“Godfrey is an ugly bastard,” said Milde.

“I think he matches the guests,” said Weard.

Clæfre swept her eyes over a hall of well dressed and healthy looking people, “I don’t get it.”

“Two faces,” said Weard.

“Looks like he has three and a half to me,” said Milde.

Weard sighed. Any other night I’d be delighted to accompany two women while surrounded by free food and unlimited drink, but these two sisters are ‘punch you in the arm flirts’ not my preferred ‘unsubtle clinging’ types.

One arm was already numb and the sisters’ suggestions on the best way to seduce a noblewoman with a two-headed goat tethered to his arm had been as outrageous as their probability of success.

His only other company was a gaggle of curious children, clustered around Godfrey. It was enjoying a luxurious scratching treatment while blowing air through two sets of loose lips.

I’ve been demoted to fence post. I regret dragging the bizarre animal along. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but it eats a ridiculous quantity of food, shits everywhere, and has the loudest bleat I’ve ever heard.

How do I get to the perfectly powdered ladies gracing the dance floor without the goat or the Misthliþ sisters realizing I’m ditching them?

Weard let the rope pass through his wrist, palmed a small knife and gave Godfrey a ‘friendly’ pat on the arse. It took the hint and ran for freedom. The children chased it, screaming with excitement.

“Looks like your pet slipped between your fingers,” said Milde. “Aren’t you going to chase it?”

“If you can’t handle your own goat, what chance do you have with a-” Weard covered Clæfre’s mouth with his hand before she could finish another lewd comment at his expense.

“Awww, you’re no fun Weard,” said Clæfre, nibbling his fingers. Weard withdrew his hand from Clæfre’s questing tongue and wiped his fingers on her faded red tunic.

“What sort of gentleman are you?” said Milde. “Don’t you have a handkerchief?”

“Hold that thought,” said Weard. “I’m going to check out the table with a half-carved miniature cockatrice.”

“People are eating that?” said Clæfre.

“It’s a decorated goose,” said Weard.

“What did it do?” said Milde.

Weard smiled and walked away as fast as he could without running.

I feel sorry for the next person they corner. At the same time, I am now regret free.

After a little scavenging, he acquired an untouched trencher and helped himself to a pile of succulent goose.

Well, I hope it’s goose. Those draca scales are authentic.

Hrolf shimmied towards him. He’d combed his red beard and donned a coarse wool tunic. He still had his patched leather boots from the road. The only thing he wore that fit the finery was his homemade leather belt.

“Enjoying the party, lad?”

“I’ve seen better,” said Weard. “But the view’s not too shabby.” He waved a goose leg at a group of ladies, nibbling at their food.

Hrolf laughed, “Not sure I’d want to go to one of those. I feel out of place enough as it is. Even the servants are better dressed than I am.”

“At least you won’t be mistaken for one.”

“I suppose.” Hrolf sighed, “Listen, lad. I sought you out to say goodbye. I won’t be joining you at Sir Wulfslæd’s home. My last tour is finally over and I want to go home.”

“Not going to move your herd and home to Hramsacrop then?”

“I’m from Winterdún, lad. I’ll be at the other end of the Kingdom. There’s no way I can move them that far, let alone give up my family land.”

Weard smiled, “It was good to have you with us. Take care on your way home and try not to spend all your pay on cider on the way back.”

“Such faith! I’ll be needing a dowry or four soon, so I’ll keep it in moderation.”

Weard shook his hand. “Enjoy the rest of the party.”

“Oh I will, lad. I most certainly will.” Hrolf grabbed a pitcher of cider from a long table and headed for the garden.

Weard brushed a bench with the corner of a table cloth and sat down next to a pretty woman with a towering hair style and a blue bliaut. He gave her his best smile and a small bow. She returned it with a small nod of her own.

Does she recognise me from my stint on stage?

Weard saw Elewýs walk in from outside, her hand clamped on Cempa’s shoulder. She was smiling. He shook his head. Best to leave her alone. Elewýs has good company and I am hungry.

Weard tucked into his food. He was halfway through his second helping, and enjoying his conversation with the woman in the blue bliaut, when a man shouted.

Elewýs was surrounded by a circle of people, but unlike before, someone was standing within it and it wasn’t Cempa, or one of the other members of the troop. It was that prick, Duke Mánfeld.

