Chapter Two — The Paint Blotched Gnome

The gnome opposite him didn't look much like a criminal. 

He was relatively short, as gnomes tended to be, and he had the betraying angular features of his kind — especially on the nose, chin, and ears. Beyond his species, though, the gnome's arms and legs were covered in multicoloured bangles, and, if that wasn't enough of an affront to fashion, his worn clothes and skin were speckled with thick blotches of paint.

At a push, Holsley would say he looked more like an unfashionable decorator. Still, the young bard supposed that he didn't much look like a criminal either. Holsley figured then that anyone would look like a criminal if seen milling about the inside of a cramped cell.

'It's rude to stare,' the gnome huffed. Holsley quickly looked away. 'What you in for, kid? Stealing sweets?'

'Kid!?' Holsley's face swung back. 'I'm fifteen!'

'That's what I said.' The gnome gave him a cold stare. 'I'll ask again. Why you in here?'

There weren't many gnomes in Petty's Nest — which is to say there were none. So, Holsley knew from looking at him that he wasn't from around here. A complete stranger that would be here one day and then gone the next. What harm, he thought, was there then in being honest? 

'I got caught busking,' he said after a long pause. 'If you have to know, like.'

'Didn't realise busking was a crime in Petty's Nest?' The gnome raised one of his frosty eyebrows.

'Only when it starts a riot,' Holsley muttered, reluctantly adding, 'I, uh, forgot the lyrics to the song I was playing.'

'Stupid.' 

Holsley slumped back in his seat and winced. His ribs were nicely bruised from that blow he took earlier. The young bard lifted his shirt to inspect the damage. A horrific purple and blue discolouration was what awaited him across his chest. It was tender, sore, and honestly made breathing a little tricky.

'Nasty, eh.' The gnome leaned forward. 'How did you manage to get that?'

'I got punched,' Holsley replied. 'Really hard.'

'Learn the song then.' 

Hopping off the bench that served as both seat and bed for the unlikely souls under the watchful eyes of Petty's Nest's finest, the gnome jangled his way over and sat beside him. Holsley threw his shirt down quickly, suddenly embarrassed. 

The gnome tutted. 'Very nasty.'

'I'll be fine,' said Holsley. 'Once I get my lute back, I can sort myself out.'

'Why would your lute matter?'

'Oh!' Holsley straightened up. 'It wouldn't! It would, uh, just make me feel better to have it.'

'You know, if you're looking to make some coin, kid, there are better ways to do it,' he said with an odd sense of pride. 'Take me, for example. I'm what you might call an entrepreneur.' When Holsley didn't say anything, he pressed on, unabated by the purposeful silence. 'I've got a cart full of ale that I've bought on the cheap. After I get out of this cell, I'm heading up to Tressa to sell it all. I know an innkeeper'll give me a good price for out-of-town favourites, even if it has gone a little off.'

Holsley let out an annoyed grunt. 'Don't talk to me about Tressa. That's the last place I want to hear about right now.'

'Sure, as a city, it has its problems.' The gnome shrugged. 'Plenty of opportunity, though.'

There was no one better acquainted than Holsley to discuss Tressa's opportunities. After all, he had been unlucky enough to be born there. When he left it three years ago, it had been a nightmare of easily irritated guards, destitute buildings, and an infectious mindset that put everyone out for themselves. He'd rather drag himself across broken glass, no, swim through a bubbling lake of acid, NO, eat six-week-old mouldy gravy than set even a little toe in that horror of a city.

'What did you do?' Holsley glanced over at the gnome, trying to be casual about not so casually changing the conversation. 'I assume you haven't booked a room here or anything?'

'Don't be silly.' The gnome grimaced. 'Just a bit of a misunderstanding between me and your local innkeeper at the Second-Hand Boot.'

'Enessa?' Holsley knew of the tavern. It was a nice enough place, but he avoided it like it was made of peanuts — he was allergic to peanuts. It reminded him too much of home. Not because it was elegant, lavish, or swanky, but because the rotgut slinger was an elf. It's not that he didn't like elves, mind. It's just that he didn't want to reminisce about his time spent under their stern watch. 'What was the misunderstanding? Did you forget to pay or something?'

'I re-painted the room,' he replied sullenly. 'She stuck me in this, well, unwelcoming, poorly decorated hovel of a pit. Outrageous. So, I took it upon myself to redecorate. Believe me, the room looks better now. More colour. She didn't like it, though, and that led to our misunderstanding. Guards were called. Long story short, it earned me two days in the cells and a fifty crown fine. Ungrateful is what I call it.'

'It's pretty crazy to repaint a room, though.' Holsley didn't know if it was the gnome's brashness or simply the madness of what he had done, but it forced a short smile on his face. 'First I've ever heard of anyone doing that.'

'It ain't a laughing matter, eh. I take renovation very seriously.' 

'No, I can see that.'

'Merhim, by the way. Merhim Bindle.' The gnome stuck out his hand, and Holsley shook the offered appendage. It was a firm grip from such a short creature, and he found himself bending his arm a little to compensate for the strength. 'What would I call you if I wanted to?'

'Holsley!!' 

The young bard jumped at the roar of his name. 

Darynell stood suddenly on the free side of the iron bars, his whiskers trembling and his eyebrows thoroughly furrowed. Once he had captured Holsley's attention, he beckoned the bard closer with one finger. 'Let's have a chat, you and I, shall we?'

'Better you than me, kid,' the gnome muttered as Holsley, quite reluctantly, got up from his seat. 

