Their formula was well practiced. They rehearsed the act while traveling between destinations. He had taught her Thieves’ Cant—the subtle language of communicating in code favored by criminals throughout Venn. With lodging at the nearby White Horse Inn, even the practical logistics of Teffel’s third rule of Modern Thievery had been considered—A clever fox never hunts in its own den.

  It was all planned to the finest detail. The sequence of activities had a prescribed order: perform first, accept what they give, then take what they don’t, while probing for information somewhere in between.

  A twinge of guilt hit him as he looked at her across the table. I know she’d rather be back in Buhlent at Bard College.

  “Just one big score, and we’ll be done with all this. I promise.”

  Her smile was tight-lipped and somewhat forced. Honestly, for a professional observer, he can be so daft sometimes!

  “I know,” she hesitated. “At least we’re making music this time, and not just pickpocketing on the streets.”

  Her tone pivoted effortlessly, returning to the business at hand. “A fair bit of darby among the pigeons here tonight. Green hat has the bourg front left, red beard on the right, six o’clock,” she offered in observation, the brogue dripping in exaggeration.

  Surprised by her willingness to let it go, for the moment at least, Bird also refocused on the room.

  With a slow turn back toward the bar, Bird spotted several patrons with visible bulges in their clothing, suggesting many potential targets. Without changing expression, he focused on the table directly behind him. Two men, one with a green hat, and a considerable bulge in the fabric of his tunic above his left hip. The second, sporting a full, red beard, showed a similar protrusion on the right side. Casually turning back to Whydah, the right corner of his upper lip stretched into a half-smile, only visible to her, he delivered a series of slow, shallow nods.

  “I’ll make a rum bob out of you yet, my friend!” The cat raised his eyebrows. “Remember, no rust tonight; keep your eyes open for tin or yellow.”

  She flashed him a single pointed look, daring him to explain further.

  And there’s that word again—‘friend’. Ugh.

  “I’m well aware. I thought you might have to try paying for the lamb with buttons. I was ready!” Whydah smirked, referencing her ability to cast an appropriate illusion.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time!” he quipped.

  The two continued to debrief on the various marks and targets around the bar for the next few minutes before Bird got up and left the pub under the guise of relieving himself. His real purpose, however, was to scout the backside of the building. Always find a backup exit…just in case. Closely facing the pub’s rear wall and fully playing the part, he clocked the kitchen door already propped open to mitigate the heat. It’s a short run from there to the woods. That’ll do.

  He gave Whydah a barely perceptible nod as he returned to the table, communicating more with the deliberate blinking of his eyes than head movement. They were in good shape.

  As if waiting for him to return, Gella bustled to their table in a flurry, two plates of food in tow. They watched her deftly and quickly maneuver her way from the kitchen, through the crowd, with practiced competence.

  “Two specials?” she asked breathlessly, settling beside their table.

  Whydah smiled and adjusted her posture to lean back in her chair, making room for the plate in front of her.

  “That’s us.”

  “You’re the musicians—right?”

  “Well, I am, he tells stories.”

  Totally judgment-free this time.

  Gella’s head came up as she considered the response.

  “Separately, or at the same time?”

  “Same time.”

  “That’s different. So, the music and the story go together.” She turned to Bird, slightly puzzled. “But you’re not singing?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sounds interesting. I haven’t seen that before!” Gella smiled. “I’ve got a bit of a break in the rush, so I’m going to get you guys all set up now. Should be done by the time you’ve finished your meal.”

  “Thank you,” Whydah smiled. Gella gave a brief nod and navigated her return journey to the kitchen as deftly as she had come.

  Silence fell between the two travelers as they tucked into their meal, hungrier than they recognized, and pleasantly surprised by the savory nature of the lamb. True to her word, Gella began shuffling extra chairs, empty barrels, and small sacks of dry goods to re-expose the stage floor at The Barrel’s east end. Her activities drew a few curious looks from those who hadn’t heard her father’s earlier announcement. Their heads swiveled around to identify the reason for her activity.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Whydah lifted her head after gobbling the last of her potatoes to see Bird already reclined, smoothing his whiskers, the plate empty in front of him.

  “Looks like we’re almost up,” she nodded over his left shoulder.

  He sighed, “As much as I would rather keep my butt right here on this bench, I suppose it’s part of why we’re here—the family needs their monthly stipend. Open with the origin story as usual?”

  “Works for me. I’m thinking lute tonight—they look like a lute sort of crowd.”

  Thank Gond she didn’t choose the pipes!

  Whydah was a master of multiple instruments, always carrying a lute, a harp, and a strange wind-powered device called the bagpipes. Unfamiliar to his feline ears, he found them harsh and their melody stilted. Thankfully, they didn’t come out very often. The lute was the perfect choice tonight. Her masterful resonance and volume control (unlike those pipes!) meshed seamlessly with the build of his tales and acoustic manipulation.

  The audience had grown somewhat since their arrival. Bird estimated nearly thirty-five people at the tables or milling by the bar. His heart rate elevated to its usual pre-performance rhythm. This was his true calling. He was often a thief, sometimes an assassin, but he was always a showman. There was nothing quite like the feeling of the crowd's adoration, the applause, the laughter.

