“We also double as the Ethics Committee,” added Bathos. Apologetically: “I’m afraid we’re required to do so by our small numbers and meager purse. We are not, as you are perhaps aware, one of the more populous and prosperous guilds.”
The two of them turned to Cannabis, as if waiting for him to speak. But he was just ogling the walls, apparently oblivious. Perhaps he was hoping that more nubile damsels might spring forth from the woodwork. I got the feeling his mind wasn’t entirely there.
Pathos cleared his throat. “Well. He’s had a bit of a rough time of it for the past few decades. Ever since that unfortunate episode with the dryads.”
He heaved a small sigh. “To be honest, Sirrah Ignace, we’re the smallest and the poorest of the professional guilds. In fact, the three of us are pretty much it, in the Excelsior class. Except for Hamhead Jones, if he recovers from his injuries. And the Apprentices Rafael and Ethelrede the Younger.” Again, he cleared his throat. “Assuming that Rafael comes out of his coma. And Ethelrede the Younger escapes from the rock to which he’s currently chained in the netherworld, after carving himself a new wooden leg.”
“Oh, no,” I croaked.
“So pleased to welcome you into the Guild!” exclaimed Bathos. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we were delighted—”
“Ecstatic!” qualified Pathos. Cannabis flopped his head around, drooling a bit. Agreement, perhaps, but I suspected he was lost in unfortunate memory.
“—to hear the news that Greyboar the Great has eschewed his wicked ways in favor of a Hero’s Life.”
“Oh, no!” I wailed.
* * *
It was all downhill from there. By the end of the day, when they finally left, the Guild All-Committees-In-One had made clear our new professional ethics and standards.
Starvation loomed, assuming we survived that long.
Just to drive home the point, our first job showed up on our doorstep that same afternoon.
“We’re the village elders from the small province of Rockandahardplace,” pronounced the gap-toothed swineherd at the front. “Terrible it’s been, the way the Dragon devours our maidens. Which puir lasses we moost chain up outside the Creature’s lair ‘pon every full moon.”
“Terrible! Terrible!” intoned the other dozen or so peasants. “Been the ruination of all moral standards! ‘Tis nary a maiden to be found past the age of twelve! The foul slatterns!”
The swineherd cleared his throat. “Fortunate, as it is, th’Dragon’s no really so fussy.”
They beamed at me. Then, two of them hauled up a small cart filled with potatoes. A none-too-plump piglet was tied to the cart, looking none too pleased.
“O’ course,” announced the doughty fellow in charge, “we has brought th’customary Gift To The Hero. As stip’lated in the Rules.”
Words failed me.
* * *
Alas, they didn’t fail Angela and Jenny.
“It’ll be great!” squealed Jenny. “We can be the maidens of the month! Tantalizing bait for the Dragon, while you and Greyboar get ready to pounce!”
“You’re not maidens,” I protested.
Angela stuck her tongue out at me.
“And since when have you complained about that?” demanded Jenny.
“Doesn’t matter anyway!” proclaimed Angela. “You heard what the Doughty Villager said. The Dragon’s not fussy. No more than you are.”
A moment later they were charging about their sewing room, hauling out material for The Costumes. By the next day they were well into the project.
Why they were spending so much time on it was a mystery to me. Given that Jenny and Angela’s design for their “sacrificial maiden” costumes seemed to consist mostly of Revealing Rents in the Rags.
* * *
I couldn’t even find solace in The Trough. By the time I got there, Greyboar and the Cat and Hrundig and Shelyid had already spread the news. My entry was greeted by a thunderous round of applause.
“The Hero’s Sidekick!”
“Behold! He comes!”
This ruffian ribaldry was followed by fifteen minutes of lowlife derision, followed by the Unkindest Cut of All. Leuwen plopped a pot of ale in front of me, where I sat glumly hunched over at Eddie Black’s.
“On the house, Ignace,” he announced. “Just this once, seeing as how you’ve entered the land of pover-tee.” Guffaw, guffaw, guffaw. It was so tiresome.