Redwing

by Holly Bennett

  “A little. There’s not much local call for it. Of course, the local product doesn’t merit much call…” They drifted off toward the river, deep in conversation, and were soon out of earshot.

  He didn’t really mind that Aydin left him working alone in order to talk shop with a merchant twice his age. The carriage driver, despite his sharp manner, was a calm, steady worker and a willing teacher. When they were done, he wiped his hands on a cloth, shrugged into his uniform, and gave Rowan one last, valuable tip.

  “When you get to Clifton, take your old wheel to Shale the wheelwright on Marketview Road—that’s on the high side, mind. Tell him Purdy sent you. He’s the best in town, and he’ll give you a fair price.”

  THIRTEEN

  Voka reined in at the top of the steep hill and surveyed the churned-up track leading to the river.

  “We’ll want to take this slow, boys. People have been having trouble with the grade, by the looks of it.” Something big had ground deep ruts in the mud, veered right off the track, and left behind a large swath of bent and bruised shrubbery. Something—now that he thought of it—about the size of a caravan.

  It hadn’t taken them long to find the inn at Greenway where Samik had stayed. “Any idea where they were headed?” Voka had asked the barkeep. “There’s a family emergency. His parents are most anxious to find the poor lad.” At least that was what he tried to say; doubtless it was rougher around the edges in his imperfect Prosperian. But this new story seemed to work. Either that, or the barkeep didn’t really care.

  EITHER WAY, THERE HAD BEEN no need for “persuasion.” The man had readily volunteered, “He was asking round the tables for a ride south; picked up with a tradesman making deliveries.” Still, they might well have lost Samik’s trail if he hadn’t joined up with that musician in Cedar Glen. The old geezer at the Pig’s Ear had lit up when Voka described the boy. “Oh, sure, I remember him—tall, skinny beanpole of a fellow. He came in with that young box player—by the brew, that lad can play! Been a good long while since we’ve heard such music in these parts.” He gave the stubble under his chin a fierce scratch and regarded Voka cautiously. Even alone and with his knives hidden, he was a man to treat with care. “He’s no relation of yours, I suppose, so no offense, but the tall one didn’t really seem to be able to keep up on that fiddle of his. I wondered why they were working together.”

  “They travel together, then?” Voka asked casually. He had learned something about these Backenders: he could intimidate them into talking easily enough, but they would often blab twice as much if he didn’t alarm them.

  The old publican was nodding. “It seems so. They’ll be off to Clifton, I imagine, what with the Month of Rains just around the corner.”

  “The Month of…?” Voka wasn’t following.

  “You know, for the big festival. All the musicians go—leastways, those who don’t have a permanent spot. Those lads have been living rough, by their looks—they’ll be in Clifton, looking for work.”

  After that, it was simple. They cut straight west to the Western Carriageway and sent Jax, who had never ceased his complaining, back to Shiphaven to inform Jago, who waited with his ship at the docks. On horseback and traveling the main road, the remaining three would close a good chunk of the gap between them and the boys. By the time they arrived in Clifton, they should be right on their scrawny little heels.

  “IS IT GOING TO RAIN like this every day?”

  Samik stuck his head out from under the canvas flap and glared at Rowan.

  “Don’t blame me, I didn’t order it!”

  The rain had been steady all morning, gusting with the wind that blew off the ocean. There weren’t many trees in this coast country to block rain or wind. Maybe they’d all been blown down, Samik thought.

  “Well, is it?”

  “Maybe most days, though not so hard.” Rowan shrugged. “It is the Month of Rains.”

  Samik pulled the canvas tighter around his head and snorted. “So what genius decided to hold a music festival during the Month of Downpours? I thought you said there were street players and outdoor stages.”

  “The month before is too cold to camp,” Rowan explained. “The month after is too late—people want to be settled by then, working through the summer season. They put up awnings and covered stages though.”

  “Oh, awnings. That’s all right then. I’m sure they will keep us snug and dry.” Samik offered his best sarcastic smile to Rowan’s hunched back. This rain, blowing almost sideways at times on a heavy wind, would instantly drench anyone foolish enough to trust in an awning. Even the huge oilskin Rowan was wrapped in couldn’t protect his exposed hands and hair.

