The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  “You really are amazing,” he said. “I thought you were good at the tavern, but what you did up there tonight … no words can describe.” Holding out his hand, he passed Lem six silvers.

  “I thought I was being paid five,” he said.

  “If you don’t want the extra, I’d be glad to take it back.”

  Lem quickly shoved the coins into his pocket. “Thank you.”

  “You more than earned it,” Farley said, giving his arm a squeeze. “Now get some rest. Tomorrow I’ll show you around Lobin.”

  Lem gave him an appreciative nod and then returned to his tent. He could hear the actors hooting and talking as he passed, clearly thrilled with how things had gone.

  Ducking inside, he saw Hallis lying on his cot, reading, and Quinn sitting at the table with a bottle of wine gripped in one hand. There was no sign of Clovis.

  “There he is,” said Quinn, raising the bottle above his head. “The master has returned.”

  Lem blushed. “I’m no master.”

  Hallis looked over the top of his book. “You could have fooled me.”

  “Where’s Clovis?” Lem asked.

  “Sulking, most likely,” Quinn replied with a grin. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so upset. You really put him in his place tonight.”

  A sting of guilt struck. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “The way he treated you, he deserved it. Old boy needed to be taken down a peg or two. I should know. He’s my cousin.”

  “I should go find him,” said Lem.

  “Don’t bother. He’ll be fine by morning,” Quinn said. “A few drinks and a fight or two, and you’ll see … right as rain he’ll be.” He waved Lem over to join him. “Come on. Have a drink with me.”

  “Quinn,” said Hallis, shooting a warning look.

  “I know, I know,” he replied. After Lem sat down, he leaned in and said in a whisper, “Farley left orders. One: don’t get you drunk. And two: don’t ask you about your past.”

  Lem thought this strange. Why would Farley care about them asking him questions? Unless …

  No, he was being paranoid. There was no way Farley could have discovered his secret. “I can get myself drunk,” he said. “So don’t worry.”

  Quinn peeked over at Hallis to check that he had returned to his reading, then bent low to the table. His voice was noticeably quieter. “I know I’m not supposed to ask this, but who in Kylor’s creation taught you to play?”

  “My mother.”

  He blinked hard. “Are you joking? Your mother taught you to play the … what did you call it? A balisundy?”

  “Balisari,” Lem corrected. “She was my first teacher. I had two others after her, but mostly I taught myself.”

  “Horse crap,” said Quinn. “Only a master plays like that. A full-fledged bard. And I don’t think there are more than ten in the whole world.”

  From the way Quinn spoke, Lem sensed the title of “bard” meant more here than just a musician of notable skill. Yet another thing to look up. The list of things to do in the library was getting long.

  “I don’t know what to say other than I mostly taught myself.”

  Quinn sputtered a hard breath. “You’d better not tell Clovis that. You know he studied to become a bard when he was young? Didn’t have the talent, though. Not like you. But then again, most don’t. With your skill, you really should apply.”

  Lem furrowed his brow. “Apply for what?”

  “For a bardship, of course. Normally you have to go through years of school and training. But I bet they’d accept you right away.”

  “What would that do for me?”

  Quinn cocked his head. “Don’t you know anything? If they name you a bard, you can say goodbye to all this squalor and hard work. You’ll be playing for kings and queens. I’m talking whole bags of gold. Not the few coins Farley is willing to hand out.”

  “That’s an interesting idea. But I think for now, I’d like to stay where I am.”

  “Well, that’s good news for us. Now that you’re here, we might be able to stay in business. Crowds are getting a lot harder to please nowadays.”

  After a few minutes of further talk, Hallis put aside his book and joined them. Occasionally Quinn asked Lem something about where he came from, but the flautist quickly jumped in and reminded him of the rule. It was still puzzling to Lem why Farley would impose such a measure, but as it avoided uncomfortable topics, he decided not to question it.

