Castle Murders by John Dechancie

Eugéne!"
    Eugéne waved disdainfully. "It grows wearisome."
    "Again, please! How many of the Legate's men vanquished?"
    A modest shrug. "Twenty-eight . . . or nine. Thirty perhaps."
    "Between the two of you!"
    "Imagine!"
    Eugéne raised his mug to drink. "It was nothing." He drank.
    "Nothing, he says! Nothing since Shem prevailed against the Ashkelonians with the thighbone of a ram!"
    The newcomer found himself an empty table toward the back. The barkeep eventually noticed and grudgingly came.
    "Mulled cider with cloves and cinnamon, if you have it," the young man said.
    The innkeeper curled his lip. "No spirits?"
    "Oh, throw a shot of something in it, I don't care."
    "Anything to eat?"
    "Nothing, please. Um, tell me. Who are those two, er, gentlemen that everyone's gathered around?"
    "Troublemakers, I call 'em," the barkeep said. "Ragueneau's thugs will have their hides soon enough. I just hope it happens out in the gutter and not in here, where I'll have to clean up the mess. Cider. That all you want?"  
    "Yes, thank you."
    The barkeep left. The young man looked around. He didn't like the looks of some of the patrons. Some of these looked as though they didn't particularly care for him.  
    "It's not so much the heroic deed," one of the crowd of rowdies was saying, "as the manner in which the deed was done. While composing a ballade!"  
    "A trifle," Eugéne said. "Something to occupy the mind so as not to let fear take hold. A simple trick."
    "Fear, bah! Hardly the babblings of a timorous versifier. Rather, the lays of a warrior-poet."
    "Recite it again!"
    "Yes, we'd like it again!"
    "Especially that part about 'And as I end the envoi — lunge through!'"
    "Yes, yes, that's the best part!"
    "Gentlemen, please. I grow weary. The hour is late."
    "Lord Snowden, you tell us, then."
    The huge white-haired one shook his massive head. "Hey, don't look at me. I don't know any poetry."
    "Tell us again how you killed three at one time. Forget the verse."
    "Well, okay. I took two and cracked their heads together, see. One of 'em was kinda little, so I used him like a blackjack and brained another guy."  
    "Astounding!"
    "Amazing!"
    "Fantastic!"
    "An astonishing story!"
    Eugéne scoffed, "Fantasy and science fiction. He exaggerates."
    "No, there were witnesses. We've heard all the stories. You can't deny it, Eugéne."
    "Please, a little less enthusiasm, I beg you."
    The blond-bearded young man's cider was delivered, and he drank of it. It was bland and weak, and tasted like dishwater. He made a face and looked toward the bar, trying to catch the barkeep's eye.  
    "Well, what have we here?"
    The young man turned and found two cavaliers standing over him.
    "Good evening," he said pleasantly.
    One said to the other, "A Northern type, I warrant."
    "Yes, it has the look."
    "Pallild and phthisic."
    "Yes, how pale his beard, his face."
    "Tell me, young popinjay, what brings your sort here?"
    "Uh, just out for a drink . . . gentlemen."
    The other looked to the one. "It has a strangely lilting voice."
    "High enough to chant descants."
    "A coloratura, I'll wager."
    "A protégé of the Legate, most likely. He's a patron of the arts, you know."
    "Look, if you gentlemen will just leave me alone . . ."
    The one on the right screwed up his face. "Might it be a citizen of the Cities of the Plain?"
    "Thought I smelled salt and brimstone."
    "Well, see here, young Zeboimite, if that you be, take care to guard your tongue in this place. If Eugéne and Snowden get wind of you, you might end up skewered in a way you had not bargained on, or stuffed into a firkin and set out as salt meat."  
    "Or both."
    The young man nodded. "Yeah, I'll watch my step."
    "It would be wise."
    They left.
    The young man's eyes smoldered. "Rotten macho creeps . . ."
    "The poem again, Eugéne! Please!"
    Eugéne downed the rest of his muscatel. "Oh, very well. But not the same poem. An improvisation from memory is your moron's oxymoron.