Back in his room, Kel emptied out his pack and gave everything a once-over. The entirety of his belongings lay spread over the bed and it was a little daunting to realize that this was all he had to his name.

His cloak, the gate glass glittering on his bed stand, crumpled parchment, various tinctures for healing, a small garden knife for cutting herbs, bandages, and a few coins that had fallen into the bag. Stacked beside his bed were a few books, including Kyleria’s grimoire and the Complete and Useful Primer on Animal Languages.

And then he noticed something strange:

The parchment upon which Caaron had written the note instructing him to find Maximilian Magnus was now blank. Curious, he dabbed the quill in ink and scrawled out a short message:

Are you there?

Nothing.

“Yeah, figures.” Disappointed, Kel tossed the parchment aside. He picked up the Primer and began to read. It was hard, learning to communicate with animal folk. Each genus had their own separate language. In broad strokes, there was mammalian, Reptilian, and Avian. And then of course there were dialects of each. And a large chapter denoting the academic feud on whether Amphibian should be considered a dialect of Reptilian or it’s own language, a discussion on which had been raging for years in the Animal communities.

The spell to initiate conversation was the same across species, of course, but from there it truly became a matter of knowledge and linguistic acumen - something that Kel was seriously lacking in. He was jealous of those like Valir who conversed daily with Animal Folk with relative ease. It wasn’t his fault Fellow’s Glenn was off the beaten track. Nor was it the villages’ fault it wasn’t a cosmopolitan hub.

A bird landed on the open window sill and Kel brightened. Finally, a chance to practice. He muttered the incantation to start the spell and gestured to the bird. It tilted its head and chirped. What?, it said. Kel grinned. What, what?, the bird chirped.

Uhhhh hi, Kel sputtered out in Avian. It likely sounded like the screech of a madman, but he didn’t care. This was great.

Worms! The bird chirped, cheerily. Worms! Worms!

Um, yes. They are delicious. He tried out a phrase he had just learned. Where are you from? It actually translated roughly to “from where have the winds taken you?,” which sounded awfully formal to Kel.

Worms! Shit! The bird unceremoniously released a drop of that very thing onto the windowsill and flew off.

“Well that went well,” Kel muttered to himself at first in avian, then trailing into his normal tongue. Perhaps this was easier with animal folk rather than just animals. He would ask Valir later. In the mean time, there was nothing for it but to keep studying. And so he spent the day reading and practicing mammalian instead, eager to show Trixy what he had learned that day. At least he could now talk without inadvertently insulting her. Most of the time.

Later, when night had fallen, Kel had another performance with Jasper. They had fallen into a routine over the last few days, playing a set every night just before witching hour. Kel wasn’t sure how so many people who worked in the morning could stay out so late, but it was none of his business - a gig like this was perfect for someone who only needed an hour of sleep per night. Valir had come back and begun keeping the bar again, though her hours were sometimes irregular. He had the feeling she was trying to spend more time with her sister. Then again, perhaps she was just making sure Lianna couldn’t slip away in the night.

They did a repeat performance of The Ballad of Hazier, this time with no interruption or demonic images. Some of the audience seemed disappointed, but the folks who hadn’t been there the first time seemed to really enjoy the rendition and a fair amount of coin was tossed to the stage, which made Jasper even livelier.

Then Jasper played a ballad, a love song that Kel had heard once or twice from traveling bards who passed through Fellow’s glen on the way to more important towns. He sang with such sincerity, it appeared that his voice would break as it hit notes that Kel couldn’t imagine himself singing. Valir was no longer slinging drinks or polishing glassware - she was simply watching, a look on her face that Kel had never seen before. Jasper uttered the last strains of the song and in that moment, Kel could have sworn he was looking right at the barmaid. She blushed and turned back to the bar to pour another drink for a patron who may or may not have been waiting.

The crowd was silent, then let forth a wave of enthusiastic applause.

As they left the stage, a handsome man in a fine silk doublet swaggered up to them, his face cheery with a hint of intoxication.He had the air of someone cultured, but was built like a blacksmith or soldier. Kel recognized him as a fellow musician, Mason. They had never spoken, but he had seen him play a number of times. “I hear the scores are up tonight.”

“Sweet Guin’s tush. Really?” Jasper exclaimed. Kel blushed at the expression but the bard made no apology. “Let’s go on the double. Come with me Kel, I’ll show you something a farm lad like yourself hasn’t seen before.” And indeed he hadn’t. For a moment, it took Kel a moment to realize what, in fact, he was looking at. It was a large posting board inside the tavern across town, the Dancing Mare, where several revelers greeted Jasper as a familiar face. Hewn from a large pine tree, the slat had been riveted and hung by iron chains so that it hovered above the bar, just within reach of a scribe who’s job, it seemed, was to attend to and update the board. Paper was pinned to the giant plank with pins and, in some cases, daggers and even a fork. On those boards were tic marks, scratches numbering up to ten on some sheets.

“What…is this?” Kel asked, daring to sound stupid.

“This, my friend, is the score-board, kept at the Dancing Mare, home to the minstrel’s guild. At least in this province. The central guild hall is in the capital city, of course. Here, we are given ratings, which affects our overall status. It can affect our livelihoods, especially for those of us who do not travel as widely as we perhaps once did.” Mason gave Jasper a meaningful look.

