Party of Fools

Chapter One Sample

Ale’s Well That Ends Well was not the seediest bar in the Capital, but it was certainly up there on the list. There were not, on the whole, many murders there, despite its patrons’ tendency to solve even minor problems with violence. For all its dim lighting and ramshackle appearance, it was kept surprisingly clean, and perhaps that was why its reputation hovered an inch above the metaphorical shit-filled gutters.

Gary, the owner and bartender, refused to serve anyone who tromped in with mud on their boots. There was a boot scraper by the door for a reason, and a doormat, and anyone who neglected to use them would soon find themselves covered head-to-toe in filth as they were thrown out into the city streets. Gary was grizzled and beefy, a middle-aged human man who had slept drunkenly in his own share of alleyways. After he lost his leg in the war with Vertex, his mother had used her ill-gotten savings to buy the building. He was not about to let her sacrifice be disrespected.

Gary would never kick his own mother out of the bar, even if she came in with horse dung dripping from every limb. Gladys the Destroyer was sixty years old and, they said, in her prime. She had more battle scars than you could count, was six feet tall and taller with boots on, and had that lean, mean, wiry look that older folks get when all their fat melts away into muscle. Her right eye was missing, the empty socket covered by a patch, and she kept her long gray hair slicked back in a braid that doubled as a whiplash if she turned her head quickly enough.

In other words, Gladys was an intimidating lady. Patrons of the bar gave her a nod or a salute if she was around—and she was always around these days, nursing a dark beer and glaring into the middle distance, preoccupied by conflicts long past. Why she was not out fighting, cheating, stealing, and doing all the things a woman of her class liked to do was a mystery.

Except to Reed. Reed was a halfling ten years Gladys’s junior, fat and scruffy with graying stubble that constituted a full beard for someone of his kind. His clothes were finer than you might expect: silk doublets and embroidered waistcoats, but they were clearly old and worn, the relic of a more well-funded youth. There were mended patches and the silver thread in the embroidery was tarnished, much like Reed’s once-black hair. His lined brown face wore an expression that might be mistaken for boredom, but was actually a calculated, patient calm.

He often provided casual entertainment at Ale’s Well. On a typical evening, the bar was far too noisy and crowded to fully appreciate the sound of his lute or his pleasantly rough voice belting anti-establishment songs and poor-man’s ballads. But if you came very early or very late, you might catch a tune without interference. You might think, Where have I heard that voice before? It sounds familiar, and you would be right. You probably had heard it before—but Reed would only shake his head and smile if you asked how that might be true.

Of course, if you came on particular nights of the month… you might just get a full dinner and a show. Reed might be in it, or he might be directing it, or someone else entirely might be in charge. You had to know how to get in, and you had to be trustworthy. Gladys, Reed, and their associates made sure of that.

They made for an odd pair of friends, the barbarian woman and the halfling musician. But they were friends.

“Can’t you play somethin’ that ain’t depressing as a one-wheeled cart full of kittens down a dry well?” Gladys yelled as Reed finished his ballad with a heavy handed strum.

“Wouldn’t it be more depressing if the well had water in it?” Reed replied, face as calm as ever. “Also, how’s a cart fit down a well?”

“That ain’t the point,” Gladys said.

“It is if I’m to understand exactly where your tolerance for ‘depressing’ songs lies,” said Reed. “It’s a continuum, you know, a full spectrum of sadness. I need to know where your point lies on it so I know what to play and what not to play.”

Gladys scoffed and pushed her empty mug toward Gary, who filled it without having to be asked. It was early evening, the dinner crowd not yet arrived, though they were certainly on their way. Gladys and Reed were the only two people in the bar aside from Old Kurt in the corner, and Old Kurt paid them no mind. He never paid anybody mind.

Reed adjusted himself on his stool, which sat on a small elevated platform to the left of the bar. It would have been too kind to call it a stage, given the lack of proper lighting or acoustics, let alone space. His knees were aching in a way that meant trouble was coming. Like leaves showing their silvery undersides as warm updrafts of air heralded a thunderstorm on the way.

“Look, Gladdy,” he said, “you want to put in a request? Toss me a coin, buy me a beer, treat me to a meal. You know the rules.”

Gary, who had ducked into the kitchen to get the soup and bread and sausages going for dinner, stuck his shaved head back out with a scowl that was missing more than one tooth.

“Rules don’t apply to Mama, she’s the Lady of the—”

Reed cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Alright alright, I was just joking, don’t get your shorts in a twist,” he said, and then turned back to Gladys. “What’ll it be, your Ladyship? Mrs. The Destroyer from the Hundred Mile Waste, Bandit Queen of the Banded Canyon, slayer of the High Road Highwayman?”

“I ain’t no missus, never have been, never will be,” Gladys snorted, “but you flatter me, you fool. Play me some of that hard stuff I know you done been workin’ on. Like my ballad. You still workin’ on my ballad, ain’tcha?”

“Mayhaps.”

“Mayhaps my ass. Lemme hear it.”

In another life, Reed was known for his honeyed vocals and three octave range. He still employed these skills in his work as a shady bar bard, but it was not what came to mind when people heard his name. What came to mind was the screaming. He didn’t do it for every song, but you only had to hear it once for it to stick with you.

First-time listeners were shocked to hear such a deep, sonorous, shout come out of such a small and frumpy person. This was part of the draw, though Reed scream-sang not for the attention, but because, as he said, there was no other way to fully express the rage, frustration, and awe that lived in the vast, dark universe of his heart.

Gladys was used to it. Gladys understood. She listened with a smile on her thin lips and sipped her beer approvingly. This was why they were friends.