  By the time two bottles of wine had been consumed among them, Lem was yawning and beginning to doze. He’d not been expecting to start playing on his first evening and was still road weary, not to mention a bit overwhelmed by the sights of Lobin. Just as they were about to each go to their cots, Clovis staggered into the tent, undoubtedly drunk and with his shirt torn at the collar. After firing Lem a hate-filled look, he threw himself face-first onto a pile of boxes.

  “You see?” Quinn remarked while covering his cousin with a blanket. “I told you he’d be fine.”

  Lem did not want another conflict in his life; the last one had ended in blood. He resolved to find a way to make peace with Clovis if at all possible.

  As he lay on his cot, he felt a smile form. The thunder of applause was still echoing in his head. He had no desire to play for kings and queens, nor for fame or praise. The spirit of the audience that evening had filled him completely; their energy and joy had become his own. Whatever a bard was, he didn’t care. For the first time since the day the stranger had entered Vylari, he felt a respite from the fear and doubt that had consumed nearly every waking moment.

  He could only hope this feeling lasted … at least for a while.

  12

  HARSH REALITY

  Injustice is the garden in which the seed of misery is sown.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Three, Verse Twenty-Eight

  Lem woke to the sound of clanking metal and a cacophony of voices outside the tent. Sometime in the night Clovis had crawled to his cot and was sprawled out facedown, his head hanging over the edge. Hallis and Quinn were sitting at the table eating a breakfast of ham, eggs, and bread.

  “Look who’s up,” remarked Quinn. “Better get dressed. Farley said he wants you to go to his tent the minute you wake.”

  Lem rubbed his eyes and smacked his lips. His mouth felt dry, and his muscles ached. Though usually well able to deal with a single bottle of wine, his body felt as if he had consumed an entire bottle of whiskey by himself.

  “Where can I get cleaned up?” he asked, rolling off the cot onto his feet.

  “There’s a public bath not far from here,” Hallis informed him. “But you don’t have time for that. Farley wants to get you some decent clothes for tonight. From what Vilanda said, word’s already spreading about you. As I understand it, people are saying a bard’s come to Lobin.”

  Both men chuckled.

  Stumbling over to the table, Lem poured himself a cup of water. It did little for his aching joints, but at least his mouth didn’t feel like it was filled with sawdust.

  Just then, the tent flap opened and Farley poked his head inside. “About time you woke up.” He eyed Hallis and Quinn. “I thought I told you two not to get him drunk.”

  “They didn’t,” said Lem.

  Farley frowned over at Clovis. “I see your cousin behaved as predictably as ever.”

  Quinn spread his hands. “What can I say? At least he made it back this time.”

  Farley sniffed. “Well, he’d better watch himself. I’m not getting him out of jail again.” He waved to Lem. “Come on. We have much to do today.”

  “Give me just a minute to change clothes,” Lem said.

  “You can change later. I’ve a few matters to attend while we’re out and about, so we need to get going.”

  Lem quickly pulled on his boots and slung his balisari over his back.

  “No need to bring that,” said Farley. “No one here would dare touch it. And you wouldn’t want it to get damaged—the city will be qu
ite crowded.”

  Reluctantly, he placed his instrument on top of his cot.

  “I’ll look after it for you,” Quinn told him. “Don’t give it a thought.” He noticed Lem eyeing the still-unconscious Clovis. “He might be an arse, but he would never harm a musical instrument, no matter how he felt about its owner. Go on. Get out of here.”

  “Thank you,” said Lem.

  He followed Farley from the tent and into the market square. Once again it was filled to bursting with pavilions crammed with goods. It was impressive how quickly they managed to take them down each evening just to set them up again a few hours later.

  “We’ll be heading north, near the docks,” Farley said. “That’s where the best clothes are. And I can show you where the library is, assuming you still want to see it.”

  “Yes, very much.”

  Lem jingled the coins in his pocket. How much would new clothes cost? More than six silvers, he presumed. This meant Farley likely intended to buy them. He didn’t want to be too deep in the man’s debt, but he certainly was in need of appropriate attire.

