It was plain to see that the encounter with Rafferton had not left the bard becalmed. In fact, quite the opposite: he was the very spirit of vengeance. As soon as they returned to The Rootwater, Jasper was upon his lute like a man possessed. He strummed and yelled and howled, playing songs that Kel had never heard before with words that he really shouldn’t have heard. Several patrons beat a hasty retreat, quickly finishing their drinks and dropping coins on the bar before shuffling out. Some folks liked it and clapped for more of the impromptu performance. Valir watched with her arms crossed and brows furrowed. It was hard for Kel to tell if she was worried or angry. Jasper played like that for an hour, then excused himself and retreated to his room in the shadowed hallway.

After a while, Kel ventured a peek into the room. It reeked of whiskey and pipe smoke. crumpled bits of parchment littered the floor and ink splattered the rug where Jasper now sat, cross-legged and humming absentmindedly as he scrawled out notes. His lyre lay askew beside him, strings and handsome mahogany bridge smudged black in spots where the musician had snatched it up in fits of inspiration.

“What are you doing, Jasper?” Kel asked tentatively. He hadn’t ever seen the bard in a mood like this.It was the closest thing to insanity he had ever witnessed; Moon sickness, villagers had called it.

“Getting my revenge,” the musician muttered without looking up. “Close the door on your way out.” He resumed the humming and fired up his pipe again.

Kel decided it was best to just let the bard stew and quickly excused himself.

Once back in his own room,for it was very late now, Kel sat on his bed and sighed.Jasper’s current state had left him, Kel, feeling drained and a bit depressed. He could study or have a conversation with Trixy, but both of those things required him to be in a good mood. Trixy, especially, could be a bit rude and Kel didn’t think he could take that tonight. He looked around the room. The parchment lay where he had left it, on the corner of his little desk. Only now - he felt his heart give a jolt - there were new scribblings on the parchment.

Yes. Are you okay? Have you found her yet?

Caaron was really there! It was a magic parchment after all. But Kel was now confused. What did Caaron mean by "her?" He jotted down a question: Where is Max?

He waited a few minutes but there was no response. This was so frustrating. He could finally talk to Caaron again, but the old buzzard barely seemed to want to talk to him. After what felt like a maddening amount of time, new writing appeared on the page.

Where are you?, it inquired.

For a moment, Kel wondered if he should answer. He was, after all, technically a criminal in hiding. And yet, the glimmer of hope that Caaron could tell him if he was close to finding the mage was all he needed. He hastily scribbled his response. And then he waited.

The next night, Jasper was back to his normal jovial self. “We’re playing at the Dancing Mare,” he said calmly as he emerged from his room, only the faintest whiff of pipe smoke following him now.

Kel eyed him warily.There was no way he had just decided to let yesterday’s slight go. He could still picture the bard sitting on his floor, humming and scratching out lyrics. “But aren’t we playing here tonight?”

“It’s alright,” he smiled reassuringly, “I’ve already cleared it with Valir. It’s going to be a quiet night anyway. Let’s go.”

Kel tried to seem at least congenial to the idea. In truth, he wanted to sleep. He had forgone his customary hour of sleep anxiously awaiting the next response from Caaron through the magical parchment, but no response had ever come. Tired from no sleep and grumpy that he hadn’t even been able to study or practice anything over the night, Kel found the idea of being around a bunch of people rather irritating.

His foul mood was soon forgotten, however, when they reached the musicians’ tavern. There was a festive feeling in the air that he hadn’t really experienced before. As they pushed through the crowd to enter the Mare, Kel suddenly understood why it would be a quiet night at the Rootwater. The crowd was huge, at least a hundred already, many of them musicians he had seen perform and other aficionados he had seen at their shows. As they reached the wrap-around balcony, he looked out over the crowd milling about the great room, filing in around the circular central stage. That many people talking and laughing at once was deafening - It was going to be a quiet night everywhere but at the Mare.

“Do you want me to help?” He asked anxiously. Performing for a crowd this large was not something he was ready for.

The bard patted his shoulder. “No. I’m good for tonight. Go sit with Mason, enjoy the show.”

As Jasper made his way to the stage, Mason settled in the seat he had been occupying.

“What is going on?”

“He called a moot.”

“A what?”

“A bard moot - meeting of the musicians. The whole guild is here.”

“Jasper has that kind of power?”

“Not exactly. He is well respected, though, and I think enough of us know what it’s about that they were willing to go along.”

“And what is it about?”

“Well…”Kel followed Mason’s gaze up to the balcony, across the great room. Rafferton was there, seated in a high chair to the right of an old man in fine clothes and a woman with shockingly red hair - other members of the guild. The pale, bloated critic glared down at the bard as he fidgeted in his seat.

