Storytelling With Confidence

A Captive Audience, Episode 3.7

As I was pondering this introduction, Earl was regaining his senses, and among them, his sense of indignation.

"Did you hit me with garbage?" he demanded. "Not cool, man!"

"What are you doing here?" I retorted, determined to remain in control of the conversation.

"I'm looking for Sparrow, not that it's any of your business!" he snapped at me.

It definitely was my business - not that I needed to tell him that. "Describe this 'Sparrow' to me," I ordered him, twisting his arm as a reminder of my dominance.

"Ouch!" he shouted. "Young and skinny. Lightly-tousled black hair and careless attention to his clothing. Suave and confident."

I couldn't have described Madigan better. But I was curious as to why that description was connected with my name. "He's not here," I told Earl, "Tell me your business with him, and I might let you go before the city guard shows up." I hoped that the confidence in my voice didn't betray the fact that I didn't want to talk to the city guard at the moment, either.

"He owes me, big time. I did a big job for him, a few months back, and he's been avoiding payment!" Earl spat anger and frustration into the ground. "He turned on me, also! Got me arrested after all the hard work I did for him!"

"What kind of work is that, now?" I dug my knee into Earl's back, as a reminder of my dominance.

"I'm an artist! Painting, sculpting, printing." As an afterthought, he added, "Metal stamping."

I was beginning to get the idea. Unfortunately, so was the rest of the neighborhood. I heard the sounds of heavy-booted footsteps rushing toward us from the far end of the dark alleyway. I gave Earl's face one last push into the filth-strewn ground and jumped off of him, taking up a warily defensive stance a few feet away.

Earl sputtered and pushed himself to his knees. He looked up at me. "Why, you're just a tiny little pest, aren't you?" He stood up menacingly, brushing rotten fruit and broken eggshells from his clothing.

"Do you hear that, Earl? That's the sound of the city guard, coming for you," I warned him, backing away.

He glanced back over his shoulder. "I'm not going to forget this," he warned, and then took off noisily down the alley in the opposite direction.

I jumped into one of the empty rubbish bins and pulled my now-filthy cloak over my head. The approaching guards, focused on the sounds of their fleeing culprit, rushed past me without even glancing in my direction. When they were safely past, I quietly removed myself from the metal bin and crept away in the direction from which they had come.

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It was still quite a few hours until morning, and I was tired, cold, and rather filthy. I didn't want to go home, or anyplace predictable - I took Earl's threat seriously. I was also not very anxious about returning to Stagger's custody, and if he had successfully gotten the Three Buffoons involved, that spelled even more trouble for me. I don't know how I had made so many enemies in such short time. I'm just a storyteller.

I figured that it might benefit me to leave town for a while. I was no detective, and I was in over my head. I was concerned for my friend's safety, but it was becoming clear to me that he was involved in much more shady business than simply the robbery of his rich family, which I had never really considered a serious crime. If they were rich, they could afford it; if they were family, they would forgive him. Maybe spending the holidays together would be awkward for the next few years.

My concern was alleviated by my confidence in Madigan's intelligence. I had matched my wits against his in several friendly competitions - board games, card games, parlor tricks - and he was always my equal in terms of cunning and planning. And if I had never been caught (without wanting to be caught), then I was sure Madigan was likewise in control of his circumstances.

I knew that anyone who knew me would look for me first at the Nightingale, but I figured that nobody would think to search the Nightingale's stables for me. I already stank, and a warm pile of straw sounded like a safe and comfortable bet right now. I headed to my familiar tavern, which was predictably dark and silent at this hour, and snuck into the stables around back. I saw a wagon and a cart parked there with their teams, as well as a lone horse who I was painfully familiar with. He snickered at me in recognition, and I patted him on the nose before pushing a pile of hay into the corner and falling asleep in it.

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I woke after a few hours, as the late-rising sun cleared the surrounding buildings and struck my face. The air was still pretty chilly, and I could see my breath in the crisp air. The hay was actually nice and warm, and I didn't want to leave, but I also wanted to get moving before the rest of the city woke up. I had decided to borrow the horse from the Nightingale for a few days, and ride to Telleropolis where I could easily hide among its much larger population. I just had to sneak inside and give the bartender some collateral. I didn't want him to think that I had stolen the horse - I had enough enemies already.

I crawled out of the hay and brushed the loose straw from my clothes. A quick sniff told me that I still had the faint but unmistakable aroma of garbage, but I hoped that it wasn't too noticeable. I cautiously peeked out of the stables, and when I saw it was clear, I made for the tavern entrance.

I opened the door to the tavern and held it open so that the morning light could illuminate the interior room. We usually like to keep it dark and dank inside, but I didn't want any surprises waiting for me. I scanned the tavern from the doorway, but aside from the bartender, the room appeared empty. I let the door swing shut behind me as I approached the bar.

The bartender didn't make eye contact with me as I climbed up into a bar stool. "I'm thinking about getting out of town for a while, man," I opened up to him. "How much to rent out your horse for the week?"

He stopped what he was doing, and with downcast eyes he muttered to me, "I'm sorry, Sparrow. I didn't have any choice."

A figure, with a face as black as midnight and hair as white as the moon, emerged from where he had been hiding behind the bar. A loaded crossbow in his hand was aimed at the bartender. A big, hulking brute emerged from the kitchen, escorting the cook at knifepoint. And a short, stocky fellow with pale, grayish skin and a bushy black beard emerged from the cellar trap door in the floor, dragging behind him the waitress.

Badger hissed at me. "Getting out of town? That sounds like a parole violation, to me."

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