  “Just be glad we have a caravan, to sleep in,” said Rowan over his shoulder. “Some people camp.”

  Samik was glad to have a caravan and was about to retreat back into its relative comfort when Rowan called out, “Aydin, look at that!” He pulled up the mules and pointed.

  From within his canvas kerchief, Samik peered through the rain.

  “What? All I see are the same road and the same rain.”

  “There.” Rowan pointed to the horizon. The road rose gently toward the coast, ending in a series of low, lumpy hills. “See on that middle hill? I’m pretty sure that’s Clifton.”

  “Good. Giddy-up.”

  “Don’t you want to ride up front and watch it come into view?”

  “You must be mad,” said Samik and closed the canvas gap firmly. There was no need for both of them to get wet. Besides, he was busy. An idea had come to him while he was talking to that merchant who stopped to help them with the wheel, and he needed some time alone to let it take root.

  “I guess that’s a no,” said Rowan and started up the mules.

  CLIFTON WAS BUSTLING, even in the late evening. The last rays of sun glinted off the limewashed buildings and made the wet cobblestones shine like polished tile. Rowan guided Dusty and Daisy slowly through the city. The rain had stopped and, to Samik’s delight, the narrow streets were full of people. Here was a town where, even by Tarzine standards, people knew how to enjoy themselves. They threaded their way into the center of the city and then beyond, to the great field in the southeast quarter that was set aside for visiting players during the festival.

  “The guild’ll be closed by now,” the porter at the gate had told them. “But the players’ camp is manned all night.

  They’ll give you one night free, even without the guild plaque, if you can convince them you’re really musicians.”

  AT THE GUILDHALL the next morning, Rowan counted out the coins, trying not to think about how little remained of his money stash. Anyway he had no choice: guild membership was a requirement for a spot on the showcase program, and Rowan needed to make himself visible as a player for hire.

  Rowan’s parents had bought him his own membership for the first time last year—a little rite of passage signifying that he had become a guild-quality musician, no longer riding on his parents’ names. Though of course he had been, hadn’t he? This year he wouldn’t be the son who played so well for his age. He’d have to stand or fall on his own performance.

  “Family name?” The clerk pushed his hair out of his eyes as he bent over the stack of parchments.

  Rowan was relieved, really, that he and the young clerk didn’t know each other. Simpler that way. “Redwing.”

  With a sigh, the clerk began burrowing through the papers to the Rs. “Outlier, Overhill, Peregrine, Ramsden. Right, here’s Redwing…hmm.”

  Leaving a finger to mark his place in the stack, he craned his skinny neck around and peered accusingly at Rowan. “There are several Redwings here. Which one are you?”

  “I’m Rowan.” He tried to make his answer as clipped as the clerk’s manner. And please don’t ask about the rest of us.

  He needn’t have feared. Though barely past breakfast, the guildhall was already filling up with musicians, all needing something. The clerk had no time for pleasantries.

  Th
e clerk took his money, stamped his parchment with this year’s seal, gave him his plaque and shouted “NEXT!” while shooing Rowan to move aside.

  “Sorry, wait—I’m not done,” he protested. This earned him another sigh, and a carefully neutral look that somehow made it plain just how much the clerk’s patience was being tried. “I need to get on the showcase program.”

  The clerk’s lips tightened in disapproval. “That’s in the next room, toward the back. But you’re late, you know. I doubt there is any space left.”

  Rowan found his way to a small room with large slates mounted against the wall, each detailing a different day of the showcase. A glance was enough to relieve Rowan’s anxieties—today’s slate looked full, but there were plenty of spots on other days. He pushed his way past the people milling about the slates and spoke to a motherly, bustling older woman who advised him on the best available time and signed him up without a single sigh or lecture. He emerged into the street slightly bemused by the whole experience.

