“What do you sell?” Naile asked. “What’s so valuable that you need the likes of us to protect it?”
Ludlow Jade spread his hands and smiled, his eyes sparkling with pride. “Rugs and blankets, cloaks, and quilts. All the finest kind, and all the warmest you’ll find anywhere. My goods are known throughout the country, and I command the best prices. And at this time of the year, with winter around the corner, I’ll sell out before we reach the last village.” He paused. “Of course, I'll pick up some things along the way, herbs. Those I can resell at a profit when I get back here. Maybe some beads and necklaces that the northern women make. None of it worth as much as my blankets, but I might as well bring something back with me to sell here. Profit all the way around.” “Father is quite the merchant.” This came from Zechial, who was wedging a bundle into the back of the largest wagon.
“Zechial’s quite the merchant, too," a proud Ludlow Jade added. “A quick learner, my son is. Now, if you'll excuse me.” He headed toward a wagon that was open on the sides, but had a tarp stretched on a frame over the top, reminiscent of awnings at outdoor cafes. A half-dozen robed men milled near it, one of them clad entirely in black. “Fisk Lockwood,” Yevele told him.
“He was in the Tankard,” Milo said, remembering the man he considered suspicious. “Didn’t like the looks of him there.”
“You better like him,” Yevele returned. “He told us where to find you. And in turn he told Ludlow Jade about all of us. You might still be in jail if it weren’t for him.”
Naile raised an eyebrow and continued to watch Ludlow Jade.
Five of the robed men stepped away as the merchant approached. The black-cloaked man pulled back his hood displaying the sigils on his skin.
“What’s wrong with his head?” Milo asked.
“Tattoos/’ Ingrge said. “Fisk Lockwood’s a priest of Glothorio, and I understand all of the priests cover themselves with tattoos.”
Milo shuddered. “Didn’t like the looks of him at the Tankard. Don’t like the looks of him here.”
Naile snorted. “Jade’s paying him. Look.”
The portly merchant dropped a small pouch of what likely contained coins into Fisk’s hand, then turned and waddled back to his own wagons. Fisk looked inside the pouch, nodded, and dropped the pouch in a pocket. Then Fisk headed away from the caravan and toward the city gate.
“What was that about?" Milo asked as the merchant came near. “Paying that priest?”
“He found you for me,” Ludlow Jade answered. “I paid him a finder’s fee.”
“Since when do holy men care about money?” This came from Naile.
“He’s a priest of the second rank of Glothorio the Coin Gatherer,” Ludlow Jade said. “My wife was a member of the faith, bless her long-departed spirit. I still have ties to the temple, and so I turn to them sometimes to help find mercenaries and buyers for my rugs. I always pay them lor their work. Everyone has to make a living. And those priests, even the ones of the second rank . . . they gather coins.”
Ludlow Jade busied himself with the horses, then climbed up onto the lead wagon. “Time to leave,” he said. “Yevele, you ride on the last wagon. You can handle a team, right?”
She nodded.
“Milo, Naile . . . those are your names right? You’ll walk by the wagons for a time, with my other two guards — Sam and Willum. They’ve been with me a few years. Ride for a rest when your feet get tired.” He paused and pointed to the elf.
“Ingrge.”
“Yes, Ing. . . Ludlow Jade had too much trouble with the elven name. ‘You said you’re a scout.”
The elf nodded and jogged to the front of the caravan.
“Wait a minute.” Milo spun to face Yevele. “Where’s Deav Dyne?” She quickly explained about Gulth and the trip to the swamp. “And Wymarc?” Milo watched her rush toward the last of Ludlow’s wagons.
“He’s paying off the rest of your debt,” she called over her shoulder. “Your bill for busting up the Tankard.”
Then the wagons lined up, the lead man shouted to move, and the procession headed north.
No one saw a figure in clothes the shade of cold ashes—the other stranger who had watched Naile and Milo in the Golden Tankard. The figure stood in the shadow of the city wall, hood pulled low so only a narrow mouth could be seen. The figure watched the caravan stretch out, then after a moment followed the last wagon.
