The digits of the bard caressed the six strings of his guitar, downward, almost as if he touched a lover. Each string made the perfect note, the one that was just right – he made sure to tune it to perfection before getting on stage. His head was already pleasantly swimming from the wine he drank early. He was ready to play, he allowed himself to feel the strings on his calloused fingers once more…







The sounds and sights of the Sleeping Son tavern was akin to that of the city it belonged, albeit more condensed: the indistinct sound of many people conversing in the same time in different languages accompanied by the clinking of glasses and the thumping of tankards, which fit the figure of the distinctly clothed people there like a puzzle. Most of them wore working clothes, some the colorful clothes of merchants, all of different colors, but some of them wore robes and turbans. One could easily spot a handful of fellows covered in armor. Many had the pale skin of the people of Villettes or the Empire, but it was not hard to see people with the brown skin of Amani, some red skin that denoted a not so godly ancestry, or the olive skin of Olivares; just like the musician that grazed the strings.







He was a young man, with athletic, slender build, long, wild chestnut colored hair, and a rakish beard covering his handsome face. His clothes were the ones he wore for the day to day – a wine red silk shirt with a leather vest on top, a duelist cloak clasped with an elaborate broach in the form of a guitar, comfortable pants held by a belt, which normally held his weapons, and good leather boots. His felt hat, which sported an ostrich feather, was in front of him, willing to take tips.He opened his merry green eyes and licked his lips; he was ready. The vocalization he made was lost on the murmur on the crowd, but its effects weren’t: when he strummed the strings, the sound was amplified, enough for the clienteles to turn their heads and give him his full attention.







The bard gave them a grin white as snow, and began to strum with a passion normally reserved for lovemaking under the effect of drugs. The notes were like a thunder that resounded into the hearts and minds of the listeners. Only when he began to sing, however, was then when he reached their very souls:







“One, two! Let’s drink more of that brew!



Three, four! Give me a room and a whore!



Five, six! There goes the rat and his tricks!



Seven, eight! I’ll soon fight the one I hate!



Nine, ten! Now let’s go climb the ben!”







Ssoon, as everyone picked up what song it was, they stomped, waved their flagons, and even sang along to the song. Everyone was having fun; none more than the one performing it, who banged his head, sending his long hair in all directions. Everyone in the tavern followed with the chorus:







“The Hands of the Gods, the hearts of men!



The beards of dwarves and all the nerves!



Blood of elves and then ourselves!



Everywhere that you see and go!



You’ll never want us as your foe!”







The ancient song, composed by a bard of a mercenary company that disbanded long ago, called the Hands of the Gods, was perhaps the only reason they were remembered in the first place. Yet everyone that spoke a Gladius-derived language knew and loved the first two verse and the chorus – one was supposed to fill out the rest of the song, which was a testament of the author’s creativity, or lack of thereof.







“Now the booze is running fast



And everyone is having a blast



But remember an important act:



To always tip the bard!







The music was also filled with his own brand of magic: he linked himself to the crowd, molding their emotions like clay, obtaining the result he wanted: it was mostly to bring out the general enjoyment… which would translate into more generous tips.







“The Hands of the Gods, the hearts of men!



The beards of dwarves and all the nerves!



Blood of elves and then ourselves!



Everywhere that you see and go!



You’ll never want us as your foe!”







And on went for a couple of nonsensical verses later. There was a round of applause, and the musician made an overly exaggerated bow, just to see if people put something in his feathered felt hat. He was pleased to see that they did.







His left hand got in position for another opening chord, but he saw someone approaching him. He smiled softly, “Kaitlin, my dear, I thought this was your day off and I would have to flirt with Wilhelm!”







He looked her up and down, drinking on her figure. Her hair was dirty blond, tied on a short ponytail, showing off the pointy ears. She was tall, but her face and hips were somewhat round. Saying she was fat would be exaggerating, but she was probably the most plump an elf could be.







She snorted, “You’ve been away for a long time, Gilberto. Wilhelm quit because he found a wife, and now I have to cover his shift until we find someone else you can bother.”







Gilberto shrugged, “Pity. I enjoyed him, but you know you’re my favorite.”







“I’m sure you tell that to every boy, girl or whatever that serves you any kind of drink”, she said, as she handed him a glass tankard filled with amber liquid, “This is on the house. The boss is really glad to see you again… and so am I”, her smile on her lips gave everything away, “It’s good to know that you don’t feel you’re too important for us.”