This was also when the Stranger entered the building. As a seedy bar, Ale’s Well was used to strangers. They had what you might call a diverse clientèle, the sort who didn’t ask questions and never gave easy answers when it came to who or what they were and which line of work they were in, exactly. It was fluid that way, a liminal space in which a person might become anyone or anything at all, no matter who they were on paper.

Unfortunately, liminality fit this Stranger like a corset two sizes too small. You could see the way their strongly defined character squeezed out in all the wrong places, from the set of their broad shoulders to the way their cloak swirled lyrically around their feet. Their boots were too expensive for this district despite having quite a bit of mud scraped from them before entering.

Reed and Gladys appeared not to notice the Stranger. There’s a trope in stories like these where the hero walks into the seedy tavern and everyone stops to look at them, silence falling like an anvil. That may happen sometimes, somewhere, but not this day and not here.

Instead, Reed repeated the throaty chorus of Gladys’s ballad, eyes squeezed shut, face tipped toward the sky. Gladys’s eyes remained fixed on him, her foot tapping ever so slightly.

That’s not to say the two of them didn’t notice the Stranger clomp across the room and plop down, on the seat right beside Gladys. Not even a stool in between them for courtesy. They were simply too smart to let the Stranger know they were on to them. The only indication that something was wrong was the way Gladys’s beer paused right below her lip, hovering unsipped.

“Hello, good Sir, Madam, or honored Friend!” the Stranger said to Gary in what was likely meant to be a real whisper, but came out as the stage variety instead.

The stage whisper should have been lost beneath Reed’s singing. Instead it cut a channel through the melodic screaming like hot water through butter. Gary responded with a tilt of his head. Gladys’s beer moved farther from her mouth.

The Stranger was handsome, perhaps even beautiful. She had a face that was all smooth, strong angles, with cheekbones high enough to build a defensive fort on. Her skin was the warm brown of perfectly steeped tea lit by a sunbeam, her voluminous black hair done into twists, partially pulled back above the ears. The ears themselves were laden with jewelry which, were it real gold, might earn the wearer a club over the head in this part of town.

Gary didn’t think anyone would club this person. Beneath a white linen tunic, her arms bulged with muscle. The shoulders they attached to were so broad as to be comical. Gary stopped thinking about his Favorite Employee hidden beneath the bar (a bat with nails in it) and decided it was in his best interest to play nice.

“What can I do y’for?” Gary asked in his best Customer Service voice, which was only a little less gruff than his usual.

The Stranger steepled her fingers thoughtfully. She pursed her full lips, then grinned and shrugged. The grin was meant to be casual, but the force of its charm pushed Gary back from the counter. Gladys put her beer down.

“Would you happen to have—I mean, you got a house special? Drink of course, but food, too, if it’s not too early,” the Stranger said.

Gary puffed out his chest. His regulars didn’t know the meaning of ‘house special,’ but he had one all right. From the bar he retrieved the cleanest glass he owned, which was only a little dusty, and filled it from a bottle whose label might have been considered vulgar in certain company. It had a squirrel on it in a compromising position and a pun on the word ‘nuts’ in the name, which Gary thought to be the highest echelon of humor. He couldn’t help a snicker as he set the deep brown ale with its frothy white top in front of the Stranger.

“Just a mo’ on the grub,” Gary said. “Don’t go downing that all’n one go. It’s a sipper, that one. Strong stuff.”

The Stranger picked up the glass and toasted it in Gary’s direction. “Understood, my good man. I trust your judgment.”

Gary beamed and headed into the kitchen, rubbing his calloused hands together in delight. It had been quite a while since he felt appreciated by anyone other than his mother, especially when it came to cooking.

Said mother had been slowly turning in her seat for the past few minutes, so as not to alert the Stranger to her interest. Reed, his knees sensing that trouble had indeed arrived, finished the ballad three verses early and set his lute to the side with a bow. Over in the corner, Old Kurt continued to pickle silently. No one paid him any mind.

The Stranger raised her glass to Reed, then set it down so she could, of all things, applaud. Vigorously. Reed was not so easily flattered as Gary, but he pretended to be, bowing again with added flourish. He held out a battered cap and the Stranger produced a silver coin, which she flicked expertly into the center of the hat.

“Don’t think I’ve heard music like that before,” the Stranger said. “So intense! What do you call it?”

Reed shrugged. “Hard to put a name to the purest expression of one’s soul,” he said. “If you’ve got suggestions, I’m all ears.”

He tugged on one ear, which was a sign to Gladys to play it cool. Reed wasn’t sure she saw it; her one eye was fixed on the Stranger. He hopped down from the stage and took the seat on the other side of the newcomer, albeit slowly. The ache in his knees had gone unpleasantly tingly. At least Gary had the decency to pick chairs with rungs on them so the Little Folk could climb up. With his wooden leg, Gary was more sensitive than most to the plight of inaccessible furniture.

The thing was, Reed recognized the Stranger. He had to stop himself from staring, as shocked as he was, but there was no mistaking her for anyone else. The Stranger did not seem to recognize Reed, and for that he was… grateful.

Reed held out his hand and the Stranger took it. Her grip was firm and warm. “I’m Reed Thorley. Haven’t seen you ‘round here before…?” He let his voice trail off into a question.

“Val,” said Emperor Consort Vallora the Undying Hero. “Yes, let’s go with that. You can call me Val.”

It was not unusual for someone to give a pseudonym in Ale’s Well That Ends Well, but the would-be impostors were usually a bit more clever about their choices. Reed stared at Vallora’s straight white teeth and wondered if the Emperor was playing a joke, if it was all meant to be transparent as a clean windowpane. It was impossible to tell.

“Pleasure to meet you, Val,” Reed replied. “Welcome to the pub.”