Chapter Fifty-Eight: A New Job

Minstrels are rarely united, for as the saying goes, rivals in the same trade are enemies; theirs is an occupation fraught with public quarrels and mutual ridicule, making true solidarity elusive. For the other side to muster more than twenty minstrels had indeed startled Kevin. Yet, as he left and reflected, he realized the root of the issue lay in his military uniform.

Local minstrels felt their livelihood threatened and so banded together to resist Kevin, the outsider. Truth be told, even if twenty against one won a debate, it would hardly showcase their prowess. Moreover, victory meant that none of the twenty could perform in the tavern that night; the proceeds would only cover one share, so they would labor in vain.

Kevin believed that had he entered in minstrel attire, at most, a bearded giant and a one-eyed rogue would have been summoned. The others would not bother; defeat would merely enhance the victor’s reputation, making it difficult for Kevin to continue his craft in the future.

Nevertheless, Kevin had no intention of changing his clothes tomorrow. To play it safe would yield little profit; he hoped, at least, to create a spectacle.

It was late when Kevin hurried back to the barracks. Suddenly, shadows flickered nearby; three masked figures in black appeared before him.

He halted, unsurprised but wary. “Who are you?”

“Greetings, Author,” replied the central figure, “no need to be anxious.”

“Oh, I’m still not used to your sudden appearances,” Kevin replied, forcing a laugh.

“No matter, we’ll show up more often so you’ll adjust,” the masked man joked.

“Better not,” Kevin smiled. “If someone truly attacks me one day and I mistake them for friends, it’ll be disastrous.”

“Are you facing difficulties lately?” another asked. “Your new book has been delayed for quite some time.”

Kevin, embarrassed, nodded. “Yes, there have been some issues. The barracks have been troublesome.” He didn’t elaborate; he felt it undignified to always seek his readers’ help when problems arose. Besides, the repair fee for the catapult was substantial, and even if these assassins were wealthy, he felt awkward asking.

“Are you really planning to debate with twenty minstrels tomorrow?” another inquired. “Shall we spread the word?”

“Please do,” Kevin replied. “That would be a great help.”

“No trouble at all. We’re bored lately anyway,” the assassins responded.

“By the way, your intelligence is broad. There are a few matters I’d like to ask about—” Kevin seized the chance to inquire about the batch of equipment he had brought back from the border, and why the promised rewards never came.

The assassins nodded and vanished into the night. Kevin continued toward the barracks; the sentries at the gate, accustomed to his late arrivals, let him pass without comment.

The next day, after a casual drill, Kevin went to town to gather information—not only about yesterday’s administrative debate, but also about the backgrounds of several minstrels. He had noted their badges carefully, and since they had exposed his penchant for bawdy tales, he intended to dig up their scandals without reservation.

By evening, a special canopy had been erected outside the tavern, already teeming with people. Even the city’s constable lingered nearby, wary of trouble. The twenty-odd minstrels stood waiting, confident in their numbers, whispering among themselves.

Kevin arrived in full uniform, head held high. Many in the crowd applauded; he suspected the assassins had prompted it.

The two sides took their seats: three rows for the minstrels, a lone chair for Kevin. Though their strength was unequal, their presence matched. Spectators crowded every inch, even the rooftop, for entertainment was scarce among common folk; grand balls and stage plays belonged to the nobility, while the masses craved excitement.

For this event, the tavern spared no expense: everyone present received a free drink. Of course, anything extra cost extra, and though the drinks were complimentary, the bartender lingered to collect tips. Most gave something, so the tavern was not at a loss.

The tavern owner took the stage for the opening. “Thank you for your patronage. Today our humble establishment is honored to host a debate between an officer and twenty-six minstrels. Perhaps it is our fine wine that has drawn such competition?”

The audience jeered, noisy and unimpressed.

The owner, unfazed, waited for quiet and continued, “I won’t say much, but before we begin, a rule must be set. Yesterday’s debate was so fierce that none could hear what was said.

“So, I propose rules. First, to prevent disorder, no one may interrupt another’s speech. Second, to prevent endless monologues, each speaker is limited by this hourglass!”

He produced an hourglass. “Once it empties, regardless of whether you’ve finished, you must sit.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The hourglass seemed to allow only five or six sentences per turn; both sides would need to be concise and speak quickly.

“Owner, isn’t that too fast? Add more sand,” someone suggested.

He refused. “With so many participants, time must be short. It’s fair.” He glanced at Kevin and the minstrels, seeing no objection.

“The debate will alternate between sides. Any excessive pause counts as defeat. No meaningless laughter, sneers, or personal attacks—such will be forcibly interrupted.” Having laid out the rules, he turned to both parties. “Any questions?”