The Swan s Song
Down in the garden where the red roses grow Oh my, I long to go
Pluck me like a flower, cuddle me an hour Lovie, let me learn that Red Rose Rag.
Red leaves are failin’ in a rosy romance Bees hum. Come. Now’s your chance;
Don’t go huntin’ possums; mingle with the blossoms In that flowery, bowery dance.
Wymarc was aware the patrons didn’t know what a musical “rag” was, and it really didn’t matter. The men sitting at the table closest to the stage were tapping their feet to the beat, and two of them were trying futilely to sing along.
Pick a pinky petal for your papa’s pride.
Beg a burnin’ blossom for your budding bride.
Woo me with that wonderful wiggle wag Tip to toes to tease me, and to tickle, too,
Do the dainty dance like dandy doodle doo Ring your rosie round that Red Rose Rag!
Wymarc’s voice grew louder with the last line, and the appreciative audience applauded. A tall man in the back stood and whistled and yelled: “wiggle wag and tickle, too!”
“A drink for the skald! On me!” another man called to a serving wench. “Anything he wants!”
Wymarc nodded his thanks to the man and found himself looking forward to the free ale, which would soothe his throat and help relax him. He had a nervous edge, performing in front of so many people. He noticed that the crowd was a little larger tonight, that each night more of the folks from the neighborhood came to hear him sing.
The Golden Tankard was noted for having good music, one of the serving wenches told him last night, and she claimed he was the best she’d heard in quite some time. “Truly the best,” she had said at closing before she kissed his cheek and hurried off down the street. He vowed to tell her at the first opportunity that he was a married man.
Married ... he wondered what his wife was doing, the kids, too. Wondered how long he’d been gone from North Carolina, and if time moved differently here than home. Did they even know yet that he was missing? Or had he been gone so long they thought him dead? He had to get home, tell the kids about this adventure, every grand and lousy minute of it, tell his wife about the crowd listening to him so attentively, like he was some pop star.
Wymarc was still wearing the tight outfit he’d pilfered the first day he’d come to this city. But at least it was presentable, as he’d been washing it every other night in a rain barrel that was on the porch of the filthy hovel he’d been calling home. He probably could afford slightly cleaner accommodations now, given the coins he was tipped by the better-off patrons. But he had to pay for his meals, and he was saving money for clothes and for more lute strings. Two or three more nights, he guessed, and he would be able to buy something that fit him properly and that would not be identified by a previous owner. Nicer clothes, an improved image, he might make even more coins. He wasn’t going to risk stealing another set of clothes . . . not alter he’d heard Irom Fisk Lockwood about the cell Milo and Naile had been thrown in.
He wasn't earning a wage from the barkeep for packing the tavern. But that had been the agreement. Wymarc would sing until he paid off the damages Milo and Naile were saddled with. It was going to take several weeks, he figured, to work off the sizeable debt. Only one table and a bench had been salvaged after the fight, and so the barkeep decided to replace everything. Newly-made tables, chairs, benches, and stools filled the one-room tavern. There were new mugs and plates, too, and new shutters on the windows — though the old ones had not been damaged in the fight. Wymarc had overheard the barkeep order a new and larger sign for out fr
ont, too, and he wondered if that was being rolled into Milo and Naile’s debt. The barkeep had also accounted for lost business for going three days with crates and barrels in place of tables and chairs.
“Another!’’yelled a farmer who was one of the Tankard’s regulars. “Sing us another one, skald.”
“Aye, the one of the poet William Joel,” called one of the few female patrons. "The one you sang last night.”
Wymarc smiled and began “She’s Always a Woman to Me.” It was one of his wife’s favorite songs, and he pretended now that he was singing it to her. Wymarc wished she could hear him — in this world his voice was at the same time crisp and mellow, with just a hint of sadness to it. A beautiful tenor voice, he knew, one his real-world persona didn’t possess. Fortunately, however, that persona knew an endless supply of songs of various eras, memorized through years of attending concerts and listening to CDs and to old vinyl records that had been part of his father’s extensive collection. He wondered what Ingrge would think of the selections he sang — not a single old country western ballad in the mix.
