The laughing God's Gambit

Chapter 10: thoughts on selling our story.

The ledger you kicked. In Finn’s vault. I pasted a one-way link to the glue. A little test. Goes off when it finds feels like stress and magic nearby.

You have a lot of that now. Glad you are not dead.

They were talking to a librarian from somewhere else. In a bar. While cops are out looking for them.

Now shut up, Mavis continued, all business. Finn’s Quiet Study is a bubble inside the Vault of Echoes. It's nice, but the tea is bad. I’m on the inside to learn the Vault’s memory security.I think I have a trick to untying a soul-bind that should not blow you up.

Hope, mixed with worry, crossed their minds.

Then, Mavis went on, you must do three things. One, get to the Vault. Two, find a loud noise deal, it makes sad sounds and is with that deaf snob in Cloud-Silk. Three…

She paused. The fizzing was much worse.

You must be sure if you want to do this. We have to take off the mind guards. To let your brain bond blow up. You need to see what they are like. Not just a look, but to feel everything! It will suck!

The good feeling was gone.

If you cant, Mavis said, her voice went soft, you will still be bonded. It has not been long and it’s blowing up fast. It could not just stay fused you. You are going to pull apart.

The telepathy disappeared. The fizzing stopped.

Find the “Stormheart’s song.” It’s a horn made of metal. Looks like a pipe. Get it from a place with blue snake statues. I will be waiting… in the quiet.

The voice was gone. Sound and noise from the bar was back.

Lyria spoked. She needs us to let someone dig in our thoughts?

And steal the trumpet from some rich guys house. Ferris gave a bad laugh. And we hate magic.

Not doing it means were dead. Lyria repeated.

So find the trumpet, get it back and yell at magic! He was slump on the bench. And we have to dry our clothes”

Before Lyria could reply, and the minotaur woke up. He blinked and looked at the two in their dirty clothes

The minotaur called out by raising a drink and booming by saying, “Rough Night, Lovers?”

Ferris and Lyria died inside. A cop that has been there the whole time noticed.

But not standing up. Not even yelling. Not even moving his hand until he reached for the whistle that was sitting in his belt.

The scout’s fingers tightened around the whistle. Time didn’t slow down it just got ridiculously loud.

Ferris’s thoughts fried. Every plan he had was run, hide, or lie. But there they were, trapped in a booth, a minotaur staring right at them.

Lyria moved.

She didn’t stand up. She just slid under the table, quiet as a shadow. Ferris caught her intention a split second before she went for it this sharp, electric jolt through their bond.

The scout raised the whistle to his lips.

Lyria’s boot shot out from under the table not at the scout, but at the leg of his stool. She yanked.

The poor scout’s backside hit open air. He tumbled backward with a strangled yelp, the whistle flying. He crashed into the bar, toppled three tankards, and sent the bartender’s precious pickled egg jar smashing to the floor. Eggs and yellow brine splattered everywhere.

Suddenly, pure chaos. Sticky, glorious chaos.

“My eggs!” roared the bartender.

“He started it!” yelled a dockworker, jabbing a finger at the soaking scout.

“Who’s paying for my ale?!”

A fist flew across the room. The tavern erupted into a full-blown brawl.

Ferris felt Lyria’s iron grip on his ankle under the table. He ducked down and followed, crawling after her through a maze of stomping feet and overturned stools, using the minotaur’s table for cover.

They popped up near a swinging door labeled KITCHEN. Lyria shoved through. Hot, greasy air hit them, and a startled cook loomed with a giant cleaver.

“We’re with the health inspection!” Ferris blurted, pointing at the riot behind them. “Unsanitary brawling! Immediate closure!”

The cook’s eyes went round. “Not again!” He dropped the cleaver and dashed toward the fight probably to rescue his eggs.

They bolted through the kitchen, slipped out a back door, and stumbled into a misty alley piled high with reeking trash bins. The noise faded behind them.

Gasping, they leaned against the wet brick wall. The bond between them buzzed with adrenaline and a wild, shaky relief.

“You… you started a tavern brawl,” Ferris wheezed, struggling not to laugh. “Sir Lyria Stormcrown, knight of the realm, chaos-monger.”

“I created a diversion,” she said, straightening Finn’s oversized tunic with as much dignity as she could muster. But Ferris felt it a tiny burst of wicked amusement from her side of the bond. Warmth, like sun on frost. Then it was gone, replaced by her usual focus. “The scout will recover and report this. We can’t stay here.”

“Right. New district. Cloud-Silk. Fancy horns everywhere.” He pushed off the wall. “We need a sky-cab. Which we can’t afford. And we look like we lost a fight with a laundry golem.”

Lyria glanced at his ruined velvet doublet, then at her own rolled-up trousers. “We need new clothes. And money.”

An idea sparked in Ferris’s head awful, but brilliant. He grinned. “I know a guy. Or, well, a guy who knows a guy. He runs a… theater supply store. And a pawn shop. Discreet. Always looking for unusual stuff.”

“The doublet?” Lyria asked, eyebrow raised.

“Better,” Ferris said, his grin turning sly. “We’re going to sell our story.”

“Absolutely not.”