A Night toRemember

It was a night to remember.¹1

At least, that’s what everyone kept telling me.

Several patrons of the Cock & Swallow had stopped me afterward to congratulate me on what they described as the finest musical performance they’d witnessed in years. One particularly enthusiastic gentleman even pressed a chit into my palm, redeemable for a free beer at the local brothel.

A brothel that served free beer! What a marvelous city.

I’d arrived in Uptown with a bagpipe guitar and songs that deserved a much better singer. I intended to become that singer eventually. In the meantime, I had discovered that a sufficiently enthusiastic crowd could do a great deal of the work for me.

The song was called A Cock in Every Hand, and it went something like this:

I met a lass at the Cock & Swallow,
Said, “Come upstairs, and I shall follow!”
She grabbed my purse, I grabbed her rear,
We both got screwed, but I bought the beer!

The crowd had absolutely lost their fucking minds.

By the time I reached the chorus, half the tavern was on its feet, mugs raised, singing along with the enthusiastic confidence of people who had only just learned the words.

HEY HO! UP WE GO!
Pants come down and the ale must flow!
Raise your cocks and drain your sacks,
If you can’t get laid, then pay your tax!

HEY HO! DOWN WE FALL!
There’s no saints at the Cock & Swallow!

The applause had been thunderous. Drinks were spilled, tables were beaten, and several people demonstrated that they understood the lyrics far too literally.

I’d earned a hundred and fifty jades for my trouble. A hundred and fifty! That was more money than I’d ever made doing anything that didn’t involve manual labor or a deeply questionable understanding of personal property.²2

Even the innkeeper had been moved by my performance. He’d offered me a room for the night, free of charge, declaring that I’d made him feel things he hadn’t felt in years.

I chose not to ask which things.

For the first time since leaving Redfork, I felt like I was actually getting somewhere. The big city wasn’t going to swallow me whole. No, sir. I was going to make something of myself. I was going to become a proper bard, write songs that people remembered, and perhaps someday perform somewhere that didn’t smell quite so strongly of piss.

I was on top of the world.

Which made waking up in a pile of manure all the more surprising.

The smell woke me first. Growing up in Redfork had given me a working acquaintance with manure. Usually, though, there was a shovel between us.

This was a much closer acquaintance.

Something was clucking beside my ear, and my pillow had begun scratching my cheek. I opened one eye to find a chicken looking back at me.

“Morning,” I croaked. It blinked, unimpressed by a voice that had earned good money only hours earlier.

I opened the other eye.

“Oh, fuck me.”

I was in a barn.³3

Not a particularly unpleasant barn, as barns go, but a barn nonetheless. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the wooden walls, illuminating drifting motes of dust and what I sincerely hoped were ordinary bits of hay. Twelve chickens wandered around me, pecking at the floor with the purposeful indifference of creatures that had seen worse.

A slugraptor stood nearby. Beside it lay an enormous pile of jade.

“Holy fucking shit.”

I sat upright, immediately regretted it, and clutched my throbbing head. My mouth tasted like something had crawled inside during the night, taken a shit, and died of embarrassment.

The jade remained where it was: three hundred pieces, by my reckoning. My own purse still held the thirty I’d brought with me and the hundred and fifty I’d earned. This pile was extra.⁴4

I began counting again, just to enjoy reaching the end. A chicken pecked at my boot.

“Not now. I’m doing sums.”

I tried to remember how I’d gotten there. I could recall the Cock & Swallow, the applause, the innkeeper offering me a room. Someone had handed me another drink.

After that, not a single blessed fucking thing.

And then a far more troubling realization struck me.

WHERE THE FUCK IS RUFUS?⁵5

“Rufus!” I spun around, sending a chicken squawking into the air. Something warm and furry brushed my hand, and I yelped almost as loudly.

My splatcat had been beside me all along, tucked into a mound of hay. He stretched, unfolding six legs from a body that had looked quite incapable of storing them, then pushed his head under my palm.

“Oh, thank the gods.”

I scratched behind his ears. He purred until I tried to check him for injuries, at which point he put a paw against my nose and resumed washing himself.

“Fine. You’re having a better morning than I am.”

With Rufus accounted for, I could turn my attention to the gap in my memory. Sitting among the chickens wasn’t helping.

There was only one reasonable course of action.

I would discover what happened last night.⁶6

I would retrace my steps, unravel the mystery, and uncover whatever unspeakable sequence of events had brought me to this peculiar little corner of the world.