  “You’ve caused quite the stir,” Farley continued, as they squeezed past a fruit vendor. “People are saying there’s a bard in Lobin.”

  “Yes. Quinn told me.”

  “That’s ludicrous, of course. A bard would never come here.”

  “Why not?”

  “They don’t get along with the Archbishop, not since he publicly accused one of them of being a heretic. The entire order declared themselves apostates in solidarity.” He let out a short laugh. “Thirty years and two Archbishops later, the bards still won’t come. Not until they receive an apology. And you can be sure that will never happen.”

  Suddenly, being thought of as a bard sounded dangerous. “Should I be worried?”

  “Not at all. No one cares about that anymore. At least not the folks who come to watch us. The church might send someone to check on you, just to be sure. But I’ll deal with that. Strange that you wouldn’t know this, given your talent.”

  Lem ignored the last comment. And as always, Farley didn’t press the subject.

  “I’ll tell you this,” he added. “No one would miss the chance of hearing a bard play. It should be a big crowd tonight.”

  “So you’ve encouraged the rumor?”

  Farley grinned. “Of course.”

  It took almost an hour to reach the northern section. Lem tried to keep pace but found himself craning his neck and staring up in wonder at the massive buildings along the way. Many bore elaborate frescoes and were adorned with colorful banners and beads. Eventually, they drew close to one of the mighty towers he had seen when first arriving. He halted in his tracks, straining his eyes to view the top, but it was obscured by low clouds.

  “Built by ancient gods,” said Farley, tugging at his sleeve to keep walking. “At least, that’s what they say. No one knows who really built them.”

  It seemed impossible, something so tall. “How old are they?”

  “Like I said, no one knows. They were here long before Lobin was settled. Aside from being an attraction, they don’t actually serve much purpose. King Zolomy keeps the treasury in one of them, but the others are empty. If you’re really interested, for a few coppers you can take a tour inside. Be warned, though; it’s a beast of a climb.”

  “You’ve been?” Lem was trying to imagine what the world would look like from such an enormous height.

  “Once. Damn near killed me. Beautiful view, though. It’s just so exhausting getting up there to see it.”

  It took a great effort for Lem to look away. What kind of people could build a thing like that? Let alone five of them. They had been hugely impressive at a distance. Now, up so close … they boggled his mind.

  A bit farther along, the street widened, and traffic flowed more freely. They had kept to the promenade for the most part, making him feel somewhat trapped by the closeness of the other pedestrians. He could understand why some chose to walk in the avenue, even if it meant dodging the horses and wagons.

  They arrived at a small shop just as Lem caught the tang of salt in the air. He heard bells ringing above the constant background noise of the city.

  “The docks are just around the next corner,” Farley informed him. “We can go see the ships once we’ve finished getting your clothes, if you’d like.”

  Lem nodded enthusiastically. “I’d like that very much.” He had heard stories of massive vessels capable of traversing endless expanses of water so enormous that one could not see the far shore. In Vylari, other than the Sunflow, there were a few small lakes and narrow streams, and the boats held no more than six or so people. These were said to carry hundreds.

  Inside the shop hanging on the walls were a variety of jackets, pants, shirts, and various small accessories. Several rows of shelves placed in the center of the floor held heavy bolts of cloth, all of them looking to be of the highest quality. At the rear stood an older man with a round face and a balding head. His right arm was fully extended, holding out a red jacket, which he was regarding with a scowl. In his mouth were several pins and in his free hand a pair of shears.

  “What’s wrong?” called Farley. “Not happy with your own work?”

  Upon seeing Farley, his frown deepened. “What do you want?” he mumbled, still managing to grip the pins in the corner of his mouth. “I’m busy.”

  Farley clicked his tongue. “Now, now. You’re not too busy for paying customers, are you?”

  Removing the pins, the man placed the jacket on a nearby table. “Paying this time, are you? That would be a pleasant surprise.”

  Farley chuckled. “Can I help it if you’re a poor gambler? Lem, this is Verin, the finest tailor in Lobin.”