“You know I will always remember where I began, and who gave me my chances”, he put down the guitar at the side of his chair and grabbed the tankard. After taking a long drink, he grabbed the elf by the waist, “Gnome stout? Not bad…”







The waitress giggled and pushed him away, “Not now, Gil. I’m working. Later, alright? After we…”, her mouth remained open when she turned her head, then it became hard and angry, “Bleh, those bastards…”







Gilberto raised an eyebrow, “Is everything alright?”







“Yes, it’s just these assholes that have been here every day for the past week, badmouthing everyone, and leaving terrible tips”, she seemed more annoyed than angry at this point, “I just heard someone say the words ‘knife eared fatass bitch’, and I just know it was one of them”, she pointed at the table, right in the middle of the room.







Gilberto’s eyes followed her finger, to the table. Without thinking much about it, he drained the tankard in one long gulp, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, “Watch out for my hat, my tips and my guitar. I’ll be back in a bit…”







“Gilberto, it’s fine, you don’t have to-“, Kaitlin’s exasperated tone fell into deaf ears as he went straight to the rude patrons, “You fucking ass…”







In the table, there were three men. All of them wore silk shirts, damask vests and dark cloaks with their hoods down. They were talking to each other in Arthurian, with three empty glasses in front of them, and an unopened bottle in the middle of the table. They remained silent when the bard took a seat on their table, “Good afternoon, gentlemen”, he said in perfect Arthurian, although with a heavy Olivar accent.







“Shouldn’t you be on the stage?”, asked the one in the middle; a young man in his early twenties, with short, black hair and thin features.







“I should, indeed, but I love to talk to my lovely audience. Since they’re busy, however, I decided to talk to you fuckwards”, he said with a cheeky grin.







One of men on the side, a big, intimidating pile of muscle, stood up, “You little shit, who the fuck do you think you are?“







The bard made a small curtsy on his chair, “I’m glad you ask. My name is Rhapsodist Gilberto Passeri de Florinda. Everyone calls me the Painted Songbird however, or the Bard of Florinda.”







“The Bard of Florinda”, the man repeated, deadpan, “There aren’t any more bards in that damn place?”







“There are, yes. But I’m just the best of them”, Truly, he thought himself as the best musician in the world, but it wouldn’t do to look like too much of a show-off.







The dark haired young man in the middle scratched his chin, “Gilberto Passeri… I know you. You have played in the Royal Imperial Theatre and then en the Imperial Court, did you? Then, what the fuck are you doing playing in a place like this?”







“Oh, so you’re of Arthurian nobility”, he realized. He stroked his beard, but his expression didn’t change, “We’re all far from home, aren’t we? And well, it so happens that I play wherever the hell I please”, he had won that right, he believed. There was no place where his music was unwelcome.







“Then get the fuck off and get back to playing”, said finally the third one, a more slender man, but still bigger than the one in the middle.







The Painted Songbird looked at each of them, as if measuring them, and then looked at the bottle of clear liquid in the table. He took it, uncorked it and took a long whiff of the contents, “Ahh, spiced gin… not a bad choice. You three have good taste…”, he then brought the bottle to his lips. The three Arthurians looked wide eyed as the liquid was drained from the bottle into the bard’s gullet, and how his apple bobbed as he swallowed, without breathing. Patrons from nearby tables took notice of it and stared in a mix of horror and awe.







Once the bottle was empty, he slammed it in the table and looked at the one in the middle with green fire on his eyes, “I heard you were talking shit about a woman I fancy. Either you stop it, you pompous son of a bitch, or I’m turning you into a fucking pasta colander. What do you have to say to that?”







The jaw of the man on the far left seemed about to hit the floor, and the one in the right sat down slowly. The one in the middle, still unable to believe what he just witnessed, swallowed and quietly said, “S-sorry…”







“Thought so. I better not hear any more complains”, satisfied, Gilberto stood up and began walking back to the stage; his years of experience in being incredibly drunk making him know how to dissimulate the sway of his steps. He thought he played better with a couple of drinks on him, anyway. Dozens of eyes were on him, and the room was silent enough that you could hear a pin drop – so silent, in fact, that he could hear a whisper clearly:







“That’s right, go away, you fucking toreador…”







He stopped on his tracks, and those who understood what he just said gasped in horror. It was a good thing he had to deliver his weapons at the entrance; otherwise he would have killed him where he stood. Instead, he turned, smiled at him, clasped his hands together, and with the calmest voice in the world, ever so slightly slurred by the alcohol on his system, he challenged him to a duel.







---







At a distance, the Denisse Palace’s bell in the clock tower marked the fifth hour of the afternoon, just one hour before sunset. The city of Tuvache was bustling with activity; people going about their business through the wide cobbled streets, passing the dark brick buildings with squared roofs and dark glass windows to keep out the sun, ignoring the crowd of curious sadists that went out of the tavern and into the plaza where the affair was going to take place.







