The Pied Piper turned out to be a slight, lithe man of medium height with some odd scars and a fondness for elderberry wine. He had managed to stake out a table in the back and was arguing with a middle-aged woman who seemed intent upon stealing one of his two chairs when I arrived and claimed it. I waited as the woman rolled her eyes and stormed out of earshot (undoubtedly to harass some other hapless customer) before I leaned forward and asked why he had called.
He picked up his wineglass with long bony fingers and sipped before replying. “I’ve heard some good things about you. Discreet, honest, hardworking. I thought you could, maybe, help me out.” A man with long hair, a waiter’s apron and a truly artistic expression of harassment ran by, hardly pausing to deposit a plate of stew in front of the Piper, who immediately set to. The bastard hadn’t even waited for me to order.
“Does it have something to do with why you’re not speaking in rhyme?” I asked.
He stopped chewing for a moment and glared at me. Finally, the Piper nodded. Without looking I reached behind myself, grabbed the waiter by his stiff collar and pulled him close enough to hear me over the general din.
“Get me hot buttered rum. Largest size you’ve got.”
The Piper set down his glass and leaned toward me, the more than human green of his eyes striking against his tanned skin. “The theft involved the Weasel and the Mouse, I’m sure of it.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Got any proof?”
“If I did I wouldn’t be talking to you.” The Piper scowled at me over his plate of stew.
“Right…” I sighed. Jobs for my more… mythological clientele were always difficult, messy, and, more often than not, extremely dangerous. Also, they rarely paid well. Judging from the shabbiness of the Piper’s motley, I figured this would not be one of those rare exceptions. “I’ll start with the Weasel, since the Mouse is always so damned hard to find. Shake him up a bit. Ten to one someone paid him to do it; this doesn’t sound like his usual beat. Alice might know something, too. I’ll give her a call.” I paused, remembering some of my previous cases. “Do you have any sort of whacky time limit?”
Those too-green eyes frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know. ‘It must be returned by the next full moon,’ or ‘if the cup is filled blood will spill.’ Something like that.”
“No,” he grinned, “nothing quite so ominous. I just need it back before the Cherry Festival, if you can manage.”
“I should be able to do that,” I told him and pushed back my chair. With a ‘clink’ my rum was suddenly on the table before me. I caught it up and drained it as I rose, then set the empty mug back down. Tipping my hat to the Piper (it doesn’t do to be impolite to immortal beings), I left.
