The chatter subsided. It was late in the night and inside the tavern, it was heading towards closing. The little squat halfling behind the bar could keep serving all night but the crowd were growing tired and outside the window, below the horizon the dawn sun threatened the moon. Soon the mist and smoke would clear and the patrons would doze and snore but there was still a dram of ale in most of their mugs as Pancho the Grimm turned to the bard.
‘Play us one more Red? An old one for the road.’
They murmured appreciatively. It was tradition, a way to say goodnight to the evening with respect. Even now, maybe especially now, the old traditions held weight.
Red shifted in her chair and pursed her lips.
‘An old One? I don’t know any old ones. Sure I’m only a kid compared with you old bastards’
Another roar of approval- She had them eating out of her hand.
‘I’ll sing one in the old style, will I? Just check that Herself isn’t hanging outside the door!’
Pancho jumped up and wrenched open the door, exposing the drunkards to the silvery pre-dawn blue. He Gasped comically and fell to the ground crying, ‘She’s disintegrated me, the fucking witch!’
As the roar of laughter subsided again, Red began the pluck the Viol and sang out clearly in a voice that seemed to come from a far off plane.
The Old Cut Purse
Trad Arr. Clink
When I first came to Kossos I was only a child
With an apple in my pocket and hanging of thirst
I went down to the Tailstones looking for work
And i soon ended up on the Old Cutpurse
There the demons and the devils were bartered and sold
And the old men with the money would flash you a smile
In the dark of an alley you’d work for a gold
For a swift one off the wrist down on the old Cutpurse
In the Throat in the winter we shivered in rags
But there were boys in the taverns who’d give you a smoke
If you didn’t have the money you’d simper or curse
You’d be flying on the Marrow on the Old Cutpurse
There were husbands and workmen, green, pale and tanned
They would all come down searching for invisible hands
And they spit and kicked us and sometimes much worse
And they joked about meeting the Old Cutpurse
One evening as I was lying down by Butcher’s Halls
I was picked up by the Reavers and kicked in the balls
On the steps of the Pagoda I was beaten and mauled
And they ruined my good looks for the Old Cutpurse
In the Spillway the old ones who were on the way out
Would dribble and vomit and grovel and shout
And the Reavers would come along and push them about
And I wished I could escape from the old Cutpurse
And now I’m lying here I’ve had too much booze
I’ve been shat on and spat on and raped and abused
I know that I am dying and I call for a nurse
Who would save me and take me from the old Cutpurse