In the kingdom of Villette, duels were technically legal, as long as certain regulations and laws were followed, like to not to duel in public ways. Those regulations and laws, however, were hardly enforced, and only if some bystander got hurt by a stray bullet or a rogue blade or if anybody got killed. However, if such thing happened, a royal pardon was often issued, after a review by the royal chamber.







Gilberto stood, blades in hand, with the sureness of a man that had danced with Catrinabefore – and actually kissed herpassionately. Ever so dramatic, he named his weapons Victoria and Nicholas; a rapier and left hand dagger with engraved guards; as much of works of art as they were deadly weapons. He had fire in his green eyes and a song on his lips.In Olivares, the place where he was born and raised, duels were not only legal, but ingrained in their culture, and even had designated areas across the various city-states. Even the king, queen, and whoever ruled the city-states with whatever title they wanted to use could duel, and if you were hurt or worse by standing on the wrong spot, tough luck.







As a second, he picked a woman named Jeanette, who invited him a drink earlier and saw the whole commotion, and who seemed just a bit less drunk than him. As the medic, they picked one of the adventurers, named Luc, a cleric of Barbiel, that were drinking in the tavern, and who seemed to be more or less sober.







His opponent had a sabre in his hand – except for the polished knuckle guard and the engraved pommel, it was a pretty standard weapon, almost discreet. His mouth was curved in a sly smile as he told his second, one of his companions, how they use the dark haired musician’s tip money to buy a round of drinks after his victory. He laughed, his companions laughed, and there were even a few chuckles from the expectant crowd that formed. Even Gilberto chuckled. He didn’t even know the name of his opponent, or even cared, for that matter, but he would make him remember his name for the rest of his life.







The dark haired noble waved his hand and his second moved away. He got in position, with his arm sideways holding the sabre, ready to make a quick strike. Gilberto stretched, and pointed his rapier at him, with his dagger above his forearm to deflect incoming blows.







They looked at each other’s eyes for a moment, evaluating one another, waiting for a weak spot or an opening. The noble spotted one – he stepped and stabbed at his neck.







Up went the dagger, catching the sabre on its guard, and as Gil stepped, to his right; the edge of Victoria caught his opponent’s on the other side, and making level with force, forced the young man to drop the weapons. There was a gasp from the crowd, and the eyes of the losing duelist went wide as he saw his weapon on the floor, and then the point of the enemy’s sword aiming at his neck. He raised his hands.







Gilberto circled him, like a wolf about to jump against a wounded deer. He hummed a quiet tune as he decided what to do with the man that insulted him…







With a quick movement of his body, the tip of his blade pierced cloth, flesh and muscle.







He let out a yelp of terror and pain as the point of the weapon bit against his bicep. With the cold steel still on the wound, Gil talked to the young boy with a calm tone, as if he was talking to an spoiled child, “I’ve had verses that lasted longer than you; you don’t serve for this. Go home. Go kiss your mom. Go hug your dad. Do whatever you do. And don’t ever let me see you again, understood?”, only then did he pull back the weapon; its sharp point was covered in blood.







There were murmurs in the crowd as Gilberto sheathed the dagger on the scabbardlocated under his kidneys, and then cleaned the point of the sword with a handkerchief he produced from his pocket. He didn’t even know the boy’s name, but he was young – young and stupid, as he once was. That’s why he was easy on him; that injury merely needed medicine and bandages. He was just teaching a valuable lesson: that if you insulted someone, it was better than you had the skill to defend yourself.







As soon as the rapier was clean and he sheathed it on his side, ready to walk back to the Sleeping Son and finish his performance, he heard a shout: “Y-you bastard! Armand, Gunther, kill him!”







Gil didn’t have time to turn when he heard a gunshot, loud as a cannon, and felt a sharp, burning tinge of pain on the side of his arm. There was the sound of screaming, then a body hitting the floor, and then more screaming followed by feet on cobblestones.







The musician looked downward and saw Jeanette, dead, with a bleeding hole oozing lifeblood on her chest, and an expression of surprise on her face, and then turned to see his aggressors. With his left hand, he pulled the parrying dagger from his sheath and jumped a dancer’s leap towards his attacker.







The bigger man dropped the smoking pistol on his hand, but before he could produce the sword from his sheath, Armand found himself with a handful of razor sharp steel on his chest, right up his heart. Gilberto pushed the man forward, making him fall, as he pulled the left hand, making blood cascade from the gash it left.