The song he’d opened with tonight, the “Red Rose Rag,” dated back to 1911, the words by Edward Madden. Wymarc’s father had been a jazz and blues buff, and used to play the scratching and popping recordings all the time, often among them was Madden's material. Wymarc told the audience that he’d written the “Red Rose Rag,” lied to them that he’d written most everything he sang. But he didn’t lie about his wife’s favorite song.
Wymarc was flawless on the lute, a fact that amazed him, as his real-world persona couldn’t play a note on any instrument. All right, “Chopsticks.” He could handle “Chopsticks" on his youngest son’s toy piano.
With all the tunes in his head, and with some he'd begun to pen himself, he knew he could perform in this city for quite some time . . . if he had to. He’d rather be home with his family, singing off-key and working overtime, admiring his new two-story saltbox. He prayed Yevele and the others would find a way to get them back home. It would be so easy to be morose about this, he knew. But it was in his nature to find the best in a bad situation. And the best thing he could do now was sing and work off Milo and Naile’s debt, and try not to think too much about his family.
Tomorrow he planned to do a mix of Dylan and Springsteen, closing with Sachmo’s “What a Wonderful World,” and altering the lyrics where necessary to fit this medieval society. The evening after that would be toned-downed and slowed-down Zeppelin and The Who. And after that . . . well, he knew a lot of Queen and liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Ah, il only his wife could hear him. The kids, too, though they were so young they wouldn’t wholly appreciate the caliber of his wonderful voice. It took on a haunting quality now, as he thought of his family despite his admonition not to, the emotion dripping so thick in Joel’s lyrics that all conversations ceased and the serving wenches stood still, caught up in the music and the power of his voice.
He wished Yevele and Ingrge could hear him, too, and he wondered what they were doing. A part of him envied them — guarding a merchant caravan and getting out of this city. Sleeping on the ground in the open might be preferable to his rat-infested hovel. But a larger part of him relished the accolades of this crowd. And that part thought he got the better end of the arrangement. Paying off this element of Milo and Naile’s drunken folly wasn’t terribly bad. Still, when he saw Milo and Naile next, he would make sure they appreciated his sacrifice, and he would tell them about the rats under his bed.
He sang several more tunes. Bread’s //’seeming to be the most popular among the bunch. The audience didn’t quite catch on to “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”
Wymarc scanned the crowd. Most were commoners, as they lived in this section of the city, and the Golden Tankard’s prices were affordable by the lower class. But there were some merchants in the mix, and two aristocrats who were slumming just for the music. And there was Fisk Lockwood. Wymarc was pleased to see the priest of Glothorio the Coin Gatherer. The priest had not been to the Tankard since the night of Wymarc’s first performance. That was early last week. Eight days ago.
Eight days he’d been doing this! How much longer? Three or four weeks, he suspected. The barkeep liked his singing and would try to drag it out. He finished a Peter, Paul, and Mary tune and bowed, then took a deep pull from an ale tankard set beside him.
“Another!” the tall man in the back called.
Fisk Lockwood stood and brushed his hood back. The light from the lanterns and the fireplace reflected on his bald head and made the tattoos appear to move. “Yes, please sing another,” the priest said. “The sad one about the boy and the pipes!”
“All right,’’ Wymarc agreed. He settled back on his stool, took a sip of ale, and began:
Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side,
The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling
It’s you, it’s you must go, and I must bide
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow,
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow.
I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow,
Oh, Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, I love you so!
Wymarc was definitely looking forward to doing some Dylan and Springsteen tomorrow, a break from some of the sappy, overly pleasant stuff he'd been crooning for the past eight days. Give the patrons something a little edgier and see how they’d react. Maybe if the barkeep didn’t like it, Milo and Naile’s debt might get paid off faster. Of course, Wymarc knew he was going to have to stay in the city anyway, and likely in this neighborhood, until the caravan came back. Two months. He cringed at the thought. Yevele said the caravan would spend a month traveling north, and then a month coming back. Did time pass here as it was passing in North Carolina?
