the underbelly of the world, and when it has finished there-”
“That’s enough.”
The innkeeper’s voice was quiet, but sharp.
The troubadour glanced at the children.
“Aye,” he said. “It is enough.”
He began fumbling for a cheerful tune. A woman rose to gather the youngest children, promising them something from the kitchen, and there were no further questions about dragons.
Near the door, those men of black and grey leaned closer to the other and exchanged words. Dark grey cloaks trimmed in silver concealed practical weapons from careless view. No one could hear what passed between them, but both looked troubled. One left a few coins beside an unfinished drink.
Then they took up their belongings, and deftly stepped outside.
You look down into your drink. There is a little left, and with a quick pull you finish it. The laughter and warmth of that Sapphire Moon had returned. The hearth was warm, and the food filling.
But... there is still some daylight left for the road.
Setting the empty vessel aside, you stand and make for the exit.
The road to the east opens before you, to Malec's Tarn and beyond.
