Theo wound up his enthusiastic description of his employer with the emphatic, “He is a veritable prince among men.”
Silence. And not of the awed variety.
Eventually, one of the older men at the table in the corner said. “You’re not from round here are ya.”
Theo’s face – never good at hiding his thoughts – blared confusion, and the old man sighed. “Someone buy the lad a pint and set him straight before he puts a mob onto that boss of his.”
A beefy hand clapped down onto Theo’s shoulder and steered him into a nearby chair. “Park yourself there and open your ears, rather than your trap, for a bit, eh?”
The man eased around into the chair across the table and studied Theo until two mugs of ale were plonked onto the wood between them.
He pushed one towards Theo, and took a drink from the other. “See, lad, the problem is, we’ve got three princes in this part of the world, and they’re all pig turds.”
Theo’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “Mr Markstock’s nothing like—”
The man gave him a hard stare. “What did I just say about shutting yer mouth and opening yer ears?”
Theo ducked his head, trying to hide the burn of his cheeks.
His companion grunted. “As I was saying. Three princes, all shites among men, and all ready to kill for control of the castle you say your Mr Whatever’s just inherited.”
This time, Theo kept his tongue behind his teeth.
“You’re learning, good. So, here’s the problem. If any of us were to take up this complete stranger’s offer of employment, to help rebuild that crumbling disaster zone, how do we not get killed, maimed or tortured by the triple toad-vomits? Especially when you’ve just told us your man’s a fourth toad-vomit?”
The DNA of Stories 