“This song,” he announced, “Is called Rafferton.” All around the room, stunned musicians and patrons exchanged furtive glances. Some seemed to be in the know of what had happened already. Others seemed shocked and even elated. The town gossips would be feasting tonight. Kel looked back over at Rafferton’s booth. Even from a distance, pasty critic’s face was visibly red, but he said nothing.

Jasper took a deep breath, strummed a few tentative notes, and then began to play and sing in earnest.

One bloody tick from a cowardly prick.

He can’t play himself but he gives you a nick.

Alone in his chamber, with nothing to say,

One tick will you get, no matter how well you play.

The crowd slowly began to catch on. Murmurs at first, then calls and jeers. He hadn’t been exaggerating - the other musicians in the room were especially riled up. How many of them hated Rafferton? It seemed this hadn’t just happened to Jasper, but to a lot of them.

He hates the tale of the Lasses

For none will pay him mind.

Raucous laughter at this.

He plays at the critic,

Having no talent he can find.

So I say we forget him, this man who is a blight.

No songs shall he hear, lest he’s looking for a fight.

There were serious nods from some, drunken cheers from others.

The song went on for another verse, and then another, all extolling the vices in which Rafferton engaged and attacking various shortcomings of his person, both physical and otherwise. By the time the chorus came around a third time, the whole of the Mare were singing together:

So I say we all forget him, this man who is a blight.

No songs shall he hear, lest he’s looking for a fight!

Gleeful faces cheered as the song reached its end. Rafferton himself shrank down in his seat, beady eyes searching for a quick exit. All around there was the feeling of something being decided; Jasper had delivered an edict through song and Kel knew, without anyone saying a word otherwise, that it had just been ratified by the other bards.

This feeling was abundantly confirmed when Rafferton was unceremoniously barred from every venue in town, starting with the Mare. Kel watched as the burly house guards carried the critic, kicking and screaming, away. Drinking and revelry started then in earnest. If he hadn't known any better, Kel would have thought this were a holiday. Jasper, architect of the coup, was hoisted into the air like a hero.

For a few days after, they neither heard nor saw anything of the critic. Rafferton couldn’t listen to music anywhere. Strongmen at every establishment blocked him from entering, buskers on the street would stop playing, relenting only when their small audiences had chased the poor critic away. Even children singing as they walked would clam up when the reviled critic came near. It was comeuppance, sure, but it was also a little sad when Kel thought about it. He wondered if Jasper had been a bit harsh, if the judgment outweighed the crime, however unpleasant Rafferton himself was as a person.

After a week, Kel had completely forgotten about whole encounter with the critic. He continued his usual routine of hanging around with Lianna by day and performing with Jasper by night. He chatted with Trixy late at night and early in the morning, when she was awake and much more amenable to helping a human boy practice his mammalian.

"Come on you dodgy bastard," Jasper was in good spirits, not to mention full of them.

Mason was back in the Mare, paying their tab. He waved Kel ahead. "Just get him home safe," the dandy man laughed.

Kel stepped out into the street and joined up with the tipsy bard, clapping a hand on his shoulder before they continued on toward the Rootwater. He barely noticed when a familiar pale figure approached them from the shadows. Rafferton moved so quickly that neither bard nor boy had time to react, his pasty face twisted into a grim smile. He came in with a quick motion, as if to give Jasper a hug. “This is what I think of your music, you Gibbs-damned arshole,” he hissed. It was then that Kel noticed the pommel of a long knife, poised to strike. Before he could say anything, the knife had pierced through Jasper’s cloak and into his jerkin. The musician grunted and doubled over, his face wracked with pain. Again the knife fell and Kel could hear the ripping of fabric. Jasper crumpled to the ground. Somewhere nearby, a woman screamed.

“And now for you, you little shrimp.” The murderous critic raised the knife, gleaming in the lanterns, above his head. Kel was frozen. Was Jasper dead? Why was the knife so bright in the lamplight, when it should be coated and dulled with blood. He instinctively squeezed his eyes shut. Why couldn’t he move? Why had this happened?

There was a thud and Kel’s eyes flew open. Rafferton stood rigid, his smirk twisted into a yellowed grimace of pain.

Jasper stood behind him, twisting the knife arm until it broke with an audible crack. The would-be-murderer fell to his knees with a cry, but Jasper wasn’t done. He nimbly tossed the knife away, skittering into the darkness, before striking Rafferton with a precise punch to his nose, eliciting a spurt of blood and knocking their assailant to the ground.

“How are you alive?” Rafferton spat blood as he fumbled on the ground. “It’s not fair.”