***

Darynell didn't say much as he marched the bard through the barracks. Looking about at the dusty noticeboards, bored guards, and faded aesthetics was all Holsley could do as they went from corridor to corridor. The short journey ended up a set of stone steps that ended inevitably at a tired-looking door. 

The plaque on it was the only shiny thing he'd seen on this little trip, and it told him that he was about to enter Darynell's office. Although he didn't need a plaque for that, he'd been here a few times already and could probably find his way in the dark.

They stepped inside.

Holsley had often thought that someone had played a cruel joke on Darynell. They had put the Captain of the Guard in what amounted to a broom cupboard. The tight space was then filled with an obscene amount of paperwork and piles of very boring sounding books that he was sure no one had ever read. There was just enough room to fit a desk and two chairs between the unshuffled madness.

Of course, the only thing about the room Holsley cared about was his lute, which he found lying on a stack of rolled parchments just below the window. The young bard ignored his desire to dive for it and took the chair closest to the door. He sat down and huffed like a naughty child expecting a severe but not entirely undeserved punishment.

'Another riot,' Darynell grunted as he took his seat. The wood rattled under his weight. 'The fourth one in two months. Exactly as long as you've been here.'

'Four?' Holsley wanted to object, but when he counted the incidents on his fingers, he found the addition was correct. There had been the misspoken lyric in the Second-Hand Boot, which had earned him a black eye. A total freeze-up when he'd attempted to play as part of the town's most recent festival for Halfway Over. Oh, and the time he was whacked over the head with his own lute for, quote, "not looking much like a bard." 

'One more arrest and you'll have spent more time behind the bars of our cells than any other criminal this town has ever seen.' Darynell crossed his arms. 'Considering this is Petty's Nest, that's saying something. What do you have to say for yourself?'

Holsley, as he usually did, said the first word that came to his mind. 'Impressed?'

'Shocked, more like.' Darynell leaned back. 'Why did you come here, Holsley? Surely, you'd have a better time somewhere else. You can't play the lute, you can't do the labour, and you attract more trouble than a drunkard at a wedding.'

The young bard shrugged. 

'Do you even want to be a bard, Holsley?' Darynell narrowed his eyes. 'I've met some bad buskers in my time, but at least they could get through a song.'

'I guess I don't have a choice,' replied Holsley with another shrug. 'It's either play or starve.'

'That's why I'm sorry I have to do this.' Darynell sighed deeply as he reached back and gently brought Holsley's lute over the desk. 'Holsley, I'm giving this back to you, but I'm prohibiting you from playing it publicly.'

The young bard cringed at the word. 'What does prohibiting mean?'

'It means you can't play it.'

He sprang up. His chair was flung into a pile of unkempt paperwork. 'You can't do that!'

'For one month,' Darynell warned. 'People around here have enough to be stressed about without your music adding to their concerns. I'd love, just love, to go one week without someone striking someone else over something as stupid as a few forgotten words to a song.'

'You've killed me then!' Holsley crossed his arms. 'That's it. I'm dead. You've killed me. If I can't play, I can't eat.'

'I'm going to give you a couple of nobles to help you get started,' said Darynell, reaching into one of his desk drawers. 'I'm sure there's plenty of work in the town for a boy your age.'

'No one will hire me,' replied Holsley. 'They all think I'm stupid and clumsy.'

'I can't do more than that, Holsley,' replied Darynell. 'If you can't find a way to live here, then it might be time to consider moving on.'

'Please don't do this.' Holsley pressed his palms together desperately. 'Please. I'll practice. I really will. The next time I play, it'll be perfect.'

'Your problem isn't just practice, Holsley,' replied Darynell. 'You're no good in stressful situations. All the practice in the world don't mean anything against that. You've got to learn your courage. Until then, you shouldn't play. You'll end up getting seriously bottled.'

'What do I do then?'

'You've got to figure that out for yourself, just like the rest of us.' Darynell pushed two silver coins across the table. 'I'm also obligated to inform you that if I catch you playing, I'll have to confiscate the lute. Sorry to do it, but I will. If I do, you won't get it back for the rest of the month.'

Holsley took the lute and swiped the coins from the table. 'Can I go now?'

He left without another word, although a few rude gestures came to mind as he slammed the door behind him. Darynell didn't know what he had just done. It wasn't like he could just magically find a job in a town that had become too small. Holsley had a reputation, and the captain must have been aware of it. 

As he stalked down the corridors, Holsley glanced at the two nobles he had been given. They were old-looking, carved with decorative florals, and each had two holes drilled through the centre. A noble was worth ten peasants, he knew. One peasant was a slice of buttered bread. Two peasants was a drink at the local tavern. Five peasants was a meal. Ten peasants was an overnight stay with a small breakfast in the morning. Holsley had two days of comfortable living in his palm, while a month was exactly twenty-eight.

I'll have to beg, then. 

The morose thought walloped him, and he wondered, not for the first time, whether he had made the right choice in leaving the safety of Donathal. The gazes were stern, and the judgement was severe, but at least he could get a decent meal and a cosy bed for the night. Perhaps Darynell was right. It may be time to move on.

But this town had been the birthplace of Marlin Mandrovi, one of the greatest minstrels he had ever heard of. Holsley had followed his exploits closely as a child. He was a bard, and an adventurer, and an explorer, and a treasure hunter, and everything else in between. 

It had been here, in this unsuspecting small town, where that legendary minstrel had got his start, and Holsley supposed that he might also find his start here. Follow in his footsteps, as it were. It turns out, though, that he was treading a very different path.