“This is most odd,” said the sorceress. “They have their drinks. What else do they want?”

“Entertainment,” said I.

“We are not going to have to sit through another play, are we?” She rolled her eyes.

As if in answer, directly above our heads and directly above each of the tables in The Fairy Font, which is to say all over the taproom, small doors opened in the ceiling and little platforms were lowered on chains. When the platforms had reached the tabletops, knocking over quite a few tankards of ale is they did, we could see that upon each was a small basin filled with dark, rich, mud. Sitting on either side of the basin of mud was the tiny form of a fairy, wearing a teeny little robe cut open in the back to allow her wings to stick out.

The round basin of mud reminded me of the mud pies that we used to make as children. My sister Celia and my cousins Gervil, Tuki, and Geneva used to play on the front step of our house, which is to say Cor Cottage just outside Dewberry Hills. Celia was a master piesmith, at least of the mud variety. Interestingly enough, when she grew up, her pies at best could be considered mediocre. Tuki could make quite a fine pie as an adult—all the more strange as her childhood mud pies were the antithesis of Celias, which is to say that they were no good at all. Geneva’s mud pies were better than Tuki’s but not as good as Celia’s, and since she died as a child, no one can tell if she would have grown to be a decent piesmith or not. Gervil didn’t make pies, though he did force me to eat more than a few.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Myolaena Maetar.

“Pies.”

“Well stop it. We’re here to find Buxton.”

“And now the moment you’ve been awaitin’” said an unseen announcer. “Fairy mud-wrestling!”

A great cheer filled the room, but then all grew quiet as the audience watched the pair of fairies on each table disrobe.

“I’m Taffy,” said the six inch tall red-head, as she carefully pulled the robe over her gossamer wings.

“I’m Mustard Seed,” said the other fairy.

“I’m enchanted,” said I.

“I’m going to vomit,” said Myolaena.

Suddenly the door burst open and a woman strode into the tavern. She was striking. Tall. Blonde. Flashing blue eyes. They were flashing– literally flashing, which is really not normal at all. Of course if her eyes hadn’t been flashing, I wouldn’t have noticed them. There was all that bare skin to distract me. She wore a leather outfit that was more of a harness that an article of clothing. The lower portion was a sort of loose leather skirt made of strips of material which, though hanging down almost to her ankles, exposed most of her legs when she moved. The upper portion was little more than pair of suspenders and two small leather cups.

“Which of you low-lives is Eaglethorpe Buxton?” she snarled.

I stood up and stepped toward her, at this point still more aware of all the bare skin than either the flashing eyes or the glowing wand in her hand.

“What would you have with him, my lovely lady?” I asked.

“I am Myolaena Maetar, and I’m going to skin him alive!” she hissed through clenched teeth.“I, um, oh. Well, he was here a minute ago,” said I. “You just missed him.”