Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (17 page)

“A scoundrel?” Jarod snorted. “So now I’m supposed to be some knave blackguard? That’s not me!”

“You don’t have to actually be scandalous, just have the slightest taint of it,” Edvard said. “Of all the stories I tell, the ones that the women love most are those filled with rogues, rascals, and scalawags! Take the stories of this local ne’er-do-well . . . this highwayman chap . . .”

“Dirk Gallowglass?”

“Yes! Dirk Gallowglass!” The Dragon’s Bard rolled the name off his tongue again in the most dramatic fashion. “Dirk Gallowglass! There’s a name that makes men tremble and women swoon! He is a scoundrel who glides along the roads beyond the town by night, his black domino flying in the wind behind him as he plunges down the moonlit lanes! He robs trade merchants from distant lands, but his strange code of honor never permits him to raid the town of Eventide. No doubt he has a secret lover in the town who holds his heart bound never to harm or disturb the good citizens of Eventide as he hides among the rooftops, prancing along the ridgepoles in the silence of the—”

Edvard stopped abruptly.

Jarod, the centaur, and the scribe were all staring at him in dumbfounded silence.

“Now, there is a man whose name is known to everyone in the town,” Edvard continued, undaunted by his audience. “You cannot purchase that kind of notoriety!”

Farmer Bennis raised a single eyebrow. “You do know that there is a difference between notoriety and being notorious, don’t you?”

Abel tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sudden laugh.

The Dragon’s Bard stared at his scribe as he spoke. “Of course, but the slightest hint of the notorious can buy you a lot of notoriety.”

Bennis shook his head, swinging his shovel down from his shoulder. “And some of us want neither, as you all too well know. A reputation, especially in a town like Eventide, is a fragile thing.” Bennis gripped the Bard’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince. “None of us want anything so fragile to be broken.”

“I assure you again,” Edvard said, “at least one reputation here will remain intact . . . even after I am allowed to leave.”

Edvard gingerly held the small teacup handle between his thumb and index finger, his pinky extended as he spoke. “Have I told you what a remarkably lovely garden you have, Miss Ariela?”

Ariela Soliandrus sat across the garden table from the Dragon’s Bard, perched atop her smaller chair, made especially so that she could sit at the table built for her human neighbors. “You have, Mr. Dragonguard.”

“That’s Dragon’s Bard,” Edvard corrected with a slight tip of his tiny cup.

“Yes, yes, yes,” the fairy said with a bored air, waving her tiny hand. Her voice was higher pitched than most humans’, yet remarkably melodious. “But it is most vexing that you have taken this long to call on me, though hardly surprising inasmuch as you are a man and, as such, have little comprehension of the refinements of polite society.”

Ariela had polished condescension to a fine art.

“I would agree with you in the general case,” Edvard cooed, “although in my situation, I have had cause to immerse myself in society and, as such, am on good acquaintance with the finer nuances of grace and decorum.”

“Indeed, Mr. Bard?” Ariela raised both her tiny eyebrows.

“Please, call me Edvard,” the Dragon’s Bard said, flashing a smile filled with endearing teeth. “I dare hope that we two shall be on such good acquaintance.”

“Hmmm.” Ariela turned to face her servant’s quarters—a small but well-kept one-room shack at the back of the garden. She called out, “Lucinda!”

There was a sudden scrape of a chair leg and the bump of a table before a young servant girl popped out of the door with a teakettle in one hand and a plate of scones in the other. She was human and no more than fourteen years old by the look of her. Her round face was a ruddy color and her hair somewhat disheveled from its intended form. She quickly approached and navigated the garden paths, balancing her cargo precariously as she moved. Coming at last to the table, she made a quick, if awkward, curtsy, set the plate of scones on the table with a clattering sound, and then proceeded with nervous care to pour the tea, first into Ariela’s miniature cup and then into that of the Bard.

“That will be all, Lucinda,” Ariela said with a dismissive, humorless smile.

The girl curtsied once more and then bounded back down the garden paths and into the painted box that passed for her home.

