Kaloyan laughed hysterically, to the surprise of his guests. They were quick in imitating a smile and joining him in his clapping. Only his wife still stood shocked, looking as if she had just killed the wolf herself.

“Did you hear him? the bitch billed her own dog! Her own dog! That’s why this sort of business is better left to men.” - he slapped his wife on the shoulder with the back of his hand.

His wife was young, way too young for her husband, and the bard tried not to think about her age and the life that awaited her. To say that she was pretty would insult her. Curly blond hair streamed down her shoulders, and a pair of sky-blue eyes looked at the bard. The best apples are eaten by pigs, he thought, but that was a tale for another time. She had already gotten used to her role in the play - looking down and raising children.

“You see, that’s why I don’t let you around sharp things, dear. And why I won’t get you a mut.” - Kalo continued.

“Go on, bard. But have a drink first. Try the wine. Girl, get his glass full” - he ordered one of the servants who hurried to the bard.

“It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.” - Bozmaroff complimented the wine.

“We got it from Rhana. All the blood spilled on its soil makes the grapes that much better. I understand now why they speak so highly of you. I haven’t laughed this hard in ages.”

“Shall I tell you another story then?”

“I hope you do.”