He found himself face to face with the muzzle of another pistol. Gil knew what would happen: click – hiss – bang, then he was dead. Indeed, there was theclick, and during the hiss, he pushed the gun to the side with the side of his right hand; there was the deafening bang, and there was two screams: a drowned one as Nicholas embedded itself into Gunther’s throat, and a terrifyingly clear one as the bullet impacted against the one that gave the kill command.







The Painted Songbird stepped back and took several deep breaths– a bad idea, since the air was filled with the scent of blood, gunpowder and the emptied bowels of dead men. The alcohol on his system prevented him from shaking, and made him ignore his first instinct, which was to run as fast and far away from there as possible.







First he looked at himself – the first bullet grazed his right arm, cutting the fabric of his shirt and making him bleed, though due to its color, it was hardly noticeable. Then he looked at the scene – three men and one woman lying on the ground, withLuc cowering on a corner; they didn’t need him to announce that the people on the ground were dead. Then, his adventuring instincts took hold – he took the purses from the bodies. Only after that did he decided to make a run for it, before the guard of Tuvache arrived. All that only took him a few heartbeats.







Gunther, Armand and their boss had a considerable amount of money, Gilberto realized after sitting down on the local temple. More than enough to pay for a healing spell that would leave no visible scar, to leave a generous donation, to also get his shirt magically mended, and then to get a proper meal in a better tavern than the Sleeping Son, though admittedly, it would have been a terrible idea to return there. He instead decided to go to Kaitlin’s home, knowing that she would bring him back his belongings.







---







He looked out of the window of her house, located near the walls of the big city, with a lit pipe on his hand. The sight was not that impressive, but he could at least appreciate the temple of Advachiel at the distance, the square roofs of the brick buildings, and the lights that lined the city streets. The night was cold, enough to make his olive skin crawl and his old wounds to ache; his body, athletic from years of travelling and constant activity, was covered in scars from countless duels and fights over the years, as well as tattoos covering some of those scars, showing why he was nicknamed ‘The Painted Songbird’;his body was covered in art of what seemed like a place of worship for Berra, goddess of debauchery and revelry, with all things one would expect of it: musical instruments lyring around, offerings of food and drink, a beautiful architecture, and most importantly, vines, trees and places for countless birds – a sparrow, a canary, a robin, a magpie, a swallow, a finch, and other songbirds – of various colors to be. These birds were not ordinary body art, however; they were magical, animated tattoos, and while normally the birds flew around his body, sang alongside him, they were now perched around his other scars and tattoos. Some slept; some seemed to gaze into the city alongside him.







He thought of the people that died earlier. Those images were etched on his mind – a man with a deadly wound on his chest, another one with his neck pierced, a third one with a spurting hole on his abdomen, and perhaps worst of all, Jeanette, who invited him a drink and actually offered herself to be his second, with that bullet wound on her chest. Of all of them, she was the one that didn’t deserve it.







He took a long pull of the cannabis and tobacco mixture he was smoking, and exhaled, his body and mind relaxing as the haze settled in. He knew the images would haunt him for a while, even after he drank and smoked as much as he usually did. But not for long – years of adventuring desensitized him to that.







His mind forced him to remember the first person he killed; a drunken man in Olivares that challenged him to a duel when he was younger. The poor bastard was so drunk that he practically fell on his sword. Gilberto cried that night, and the next one, and the next, and when he slept, he had nightmares, so he just tried to not to fall asleep, until his patron forced him to drink wine with poppy milk. The next time it happened, the result was the same, although less. Gil then realized he only shrugged off a person’s death once they injured him relatively badly. Then, it became easier.







“Gil, could you close the window? It’s really cold”, Kaitlin covered her plump breasts with her bed sheets, shivering slightly, “It’s everything alright?”







“It is. Don’t worry, my love”, he returned to reality, closed the windows and covered it with the drapes. He turned and sat on the bed, letting the warmth of the fireplace warm his body, “It just has been an agitated day…”







“What matters is that you’re alright, and those assholes learned their lesson”, she got closer to him and softly rubbed his shoulders. The birds resting on them awoke and flew away to rest somewhere else.







Gilberto didn’t have the heart to tell her what really happened, so he just nodded, “Yeah, they will be taking the first caravan to the Empire”, he softly touched her hand and turned to kiss her; a soft kiss that tasted of wine, “I’m not tired, though… perhaps we can have another round?”







She smiled, but there was a hard knock on the door, followed by an authoritarian shout, “Knights of Tuvache! Open the door!”