“She is a good girl, though, sadly, her parentage will condemn her to a life in service for the remainder of her days,” Ariela said with a tragic shake of her small head, the curls in her carefully coifed hair quivering ever so slightly. “The young Duke Hareld, third cousin once removed to the king, often passed through Meade—and not entirely for the ale manufactured there, it is said. Lucinda’s mother was a foolish woman who had dreams of bettering her life without much concern for the means by which she achieved position—or, it seems, for the position by which she might acquire her means. Ample proof was delivered some months later, but the duke never acknowledged the responsibility. It is true that the woman had fallen before the duke had her, and more than once—so they say—but as there had never been an issue before she met the duke, the child’s parentage seemed certain—the poor dear! Imagine the struggle it must be for her to have to live with such tragedy, especially when it is so often retold, never to be forgotten?”

“Most tragic, indeed,” Edvard replied with great sincerity, “and I shall tell it in those same tragic terms at each opportunity.”

“As I would hope you would,” Ariela nodded.

“Still,” the Bard said, carefully setting down his cup in its saucer, “I have come with troubling questions, my dear Ariela.”

“Troubling?” Ariela asked.

“Yes, and concerning someone in the town.”

“Indeed?” The fairy leaned forward in her chair.

“It’s this question of Jarod Klum,” Edvard said, furrowing his brow with his best concern.

“Jarod?” Ariela leaned back at once. “He’s fine enough for a young human male . . . and your friend, I believe.”

“So I thought,” Edvard intoned with resonant concern. “But the more I get to know him, the more troubled I become.”

Ariela leaned forward once again. “Why ever so?”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t say anything.” Edvard shook his head as he frowned. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Let me judge its worth,” Ariela said through her smile. If there were anyone in Eventide who could make something out of nothing, it was the fairy.

“Well, have you ever seen him and this Dirk Gallowglass at the same time?” Edvard leaned forward himself, lowering his voice dramatically.

“In truth, sir, I have never seen Dirk Gallowglass at all!” Ariela answered, her own voice lowering in return.

“But especially not with Jarod Klum,” Edvard said. “I’ve never seen him at night when the highwayman is about. No one has! And he has a magical treasure box . . .”

“No!”

“Yes. It’s hidden near his desk in the countinghouse,” Edvard said, his eyes shifting left and right before he continued. “He’s always visiting it. Who knows what he keeps in there!”

“But he works in the countinghouse,” Ariela said, shaking her head. “His father is in charge of the arrest record . . . the town dungeon is right beneath him . . . he sees the Constable Pro Tempore every day . . .”

“And what better position to have if one were the highwayman!” Edvard exclaimed. “Privy to every move made by the very constabulary tasked with his apprehension? And what of this Vestia Walters, eh? How is it that such a common-seeming young beard as Jarod would turn the head of the town beauty? It would take more coins than an apprentice accountant earns to hold her attention. I think there may be more to this Jarod Klum than meets the eye!”

“I never considered the possibility . . .”

“I fear I must leave you at once,” the Dragon’s Bard said, standing quickly from the table. “I have said too much, and if Farmer Bennis thinks that I have been gone too long from his company he will be vexed—and I will be all the more sore for his vexing.”

The Bard flourished his hat and all but ran from the garden.

“Do call again!” Ariela yelled after him.

Edvard smiled to himself. He did not think it would be necessary to call again. As he proudly recounted later to his horrified scribe, he had helped his friend the best way he knew how.

By afternoon, Jarod noticed that people in the town were looking at him differently. They would whisper to each other as they passed him; they would stare, only to look quickly away whenever he caught their eye. No one was so tactless as to mention it to him directly or to his parents—but the insinuation of his being a rogue was otherwise of general knowledge.

By nightfall, everyone in the town except his parents and Jarod himself had heard the rumor connecting Jarod with the highwayman. This included Percival Taylor, who took a sudden aversion to the apprentice accountant, and Vestia Walters, whose interest in using Jarod to torture Percival increased proportionately.

It also included Dirk Gallowglass—the highwayman.

• Chapter 11 •

The Highwayman

Dirk Gallowglass! A name that struck terror into the hearts of travelers! Whenever he rode on his midnight black horse and brandished his blade, merchants and patrons caught on the road would cower in fear. Grant him whatever he asked of you, it was said, and he would leave you in peace. Cross him, and there was no end but a death as black as the masked hood that he wore.

At least, that was what Henri Smyth hoped everyone believed.

