There were an unusual number of listeners today. The Great Poet Lucas had already performed his signature ballad, The Heroes of Brolinki, four times, yet the crowd remained insatiable. The poet sat in his chair, feeling feverish. His stall seemed to possess a magnetic pull, drawing everyone from the marketplace toward him—bestowing both tremendous honor and pressure. "Sing something different, poet," suggested a plainly dressed but refined middle-aged woman. "Perhaps something about Cynthia."

  "The war rages on," the boy replied hesitantly. "We have little material to shape into verse while the ink of history is still wet with blood."

  "That's quite all right, poet," another middle-aged man said, patting his bald head. "Just sing what you know."

  (The problem is, I don't know any more than you do.) Lucas bowed his head, pretending to search for the first note among his strings. "Lucas." The voice came like salvation from above.

  Elisa Fey stood before him, hands clasped at her waist. Lucas couldn't fathom how she had slipped through that living wall of bodies. "My fair lady... Elisa," he quickly corrected himself.

  Elisa smiled, somewhat embarrassed. "Why are you closing so early?" the boy whispered. "The wine sold quickly." Her answer flowed with surprising ease, almost mechanically. "Oh... I see."

  "Poet, we want to hear a song," the people called, growing impatient. "I can't think what to sing," the poet complained to the maidservant. "Then let's leave," Elisa urged with apparent eagerness. "Close up a little early."

  Lucas decided this was the best of several poor options. "Ladies and gentlemen, I must apologize. Due to urgent business, I'll have to end today's performance here."

  "You can't be serious?" The poet sighed; protests came faster and louder than anticipated. "It's still early—the sun hasn't even set and you're trying to slip away? Sing a few more for us. Don't spoil everyone's enjoyment."

  "I sincerely apologize. Please understand," he fumbled while gathering his things as Elisa came to help. "Don't cheat us!" The butcher pointed his finger at the poet. "We paid good money!"

  "I can return your money..." The boy reached for his purse. "We don't want money back—we want songs!" another man shouted, receiving widespread agreement. The Great Poet Lucas glanced at Elisa, feeling trapped between impossible choices.

  "Gentlemen, that will be all for today," the maidservant began, her voice initially soft. "The poet is exhausted. Tomorrow, he'll return with an even better performance..."

  "What's it to you?" The butcher somehow produced a cleaver from nowhere. "Aren't you the wine-seller? Poet, don't tell me you're abandoning your art for this woman!"

  Both remained silent. "Ha! I guessed right," the butcher laughed lewdly. "Who's the hungry one—you or your little mistress?" His vulgar insinuation provoked laughter from the crowd.

  "That's no way to address a lady," the cultured middle-aged woman scolded. "Show some respect."

  "Since when did nuns become such busybodies?" The butcher picked at his teeth with a fingernail. "I'm not a nun," the woman contested firmly. "I merely copy manuscripts for the monks."

  "Makes no difference. Old spinster."

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  More laughter erupted. The Great Poet Lucas feared a riot might break out—one they had no power to defend against. (Especially Elisa.) He swallowed hard. (I could still smash my lyre across their faces, but Elisa can't do that. I must protect her...)

  "Enough chatter," the butcher raised his cleaver. "Will you sing or not?"

  The blade pointed toward Elisa. "I'll sing," the boy surrendered. "I'll sing now, sir." The middle-aged woman shook her head, sighed deeply, and turned to leave. Several men deliberately blocked her path; she angrily pushed past them. "Getting feisty, are we?" One grabbed her arm. "Want me to teach you some manners?" The Great Poet Lucas thought mournfully that the riot would come despite his efforts.

  "Yes," a voice called from beyond the crowd. "Teach me instead."

  "Who the fuck said that?" The butcher waved his cleaver. "I—I fucking said that."

  The Sheriff needed no force; the human wall parted into a pathway for him. He approached until he stood nose-to-nose with the butcher. "I fucking said that," he repeated. "Satisfied, Mr. Butcher?"

  The butcher glanced at him, then at the knife in his hand, then at the two spearmen behind the Sheriff. "Satisfied, my lord. Absolutely."

  The Sheriff pushed him aside with a single finger. "Something wrong with your hand?" He turned his threat toward the man gripping the woman's arm. "Perhaps I can fix it for you." The spears behind him caught a flash of sunlight.

  The man released his grip, muttering under his breath, his eyes filled with resentment. "Would someone tell me why so many people have gathered here?"

  "We came to hear the poet sing," the butcher gathered his courage to serve as spokesman. "To hear songs." The Sheriff nodded. "Then why the cleaver?"

  The spokesman faltered. "It's... professional habit."

  "Professional habit?" The Sheriff laughed coldly. "Should I drag a prisoner along on my daily rounds, then? Perhaps I'll start with you, butcher."

  "We paid," someone called out—safely hidden within the crowd, anonymous. "Yes, we paid," the butcher added. "But the poet is cheating us, refusing to sing."

  "We have urgent matters to attend to, my lord," the Great Poet Lucas explained to the Sheriff. "And I'm willing to refund their money."

  The Sheriff waved away the boy's words. "You paid, did you?" He reached into the purse and fingered through the coins. "Certainly, my lord. Paid quite handsomely."

  The crafty Sheriff stacked a glen atop a glen-cent, sandwiching them between his thumb and forefinger. "Is this what you paid?" He displayed the glen-face to the butcher. "Yes, yes! That's my coin."

  The Sheriff smiled deviously, and with a sleight of hand, slid the glen into his palm, leaving only the cent exposed. "Look here, everyone." He displayed the single-cent coin to the crowd. "This is what he paid the poet." The crowd hissed disapprovingly; the Sheriff delivered a slap to the butcher's face so forceful it knocked the cleaver from his hand. "A single glen-cent for a bard's performance? You piece of filth." The butcher fell to the ground, fighting back tears.

  The Sheriff motioned for the crowd to disperse. "Return tomorrow, everyone. The poet will deliver an exquisite performance then, but not today. Move along now. Go!" They departed reluctantly, lingering gazes fixed on the coin purse. "Thank you, my lord," the copyist said gratefully. "Take care when alone in the marketplace," he replied with a smile. "If there's any danger, just shout. I'll arrive promptly." The woman thanked him again.

  "My lord, thank—"

  "No need." The Sheriff tossed the glen-cent back to the poet; Lucas caught it with both hands. "Maintaining order in the market is my duty," he declared proudly. "Are you alright?"

  "Yes, my lord. Thanks to your intervention."

  "And you, miss?" He turned to Elisa Fey, recalling that she had also been at the boy's side during his last performance. "I'm fine, my lord. Thank you."

  One of the spearmen found a wooden crate, sat upon it, and crossed his legs. "You two really are inseparable," he remarked, pointing at them both. They simultaneously blushed and lowered their heads.

  The Sheriff laughed heartily. "Even blush in perfect unison." He clapped the Great Poet's shoulder. "Marvelous." Lucas could only duck his head lower. "Consider this glen as you buying me a round," he said, flashing the coin. "Acceptable, poet?"

  "Absolutely, my lord," the poet responded hastily. "Excellent. Then I'll leave you lovebirds be." He tossed the coin to the seated spearman and led his men away from the stall.