Page 72 of Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed

the wonderful, magical lute.

It rings a-true when I play the tune

with my capable skilled boot—

This second voice stopped beside the first. “Who said you could start singing?”

“Well, you did, sir.”

“I’m a ma’am.”

“My condolences,” he said mournfully, not apologetically. “But you see, you started singin’, and I’d think it was because you saw my lute and wanted to have just a grand old time.”

“What I want,” the second voice spat out venomously—apparently, she didn’t appreciate Hugh mistaking her for a man—“is for you to cease that horrendous playing and tell me why you’re clogging the line with a dozen carts.”

Hugh scoffed. “Do you really not know? Well, the name’s Hugh.” A pause, and Morfran could only imagine Hugh leaning down to shake their hands, only for them to recoil in disgust. “And I is the proud of owner of Damn Good Jam Goods, LLC, and this is me stock I’m bringin’ into the city.”

“Why do we need fourteen carts’ worth of jam?”

“Because it’s the Sixty-Fourth Jam Convention this weekend, and I’ve been preparing my wares for the past eight months. Wanna know what I’ve made?”

“No—”

“I do, actually,” said the first customs agent. “I’ve been craving more variety than strawberry. What do you have, you creep?”

Glass jars went rattling at Hugh’s feet, followed by a pause and then a pop as he opened one. “Try this. It’ll be a hit, I’m sure.”

There was a smacking of lips, followed by a positive mmm. Despite the tense situation, and the fact that the whole sneak-inside-the-walls plan hinged upon whether or not Hugh could fool the agents into allowing them in, Morfran was pretty proud that his jams were being well received. He made a quick mental note to advertise the jams as “Voted Best Jam by That One Customs Agent Guy,” before listening to their response.

“All right, you’ve got a tasty recipe there,” the agent said. “What’s in it?”

“Smashed crickets.”

An eruption of spitting. “That’s what that crunch was?”

“Why’re you spitting it out?!” Hugh argued. “You liked it, didn’t ya?”

“That’s before I knew what it was!”

“Everyone’s a critic,” he muttered.

“What else do you have?”

“Rosewater raspberry jams, pomegranate cranberry jams, wild plum jams—”

“That’s better!”

“—lima bean and liver jams, fermented fish jams, oh, and my latest experimental recipe—horse tongue and yak ba—”

“I’ve heard enough,” said the female agent. “You’re not setting foot inside the city. Turn your caravan around.”

Morfran held his breath. They needed in. Everything else in The Plan was flexible, except this.

“Wait, Phylis,” the male agent said. “The city’s economy has taken a hit ever since you-know-who vanished. We need wares like this to boost the market.”

“What? You heard what monstrosities he’s selling—”

“Yes, but this jam convention needs some zest. Remember how boring it was last year?”