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

panels was faded and the hem showed signs of wear and permanent stain. Across the crook of her arm she carried a large, covered basket with careless ease despite its apparent weight, her chin held high as she took in the sights of the people moving through town about her.
    “Here then, I take it,” Edvard asked knowingly, “is the fair Caprice?”
    “Caprice,” Jarod sighed as he nodded and moved to be slightly more hidden by the shop’s post. “I wanted you to see her . . . you know, the reason for this great quest of yours.”
    “It’s your quest, Jarod,” Edvard corrected, “not mine.”
    “That’s what I said,” Jarod replied, confused.
    “Never mind.” Edvard shook his head, then turned to his scribe. “Strike out that last part and be sure to fix it later so that I make sense.”
    The scribe, sitting on an uncomfortable iron bench nearby, pretended to make the notation. Abel had been so consumed by the arduous task of knowing which of the Bard’s unending utterances were worthy of being immortalized on the page that he had had far too little time to consider the mystery of the vanished book and the woman who had come from the woods to steal it. When occasion permitted—which was rare indeed—he would ask the Dragon’s Bard about it, but Edvard was entirely too wrapped up in the manufacturing of Jarod’s quest to be bothered with actual criminal doings or the question of why, of all their belongings, a woman should wish to steal a book. Still, even the scribe had to admit that Caprice Morgan looked like a woman who deserved a champion, even if he were of the local variety.
    Caprice entered the square and then turned, crossing the cobblestones of Hammer Court southward, nodding to acquaintances as she passed the blacksmith’s and entering the shop just beyond.
    “Madeline Muffin?” Edvard asked as he read the sign above the shop.
    “It’s Madeline Muffe’s bakery,” Jarod answered, relaxing slightly now that Caprice was no longer in view. “Her husband gave the shop its name, but Madeline hates it, or so I’ve been told. Caprice comes into the shop every Four-day to bake her bread in the ovens.”
    Edvard looked sideways at the young man. “Every Four-day?”
    “Yeah,” Jarod sighed.
    “And, I take it, you find some reason to be here in the noble if somewhat cluttered shop of Beulandreus Dudgeon on that same Four-day each week as well?” Edvard chuckled. Seeing the pained look on Jarod’s face, he hastily continued, “Why, that is perfect, young man! You have already anticipated my plan! You must present yourself everywhere before your beautiful and thus far oblivious Caprice. Have you spoken to her?”
    “Well, of course I have!” Jarod replied at once, his face taking on a ruddy color.
    “When?” Edvard pressed.
    “Why . . . I try to talk to her every Four-day when she comes out of the shop!”
    “How endearingly bold of you!” Edvard said with what passed for encouragement. “And have you learned much about her in your conversations each Four-day?”
    “Of course I have!” Jarod protested. “All sorts of things.”
    “Such as . . .” Edvard prompted.
    “Well, I’ve learned that her father prefers brown bread,” Jarod said, swallowing hard. “I learned it’s harder to come by the finer flours now than it used to be and that Madeline has to be cautious about taking wishes in exchange for baking since one of her ovens started being critical of which kinds of dough it bakes.”
    The Dragon’s Bard stared at the young man for a moment.
    “Do you even know this woman?” Edvard asked at last. “Outside of the types of bread her father likes, I mean?”
    “Of course I do!” Jarod protested. “I’ve known her all my life. We used to play in the Norest Forest together growing up. She could read long before I could, and she would tell me all the stories of the Elder Times before the Epic War—the stories of the heroes and the monsters and the gods all being