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“They have a better clientele than I would have expected,” observes Reilin.

James understands what he’s talking about. The outside of this tavern gave the impression of a dive, yet counted among the patrons are men and women in fine clothes. Gentlemen and ladies mixed in with the riff raff, altogether an unusual sight.

“I wonder what brings them to a place like this?” Jiron asks.

“The food maybe?” suggests Reilin.

“Hardly,” he replies. “No noble I’ve ever heard of would be seen mixing with some that are in this room.” Indeed, those sitting at one table look as though they’re a bunch of thugs fresh out of the gutter. And next to them are a gentleman and a lady who have to be some form of nobility, or at the very least, wealthy.

As time passes, James begins to get impatient. Whoever had sent him the note has yet to make an appearance. His attempt at ferreting the person out by studying the other patrons has yielded nothing more than returned looks of annoyance. None of the others have given their table more than a cursory look.

Then a hushed murmur begins from the back of the room and James turns to see what it’s all about. One of the wandering minstrels that are so prevalent in this world is making his way from the back. Blonde hair and dark skin, he carries his instrument to the stage that’s set against the wall. Calls of ‘Kir’ and other salutations are given to this man, both from those who are the dregs of society and those who are well off.

“I think this minstrel may be the reason why everyone is here,” observes Jiron.

From the way everyone has perked up and treating the man, James can only agree with him. “I think you’re right,” he says.

The minstrel sets his instrument on a stand that is already in place on the stage. Then he brings the stool that was against the wall forward and sets it next to the stand. Taking his seat upon the stool, he faces the crowd which has grown very quiet. James glances around and can see that every eye in the place is on him.

From within his cloak the minstrel produces a cracked wooden bowl that looks like it’s been with him for a very long time and sets it down on the edge of the platform. Before he straightens back up, several coins are flipped from the crowd, landing in and around the bowl.

Taking up his instrument, Kir, at least that is what James assumes his name is considering the number of times people have said it to him, gets set to play. The room has fallen absolutely quiet, you could hear your own heartbeat in the stillness if you had a mind to.

Then he strums the strings of his instrument and begins to sing. With the first note, James can see why this place is so packed. The quality of the music is far superior than anything he’s heard in a long time. The music is perfectly pitched and his voice seems to move inside you and pull at your emotional strings. When the music is happy, you are glad. When it moves to a more somber tone, you sink with it.

During the time the minstrel, or rather the bard as the quality of his music warrants him to be called, sings the first song not one person says anything. Silence reigns until the last note fades away, then the common room of the Wallowing Swine erupts into thunderous applause. James, Jiron and Reilin join in with great enthusiasm.

Then the bard begins a rollicking tune and the patrons resume their conversations, albeit at a much lower volume than what it was before Kir made his appearance. “I can see why the people pack this place,” James comments to Jiron.

Nodding, Jiron says, “He’s about the best bard I’ve yet heard.”

The night continues to deepen and still no one has made any attempt to approach them. They empty mug after mug while they wait for whoever it was that gave them the note. An hour into his set, Kir gets up and tells his audience that he’ll be taking a short break. He places his instrument on its stand and then makes his way to the back where he enters the kitchen. A smattering of applause follows