The next morning, Myth and I ate breakfast at a square table situated amid the beer kegs and wine casks in the cellar.
“I had a really strange dream last night,” said Myth as she soaked a piece of toast in the yolk of her egg.
Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a tiny shadow scurrying across the floor just to Myth’s left. It darted beneath a spare chair at our table.
“I don’t remember all of it,” said Myth. She bit into her toast and began to chew.
“Scratch. Scratch. Scratch,” I heard. Presumably, whatever had cast the shadow was now climbing up the chair.
Swallowing her food, Myth went on, “There was a talking dog named Barkley.” Then she dunked her toast into the egg yolk once again.
A teeny-tiny nose and a set of whiskers poked up over the edge of the table.
“And you and Barkley had a singing contest,” said Myth before she took another bite of toast.
The unmistakable face of a rat now came into view. Rats, however, did not frighten me. Myth and I had run into fouler creatures on our journey—like Ronnie Bridge, that bulbous boob. So I did not warn Myth just then. Instead, I watched the rat out of the corner of my eye to see what it would do next.
“Barkley won the contest—that dog had a marvelous singing voice—but you claimed that he’d cheated,” Myth continued.
The rat pulled itself onto the table and then scurried behind a coffee urn that was next to Myth. It stood there, leering at her as it lurked behind the urn. I had never imagined that rats could leer and lurk, but this one could. Leering and lurking is too creepy, I thought. I need to warn Myth.
“So you slapped Bark—”
I reached across the table and clasped Myth’s hand. Whispering, I said, “There’s a rat on the table.”
Slowly, Myth set down her toast and pulled her other hand free of my grip. “Where is it?” she whispered.
“Just to your left,” I whispered back, “behind the coffee urn.”
In a flash, Myth lunged at the rat, catching the creature by the scruff of its neck. She held the rat in front of her face as the poor thing struggled frantically.
“Hmm, what should we do with you?” Myth asked the rat as she sat back down.
“Squeak! Squeak!” answered the rat. “Squeak!”
“Hang on,” said a voice. “Let’s not do anything rash.”
The bard from the previous evening stepped out from behind a wine cask. He walked over to our table, grabbed a chair, and sat down beside Myth—practically on top of her. Then he looked at me and winked. That almost earned him a slapping.
Putting his arm across Myth’s shoulders, the bard said, “My lovely damsel—”
“The last person who touched me like that ended up with a broken nose,” Myth cut in.
The bard removed his arm from Myth’s shoulders. Then he scooted a few inches away from her. Doing that proved he had at least a bit of sense. Myth was six inches taller than he was. And when someone six inches taller than you tells you to move your hand, anyone even remotely intelligent will comply.
“Ahem,” the bard cleared his throat. “Allow me to introduce myself—I am The Bard.” As he said this, the bard ran his hand through his hair.
“Okay,” said Myth. “You’re a bard, so what? That doesn’t explain why you’re bothering us.”
“Squeak!” added the rat, still struggling to free itself from Myth’s grasp.
“Oh, no,” said the bard. “I’m not just a bard—I’m The Bard. The article is part of my name. It’s a way of saying that I am the definitive bard—the one and only true bard in the world. Other bards are merely imposters. I am The Bard.”
“Right,” said Myth, huffing. “Well, I’m not calling you The Bard, bard.”
“Neither am I,” I added. “The Bard—what kind of egomaniacal twit would call himself The Bard?”
“Fine,” said the bard, looking dejected. “Call me Bard, then.”
“Squeak!” shrieked the rat.
“Yes, yes, Barnaby,” said Bard. “I haven’t forgotten about you.”
“Does this belong to you?” Myth asked Bard as she held the rat up to his face.
“Barnaby and I are… partners,” replied Bard. “I met him years ago and was stunned to learn that he understood everything I said. Apparently, a wizard—”
“A wizard!” I shrieked. Leaping up from my chair, I backed away from the table. “That rat had better not be magical.”
“Magical?” said Bard. “No, I would’ve bashed his brains in if Barnaby had displayed any magical abilities. Apart from having a mind akin to that of a human, Barnaby is in every respect an ordinary rat.”
I eyed the rat suspiciously. Rats I could handle. But magic… blech! Shivers raced down my spine whenever I thought about magic. Most humans in the Holdings felt as I did. That’s why people who practiced wizardry tended to have short lives. And that’s also why their lives usually ended amidst a bonfire, surrounded by a mob carrying pitchforks.
“This is starting to get really strange,” said Myth. “Just tell us why you and this rat are bothering my friend and me.”
Bard ran his hand through his hair again. “Well, my fair damsel—”
“That’s enough of the damsel rubbish,” said Myth. “Call me Myth, or Mythilida. Either name is fine.” She nodded towards me. “And this is Izzy.”
Bard bowed in his chair. “A pleasure to make your acquaintances, my fair—”
Myth glared at him.
“Um, my, um… Myth,” said Bard. “Anyway, Barnaby and I have a… well, a scheme that we take part in. We travel from tavern to tavern, where I entertain the crowds with my music—”
“Annoy them, you mean,” I said, folding my arms across my tummy.
“Yes, well,” muttered Bard. “As I play, I keep an eye open—seeking out the fairest damsels in that particular tavern. Once I have identified the loveliest dumplings—”
“Did he really just call women ‘dumplings?’ ” Myth asked me.
“I don’t think that he’s talked to a lot of women,” I replied.
“Obviously not,” said Myth.
Bard, who had heard our exchange, went on, “Yes, well. Once I have selected a suitable dump… er, dam… er, lady, it’s Barnaby’s time to shine. He watches the lady”—Bard winked at me—“or ladies, waiting until she is”—another wink—“or they are alone before he jumps out and frightens her”—and another wink—“or them. Then I rush in to save the fair damsel”—wink—“or damsels from the foul rat. The damsel is”—wink—“or the damsels are so thankful that she”—wink—“or they reward my bravery with a kiss”—wink—“or kisses.”
“And that actually works?” said Myth.
“Huh?” replied Bard.
“You’ve met a woman”—Myth winked at me—“or women dense enough to kiss you just because you shooed away a rat?”
“Well,” said Bard, running his hand through his hair, “not yet, no. But it only takes one success to make the whole venture worthwhile.”
“Right,” said Myth. “Good luck with that.”
Shaking her head, Myth set Barnaby on the table and looked him in the eyes. “And you,” she said. “Why is a nice rat like you hanging out with him?” She nudged her head towards Bard. “What would your dear mum—that dam who kept your whiskers clean when you were a wee pup—what would she say if she saw you with this… this… Bard?”
Barnaby looked properly ashamed. And I swear that he sighed.
“Okay,” said Myth, standing up. “Well, I’m certainly not going to kiss either of you—”
“Neither am I,” I added.
“—So it’s time for you to leave,” said Myth. “Go bother someone else. Izzy and I need to finish packing so we can be on our way.”
“Wait. Wait. Wait,” said Bard. He jumped up and grabbed Myth’s arm.
Another glare from Myth convinced him that letting go of her arm was a good idea.
“I have a proposition for the two of you,” said Bard.
“No!” said Myth.
“Not a chance!” I said, shaking my head.
“It’s not that kind of proposition,” replied Bard. “I can make all of us rich, if you, my lovely ladies, will assist me.”
Myth looked at me.
I responded by shaking my head, “No.”
“Not interested,” Myth told Bard. “So shoo. And don’t forget your rat.”
Defeated, Bard picked up Barnaby and departed.
Once they left, Myth and I returned to our room to finish packing.