  With the smiling nod from Egon as he moved past them from the bar, they took their cue to follow. Emptying their horns and grabbing their packs, the pair fell in line behind him towards the now spacious stage area. Showtime!

  Whydah carefully freed her lute from its strap on the outside of her backpack, and Bird did a couple of vocal warm-up exercises as Egon took center stage and got the crowd’s attention.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen!” he repeated a couple of times in increasing volume to bring all eyes to him. “We have a very special treat for you tonight, professional troubadours!” A mild murmur and sporadic applause rose from the now attentive crowd.

  “Please give them a big Barrel welcome!” Egon started the applause immediately adopted by several patrons. The tabby smiled. An easy room. Wonderful.

  Egon stepped aside as Bird took center stage.

  His feline grin was on full display.

  His energy was up.

  His movement—exaggerated.

  “Let’s give it up for our gracious host, Mr. Barrel, and the finest server this side of the Glimmerstones—Gella!” Bird returned the favor of starting the applause, and the crowd responded directly. Get them to applaud their friends first. It always makes the transition easier.

  “My name is Bird, and my diminutive soloist is called Whydah.” He made a flourishing gesture to his partner, who had now taken up a seated position to his left, lute in hand.

  “Don’t let her size fool you, though; she can shred that lute like an ogre on a pony!” A few chuckles, not bad.

  “I see the confusion on some of your faces. Yes, I am a Tabby,” Bird exaggeratedly stroked his whiskers. “And yes, you heard me correctly, my name is Bird. Singing Bird, in fact.” He paused briefly. “In my culture, we use only the second name in a familiar greeting, so please, call me Bird. Only my mother uses my full name…usually when she’s unhappy with me.” More laughs.

  “Despite the foreshadowing of my name, I won’t be singing for you tonight.” Hold the pause for suspense. “What we do would be better described as storytelling done to music. Hopefully, you will find it both amusing and entertaining, and if so, we would greatly appreciate any generosity you feel appropriate!”

  He spun an old felt hat he had been holding into the air, landing it three feet beyond the edge of the stage area. On cue, Whydah started repeating a lazy, five-note melody on the lute, tapping the instrument’s body in between to establish a slow beat in rhythm to the music.

  Oh yeah! There’s the juice!

  Bird immediately felt the familiar magical rush that accompanied her music when she chose. His confidence, already high, swelled euphorically. His head cleared, and his focus sharpened. Regardless of the circumstances, whether in a fight, a delicate negotiation, or, like today, when delivering a performance, Whydah’s musical inspiration always took him to another level.

  “Now, with the introductions out of the way, let me tell you a bit about how a dashing, young tabby like myself came to be performing for pub coins in the Kingdom of Shan. Believe it or not, performing arts were not my first calling...”

  He paused dramatically, letting the melody repeat before resuming.

  “I used to be a bit of a burglar and a pretty good one at that, until one job where I was asked to steal a horn rumored to have magical properties… of a phallic nature… if you know what I mean!”

  Matching his tempo to Whydah’s wandering lute, Bird made an exaggerated gesture just below his waist and received a few salacious interjections from the crowd.

  “This particular horn happened to belong to a truly reprehensible human being we’ll call... Lord Snobble Pompington.”

  Laughter and some applause. Nothing galvanizes a working-class audience faster than an entitled, rich antagonist. I’ve almost got them.

  “Wealthy? Absolutely. Powerful? Unquestionably. You see, his father, Pompington senior, just happened to be one of the political elder statesmen of my fair city. A real servant of the people. Junior, however, contributed absolutely nothing to society and spent evenings drinking and carousing, courting any creature with a pulse and the appropriate…equipment.” The tabby raised his cupped hands to his chest, simulating the presence of breasts—more laughter.

  “He used his stature as a tool of coercion and a means of avoiding the consequences of his words and actions. Needless to say, he left a wake of bitter and resentful, if sexually satisfied, females littered across the city’s noble community.”

  His verbal articulation was flawless. His timing with the melody was impeccable. Adding her spell to his delivery, the local rabble wouldn’t stand a chance.

  “And that’s where I come in….”

  For the next twenty minutes, the feline troubadour expertly spun his yarn.

  Whydah deftly adjusted her melody in volume, composition, and cadence. As he built the suspense leading up to the burglary, her picking danced in a soft, speedy compliment.

  The crowd hung on the edge of their seats.

  As he reached the climax of being unable to resist blowing the magical horn and being stunned by the awkward ‘growing’ outcome its magic produced, she slid a hammer note up the neck that mimicked the described effect. By the time he described the opposite effect simultaneously befalling poor Snobble (mid-tryst, no less!), they were falling off their chairs.

  The tale finished where it began, with the same lazy melody.

  Time to bring it home with the sympathy play.

  “…and that is why I fled my home for these fair shores and began life anew as a humble performer.”

  His head bowed in resignation as he let the last few words tumble from his lips. Whydah struck the final note in perfect time.

  The crowd roared in appreciation. Without lifting his head from the dramatic finish, Bird felt a strong sense of accomplishment, and involuntarily, his lips spread into a cat-like grin. He could see and hear coins being added to the hat on the floor. Tonight’s “Give” would be strong.

  It remained to be seen how bountiful the “Take” portion of their formula would be.

  The Glimmerstone Enigma?

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