Benji Dillerd's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Benji Dillerd wanted to play for the queen, but no one this far inland had heard his name. He stood outside the tavern with his drum strapped to his back and his lute under one arm. Back home on the southern coast, crowds packed the sand to watch him strike leather and pluck strings at once. Here, the mountain town knew only its own singers. A bard needs a stage to build a name, and a name is what reaches a palace. He pushed through the thatched longhouse door. Inside, the hearth smoked and the benches held tired miners and a few horned goatfolk from the high ridges. The owner wiped a mug behind the bar. She was a broad Enbrit with a scar across one ear and no patience in her face. "Five hundred enz to rent the covered stage out back," she said before Benji opened his mouth. "Up front. I don't book strangers on a promise." Benji had forty enz. He set his coins on the bar and smiled anyway. "Then let me play for free tonight," he said. "Right here, by the fire. If your room empties, I owe you nothing. If it fills, we talk about the stage." She stared at the small pile of coins. Then she waved him toward the hearth. "One song. Then I throw you out." Benji sat on a stool and set the drum between his knees. He kept one hand on the leather and the other on the strings. He started slow, a southern fishing tune. The miners glanced over. He sped the beat, slapped the drum, and sent the lute racing on top. A goatfolk elder tapped a hoof. Then two. Then the whole bench stamped time. He played until his wrists burned. When he stopped, the room roared. People banged mugs. The owner stood with her arms crossed, but a crowd three deep had pushed in from the street. She came to the hearth. "The stage is yours in three nights," she said. "I'll waive the rent. You keep a third of the ticket money." Benji's chest lifted. He had a stage. He had a start. "But hear me," she went on. "My regulars came for one free song. In three nights they pay. They expect a show, not a man on a stool. Lights. A set. You looking like somebody worth the coin." She eyed his road-worn fur and travel-stained clothes. "Right now you don't." The crowd thinned. Benji counted his forty enz again. A real show needed decorated staging, posters nailed around town, and someone to groom his matted fur before he faced a paying hall. He had three days and almost no money. He thought of the salon vanity he'd passed that morning, its warm bulbs and cat-shaped frame glowing in a shop window. He would need its owner. He would need many things, and fast. Benji slung his drum over his shoulder and walked out to find them.