“Can we stop looking into missing people now?” Ellen asked after chugging an entire mug of wine at their usual table.

  The inn was far busier than usual, but Grom’s girlfriend had ensured their booth remained open for them. Ellen, Grom and Syril sat, discussing their potential plans with Bill taking the day off to recover from his actual-death-experience and Linar was off doing the gods only know what.

  He’d told them he had a side job, and had assured them it was “basically the opposite of theft.”

  They chose to let him leave without further inquiry.

  “We have to keep it up until there is another devil attack,” Syril—who was now magically disguised as a middle aged yet still handsome human and going by the name Raphiel—said.

  “Here’s another of the new dwarven ales my little molewinkle,” the waitress said with a wink at Grom, interrupting the conversation.

  “Thanks, me gem,” Grom said back taking the drink.

  “Wow, she really is a beard chaser isn’t she?” Syril said, watching her leave.

  “I started using a nickname for her and she got really excited that ‘our relationship had gotten to that point,’” Grom said, taking sip of his drink.

  “You need to break up with her,” Ellen said.

  “Forgive me if I don’t take relationship advice from you,” Grom said.

  “No, she’s right,” Syril agreed.

  “And you think you’re any better?”

  “I know what I want,” Syril said. “The women know what I want. There are never any illusions that what we share is going to be a long term arrangement. That’s called honesty. I thought that was one of Cland’s virtues.”

  Grom looked between them and then put his forehead on the table.

  “I know,” he admitted. “I need to end it.”

  “Then why don’t you?” Syril asked. “We can find a different place to stay, this place isn’t anything special—though your little gem is making it a lot nicer with Sal gone. Where is he by the way?”

  “I don’t want to,” Grom wined.

  “Why not?” Ellen asked. “And I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “I…” Grom began, “I think I love her.”

  “Ooo,” Syril and Ellen both said in unison, wincing.

  “But you don’t actually know her name,” Ellen said.

  “Oh really?” Grom said sitting up. “I’d forgotten about that small detail!”

  “Why don’t I look through Sal’s office,” Syril offered, “See if its written down anywhere.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Ellen said. “Maybe we’ll find a clue as to where he is as well.”

  “I don’t really miss him,” Syril said. “He always made me feel like a jerk for refusing the perform here.”

  “You are a jerk for refusing to perform here,” Grom said.

  “I have standard to uphold!” Syril said. “And besides, the whole in-hiding thing.”

  “Why don’t you perform now,” Ellen suggested, “And I’ll take the chance to go look through Sal’s things.”

  “Why?” Syril asked. “I can be sneaky. Linar doesn’t own sneaky.”

  “Yeah,” Ellen said, “But I can read faster than you.”

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  “How do you know that?” Syril said. “I went to college too.”

  At that, both Grom and Ellen let out barks of laughter.

  “What?” Syril asked.

  “ Bard college,” Ellen said, trying to stifle more laughter.

  “So?” Syril said. “Grom didn’t get any secondary schooling.”

  “Don’t bring me into this,” Grom said. “I think we all know I make poor life choices.”

  “What was the curriculum like at this ‘ college ?’” Ellen asked, using her fingers to make quotes in the air. “I saw the one in this city and I was not impressed.”

  “Singing, oration, music theory, harmonic magics, lore, you know, stuff like that,” Syril said.

  “And how many of those classes involved actually reading?” Ellen asked.

  Syril stopped to think, looking at the ceiling as if the answer was written up there.

  “Ummm,” he began. “The bardic tradition is more of an oral one…”

  “ Can you even read?” Ellen said, no longer holding in her laughter.

  “I can read!” Syril shouted.

  “Ya don’t need ta brag about it!” A drunk man at a nearby table shouted.

  “Fine,” Syril said. “I—or Rapheal—will provide a distraction and you can search Sal’s office. I’ve been working on a new song anyway that I don’t particularly want associated with my typical work.”

  Rapheal made his way to the front of the inn where a small, raised dais sat for entertainers to perform. Calling it a stage would be too generous, but he’d performed under more austere conditions.

  He took out his lute and strummed it, getting the attention of the whole tavern in an instant.

  There once was a dwarf,

  Drunken and coarse

  Who lived his life bottle to bottle

  He had a weird lump

  Back on his rump,

  That made his walk more of a waddle.

  As Raphael sang and Grom slouched even more in his booth—absentmindedly scratching at his rump and smelling his armpits at later lyrics—Ellen went toward the privy, turning invisible on the way before diverting to the back room.

  Newt popped into existence behind her in the form of a headless bat and flew up to the ceiling, hanging upside down to keep watch.

  The door to the office was locked, but Ellen knocked, letting her magic infuse the door at the contact. The locked opened with a click and she walked in, closing and locking it behind here.

  The room had far more papers than Ellen expected to find in an innkeeper’s office, despite her previous statement to Syril.

  With a heavy sigh, Ellen held up two fingers, one in front of each eye and pulled them away from her face, keeping one eye focused on each as a trick to split her vision. Once split, she waited a moment to gain her bearings before summoning four unseen servants. The invisible figures manifested on the desk and immediately began riffling through the stacks of papers, holding them up to Ellen to read in rapid succession before neatly stacking them again. With each eye reading independently of the other.

  The papers on the desk were mostly shipping invoices for the supplies of the inn. While Ellen was no expert on the nuances of running a small business, she was fairly certain no inn of this size would use the amount of salt that he’d ordered. And while she was no expert on inns, she was an expert on magical reagents, and she was extremely certain no inn of any size needed phase spider silk or candles made with the blood of monsters slain in battle.

  She had her servants tuck a few of the most alarming sheets in her bag, before quickly scanning the rest of the office for any signs of the waitress’ name, but came up empty. She banished her servants, brought a finger to her nose to refocus her vision, and walked out of the office just in time to hear the end of Raphael’s song.

  “Booo!” came the loud familiar dwarven jeer, followed by a begrudged but polite round of applause.

  When the applause died down, a particularly enthusiastic patron yelled,

  “Play Storm Crow!”

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