“So that sheet there -”

“Is mine, yes,” Mason beamed. Below his name were notes, individual pieces of paper that had been tacked on, each with tic marks and a written review.

“Whose notes are these?”

“Critics. Usually they’re musicians themselves, so they try to be objective, but some of them - “ he pointed to the last name on his sheet, beside which there were three tic marks, “are snotty pricks who have never played or sang a note in their life.” Mason laughed. The scribe, a thin be-speckled man desperately trying to wipe ink from his hands with a handkerchief, gave a bemused smile from behind the counter. Kel assumed he heard talk like this day-in and day-out.

“Jasper, where’s yours?” the boy asked. Jasper, however, was preoccupied, squinting at the board with a hand on his chin.

“What in Gibb’s fishy hell is this?” he exclaimed. “One tick. One tick out of ten. Who the hell does this?”

The scribe, seated rather than standing as a bartender would, whirled around so that his back was against the bar and craned his head so that he was peering up at the score board.

“It is certainly not in the majority,” the man said, clearly toeing the line between reassuring and patronizing. Most of the other ratings on Jasper’s sheet held around between 7 and 9 and had gushing reviews, misspelled or not, describing their experience. Quite a few sounded like they were in love with the wily bard. The one-tick rating sat like a brick in the middle of a field of flowers: No commentary. No review. Just one tick.

“Rafferton.” Mason shrugged.

“Fucking Rafferton.” Jasper affirmed.

“He’s done it to several people.” The scribe sighed. “We can’t stop him, because he is a guild member by birth.”

“Even if he’s not even a blooming musician.”

“Unfortunately, due to his father’s position, he is entitled to publish his rating. Believe me, I wish it weren’t so. I hear complaints almost daily by people in your position.” The scribe looked exhausted.

“Is the bastard in today?”

“He is. Up in the treasurer’s suite.”

Mason’s eyes were twinkling. “You going to deck ‘em, Jasper? Give him what for?”

“That depends on his tone. I honestly just want to see what he has to say for himself.”

“Is it really so important?” Kel interjected. There were so many good scores under the bard’s name. Why was he so annoyed about this one?

The bard looked at him seriously. “Reputation is everything, Kel. Perception is everything. No one wants to listen to a one-tick musician. Nobody. And if they do, they aren’t pleasantly surprised if you are good. Oh no, folks hear what they want to and I’ve worked too hard to be at the mercy of some bloated ponce.”

“But surely you aren’t…”

“Those of us who have residencies, like me or Mason here, we’re responsible not only to ourselves but our patron establishments. A bad mark for me is a bad mark for the Rootwater, for Valir.” Kel wasn’t so sure that was the real issue, but he could tell that Jasper wasn’t in a mood to admit that.

They made their way upstairs. Rather than move out to the balcony that wrapped all around the great-room where the stage was, they turned right and stepped through a low door into a surprisingly spacious back-room. A squat, pudgy man with a very unhealthy pallor sat reclining in a plush chair, a small writing desk pulled up beside him on which sat a note like the one Kel had seen downstairs. It seemed he had given this person a decent allotment of tics, compared to Jasper’s board.

“One tic, Rafferton? Really?”

“What, we’re not using honorifics today?,” the pudgy man quipped.

“Not if there is no honor to be spoken of.”

“And why would there be doubt as to my honor?” The man’s smirking face was oddly reminiscent of Derry, if only for a moment.

“No comments. You give me one tic and don’t even justify it with a review.”

“Ah well, don’t be so sensitive. Lots of musicians get bad ratings from time to time.”

“Look, if this is about the illusions the other night...” Kel felt his stomach tighten.

“Illusions!?” The pasty man made a face. “No, didn’t see that show. Was laid in with a hangover, I was. No - I was at the Rootwater last week for a listen. You played ‘Old Lass’s tale.’ How I hate that song.”

“And?”

“And that’s why I gave you one tic.”

“You gave me a shit rating because I played a song you don’t like.” Jasper’s face was incredulous.

“Well, yeah. You play histories and I like histories. Never hit a false note or missed a beat. But that Old Lass - I don’t like that you played that song.”

“So you gave me a one?”

“Yeah, what are you deaf and have shitty taste in music. Yes, I gave you a one ‘coz of that song.”

It did seem incredibly petty to Kel and he felt compelled to speak up. “Why not just not listen? You could just step out for air. It’s no reflection on Jasper if you don’t like a song.”

The fat man looked at him squarely for a moment. “And who the fuck are you, runt?”

Kel felt an insult rising to his tongue but Jasper cut him off before he could retort.

“You’re just jealous, aren’t you. That those fat fingers can’t strum a lute. That trying to sing makes you sound like a sick calf.” He took an imposing step forward and looked as if he would strike the unpleasant critic.

Mason and Kel held him back, though Kel was fairly conflicted about that. “It’s better you don’t,” Mason muttered. His face seemed to belie a different feeling, however.

Rafferton’s eyes danced, a smug expression on his face. Did he enjoy having people hate him? “That’s right. Listen to him. Otherwise, I’ll have the constable after you.”

Jasper stared at him for an uneasy moment, then turned around. “Come on, lads. Better things to do.”

The critic was still slinging incendiary remarks at them through the floorboards as they sullenly exited the Mare.