Just looking at him makes me uneasy. I should keep an eye on him from close up.

“Excuse me,” said Weard. He stepped and twirled his body through the merry throng towards the commotion.

Duke Mánfeld was yelling, “Don’t talk to me, you scum tarred scut. Your abhorrence could be contagious.”

Weard slid next to Cempa, who stood on the innermost ring of onlookers. His jaw and fists were clenched and a worrisome pink hue suffused his complexion.

“What’s going on?” said Weard.

Cempa growled, “Elewýs saw Duke Mánfeld and Hewelin Guntard with some Feorhhord Gimcynn. I told her not to talk to him but, the moment I wasn’t looking, she did anyway. I think she asked him where he got the stone. I’m guessing she’s trying to find out what happened to her family. You saw how much of the stuff was about when we were there. It’s an easy link to make.”

“Did she accuse him of anything?”

“I don’t know, the first thing I heard was him shouting.”

“Why are you shouting at me?” said Elewýs. It had taken a moment for her to compose a reply. Weard wasn’t surprised, Duke Mánfeld’s words were horrendous.

“I’m warning you, stay back! You’re a mongrel, an abomination. Why do you even exist?” said Duke Mánfeld.

Is he drunk, brave or stupid? Duke Mánfeld is little more than half her height. Reminds me of a fat, cornered rat.

“Please, tell me where you found the Feorhhord Gimcynn. I want to know what happened to my family.”

“You can’t have it. It’s mine. Keep your reeking claws sheathed. Another word from your spleen quaffing mandibles and I will scatter your ripe body to the swine,” said Duke Mánfeld.

Weard gripped Cempa’s forearm, “Don’t interfere. It will only get worse.”

“I want to hit him,” said Cempa.

“Exactly.”

“Fine, but don’t expect me to do nothing if he starts waving his fancy toy sword about.”

“She’s wearing a whole bear pelt as a skirt and a thick leather waistcoat. I doubt he’s strong enough to hurt her.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Cempa.

“Then cling to it,” said Elewýs. “I hope you rot from within, you black veined gudgeon.”

Duke Mánfeld swayed from side to side. Weard didn’t know what was wrong with him, but something had shocked the irate man.

Duke Mánfeld thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. He fumbled for something. Weard’s eyes bulged when he saw the black veins shoot up the lunatic’s arm. A quick glance at the circle of faces suggested only he and Elewýs could see the change. Dirty light leaked from beneath Duke Mánfeld’s skin - miasmic tendrils of black, Heorþ aspect aether, interlaced with the threads of Feorhlíf yellow and Síþ blue. A maniacal grin of insanity driven hatred spread across Duke Mánfeld’s face.

Does Duke Mánfeld know what he is doing? Doesn’t look like it. Leth isn’t here, so I can’t ask him. Probably for the best as Leth makes a big mess even when he knows what he’s doing. Hewelin is nearby, but he’s pale and sweating. Probably knows but won’t or can’t oppose his patron. I should interfere before Elewýs accidentally kills Duke Mánfeld. I don’t want her to get into that level of trouble.

Weard headed for the closest ice statue and slipped behind it. Some of its details had eroded a little, but there was no disguising the eight foot depiction of an almost naked female wóddréam.

It will be hard to use a body different from my own, especially one made from solid ice, but it only needs to last a minute.

Letting go of his physical form, Weard faded from view. His clothes fell through his body. He took a deep breath and pushed himself into the ice statue. Weard diffused through the ice. He twitched his fingers and the icy wóddréam moved with him. Tiny flakes of ice fell to the floor.

With an abrupt crack the statue stepped forward. Heads turned and gasped. People parted as the massive ice statue plodded towards the circle of onlookers. Weard smiled when he saw Cempa’s shocked face and the alluring statue smiled with him.

Weard stood behind Duke Mánfeld. Everyone, except Duke Mánfeld, stared at Weard.

Duke Mánfeld had surrounded himself with an unseen crackling storm of energy and was continuing to hurl abuse at Elewýs. She was trying to back away, but the circle moved with her, locking her within Duke Mánfeld’s storm of foul words and suffocating gaze.

Weard placed a single finger against Duke Mánfeld’s neck.

Duke Mánfeld screamed.