Henri was a son of a farmer in Farfield. His tall, strong body and ruggedly handsome features had somehow not served him well behind a plow. He was a proud and moody youth whose eyes were always looking past the horizons of his father’s fields. Josias Smyth, Henri’s father, tried his best to keep his son’s interest, teaching him what he knew about swordsmanship and the greater world, but the elder Smyth had come to realize that his headstrong son could learn the realities of life only by having them pummeled into him by experience. It was only a matter of time before he left his home against his father’s advice. So Josias gave his son what little money he had, his sword belt, and his rapier from his service in the Epic War—and prayed to whatever gods might be listening to take care of his wayward boy.

Experience wasted no time before starting the pummeling. Henri had started out in the belief that he could somehow make a living off of his charm alone, but for some reason, people did not toss coins at his feet simply because he smiled at them. He took a few working jobs along the way, telling himself they were just temporary until someone recognized the glory that was in him and saw that taking care of him was something he deserved. After several months, he came to the startling realization, while cleaning out a pigsty in Meade, that handsome, comely people can starve to death just as quickly as ugly ones. He finished the job and got on the road back to Farfield.

He was on that road, considering returning to his father’s farm and resigning himself to get back behind that mundane plow, when he came upon the highwayman, peacefully swinging by his neck at the side of the road.

Henri considered this amazing sight for a number of minutes. The legend of Dirk Gallowglass had, in the end, apparently not served him well. Other than his name—which may have been made up entirely, for all anyone knew—and his profession as a highwayman, no one knew anything about him. Where did he come from? Did he have parents? Well, obviously he had parents, Henri thought to himself, but what did they think of their son’s choice of vocation? Did he have a woman somewhere wondering where he was? Did he have several? Would any of them remember him? It occurred to Henri in that moment that being a highwayman was the most anonymous activity one could engage in, for no one knew who highwaymen were, and their actions were veiled behind a forgetful obscurity.

It sounded perfect!

Not one to pass up an opportunity—even a dead one—Henri noticed that the highwayman had a striking costume and was close to his own size. He cut the man down with his father’s rapier and noted that the highwayman’s boots were also about his size and of a much higher quality construction. He considered this for a moment amid the buzzing of the gathering flies. At length he concluded that a dead highwayman had no further need of such accoutrements and decided to try on the clothing. He donned the boots first and was relieved at their fit. The doublet was too wide in the chest, but serviceable. The cloak, however, was a good length. He clasped his father’s sword belt back around his waist and dropped the black hood down over his head, taking a few moments to adjust the holes to fit his eyes. He then drew out his father’s rusting rapier and began striking a series of dramatic poses.

He was still admiring his dashing looks in the still surface of water pooling on the road when, as fortune had it, a tradesman on horseback happened by. Henri turned—the grip of his father’s rapier blade still in his hand and a stripped corpse at his feet.

The tradesman let out a cry, gibbered for a moment, tossed down a bag of coins, and then put the spurs to his horse, screaming all the way back down the road.

Now,
that,
Henri thought, was more like it!

Soon it was known throughout all of Windriftshire that the highwayman Dirk Gallowglass was not dead, as the sheriff of Meade insisted, but was now a ghostly highwayman riding the roads of the county and striking his victims without warning.

It was a slightly different perspective from the highwayman’s point of view. Henri was happy enough to take on the name of Gallowglass—since the real Dirk Gallowglass would no longer be needing his name any more than his boots—but he was determined to go about this highwayman business in a more professional and thoughtful manner. He needed a place where he could barter goods, and he determined Eventide to be the most centrally located of the towns about which he hoped to ply his highwayman trade. Then he carefully chose only those targets who could be quickly and easily frightened into paying his ransom. When merchant traders began traveling with armed escorts, Henri improvised, shadowing the merchants as they traveled the roads through the woods. Eventually the long journey would require the trader to relieve himself. Henri felt some guilt at surprising these merchants in the middle of their urgent duty, but at least he found them far more readily compliant in such circumstances. On occasion he would also be following a wealthy patron along the road who would leave his entourage with a young damsel in tow. Startling these couples not only proved lucrative but, in Henri’s thinking, also rescued the damsel from distress—although on occasion the damsel in question seemed more upset than grateful about having the moment interrupted.