Kaitlin and Gilberto looked at each other, a bitter and terrified expression on their faces. Neither of them thought of anything to try to get out of this, and if they did, they never told it.







The Knights, clad in half plate with tabards, barely allowed Gilberto to dress up, while making sure that he didn’t try anything amusing, before escorting him out – he thanked the gods that before opening the door, Kaitlin hid Victoria and Nicholas somewhere safe. They handcuffed him, and then mounted him on the back of one of their horses. They then they then rode to the Knight’s Chateau.







---







Gilberto was surprised to not to find himself in the dungeons from the get go. Instead he found himself sitting in the surprisingly comfortable chairs of a room that smelled heavily of ink, parchment and bureaucracy. The room was minimalistically decorated, with some wooden desks in rows that were empty, except for a couple which had the poor souls that had to file mountains of paperwork, likely wishing they were sleeping or better yet, dead. The only entertaining thing Gilberto found was a potted plant in a corner, and even that became quite dull after a while. Not regular guards, but knights, guarded the doors, and two were stationed at his sides, holding bayoneted muskets.







Minutes passed like molasses, with only the sound of quills on paper and the breathing of the ones present. Just when Gil was about to defy any common sense and begin to speak, someone called for him. The knights escorted him towards an unassuming door in the far end of the room, and then stayed outside. The bard made his way into a smaller room, filled with stacks shelves full of books and documents, a clock on the wall, ticking softly and rhythmically, and map of Villette in the opposite wall, and a desk with a man sitting behind it.







His skin was the pale white of Villette, with a well combed hair and shaved face, except for a moustache that seemed drawn with a quill. He wore a blue velvet coat that matched his eyes with a thigh neck, though he didn’t seem to have trouble breathing. His expression was that of someone that was woken up during a good night’s sleep, and he talked as such, “Mister Passeri, please take a seat.”







Gil did as instructed and looked at the man, “Jean-Pierre, you look terrible.”







“I was woken up by an emergency. Thanks for noticing”, his tone was calm, like the one before a storm, “Tell me, what kind of fuckup you got yourself into?”







“Other than signing books and playing? Not much, honestly.”







He looked at him straight in the eye, “Gilberto, I swear to the Twelve, the only reason I don’t jump and strangle you right now it’s because I would need to fill out the paperwork later”, he closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose resigned, “First of all: the guns we found in your saddlebag. Your license is up to date?”







“Wait, you were bothering Argento?”







“Don’t change the damn subject. My patience is wearing thinner than ironsilk. Answer the damn question!”







“Alright, alright.You know it is. It’s on my wallet, though, but your knights didn’t allow me to get it.”







“Of course. We can check that later. Now, the protocol required me to address that first, and there are many other non-important issues… but I’ll skip them, because, gods-fucking-dammit, Gilberto”, his voice rose an octave, “Four fucking dead in a duel in the plaza? Are you kidding me?”







“It was a legal duel”, he said defensively, “That thing went out of hand it’s not my gods damn fault. They attacked me first, and there are witnesses.”







“Oh, I know we have witnesses. We spent a good part of the afternoon and all the evening interrogating them. You’re lucky you left before we caught you playing! That doesn’t mean that I shouldn’t lock you up for the rest of your miserable life for what you did”, he let out a defeated sigh, “But I can’t. The regent issued a pardon for everyone involved… including you. The damn fool didn’t even paid attention to what we had to say, especially when I mentioned your name.”







Gilberto smiled, pleased, “Then there is no problem! I can go home now.”







Jean-Pierre looked at him no longer angry, but tired, mostly because he was hopeful that he could, indeed, go home and stop bothering him, “Gilberto… thank the gods the kings are in pilgrimage and that the regent is a lazy bastard, because otherwise, they would have your head”, he made an emphasis on the last part, “Now, I’m telling you this in the name of all the years we spent adventuring: get out of here as soon as you can, and hide. You’re in a lot of trouble.”







The dark haired musician rolled his eyes, “You always were the one to exaggerate, Jean-Pierre. Sure, the duel got out of hand, but…”







He was about to protest to that, but sudden realization clicked in Jean-Pierre’s head, “You… you don’t know who that poor bastard was, do you?”







Gilberto’s expression showed he didn’t like where this was going, “Some Arthurian noble and his friends. But he knew about duels here and…”







“Some Arthurian noble, Gilberto!? Do you have any idea how much did you fuck up everything for everyone? That man was Matthias Drake, for fuck’s sake!”







Gilberto’s expression was similar as the one he made when he discovered once that a treasure chest could have teeth, or than that particular bug could corrode your weapons, “Oh, shit.”