Forest Kingdom Trilogy 2 - Blood and Honor

best parts in his time: everyone from the fabled King Edward who loved the deadly Night Witch, to the heroic Starlight Duke of Hillsdown, to the sad and tragic sheepminder, Old Molly Metcalf. The Great Jordan was nothing if not versatile. He'd played before Lords and Ladies, townspeople and vil-lagers, and once even for a scar-faced man who claimed to be a Prince in exile. Though he never actually said where he'd been exiled from.Jordansmiled, remembering. In those days, his bowl had known the heavy clunk of gold and silver and even precious jewels. His ears had rung to roars of joy and admir-ation from packed theatres, and tearful pleas for just one more encore. But those days were over. The times had changed, and other names had risen to prominence as his had faded, and now he had to take his offerings where he could find them.
    The Great Jordan, showing his act to a few gawking peasants for a handful of coppers. There was no justice in the world. Or at least, none a man could learn to live with.
    He got slowly to his feet and shook his head. It was getting too cold to sit around brooding. He threw a blanket over the smouldering demon prop to smother the last of the flames, and then set about transferring his props and scenery into the back of his small caravan. He gathered up his stagelights and counted them carefully twice, just to make sure none of them had disappeared with some unprincipled member of his audience. He stacked the lanterns and lamps in their proper places, and then went back for his stage. It was supposed to break easily into sections, butJordanhad to struggle with each square until he was red in the face and short of breath. He scowled as he slid the last section on to the floor of his caravan. He was going to have to do more work on the stage before it would come apart properly, and he hated working with wood. No matter how careful he was, he always ended up with splinters in his fingers. His scowl deepened as he laced up the caravan's back flaps. He shouldn't have to do scutwork like this. He was an actor, not a carpenter.
    Jordan smiled sourly. That was his past talking. Stars might not have to do scutwork, but actors did. If they wanted to eat regularly. And if nothing else, exercise did help to build a healthy appetite. He set off down the main street, looking for a tavern. Late as it was by country standards, the town inn would still be open. Such inns always were. I don't care if the speciality of the house is broiled demon in a toadstool sauce, I'm still going to eat it and ask for seconds, he thought determinedly.
    Halfway down the narrow street, his nose detected the smell of hot cooking, and he followed it eagerly to a squat grimy building that looked no different from any of the others, save for a roughly painted sign
    hanging over the door, The Seven Stars. Jordan tried the door. It was locked. He banged impatiently on the stained wood with his fist. After a long moment he heard footsteps approaching, and eventually a panel slid open in the door. A dark-bearded face studied Jordan suspiciously.
    'Ah, good evening, innkeeper,' said Jordan pleasantly. 'I find myself in need of a room and refreshment for the night, and I hope to satisfy that need at your splendid establishment. I fear my funds are somewhat depleted at the moment, but no doubt I can provide payment by entertaining your good customers with my songs and stories. How say you?' The bearded face glowered at him, and then sniffed loudly. 'We don't take theatricals.'
    Jordan dropped his aristocratic actor/manager voice, and tried his all-friends-together-in-adversity voice. 'Listen, innkeep, I know I'm a bit short of the ready at the moment, but surely we can come to some sort of arrangement? It's going to be bitter cold tonight, friend.'
    The innkeeper sniffed again. 'We don't take theatricals. Hop it.' And the portal in the door slammed shut.
    Jordan lost his temper completely. He kicked the door and hammered on it with his fist. 'Open this door, you son of a bitch, or I'll use my magic to make you even uglier than you already are! I'll give you fleas, and boils, and warts, and piles! I'll give you warts on your piles! I'll shrink your manhood to an acorn and turn your nose inside out! Now open this bloody door!'
    He heard a window's shutters open above him, and looked up. He just had time to throw himself to one side, and the slops from the emptied chamberpot just missed him. The shutters slammed together, and the evening