Derek is away attending debauched dens of iniquity in Toronto. And all I get to do is post more crappy Kinslayer Chronicle stories.

Chapter 5 – Interrupted

The Chronicler paused for a moment, raising a hand for Koudi to break. The innkeeper looked unimpressed with the interruption.

“Forgive me, good sir,” the Chronicler apologized, “but I must ask for a reprieve.”

He stretched out his aching fingers, resting his quill upon his ink pot as he surveyed over his scribbles. Koudi knocked upon the tabletop, and the Chronicler caught a sudden movement from the kitchen. He’d observed that Lafnis had grown quiet during the retelling and he wondered if she hadn’t come to lean against the opposite side of the wall, listening intently to her keeper’s story.

As the Chronicler examined his reproduction for errors, he couldn’t help but raise a few comments.

“These are quite the accomplishments,” he said. “I had no idea that you held such an auspicious beginning.”

“What would be more fitting a hero?” Koudi asked.

“What indeed,” the Chronicler said. “I wonder, could I impress upon you to replicate some of these feats? I would be most curious to hear your – how did you refer to it? – ‘Note of Masks?’”

The innkeeper narrowed his eyes.

“Do you doubt me, scribe?”

The Chronicler shook his head quickly.

“Of course not! I misrepresent my position. It’s just that, I have travelled many leagues. The inside of taverns and inns are familiar to me. Many a bard has shared the same roof or road and each one of them was possessed of some unique talent or song. But I have never heard of such remarkable skill. I feel a demonstration would help me to understand this astonishing talent.”

The innkeeper shifted in his chair slightly.

“I regret to say that I don’t have a lute to demonstrate.”

“Truly? You have no instrument of your own or one forgotten by a traveller?”

A silence fell between the two, punctuated mercifully by Lafnis’ appearance with two mugs of ale which she left on the table. The air had grown noticeably chillier than the night’s kiss and the Chronicler appreciated the distraction as they turned to their own drinks.

After a few gulps and wiping his chin with the back of his hand, the innkeeper looked gravely at the Chronicler.

“If, scribe, you had been patient enough for the story, you would come to understand why I carry not my own lute. Such an instrument, as I’ve said, is precious to its owner. A travelling performer would no more forget it behind as he would his head. Next, you’re going to request I conjure a Maen Nkowainn landship and demonstrate my learning upon her deck!”

“Forgive me,” the Chronicler said, his voice dropping in deference. “I have unintentionally cast doubt upon your tale. I only hoped to experience first hand the wonder of this Note of Masks which you capture so perfectly in word. It was not my place and I humbly request your forgiveness for my impropriety.”

The innkeeper eyed him for sign of duplicity but the Chronicler’s tone was far too honed.

“Do not think me a fool,” Koudi whispered. “I know of false platitudes. I have seen the slit tongued speech of the nobility. I have looked upon the dagger smiles of merchants as they sell their own people into servitude. People think they are far more clever than they truly are. It is in that flimsy bravado that they are their weakest, the illusion of their superiority too quickly dispelled.

“I will warn you but once. I am no simple farmer used to little more complexity than the muck they scratch in and the snort of the pigs sleeping in their own rooms.”

That uncomfortable silence returned, and the Chronicler sought solace in his ale. At last, he offered the only words he felt would do any good.

“I am sorry.”

The innkeeper took a long breath and for a moment the Chronicler wondered if he had lost him. Nothing was worse than losing the teller. Sometimes it was impossible to predict what would close them down. Some men were like rivers, once unstopped they just gushed their words unceasingly forth. But often it was the most innocuous words that would dam them up. It could be a simple comment from the recorder or even no response at all. Scribing these stories was more akin to navigating a dangerous stream. Just beneath the surface lurked rocks and ruin, most of which you wouldn’t spot until you were practically upon them.

Then there were the times when the speaker’s own words stirred something forgotten within the recesses of their mind. The bottle themselves and nothing will release the remainder of their story. Those were the most damning of all, since it was nigh impossible to know what one could have done to prevent the silence.

The Chronicler reached for his quill, holding it patiently but not pressingly for Koudi to resume. The innkeeper did not respond immediately, waiting just enough time to assert that his will dictated the conversation and not the Chronicler’s. At long last, he set down his mug and shifted forward in his seat.

“Very well, scribe. Let me make it clear why I am no simple laughing, singing troubadour waiting on the beck and call of some pompous noble or innkeeper. I will tell you exactly what can stifle the song in the throat of the Travellers.”