I was a bard, after all. An adventurer. A man of ambition and considerable intellectual curiosity.

A man who—

I looked down.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Where were my pants?⁷7

I searched beneath the hay, behind the slugraptor, and around the jade. I even shooed the chickens aside to check where they’d been standing. In Redfork, anything left on the ground was liable to become a nest.

My pants were gone.

My bagpipe guitar lay miraculously intact among the rest of my belongings. While checking behind it, I noticed the slugraptor’s saddle.

I recognized that saddle.

It was the very same leather saddle Annali had given me when I’d left Redfork, along with a handsome set of reins.

At the time, I’d pointed out what I considered to be a fairly significant oversight.

“I haven’t got a mount,” I’d told her.

“You’ll figure it out,” she’d replied.

Apparently, I had.

I decided to call him Steve. It was a reassuringly ordinary name for an animal I couldn’t explain.

“Steve,” I told him. “Unless you’ve any objections.”

He went on chewing.

I turned my attention to the more immediate problem.

There I stood, wearing a white tunic, leather boots, and absolutely nothing between the waist and my knees.

Well, not nothing.

But nothing I particularly wanted swinging about in public.

I glanced toward the barn doors. A gentle morning breeze wandered through the opening, bringing with it the refreshing sensation of air upon regions that had not consented to an outdoor excursion.

“Lovely.”

Fortunately, I still had my scarf. A human would have needed a tablecloth; being a Dweller had its advantages. With several awkward adjustments, I managed to wrap it around my waist.

A kilt. I would call it a kilt, and if anyone asked, I would invent a tradition to go with it.

I tested a cautious step. The tradition would have to discourage dancing.

“Good enough.”

I gathered my belongings, packed away the jade, and secured what I could to the slugraptor.

Through the open barn doors, I could see a handsome farmhouse a short distance away. It was well maintained, solidly built, and possessed the unmistakable air of a property owned by someone with enough money to be unpleasant about it.

Perhaps whoever lived there had seen me arrive. With luck, they might even know where I’d left my trousers.

I kept one hand on the scarf all the way to the farmhouse. At the porch, I straightened my tunic and knocked on the lower panel of the door.

No answer. I was about to try again when I heard footsteps inside, with long pauses between them. I had time to adjust the scarf twice before the door creaked open.

An elderly orc woman stood over me. She looked as though she’d personally witnessed the invention of agriculture and found it deeply disappointing.⁸8

She was a hulking creature, green-skinned and generously proportioned, with a broad face that suggested a lifetime spent disapproving of things. Her clothes appeared respectable enough, though they were damp with sweat. In fact, she was sweating so profusely that I briefly wondered whether the farmhouse was on fire.

She looked distinctly unwell.

Her breathing was labored, her movements stiff, and her expression resembled that of someone who’d just swallowed a live toad.

I took a discreet step backward.

“Good morning, madam! My name is Rickon. Lovely property you’ve got here.”

She stared down at me. I held my smile and tried the sort of compliment that usually got a conversation started back home.

“Very impressive barn.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Fine chickens, too.”

One eyelid twitched. I had exhausted my knowledge of her farm without finding a safe subject.

“Erm. I was wondering whether you might remember anything unusual happening around here last night?”

“Unusual?”

Her voice sounded like gravel being dragged across more gravel.

“Yes, well, you see—”

“What’s unusual?”

“That’s rather what I’m trying to establish.”⁹9

A bead of sweat rolled down her cheek while I searched for a better explanation. The scarf chose that moment to loosen.

“Perhaps a little commotion? Some noise? A slugraptor arriving unexpectedly? A handsome young fellow wandering about looking terribly confused?”

“Who?”

“Just hypothetically.”

Her gaze settled on the scarf. I tightened it with what I hoped looked like a deliberate flourish.

“Fashion,” I explained.¹⁰10

She continued looking at the knot.

“Anyway, I seem to have misplaced a few things, and I thought perhaps—”

“Who the fuck are you?”

“Rickon, madam. As I mentioned.”

“What do you want?”

A reasonable question. Unfortunately, I was increasingly unsure of the answer.

I glanced past her into the house. It looked just as prosperous inside as it did from the road.

Then I thought of the jade I’d just packed away.

Oh, fuck.

What if it was hers?

What if I’d stolen it?

What if she’d been robbed in the night and here I was, standing on her porch, half-naked, politely requesting information about the crime?

I could practically hear the conversation with the city watch.