  “ROWAN! Oi, wait up, man!” The voice was loud as a town crier’s and rumbled like a troll’s. Not a second later, a heavy arm clapped across Rowan’s back, making his sore shoulder flare in protest.

  Timber. Rowan knew who it was without looking—there was no mistaking that booming voice. He felt his heart lift and sink at the same time, a sensation so odd that he actually clutched a hand to his chest as though to hold it together. The traitor tears burned behind his eyes as he turned. He blinked furiously, but there was no need. Timber’s bear hug swallowed him whole, tears and all.

  Timber had been his parents’ best friend and musical rival for as long as Rowan could remember, and in some ways more of an uncle than his real one. Named “Timbre” in hopes that he would be blessed with a rich singing voice, he earned the nickname “Timber” in his teens by growing into a great slab of a man. “Tall as a tree and solid as a stump,” he used to tell the kids with a wink when they were small, “and in my old age I’ll be gnarled as a weepy willow.”

  Now as he unwrapped his big arms and held Rowan at arm’s length—a ritual at every meeting, accompanied by the phrase, “Let’s take a look at ye, see if you’ve matched my height yet”—his genial face fell into concern. “Oh now, lad, what is it?”

  “Bad news, Timber,” Rowan managed. “Can we go somewhere?” He desperately did not want to have this conversation on the street.

  The older man didn’t say another word, just draped his arm around Rowan’s shoulders and steered him down the street. Though he must have been in an agony of impatience, he didn’t mention the matter until they were ensconced in the empty back corner of a taproom with mugs of ale in front of them.

  “I’ve never drunk ale right after breakfast,” Rowan said. He wasn’t sure he was going to like it either, not with his stomach already doing nervous flip-flops. But Timber took a long, sucking swallow of his and then set his mug down firmly.

  “Now tell me.”

  It was the first time he had told someone who actually shared his loss. Timber’s eyes screwed shut at the news, then his big freckled hand covered his face as his shoulders hunched in grief. There would be more conversations like this to come, Rowan thought bleakly. Worst of all would be telling his Aunt Cardinal and Uncle Ward. Yet there was comfort, too, in Timber’s sorrow. That somebody else cared seemed to lift some of the burden of death from Rowan’s shoulders.

  Finally Timber straightened himself and took a deep, shaky breath.

  “Ah, lad. I can’t say how sorry…” He shrugged helplessly. “We heard there was plague at Five Oaks, of course, but everyone seemed to think you’d escaped it.”

  “Was it bad there?” It had been a long time since Rowan had had news of anyone, or anywhere. A long time since he’d cared to find out.

  “Bad enough. The son died, and the earl’s wife, and a fair number of servants. A handful of cases cropped up beyond the estate, and people were saying it would be the Death Years all over again. But it didn’t keep spreading this time—it looks like it’s died out. Now if it had been in a city like this one…” Timber shook his head in dread at the prospect. “Your dad did right to keep away from the settlements. Saved a lot of lives.”

  Rowan nodded numbly. A thought was trying to rise to the surface, and he was trying to keep it under the waves. It bubbled up anyway: Cashel hadn’t done his family any good, cramming them together into a little caravan. Maybe their chances would have been better if they had stayed at Five Oaks.

  He wondered if Pansy, the earl’s daughter, had survived. He’d been giving her lessons for few months before they left. She was a beautiful girl, eyes as violet as her namesake, with a flirty way of teasing him that he was just starting to enjoy. “Mind you don’t let her go beyond,” his father had warned, and when Rowan grinned in reply, Cashel had become very serious. “I mean it, Rowan. It’s a position of trust you’ve been given, and the earl will not tolerate a hired hand making free with his daughter. Not even if said hired hand is one of the blessed bards!”

  “Rowan?” Timber’s deep rumble brought his thoughts back to the present.

  “Sorry, what did you say?” Timber’s mug was already empty, and Rowan pushed his own across the table, glad of an excuse to be rid of it.

  “I mean it. You’re more’n welcome to stay with me, for as long as you’d like to.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to need a box player?” A little flame of hope ignited in Rowan’s chest. But Timber’s face was already screwed into an apologetic grimace.