“None!” both sides replied.

“Then let Mr. Kevin begin!” With a flourish, the owner inverted the hourglass.

Kevin rose. “First, I thank the twenty-six minstrels. Today, regardless of victory or defeat, you will all contribute to my reputation. If I lose, it will be an honorable defeat; if I win, you may find it hard to remain in this city. So, in any case, I offer my thanks. I am done.”

Kevin sat, and a minstrel immediately stood. “How absurd! You used to be a down-and-out bard, infamous for bawdy tales. Do you deny it? Minstrels are supposed to spread love and peace, but you are a shameless teller of lewd stories. I am done.” He sat.

Kevin remained seated, watching the hourglass run out, then rose. “First, that was a personal attack. Second, owner, your hourglass timer does not suit such a tense debate.”

The owner was embarrassed; he had noticed the hourglass’s flaw at the outset. Though precise, it could only be reset after it emptied. If Kevin finished and sat, and the next stood before the sand ran out, flipping it early would shorten their turn.

The audience buzzed. Someone suggested, “Forget all these rules; just debate!”

This proposal won much support. The twenty-six minstrels, emboldened, all spoke at once: “%#%￥#%￥%￥%&%*&…”

Kevin merely sat, coldly laughing.

The owner hurried to halt them; silence returned, but a suitable timing method eluded him. Someone suggested pouring water from a basin, but standardizing the speed proved difficult. Others offered to count aloud, but counting during a heated debate felt awkward.

Finally, a young woman stepped forward. “I’ll spin around. I can spin for quite a while.”

Kevin looked closely—it was Little Nine, dressed as a village girl, almost unrecognizable.

The owner, noting her charm, agreed. She took the stage to demonstrate her spinning.

“Three spins per turn,” the owner declared. “Any objections? If not, let’s begin—Kevin first!”

Kevin stood. “Just now, twenty-six minstrels subjected me to a collective tongue-lashing, truly shocking. Yet, before the new rule was established, you all spoke out of turn. Such conduct is worrisome. I am done.”

Little Nine ceased spinning; a minstrel stood and she began again.

“The new rule was not in place, so there was no restriction before it was set,” the minstrel argued.

“Absurd! By your logic, in a duel, with a judge present, one could attack before the match officially starts, beating the opponent first?” Kevin retorted.

“Let’s put that aside,” the minstrel attempted to redirect the topic. “Let’s discuss your lewd tales.”

“Frankly, have none of you ever told a bawdy story?” Kevin countered. “Why not discuss the previous topic? There’s no set subject tonight.”

…

The debate finally proceeded in earnest, fiercely intense. Its chief aim was to prove the other side foolish, without blunt insult. Both sides cited countless examples, dodging their own weaknesses and assailing their opponent’s. The contest persisted; neither side gained ground.

For Kevin, though his opponents had twenty-six mouths, only one engaged him at a time. Their approaches varied, but with clear reasoning, he could handle them all. Among them were weaker links; Kevin singled one out, pressing him until he would not stand, then called him out to answer.

Other minstrels tried to assist, but struggled. At one point, a teammate’s blunder nearly cost the debate; they adopted a drastic measure, ejecting him from the stage.

The debate continued. Kevin caught a subtle error in an opponent’s example, refuted it, and magnified it as an instance of spreading false ideas, thereby tarnishing the minstrels’ reputation.

Reluctantly, another was dismissed, leaving twenty-four. Many now hesitated to speak, with only a few hardliners opposing Kevin.

Suddenly, they noticed, “Wait! The young woman spins faster when we speak than when Kevin does.”

“Is that so?” Kevin asked. “Watch now as I speak—is her speed any different?”

The audience shook their heads. Most had watched the debate, not the spinning, but now they saw no change.

“Nonsense! She’s human, not a machine!” one minstrel exclaimed. “If she hears us, she might adjust her speed.”

“You’re casting doubt on this lady!” Kevin said solemnly. “Remember, without her help, we might still be stuck without a debate. Where is your gratitude? To suspect this pure, kind woman—are you a gentleman?”

The minstrel sat, silent. Another stood to smooth things over. “My companion may be weary; perhaps he misperceived.”

“A minstrel must speak with certainty and evidence; each is responsible for their words!” Kevin declared. “Even if you’re tired, you should not speak without confirmation. You’ve hurt this lady and public goodwill!”

“It’s a trivial matter, not worth mentioning,” his opponent insisted.

“Perhaps trivial, but character is revealed in small things. I do not wish to engage with an ungentlemanly person, nor with one who insults a kind lady and tramples public decency,” Kevin told the audience. “Should he remain on stage?”

