The Heads Were Ale

Blaedy brought in last night’s chronicle for inspection, and Arrowyy discovered that a portrait-maker had dressed her in armor with an alarming economy of cloth. He took this as a personal revelation. Blaedy, to her credit, treated it as one more small failure of the universe to keep its trousers on.

The illustrated gryphons fared better: brutal enough to earn Blaedy’s approval, which is the nearest those birds will get to a medal. Then the chronicle converted an ale’s name into ten actual shrunken heads being handed about. Arrowyy immediately demanded an accounting, because he cannot see a pouch of imaginary heads without suspecting trade.

Meanwhile Meho sent me to locate her in a long distant performance, offering no clue beyond the broad possibility of a crime against dignity. This is not a search request. It is a trap with a very large haystack.