  “I’m afraid not, lad. You know we have Bruin—he’s twice your age and half the player, but Bryony would never sack him.” Timber’s ensemble wouldn’t have been Rowan’s first choice musically. They were known for their dance music, which meant lots of traveling in order to play repetitive figures for noisy, drunken, largely unappreciative crowds. But a year or two under Timber’s protective wing would have made everything easier.

  Instead, he shook his head quickly. “Then thanks, but no. I’m too old to mooch off you.” He raised a hand against Timber’s protests. “I know you don’t see it that way. It’s just that I need to be playing and earning my own way now.”

  Timber nodded his understanding. “You’re scheduled for the showcase, I hope?” Rowan nodded. “Tell me what times, and I’ll get the word out. I’ll do what I can for you.”

  Rowan thanked him awkwardly and made to get up. “I should get going. I need to find a good busking spot, and you know how they fill up.”

  Timber stood with him and laid a restraining arm on Rowan’s shoulder. “Are you all right for money, Rowan? Will the guild payment see you through?”

  “The guild payment?”

  “Aye, lad. For your parents…” Timber took in the confusion on Rowan’s face and pulled him back down to the table. “Have you not reported their deaths yet?”

  Rowan, not trusting himself to speak, just shook his head.

  “I’ll go with you now,” declared Timber. “Your parents were guild members in good standing for many years. There’s a death payment owing to you. It won’t be much, but it will help.” His full lips pressed together into a grim line. “As much as anything can help.”

  FOURTEEN

  Now that he was about to step onto the stage, Rowan wished he had asked Aydin to back him up after all. Playing solo, with the stakes so high and before an audience that would neither stomp their feet and cheer in approval of your performance, nor hiss in displeasure, but rather silently appraise every ornament and error, was more nerve-racking than he had imagined.

  The conversation with Aydin about the showcase had been an awkward dance of polite vagaries. Rowan, fairly sure but not certain that Aydin had no interest in seeking work as a player, and not wanting to insult or abandon him, had tried to suggest he was welcome to join in without making him feel obligated. Aydin, in turn, had acted like he didn’t know what Rowan was getting at—or maybe, thought Rowan, he really didn’t. It was easy to forget that Prosperian was not Aydin�
��s—Samik’s—first language. Finally, Aydin had asked, “What time is your showcase?” and when Rowan told him, said, “Then if you don’t need me, I won’t come. I have an appointment to keep.”

  So instead of being relieved that Aydin was not expecting to partner with him—honestly, he was more of a liability than an asset—Rowan felt absurdly disappointed that he would not be in the audience and hurt that he had not deigned to reveal what his “appointment” was about.

  Now he took a deep breath and tried to let all that go. It was time to let go, too, of his doubts about his program. Most up-and-coming young players would lead off with something flashy played at breakneck speed—an attention grabber. Rowan, wanting to distinguish himself from the others, had decided instead on a sweet, lilting waltz. He had hoped it would suggest confidence and a more mature musical taste. The risk was it would, instead, suggest he couldn’t play anything harder. He hoped he wouldn’t lose his audience before the second selection, which would prove them wrong.

  Let it go. It was all beyond his control now, all except one thing: playing the pieces as well as he could. He walked on stage, bowed to the unsmiling men sitting in the stuffy hall, and sat on the stool provided. As he arranged his box, he let his knee set the rhythm of the piece: one, two, three, one, two three, dum deedle deedle…

  Heska save him, he’d been a fool. In his small caravan, beginning the piece with a single melody line and then building it gradually had seemed bold and lovely. But in the hall, the air seemed to swallow the thin notes before they even left the stage. Just play, don’t think. The feeble single notes unreeled one after the other, agonizingly slowly, and finally Rowan found the music in them. The beauty of the melody came to him with an image—a memory—of Ettie, dancing with an imaginary partner as she hummed this lovely waltz. “Play it for me, Rowan,” she had begged, and he had gone out to the green with her and played, and she had danced through the morning dew, barefoot in her nightie, the white fabric floating around her ankles…