Free Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide by Tracy Hickman, Laura Hickman

her foolishness in letting the pixies in and decided not to mention what had happened.
    Out in the alley, Glix, Plix, Dix, Snix, and the rest of the pixies climbed out of the pickle barrel and into the daylight.
    It is a little-known fact that some pixies actually prefer the interior of an empty pickle barrel to other spots—especially when it is sitting next to a warm fire with its lid held down by a large iron pot on a cold winter night.
    “That Merinda is a right woman,” Plix said happily. “She knows how to show a pixie a good time.”
    “Right that!” Snix agreed. “She sure were right about singing our songs in that pickle barrel. Never better!”
    “Took us in, she did,” Dix nodded, slapping Glix on the back. “Saved our lives and all when she didn’t have to lift a wing. Wish we could do something for her.”
    “We own her a debt, we do,” Glix agreed. “Don’t you worry, lads. Pixies never forget them who they owe. Ever she needs us in the future, you can be sure that every pixie among us will be there to help.”

• Chapter 5 •
    Treasure Box
     
    Would you remind me once again why we are here?” the Dragon’s Bard sniffed.
    Jarod did not hear the boredom that permeated the Bard’s words. “Just wait . . . you’ll see. I come here every day for this.”
    Edvard looked around the interior of Beulandreus Dudgeon’s blacksmith shop with a critical eye. There was a large stone hearth at the back of the shop with two smaller forges to the left. An enormous overhead bellows hung from the ceiling, its handle uncomfortably low to the ground for the use of a human. An anvil stood mounted firmly on a wide stone platform within easy reach of where the bellows handle extended. A spot in the stone under the handle had a perceptible wear to it—a slight hollow announcing the spot where the smith so often stood. Near this was a large, carved-stone water bath where forged metals could be tempered into their intended strength. The fires in the hearth and the forges blazed hot, making conflicting eddies in the air of heat and chill. Everywhere there was ironmongery. Heaps of metal—both those finished and those yet to be shaped—were scattered about the area in a chaos of plows, war axes, horseshoes, rapiers, kettles, helmets, scythes, pikes, breastplates, cleavers, and hammers. All this metallic chaos was housed under a pitched slate roof supported by large, rough-cut wooden posts. Two sides were completely open to Hammer Court.
    “All I am seeing is that brute Aren Bennis talking horseshoes with a dwarf,” Edvard said through a yawn. “It is a gripping encounter and, no doubt, normally the prime source of amusement in Even-dyed, though I honestly do not see why this should fascinate you when you’ve got me to entertain—”
    “No, not that . . . I come for that, ” Jarod said, pointing outward across the court. The open sides of the blacksmith’s shop not only allowed easy entrance to Beulandreus’s establishment but afforded a panoramic view of all Hammer Court and down the length of King’s Road beyond. The streets were busy with both town and country folk, as a break in the winter weather had afforded a more pleasant day and an opportunity for trade before another storm settled on the town.
    “You mean that fat woman pulling the cart?” Edvard said, perplexed. “I’ll admit she looks amusing, but—”
    “No, not Missus Conway,” Jarod said. “More to the right!”
    “My right or her—oh!” the Dragon’s Bard exclaimed.
    Walking from Charter Square down the length of King’s Road and seemingly directly toward them was a beautiful young woman, her auburn hair and heart-shaped face framed perfectly beneath the wide brim of her straw hat. A cloak was clasped about her neck, but in the unexpected warming of the changeable winter afternoon, she had pushed it back behind her shoulders. Her dress fit her perfectly, hinting at her exquisite figure, though the once rich cloth of the