Jasper said nothing. He fell against the alley wall with a grunt and slid down to rest against it.

Kel heard the sound of footsteps coming from behind them. The constable would be there soon. Rafferton made to get up but Kel had finally regained his senses. He quickly leapt upon the man, wrestling him down as best he could until he felt hands pull him off.

“It’s not fair!” Rafferton yelled again, blood and spittle showering the ground as two constables grappled him. “You ruined my life. You should be dead!” As the men dragged him to his feet he made to lunge at Kel and was pulled back. “Who are you to judge me!?"

Kel felt the part of him that was usually empathetic harden. This was pathetic; A grown man throwing a tantrum because of a failed attempt at murder. It was surreal and unnerving. A part of him wanted to punish the critic further. To pick up his blade and stab him the way he had Jasper. Do it, a scratchy, familiar voice seemed to say. He looked over at the knife, then at the screaming man before him. He shook his head and the whispering voice was silenced. As quickly as the sensation had come, it was gone and replaced by a wave of concern for Jasper and guilt for being part of what led to this. Bleeding and crying, Rafferton was dragged away.

Kel rushed over to check on Jasper, his heart thumping. The bard was still leaning against the wall, calmly smoking a pipe while one of the constables took his statement. He waived off any offer of medical help. “It’s fine,” he grunted with a puff of smoke. “I’ll be fine.” Bewildered, the constable made off to catch up with his comrades in escorting the prisoner.

Kel knelt to help Jasper stand. The poor man was clearly in pain but he didn’t seem to have any injury at all. No blood, no wound. Nothing but holes in the fabric of his cloak and jerkin.

“How are you not dead? That knife should have gutted you,” Kel exclaimed with a sense of wonder.

The bard grimaced. “You aren’t the only one with secrets. Help me to the Rootwater. I need a drink.”

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Where is Maximilian Magus?

Caaron stared at the parchment. Kel should have been there by now. Why hadn’t she come for him yet?

He began to fumble through his things, searching for another parchment that belonged to another particular friend when he froze.

All of the bells lining the wall had begun to ring - he had company, apparently from all sides.

Caaron picked up the parchment, gave it a few shakes to speed up the dissolution, then set it back down. He breathed a sigh of relief - it was blank again.

There was no knock at the door, only an explosion inward as the solid oak was kicked open. Outside, Nathan of the guard and the mayor stood, flanked by two Briarband mercenaries in greenish/brown cloaks.

Caaron stared at them evenly. “I have committed no crime.”

“You have aided a fugitive to escape.”

“And how do you assume that? I was just as surprised as you at his escape.” He raised a bushy eyebrow.

“But you have been aiding him, have you not?”

Caaron didn’t bother with the semantics. He had known that one way or another, Hardstahd would avenge himself upon the village for his perceived embarrassment.“I will not permit you to cross this threshold,” the wise man growled. The room seemed to lighten, becoming hazy and white. The door may have been broken, but anything living would have a punishing time crossing through and into the room.

Hardstahd held up a hand and the mercenaries paused. “Caaron, think of everyone in the village. If you are not beholden to the law, then we must take action elsewhere. We must punish someone. Surely you know that.”

“That is not justice, Mayor. Merely avenging your own pride upon innocents. Cowardly, really - you can’t find the boy so you impulsively lash out at others. Like a toddler. ”

The mayor looked furious, but took a deep breath and sighed. “True - I have a temper. But all great men do.” The two mercenaries with him exchanged glances. “I will be avenged, one way or another. Come with me, or I will punish someone else.The priest or maybe the fallen heiress.”

“Great men.” Caaron huffed. The old man thought for a minute and shrugged, the haze dissipating as quickly as it had risen. “Do as you will. But Johan will not stand for this.”

Nathan’s face reddened and he started to say something, but the mayor silenced him. “Johan is no longer in our service. He has neglected his duty and deserted his post. If he comes back, we will lock him away too.”

“If he comes back, you should pray to all the gods that your mercenaries are prepared. You never see what is right in front of you, Mayor. In trying to grasp at sand spilling through your fingers, you will lose everything.”

“Take him away,” the mayor shrugged, bored.

"What’s this? Looks like he was about to write a letter,” Nathan looked at the parchment sitting open on the desk. After a moment, he seemed to think better of it. “Never mind, I’m sure it’s nothing.” Hardstahd was fairly certain the young man was simply afraid to touch it.

“No no…I think you’re onto something. Let me…” the mayor dabbed the quill in the ink well and scrawled out a line “Where are you?”

“Who are you writing to?” he asked, bewildered.

“Shut up. Wait.” Hardstahd silenced him. Rounded, careful letters began to form:

Five Pines, they said. Rootwater.