The Luck Uglies by Paul Durham Page A

handed her an armful of bar rags. “I need to get back to cleaning room seven. The sword swallower had a terrible mishap. There’ll be no second show this evening, I’m afraid.”
    Folly crinkled her nose and took the rags.
    â€œThanks,” Fifer said. “You two stay out of trouble.”
    Rye shadowed Folly’s steps down the last flight of stairs to the main floor of the inn. A young, straw-haired bartender spotted them but just smiled and waved them over. It was Jonah, a friend of the twins. He was always kind to Rye and Folly and let them sip the honey mead when no one was looking.
    â€œYou two up to mischief?” he asked.
    Why did everyone always jump to that conclusion?
    â€œNo. Well . . . maybe,” Folly said with a smile. “Don’t tell my dad.”
    Jonah pursed his lips and buttoned them with his fingers. “I doubt he’ll notice anyway,” he said. “This is the busiest Black Moon we’ve seen in years. The Bog Noblin chatter has everyone on edge. Folks get thirsty when their nerves are frayed.”
    â€œAre you nervous, Jonah?” Rye asked.
    â€œI’m scared they’ll string me up if we run out of ale. But scared of Bog Noblins? No, not me.” He raised an eyebrow. “Did you come here to talk about them too? Try over there.” He pointed to where a small crowd had gathered around a tall man in a corner.
    â€œJonah,” Folly said, a hint of conspiracy in her voice. “Has anyone said anything about . . . Luck Uglies?” Out of habit, she peeked over her shoulder when she said it.
    Jonah snorted and tugged the tuft of beard on his chin. “People are saying all sorts of foolish things. We’ve been down that road before. Asking the Luck Uglies to solve your problems is like letting wasps in the kitchen to get rid of your flies. Once the flies are gone, who do you think the wasps will sting?”
    He snapped a bar rag at them playfully. Rye and Folly giggled nervously as they moved on.
    â€œWhat was that supposed to mean?” Rye asked Folly when they were beyond earshot.
    â€œBeats me, but I’m staying out of the kitchen for a while,” she said, and they both giggled again.
    Folly and Rye darted between hips and thighs as they worked their way toward the corner Jonah had pointed to. They stopped at the smaller side bar where Faye Flood rinsed dirty goblets at a furious pace in a trough of brownish water.
    â€œHere, Mum,” Folly said.
    She dropped the stack of dirty rags on the bar.
    Faye flipped back the lone streak of gray in her blond hair, which hung down in front of her face. She gave a quick smile and a wave and returned to her chores. Her face was round and pretty, but Rye noticed that the years of scrubbing had left her hands thick and weathered.
    Eventually, they found their way to the corner, where a tall, bearded fellow with some miles under his boots addressed a small crowd of patrons over his mug.
    â€œThe sickly-skinned cockle-knocker lurched at us from the muck while we was eating,” he said, raising a hand like a claw. His audience seemed transfixed by his story.
    â€œFortunately, I kept my wits about me,” the man continued. “Made eye contact with it—like they says to do.” He paused for dramatic effect. It caused everyone to stop their drinking and hang on his words—not an easy task. At last, he thrust his fist forward.
    â€œThen I gave it a stiff punch in the snout!”
    The men roared their approval. Several women gasped. Over the din, a voice called out drily.
    â€œRubbish.”
    â€œWho said that?” the tall man asked.
    â€œBogwash,” the voice said again. Several patrons stepped aside and Rye saw that it was the man with the monkey. He sat in a chair with his legs crossed, glaring over his fingers, which he’d folded into a pyramid on his chin.
    â€œYou’s saying I’m a liar, gypsy?”
    â€œIf