And what made you suspect the accused?

Well, officer, he arrived without trousers and immediately began asking whether I’d noticed anything stolen.

Best to change the subject.

“Actually,” I said brightly, “never mind all that. Are you feeling quite all right?”

She blinked.

I gestured vaguely toward her face.

“You seem a little, well… warm.”

Her expression hardened.

“Warm?”

“Not in an unattractive way, of course. Just rather perspiry.”

“Perspiry?”

“Yes. Sweaty. Damp. Moist, even.”

The word moist appeared to cause her particular offense.

I pressed on, idiot that I was.

“I only ask because you seem a touch under the weather. Is there anything I might do to help?”¹¹11

Her nostrils flared, and her knuckles tightened around the cane she was leaning on. I waited for some acknowledgment of my concern.

It arrived at a volume I could only envy.

“HELP?”

I flinched.

“Well, yes—”

“YOU THINK SILVYR THIGH SMASHER NEEDS YOUR FUCKING HELP?”

Silvyr Thigh Smasher. A name that would practically write its own ballad, if I survived long enough to ask whether it was hereditary or earned.

“Not at all, Mistress Thigh Smasher. I merely—”

“IN MY DAY, WE DIDN’T GO BEGGING STRANGERS FOR HELP!”

“Of course not.”

“WE HELPED OUR FUCKING SELVES!”

“Admirable.”

She jabbed her cane toward me.

“YOU KNOW HOW MANY MEN I’VE PUT ON THEIR ARSES WITH THESE HANDS?”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“MORE THAN YOU’VE HAD HOT DINNERS!”

“That does sound like a great many.”

“AND HALF OF THEM BEGGED ME TO DO IT AGAIN!”

I opened my mouth, reconsidered, and let her continue.

“BACK WHEN I WAS YOUNG, A MAN KNEW BETTER THAN TO SHOW UP AT A WOMAN’S DOOR WITH HIS BALLS DANGLING BENEATH A BLOODY SCARF!”

I glanced down. The scarf had slipped.

“Ah. Yes. Terribly sorry.” I hauled it back into place.

“BACK THEN, IF YOU WANTED TO SEE A MAN’S COCK, YOU MADE HIM BUY YOU DINNER FIRST!”

“Very sensible custom.”

“AND YOU DIDN’T NEED SOME LITTLE SHIT TELLING YOU WHEN YOU WERE SICK!”

“Quite right.”

“OR ASKING IF YOU NEEDED HELP!”

“Of course.”

“I’M SILVYR FUCKING THIGH SMASHER!”

“So I’ve gathered.”

“I DON’T NEED HELP FROM ANYONE!”

“An admirable philosophy, madam.”

“ESPECIALLY NOT SOME HALF-DRESSED LITTLE PISSANT WITH A FACE LIKE A SHAVED ARSE!”

I bowed.

“An excellent point.”

She raised the cane to the level of my face. I had answers for hecklers; I was less prepared for this. I backed away.

“Well, it has been an absolute pleasure making your acquaintance, Mistress Thigh Smasher.”

“GET OFF MY FUCKING PROPERTY!”

“Immediately.”

“AND PUT SOME FUCKING TROUSERS ON!”

“Working on it!”

I attempted a farewell bow while backing down the porch steps. The scarf pulled tight across my knees, and I had to finish the maneuver sideways.

Silvyr followed me as far as the doorway, shaking her cane with righteous fury.

“IN MY DAY, MEN HAD THE DECENCY TO KEEP THEIR LITTLE PRICKS TO THEMSELVES!”

“Sound advice!”

“AND WE DIDN’T HAVE ALL THIS FUCKING NONSENSE ABOUT HELPING PEOPLE!”

“Quite!”

“YOU HEAR ME, BOY?”

“Loud and clear!”

I reached the slugraptor and hauled myself into the saddle, briefly presenting Silvyr with a view that renewed her objections. Rufus scrambled up behind me and dug his claws into my tunic. With both of us securely attached, I urged the animal down the trail.

Behind me, Silvyr Thigh Smasher was still yelling about the younger generation and proper courtship. She was beginning an account involving a cabbage, three sailors, and a chamber pot when we rounded the bend.

Under other circumstances, I would have stayed for the ending.

The farmhouse disappeared behind the trees, though I could have sworn her voice carried on for another quarter mile.

And just like that, I was on the road again.

Whatever the fuck had happened last night, I intended to find out.

But first, I really needed some pants.