Weard laughed, despite the absurdity of the commotion, he wasn’t the only one. The action didn’t work well, the inside of the statue swelling and splitting as it tried to emulate him. A cold, whistling breeze flowed from frozen lips, ruffling Duke Mánfeld’s hair.

Duke Mánfeld whipped around and struck at Weard with his sword. The blade chipped the statue then rebounded. Duke Mánfeld flailed.

Weard grabbed the sword. He tried to pull it from Duke Mánfeld’s grasp, but the man refused to let go. Even when Weard lifted his arm into the air, Duke Mánfeld continued to cling on, leaving him dangling from his own hilt, two feet from the floor.

“Unhand me witch, or I will spread you so thin that even the crows will not find you,” said Duke Mánfeld. “I know this is your doing. I will burn you and grease my carriage with your rendered tallow. Let me down!”

With an incentive like that does Duke Mánfeld actually expect someone to do as he asks? What would happen if I let go?

Duke Mánfeld stopped fondling the Feorhhord Gimcynn in his pocket and gripped his sword with both hands. The vile veins and unpleasant magic receded.

Crisis averted.

The statue’s head was melting fast. Weard glanced up at a flaring chandelier, it was dripping wax on him. He smirked, encircled Duke Mánfeld’s waist with his other hand and hoisted him.

It took a couple of tries, but Weard hung Duke Mánfeld from one of the brass spurs, scorching the man’s ridiculous ivory doublet.

The candles tipped, forcing them to burn even faster. Molten wax dripped over Duke Mánfeld. He waved his sword and screamed insults at the onlookers.

Weard gathered himself and exited the ice statue. It shattered into a multitude of razor-like shards and recognisable chunks, eliciting several fearful cries from the crowd. He slipped away. Lords and ladies shivered as Weard passed through them.

I‘ll never get my clothes back. Appearing naked in the middle of a crowd will not end well. I should return to my room, but I want to see what happens next.

Weard hid everything but his head inside one of the support pillars, so that no one would walk through him by mistake.

“Would you like me to help you down, little man?” said Elewýs. “It seems you’ve been mistaken for a lady’s hat.”

Most of the other guests regained their wits. Some looked away, others hid their faces behind fans, but there was no mistaking the laughter sweeping through them at the sight of Duke Mánfeld humiliation.

“Let the prat down,” said Firgen. “Before he chokes himself to ecstasy waving that sword of his and we have to endure another round of idiocy.”

“If you insist, Sire,” said Elewýs. “Are you sure we can’t leave him as a decoration?”

“Oh, we’d better not do that my dear. Dolwillen might be dressed like a peacock, but he squawks like a fowl and is nowhere near as pretty, I doubt he’d qualify as a decoration and I’d hate to ruin Áberd’s big day. Drop that silly knitting needle of yours Dolwillen and let the young lady help you down.”

“Don’t you dare touch me! I’ll-”

“Yes, yes, we’ve all heard what you’d like to do to her Dolwillen. I commend you on your spirit and vocabulary, if not your intention.”

“I’d sooner-”

“You’d sooner what, Dolwillen? I’m sure I can arrange it if you’d like, there are plenty of bows on the walls.”

“Bring me a ladder, I refuse to be touched by an abomination.”

“That will take too long and my wine is going cold. Have you ever seen what I’m like after a cold drink? No, I suppose you haven’t, but you are about to find out. Take him down, Elewýs. You don’t have to be gentle.”

Elewýs reached up towards Duke Mánfeld and he tried to whack her with his sword, but she swatted it away with the back of her hand and squeezed his wrist. He didn’t drop his sword until his wrist popped from his socket.

A shrill scream leapt from his lips and the blade fell and rang on the ice covered floor. Elewýs placed one hand on the chandelier and used the other to grab Duke Mánfeld’s hips. She yanked. His doublet ripped and scattered ivory scales over the floor. Several candles clattered down, spitting globules of hot wax.

Elewýs dumped the Duke on the floor. He held his wrist to his chest and swayed. Tears streamed down his face. Mánfeld collapsed with a hollow thud.

“Áberd!”

“Yes, Sire?”

Firgen jumped, “Where the bloody hell did you come from?” He waved his hand at the mess on the floor, “Never mind. Clean this up, there’s a good chap, then bring out the desserts.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Áberd?”

“Sire?”

“They’d better be pink.”