In fact, while a circle of bodies three men thick had surrounded the brawl, Bryony’s eyes flicked past them to the woman who was still on stage, no longer sitting but standing, her expression unflappable, holding her lute by the neck with both hands, preparing to bash the head of anyone who dared approach her.

A gasp arose, and as fiercely as the fight had begun, its sails deflated and it sunk into the depths. Bryony craned her neck to see what had transpired to yield such a result.

At first all she saw was the fight’s instigator, the chicken leg thrower, his chest heaving, his hand gripping something metal and sharp. A knife. But then she spied the form that lay crumpled on the tavern floor in a pool of his own blood. Already he was a corpse, eyes staring vacantly at a world they could no longer see.

The crowd parted in the center, and the murderer and his comrades were allowed to pass through, until the door slammed behind them.

When Bryony looked back toward the stage, the musician was gone.

Just then, the barkeeper returned. “What the void…,” he said as he took in the corpse, pool of blood, and upended furniture.

“And you were worried about me starting trouble,” Bryony said. “Your regular customers had that covered all on their own. Did you strike a deal with your man?”

“Meet him on the northernmost outskirts of town at midnight. Don’t be late.”

“A bit late for a meeting, don’t you think?”

“He doesn’t come out during the day. It makes him…uncomfortable.”

Bryony didn’t ask why, because she would find out soon enough. Also, she was suddenly anxious to quit this place as soon as humanly possible. She extracted the man’s payment from her pouch and slid the coins across to him. His eyes darted about as if afraid the transaction would be spied by another one of his murderous customers, but all attention was firmly fixed on the corpse, which was being hauled away like a sack of grain. “If your man doesn’t show, I’ll be back for a refund,” Bryony said.

“He’s reliable. He’ll show.”

“He’d better.”

With that, she slid off the stool and made for the door. “How about that smooch?” the old, teeth-challenged man said.

She feigned a punch at his face, and he flinched so severely that he tumbled off his own seat. “Maybe next time,” she said.