  The man grunted, then turned his attention to Lem. “Being that you already have more clothes than the king himself, I can only assume this visit is for your young friend.”

  Lem nodded. “I need something decent for tonight’s performance.”

  Verin lifted his brow. “So, you’re the bard I’ve been hearing about today. A bit young for such acclaim, aren’t you?”

  “I’m—”

  “A prodigy,” Farley cut in. “One in need of your best work.”

  “Indeed.” Rubbing his chin, he studied Lem closely. “A touch thin in the waist. Strong shoulders.” He muttered incoherently while reaching out to squeeze Lem’s arms and then his legs. Finally, he declared: “Two days. Best I can do.”

  “That will be fine,” said Farley. “But we’ll need something for tonight.”

  With a sigh, the tailor heaved his ample girth toward a door at the back wall. He returned a few minutes later carrying a small bundle tied with thin twine. “This will have to do for now.”

  When Lem began to unwrap it, Farley stopped him, then turned to Verin.

  “Thank you, old friend. I’m sure it will do nicely.” He reached in his pouch and produced a handful of silver coins. “Ten?”

  “Fifteen.” Verin’s finger shot up. “Another word and it’s twenty.”

  After a brief pause, Farley decided not to test the tailor’s resolve and handed over the coins. “Now, for our other arrangement, I expect three full ensembles.”

  “You’ll have them.”

  “For two gold,” added Farley.

  “In advance.”

  “When you deliver,” he countered.

  “Half now.”

  “Come on, Lem.” Farley turned to the exit. “I know another shop nearby.”

  Verin threw up his hands. “Very well, you old thief. On delivery. But you had better not try to cheat me.”

  Farley affected a deeply offended expression. “You must know by now that I would never be anything but totally honest with you.”

  After giving vent to his feelings with a loud snort of derision, Verin walked over to the table and picked up a ball of yellow string. He proceeded to hold lengths of this up to various parts of Lem’s body, cutting them to size and then laying them on the table.
The process took only a few minutes.

  “Two days,” Verin said. “Assuming the magistrate hasn’t locked up half your troupe and driven you from the city, I’ll see you then.”

  Farley winked and started to the door.

  Once outside, Lem again caught the scent of salt on the air, and his excitement over seeing the ships returned. Scarcely had they set off when a horn blasted from just beyond the next corner; then a second blast sent people scurrying from the street and onto the sidewalk.

  “What’s happening?” asked Lem.

  “Prisoners bound for the mines,” Farley replied darkly, his lip curled in disgust. “Or worse.”

  From the south appeared a large wagon pulled by a team of six horses. Seconds later, another rumbled up behind it. This was followed by more of the same until there were six in all. The wheels squealed and creaked as the beasts strained under the weight of their burdens. As they drew closer, Lem could see that these were not wagons but wheeled cages with thick iron bars. But it was what the cages held that had his chest tight and eyes wide: men packed in so tightly that not even one more soul could possibly fit, their flesh pressed against the bars. Many of the faces were beaten, and all were clad in ragged clothes stained with blood and filth.

  “Poor bastards,” remarked Farley. “Even convicts should be given room to sit.”

  Lem covered his nose as the stench of feces, urine, and unwashed bodies reached him. What could these people have done to deserve such treatment? He wished he could do something to help, to give them some sort of comfort, but teams of guards armed with short clubs walking alongside each cage prevented anyone from coming near.

  Tears welled as he looked upon their sunken eyes and grimy flesh. They were defeated and without hope. Unable to bear the sight, he started to turn his back. Then something caught the corner of his eye. A face. A familiar face. Bruised and caked with mud, it was still unmistakable.

  “Shemi!” he cried, leaping over the retaining wall and running headlong for the wagon.

  He did not make it halfway before a guard moved into his path and let his club fly. Although only a glancing blow, it was enough to send him down hard in the street. Blood trickling from his forehead, he struggled to regain his feet, but the crushing pain from a boot to the ribs quickly had him flat down once again.