The song finished, he stood and bowed, scooped up the ale tankard and a few coins that had been tossed near it — one of them gold, from an aristocrat —that made his heart leap. Then he stepped off the stage. He slung the lute across his back and in a half-dozen steps was at the bar.
“Done for the evening,” he pronounced. Wymarc had performed the required dozen songs and wasn’t in the mood this evening to go beyond that —though he usually did. He wanted to spend one of the copper coins at the bathhouse, which might still be open, then fold himself into what passed for his bed. Tomorrow he might finish one of those songs he’d started to write himself, and then see if—with that treasured gold coin — he had enough money for a new tunic, trousers, and a warm cloak.
“Beautiful,” the barkeep said. “One of the best to sing here, Wymarc, my friend. Unusual songs, you know. But I tell you that every night." He wiped his hands on a towel and gestured to the door that led to the kitchen.
Wymarc followed him, hoping the barkeep might offer up something to eat.
“Tomorrow night, skald, you do that song again by that poet William Joel. The folks expect it now.”
Wymarc mumbled his agreement.
“I understand you’ve been living above Rumpul’s place."
“I can’t afford anything else, " Wymarc was a little too quick to say. "You aren’t paying me, remember?”
The barkeep nodded and reached into his pocket. “I’m still not paying you.” He pulled out a key and pressed it into Wymarc’s palm. "That’s to the room above. You go out back and up the stairs. It’s yours to use while you sing here. A little dusty ’cause I haven’t cleaned it since my last tenant left. But it’s much better than Rumpul’s pit.”
Wymarc stared at the key.
"And about wages,” the barkeep continued. "I figure once you finish paying for your friends’ damages—oh, five weeks should do it, I figure —I’d be happy if you stayed on. I’d give you a fair wage then, all based on the number of folks you draw in.”
Wymarc put the key in his pocket. "Thank you for the place to stay. And. ...”
"And don’t you be telling anyone I’m setting you up with a room.
Wouldn’t be good for my image. Understand?”
Wymarc’s lips edged up in a slight smile. "I understand. And as for your offer ... I will think it over.”
"Good coin I’ll pay you.”
Wymarc edged past him and out the back of the Tankard. He suspected he’d stay here until Yevele and the others returned, and any coins he earned after the debt was worked off . . . well, that would be hi) money. He wondered if they found a way back home if the coins might come along. And might his wonderful singing voice come, too?
It was dark behind the Tankard, there being no lanterns because the barkeep was careful with expenses. But just enough starlight filtered down that Wymarc could see to make his way around the crates filled with garbage near the back door. He looked around . . . ah, the stairs were at the edge of the building, a rickely set that led up to a sound-looking door. Whatever the room looked like, it had to be better than “Rumpul’s pit,” he decided. No need to go to the pit first. He had nothing there. Everything Wymarc owned in this world was on his back and in his pocket.
He started toward the stairs, then stopped when a figure stepped out of the shadows. For a moment, Wymarc’s heart pounded, fearful it was a cutpurse intending to rob him of his precious coins. Then he relaxed.
Don’t go huntin’ possums, mingle with the blossoms In that flowery, bowery dance.
“I don’t understand all those words, Wymarc. But it is a lovely song."
“Fisk.”
The priest nodded. “I enjoyed your performance this evening, and the song about the woman ‘throwing shadows at you.' An interesting picture, it conjures. But I particularly like the song about the boy and the pipes.”
“Danny Boy.”
“Yes, that’s the song.”
“It’s an old, old song,” Wymarc said. In truth it was. “Danny Boy” had been adapted in the early 1900s from “The Londonderry Aire,” a piece that was likely more than three hundred years old at that time. Not that anyone in this world would know that, he realized.
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