An impressively tall - if entirely impractical - throne loomed over the courtroom. It had been carved out of white marble and gold, with intricately detailed sculptures of roses and thorn bushes winding all around the base and up to the seat where they bloomed out behind the queen. It was a nice way of hiding the stairs, that was for sure.
Cuthbert tried not to wonder how she nipped to the loo. He had a vague suspicion that was what treason was. But surely she needed people to help her down, even if it was only to act as a soft landing.
The lead singer turned, looking at him haughtily. 'We're not musicians,' he said.
Cuthbert threw up his hands in relief. 'I'll say!'
'We're the Bremen Town Musicians,' the lead singer continued over the top of him. 'The band.'
'Of what?' Cuthbert asked pointedly. 'Brothers? Robbers? Celebrity impersonators? Travelling bards?' He gasped in excitement at the thought, forgetting his sarcasm for a moment as sheer wishful thinking took over. 'I'm in need of three biographers,' he gushed, already imagining the possibilities. 'I need people to document my incredible heroic adventures in song. Quick! Go!'
The lead singer folded his arms across his chest. 'No offence,' he said, 'but we take offence at that.'
A young boy - or, at least, a boy a little younger than Cuthbert - stood behind the stall. He looked bored, something that might have escaped Mr. Everyman Spendy Shopper but didn't pass by Cuthbert's eagle eye; he kept digging at his nose or ear, or sometimes both at once, as he gazed idly around the marketplace. Every few minutes, he let out a huge sigh. And, occasionally, he murmured, 'I'm booored.'
Cuthbert nodded to himself slowly. It was important to have keen observational skills as a heroic adventurer.
'No, really,' Cuthbert insisted as he watched the other heroes parry across what was probably a beautiful tiled floor when it wasn't trampled with dirt and blood and teeth. 'How can I win this tournament?'
'No, really,' Dave replied dryly, 'you can't. You're not good enough to defeat the best swordsman in the land. You'll never be good enough to defeat the best swordsman in the land. That's why she's called the best swordsman in the land,' Dave pointed out, 'and you're called Cudfink.'
'Cuthfink,' Cuthbert corrected. 'And I'm not, I'm called Cuthbert,' he added quickly.
'You know,' Cuthbert said, scratching his chin, 'refusing to sign autographs is just going to alienate the people who would become your fan base and your built-in grass roots marketing campaign.' He pulled a face as he nodded sagely at them. He'd seen this before. Hercules and the Disco Twins had been strangely reluctant to hand out copies of his fanzine after their performances at the coliseum. Though he supposed he had asked on a night when the minotaurs had won.
The artist sighed, throwing his long, greasy ponytail across his shoulder. 'It's progressive,' he said snidely. 'It's fine that you don't understand it. Not everyone can "get it".'
Cuthbert quirked his eyebrows as he looked, uncertainly, back at the canvas. 'What's it progressing towards, exactly?'
'You don't want to know what happened,' he said finally. 'Believe me. Suffice to say I... I gave some bad advice.' He grimaced. 'Some... very bad... advice.' He drained his bottle. 'It didn't end very happily,' he finished primly. 'Or... cleanly. Or... in one-piece-that's-not-on-fire-y.'
Cuthbert waved his hand dismissively. 'Rules schmules!' he said. He felt it was a pretty sound argument. 'Rules are for losers, riddles are for...' He stopped, wondering what the opposite of a loser was. 'Not losers,' he finished.
