She was about to suggest something else she could give him, but their pointless conversation was thankfully interrupted by the strum of a stringed instrument rising above the tavern’s general clamor. She followed the sound to a small platform that had apparently been erected as a makeshift stage to allow entertainers to showcase their talents. In this case, the performer was a young woman who wasn’t much more than Bryony’s age, and her instrument of choice was a lute. She had sleek black hair that cascaded over her shoulders, and wore a high-necked dress of the same hue, hiding the lower half of her form so completely that it created the illusion that she was a levitating head and arms. A hush momentarily fell over the raucous crowd, as cards were placed flat and wrestling arms paused in their battles.

The sound that poured from the instrument was simple and clear, each note strummed by slender fingers that caressed more than played the strings. Like each one was her lover and not simply tools to be used. Bryony found herself mesmerized, for the notes spoke to her in the same sort of way that her favorite writers’ words did, reaching into her chest and finding heartstrings to pluck. For several minutes, the plangent music rose and fell like waves, a lilting melody that spoke of love and loss, loyalty and betrayal, a story that only wilted on the vine when a drunken bastard threw what was left of a chicken leg at the makeshift stage and offered a lewd gesture.

The woman, whose fine instrument had been marred by grease and chicken skin, snatched the half-gnawed chicken from where it had landed at her feet and flung it back at the man with a word that was surely a curse spoken in some foreign tongue Bryony couldn’t identify.

To her delight, it hit the ill-mannered man squarely in the face, splattering him. For a moment, he sat blinking in shock, but then whatever ale-addled stupor had fallen over him at the sudden turn of events evaporated, and he erupted from his chair, upending his table and all of its contents like a volcano spewing lava.

This drew the ire of several other patrons, who grabbed his arms as he tried to fight his way forward. He was joined by his companions, and an intense brawl ensued, with lips being split, eyes blackened, and noses reconfigured. For some reason it reminded Bryony of when Ludo picked a fight with the thugs back in Kestrel to defend the serving woman’s honor, which only made her angrier. Women didn’t need men to protect them. They could damn well protect themselves, couldn’t they?