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This wasn’t good. Oh no. Oh no no nooo. Dijkstra would kill him if he knew. How could he have messed up this bad? If only he hadn’t lost himself in those lovely eyes and, well ... other portions of her body. And of course that genius brain of his had to compose a nice consecutively rhymed, three verses long poem in minutes. But why did he use that particular sheet of paper, of all the paper in the room?
His heart was pounding in his ears and throat. Dijkstra! He could already feel those big strong hands on him, but not in a good way. He had once tackled the bard against a wall in a narrow corridor, loaming over him in his impressive might. The threats that were whispered into his ear made cold shivers run down his spine. Months later his skin still turned to gooseflesh when he thought about it. He didn’t even dare to think of the possible reaction of Mistress Eilhart. Oh no! Oh no!
Focus, Dandelion! It’s not that bad!
He let himself flop into the next chair. Yes, it is!
How on earth could he have written on his secret notes a poem for a very drunken woman just because she allowed him to press his face into her bosom. He surely was the worst spy ever!
But the money was dourly needed till his next big success finally came through. New lutes did not grow on trees these days. Too bad that in this business you either got lots of money or a watery death in the Pontar.
He had to get that freaking piece of paper back! If only he could remember the notes, but having overheard the conversation in a not so attentive state himself… Who again was that Count? They were talking about …? Did he talk to them? There was a faint memory...
NO! He had to get that paper back.
📜📜📜
After hours of wandering though taverns, asking drunken men and giggly, touchy women – not that he would mind that – Dandelion finally spotted that rusty headed, big-bosomed paper-possessor of his.
Deep breaths, Dandelion. He shook his hair in his signature style, ordering the blond curls.
Adjusting the collar, clearing the throat, seducing voice in three, two, one …
“Well, good evening my flaming beauty!” Ew, too much.
“Dandelion!”, she slurred, embracing him. By Lebioda, what possessed me last night?
“Come to fulfil your sweet promises?”, she leaned forward, smelling of cheap wine.
“Well, actually. I would like to talk a bit first!”
“Really, but we would be so much more comfortable in a more private ambivan-no-ambiance, don’t you think?”, she hiccupped.
“Oh, yes. Might I ask, do you keep all your possessions there?” She shot him a puzzled look.
“Well, you see, about that poem…”
📜📜📜
Her room was cosy, warm, even slightly clean but in a great disarray of things, mostly cloth, shawls, underw-no – Focus! The poem wasn’t half bad, of course having to listen to it from a not-so-fluid reader who was drunk did not become it well. Unbeknownst to her – luckily, Dijkstra would put him on a spike to die a slow, painful – Focus! Unbeknownst to her, his scribbled notes of certainly highly important information – if only he could remember – were still legible on the backside.
“As I told you, Darling, I really need that back”, Dandelion’s voice was soft as honey.
“But you specifically said I should take it. I had to promise you no matter how much you may beg, and plead, and cry, not to give you that paper back. Ever!” I couldn’t have been that drunk!
“But Darling, how can I write a ballade for you without cross-referencing my earlier analogies of your charms”. Honestly, she didn’t even look that pretty, now that he was sober.
“You could always compensate me for the loss!” Her eyes grew hazy as her voice turned husky. “I heard bards do have quite clever fingers and tongues!” Great Lebioda, my next limerick will be held in your honour if you make this stop!
📜📜📜
So finally, paper tucked away safely in his inside pocket, whistling a slow but happy tune, Dandelion wandered the empty streets towards home, the sky faintly brightening in the east. What he needed now was a long, restful slumber. He could already feel the soft covers on him, the feather pillow…
When he pushed down the door handle to his tiny, rented place, it went down, but he bumped into the door, which wouldn’t bulk. Well, yes, the landlady had warned him, she would leave for her niece’s wedding on the end of the week. No, he had not really forgotten that. Yes, she had told him, she’d lock the door to the small house, sitting comfortably in a quiet corner of the city. No, he absolutely did not go out tonight without his keys. He surely had them in his pockets… somewhere. Ah! The key turned in the well-oiled lock, opening to the lovely silence of privacy.
Oh soft feather bed of mine, he hummed.
Upon entering the corridor to his room, a breeze ruffled the feather ins his cap, a step forward something cracked under his sole.
Wide eyed, he stood in his room, papers strewn all over the place, books ripped apart, cupboards turned over, a huge hole in the window facing the yard. Was I burgled? Looking around a second time, it was not the chaos that made him freeze in place, but the shadowy mountain sitting on his deeply wanted bed. Ohhhh no! Slowly, the shadow shifted, rising, making the wooden bed frame creak with relief.
Glass shards crushed under his usually silent steps. A shiver went through Dandelion as he came face to massive chest with Sigismund Dijkstra, head of the Redanian secret service, himself.
Even in the dark he could see the furious deep lines around his employer’s nose, blue eyes squinted dangerously small.
“I heard you have been less than subtle two nights ago”, Dijkstra started the conversation in a low snarl.
“Oh, well I – who would really believe, that me – a simple yet ingenious bard –“, a fist grabbed his collar, lifting his heels from the floor.
“Do not tell me you were stupid enough to leave any evidence in your room” - the growl made Dandelion’s hair stand on end, but a tiny flame of hope lit in his heart.
“You surely do not think of me that lowly!” He shook his head as theatrically as he could. “Everything is safely stored in my pocket.”