As for catgut, he at least knew that they weren’t actually made from cats, but traditionally from the less savory parts of domesticated animals.
Bones pinched at the air with his fingers, then pulled his hands apart. “We used to yank the cats in half to get their guts out. Makes the best string, you know.”
“Stop lying,” Gregor barked. “You’re scaring the poor boy.”
He wasn’t, but it was nice of Gregor to care. He probably just wanted Bones to quiet down.
“And the entire point is that this thing has to be magical in some way,” Gregor said. “It’s Bethilda Beadle, after all. Weavers don’t tend to do things the regular way.”
Braiden nodded his head as eagerly as a puppy wagging its tail.
“She hid the writing on the card,” Gregor continued, “and you say that the card itself was hidden, too? Has to be a reason for it. Why she was making something magical for music is anyone’s guess.”
“And it says so right here, anyway.” Bones pulled Granny Bethilda’s note card out of his pocket. “See? ‘Consider magical strings,’ question mark.”
Braiden squinted at the card. “That wasn’t there before. How?”
Bones made a rattling shrug. “Warren was keeping it in his pocket. I guess his body warmth revealed a new line.”
“And there you have it,” Gregor said. “Magic string it is. And if Bethilda built it, then it belongs to the Beadles.”
“Thank you for helping us, Gregor,” Braiden said, swallowing a sudden swell of emotion. “It means a lot.”
“Don’t mention it. Your coin means a lot, too. Don’t get paid much to dig graves and hit the occasional zombie on the head with a shovel. The shack desperately needs an extension.”
“Ooh,” Bones said. “I could move in. We could be roommates.”
The intensity of Gregor’s glower should have been enough to kill Bones all over again.
“I have some othergoat wool I could spin into string,” Braiden said, saving Bones from an untimely second death. “Well, into yarn, really. I wonder if that would even work.”
Gregor’s eyes went wide. “Truly? Quite difficult to acquire, that is. Where did you buy it?”
“You won’t believe me when I tell you, but let’s save that story for later.”
The rasp of Bones rubbing his chin nearly made Braiden’s skin crawl. “Well, it’s not ideal, but I suppose it’s not unheard of. Wool for stringing a lyre. Hah. My masters at the old college would string me up by my nonexistent nethers. But the stuff’s magical, so it should take. Might sound strange, though.”
“We’ll play it by ear,” Braiden said, feeling very smug about his little pun. “And since Granny’s sketch calls for thinner string as well, I could spin some moongrass on its own. Magical filament from underground,” he told Gregor. “Long story.”
“Sounds like you owe me several long stories. You’ll need something truly delicate for the thinnest string. The enchanted stuff, too. The works. If you’re stringing this up with everything magical, then may as well go whole hog. Something like — yeah, that stuff that’s coming out of your fingers.”
Braiden didn’t realize he’d been idly twiddling his fingers until Gregor had said something. They were shedding the thinnest threads he could muster with his magic, like a subconscious part of his brain had been grinding away at a solution in the background.
“It’s an impermanent solution,” he said absently. “I’m not sure how much you learned about the weaving way from Granny Bethilda, but our magicked strings don’t last forever.”
His eyes wandered across the room, settling on a dusty cobweb in the corner of the ceiling, up among the rafters. He perked up and sat up straight at the table.
“Spider silk,” he said, snapping his fingers triumphantly. “Only the kind that’s magical. There are species of spiders that lurk in the darkest corners of Aidun, imbuing their cobwebs and silks with all kinds of bizarre properties. Maybe I can take another trip outside Weathervale. We’ll need to pop by the library, see where we should go. Hmm.”
Gregor cocked an eyebrow and tapped his fingernail on the table. “Why bother going far out of Weathervale when you could be going below?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Questing boards,” Gregor answered. “You know, the kind you see outside taverns, or anywhere adventurers congregate? I keep a close eye on requests and jobs in case there’s anything I can fill, but more importantly, to look out for mentions of the undead. There’s bad news, and then there’s really bad news.”
Bones sniffed primly to show his offense, but said nothing. Gregor grunted, then carried on.
“And what I’ve been reading lately is that all these new adventurers in town have been pushing deeper down the dungeon. There’s fire down there, they say. There’s new monsters to fight, and that means new loot for them to cough up when you kill them. Or collect their leavings. Whatever suits your fancy.”
