The Moonstrings Tale. Boris Leonov

of power and wealth continued to torment his mind. The violin lay on the table before him, its worn body seeming at once simple and foreboding. The Treasurer had no intention of giving up. Even if it meant risking everything, he would see his plan through.

      After sitting in his chair for a while longer, he finally stood up. Leaving the violin on the table, he exited the house. Locking the door securely behind him, the Treasurer headed toward the Red Lion tavern, located in the western part of the town. He hoped the walk would help him make sense of everything that had happened that day – and that a good meal might calm his nerves.

      He craved a plate of roasted meat with wheat porridge, a slice of apple pie, and a сup of his favorite sweet, aromatic mead.

      The Treasurer also knew that many kinds of people gathered at the tavern to exchange news. He often went there to overhear useful information and hoped to find out where he might encounter the Moonstrings Catchers, whom he now intended to bribe.

      Chapter 7. THE DEAL

      After a short walk through the evening streets, the Treasurer arrived at the Red Lion tavern. Above the entrance, a wooden sign creaked softly in the wind, depicting a lion painted bright red. From the slightly ajar door drifted the cheerful hum of voices and the clinking of mugs.

      The Treasurer glanced over his shoulder to make sure no one was following him. Adjusting his wide-brimmed hat, he stepped inside.

      For a moment, he paused in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the room. The tavern was warm and inviting, filled with the aromas of roasted meat and fragrant herbs that hung in bunches from the ceiling beams. Long wooden tables stood neatly arranged, welcoming guests to sit and share their meals. Near the fire, which crackled merrily in the hearth, clay pots simmered with something delicious, while the scent of fresh bread and honey lingered in the air. The tavern keeper bustled among the patrons, proudly delivering mugs of sweet, aromatic mead.

      The room was filled with all kinds of people: at one table, a heavyset merchant with a bushy beard counted his coins after what seemed to be a successful deal, while next to him, a young apprentice in a stained jacket hungrily finished his stew. Against the wall, in the shadows, sat two travelling musicians with worn lutes, softly strumming their strings as they waited for generous guests. In a corner, an old woman in a gray cloak sat huddled in a warm scarf, seemingly content just to warm herself by the fire. And near the door, two noisy coachmen argued loudly, occasionally glancing into their mugs as if hoping to find answers there.

      The Treasurer’s sharp eyes roved over the faces of the patrons, searching for the slightest hint of useful information. Slowly, he walked between the tables, his cane tapping rhythmically against the wooden floor. His presence immediately drew attention – some guests averted their eyes, not wanting to meet the gaze of the infamous town Treasurer, while others watched him with curiosity.

      He paused briefly near the fireplace, as if deliberating where to sit. That was when his eyes caught sight of a figure in the corner of the room.

      It was a young man in a worn wide-brimmed hat, sitting at a table with an air of casual ease. Before him was an almost-empty mug, and in his hands, he twirled a coin, deftly rolling it between his fingers.

      “How skillfully he does that,” the Treasurer thought, intrigued. “A true Catcher, no doubt.”

      The thought brought a small, sly smile to his lips.

      “Perhaps he’s just as skilled at catching the Moonstrings for me?”

      Hiding his curiosity behind his usual air of self-importance, the Treasurer approached the man.

      “Good evening,” the Treasurer said, fixing the young man with a piercing gaze. His voice was calm and measured. “It seems we might have something to discuss.”

      The young man slowly raised his eyes, tilted his hat back slightly, and smiled faintly as he appraised the Treasurer.

      “Good evening,” he replied, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “You strike me as a man who knows what he wants and is used to getting it. Well, sit down – I do enjoy an interesting conversation.”

      The Treasurer took a seat opposite the man, carefully masking his nerves.

      The West Catcher looked friendly enough, but there was a glint of sharp wit in his eyes – the kind of glint you see in someone who always thinks two steps ahead.

      The Treasurer’s gaze shifted to The West Catcher’s nearly empty mug and the bare table before him. Leaning slightly forward, he added a touch of friendliness to his tone:

      “You look like you’ve had a long day. Let me treat you – The Red Lion always serves meals that can bring back anyone’s strength.”

      The West Catcher arched an eyebrow, still playing with the coin in his hand. His smile widened, but his eyes remained sharp.

      “Well, since you’re so generous, I won’t refuse. A mug of mead and something hearty will do just fine.”

      The Treasurer gestured to the tavern keeper, who was bustling among the patrons.

      “Bring us two mugs of mead. And for my companion, something hearty – perhaps meat with vegetables. As for me – the usual: roasted meat with wheat porridge and apple pie.”