“Get off!” the crowd, eager for drama, cheered.

The minstrel, face dark, stepped down. The owner, seeing the late hour, finally spoke. “Thank you for a spirited debate, but it’s late. Though no winner emerged, the excitement was reward enough. We’ll end here; the tavern will soon close. Please return tomorrow.”

The audience erupted in lively discussion as they departed, the whole street abuzz. Bartenders stood at the entrance with a tip box; the owner seemed to have hired a few spectators to toss coins in, setting an example. Others, sheepish, followed suit.

When the crowd dispersed, the owner approached Kevin and the minstrels to settle payment. Generously, he reached into the tip box, pulling out fifty-odd copper coins and seven silver.

Kevin had no complaint; the money was taken from the public box, transparent and fair. The event’s expenses far exceeded usual nights. The owner’s dissatisfaction was clear—after all, these were commoners. On a noble stage, the tips would have been silver only, never copper, and nobles would have mocked any copper tossed in.

In the end, Kevin received five silver coins; the rest, small change, went to the minstrels as token compensation.

Money in hand, everyone hurried home, worn out from hours of argument. Even water could not soothe their parched throats. Kevin, too, felt disheartened—the night’s effort had yielded only five silver coins.

On the way back, Kevin walked with head bowed, sighing inwardly. He glanced around; tonight, no assassins appeared, Little Nine had slipped off with the crowd, and he could not speak to her. Looking up, he spotted a parrot flying overhead.

Kevin remembered something and clapped his hands, whistling. When he was a new recruit, his superior, Marcus, had said this would summon a patrolling parrot.

The parrot swooped down and perched on Kevin’s arm. “Officer, need something?” For an officer, the parrot was less harsh than it had been with new recruits.

“Are you busy?” Kevin asked.

The parrot: “…”

“If not, I’d like to ask—where can I find a wanted thief worth millions?”

The parrot: “…”

“Or perhaps an ancient tomb, ripe for excavation?”

The parrot: “…”

“Or maybe a strangely shaped chamber pot by the river?” Kevin continued.

The parrot paused. “You just want to make money, don’t you? I know of several noblewomen posting notices, offering rewards for children. You could try your luck.”

“No!” Kevin refused. “That’s unseemly. Besides, it’s all a scam.”

The parrot flew off, leaving a parting shot: “Foolish human.”

As the parrot departed, Little Nine emerged from the shadows, accompanied by several assassins. She called out, “Hey! I helped you tonight—aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Thank you,” Kevin replied, spreading his hands. “But I regret I have no suitable gift to offer.” He knew Little Nine wasn’t a reader of his novels; her help tonight was likely just because they were acquainted.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I was bored anyway,” Little Nine waved it off.

“Regarding your inquiry from yesterday, we’re still investigating,” an assassin added. “We’ll let you know when we find something.”

“Thank you,” Kevin replied.

“You seem pretty short of money, don’t you?” the assassins asked.

Kevin, embarrassed, admitted it.

They exchanged glances; one said, “Even if we tipped you, it wouldn’t be enough. Here—take this notice. Maybe you can give it a try.”

He handed Kevin a notice. Kevin read: “Count Gelaide seeks a learned scholar to serve as tutor for his ten-year-old daughter. Salary negotiable.”

“Count Gelaide?” Kevin pondered. “Doesn’t ring a bell.” He didn’t know all the upper nobility, but was familiar with most. Who was this Count Gelaide? He couldn’t recall.

“We’ve done all we can,” the assassins coughed. “Count Gelaide’s estate could be dangerous for you—but perhaps not as perilous as it seems.”

“We’ll be off now.” With Little Nine, they departed swiftly.

Kevin didn’t dwell on it. The country was stable; even failure would not be disastrous.

Early next morning, after drill, Kevin set out, entered a portal, and traveled directly to North City. His courage grew daily—once, he hesitated to roam, but found nothing amiss; now, emboldened, he began inter-city travel.

With the notice in hand, he took a carriage to Count Gelaide’s manor. The fare consumed all his earnings from yesterday and even cost two silver coins extra. But for the chance at greater profit, Kevin resolved to invest.

The gatekeeper stopped him; Kevin presented the notice and was admitted easily. The manor was resplendent as befitted nobility, gardens everywhere, fragrant air. Maids tended the flowers and cleaned; autumn leaves kept them busy.

Suddenly, Kevin spotted Little Spoon in maid attire, carrying a bundle of firewood. They caught each other’s gaze, both startled.

Little Spoon walked on as if nothing had happened.

Kevin: “…”