“When the goddess speaks, the goddess sings.” The man’s voice startled her out of her reverie, so that she broke off in midphrase, the harp still quivering beneath her hands.
She gave a little cry and stared at the man who peered into the shadows. “Wha—who—what do you want?”
“Forgive me if I’ve frightened you, little sister.” The man spread his hands wide apart, as though to show he meant no harm, and gave a little bow. His face was dark and his hair and beard were nearly black in the dim light. “My name is Eral bel Afflyn, and my troupe and I had just spotted this corner here by the steps as an excellent location for our stage. I didn’t mean to startle you out of your music.”
She peered at him more closely. There was something familiar about the man, about the way he smiled in the dark, and suddenly she remembered him. He was the man from the road to Sylyria, that very day. “I saw you on the road today.”
“Ah,” he said, “you, too, are but newly come to the city?”
She nodded as she rose awkwardly to her feet. “Goddess blessing.”
“But where are you going?” he said, holding out his hand. “Are you spoken for? Have you another engagement this evening?”
She laughed. “No. But you wanted this spot for your stage. I’ll go.”
“But we also wanted a songsayer to play the background for us, and see—in the very spot I thought would be the best place to honor the goddess, I find she sends me a songsayer, too. What more could we ask?”
“You—you want me to play?” Juilene took a step backward.
“It is just the background music,” he said, almost apologetically. “But to my way of thinking, it’s the most important part—it sets the mood. And we would pay you, of course, we would divide our offerings with you.” This last he said with haste, almost as if he was afraid she would turn him down.
“I—I suppose—of course,” Juilene stumbled over the words, scarcely believing her good fortune. Even a few coins would enable her to buy something to eat, maybe even a place to sleep.
“Good.” Eral smiled, and turned, waving his arm. “Here—over here, Maggot,” he called. “Bring the wagon over here.”
Juilene sank back to the ground, the harp cradled in her arms. She watched as a horse-drawn cart materialized in front of her. This Eral bel whatever must be a member of a traveling troupe of actors, who went from town to town, district to district, plying their trade, sometimes selling potions or simples, sometimes a demi-thurge accompanied them, plying potions or simple charms, and most often, at least two or three songsayers made up members of the company. She watched, fascinated, at the behind-the-scenes activity of the troupe. Each knew his or her assigned role. There were about seven actors and actresses, she thought, five men and two women, as far as she could see. One of the men, a thin-faced, sharp-nosed boy, offered her a three-legged stool on which to sit. She accepted with a murmured thanks.
Eral was clearly in charge, she thought, watching him direct the activity. Torches were set up and flared into life, and in the light she saw that there were six men and two women, and that one of the women was old, older than any of the men, and that Eral had a lot of grey in his dark hair and beard. The other woman was not much older than Juilene herself, she thought, as she watched the other woman move here and there, unpacking boxes, sorting costumes. Once or twice, she thought she saw the woman look at her with derision, and she felt the color flare in her face. Who was this woman to judge her? thought Juilene, and she raised her chin defiantly.
In less time than Juilene thought possible, the stage had been set and the actors wore their costumes. They gathered in front of the stage, and Eral raised his arms. The thin-faced boy banged on a drum, and Juilene, peering from the back, saw a few faces in the crowds turn expectantly toward the actors.
“Harken, all with ears to listen… led by the goddess to obey… we who tell the timeless story… come and watch and hear us play.” His voice was rich and deep and rolled like thunder over the rumble of the crowds, and Juilene saw more and more faces turn. Several stopped and began to cluster at the base of the makeshift stage.
It was, thought Juilene, who had seen so many of these same kinds of troupes appear at her father’s gates, and who had seen more than one performance of this kind by actors in residence within the city itself, not a terribly bad performance of its kind. Eral looked over his shoulder straight at her, and Juilene struck a chord. He nodded approvingly. This was not going to be so terribly difficult, she thought. Hidden behind the stage, out of the sight of the crowds, it was easier to find the chords, to remember the proper harmonies. And the story was familiar: it was nothing more than a version of the goddess’s own incarnation story, one which everyone throughout the length of Sylyria knew practically from infancy. Her fingers quivered only a little as the actors pranced and postured upon the stage, and once or twice, she thought Eral threw her an approving little smile. Slowly she warmed to the task, as the life of the goddess played out before the assembled crowds. The old songs came easily to her fingers, and she played them softly, one after the other, as the story of the goddess wound down to its inevitable conclusion.
The prone body of the younger woman was borne away by the other actors when the crowd started to applaud. Eral leaped to center stage again, bowing and smiling, and the sharp-faced boy circulated through the crowd, holding a hat in which many placed at least a penny or two. Several threw coins at Eral’s feet, and more than once, Juilene thought she saw the glint of silver. A note or two was pressed into his hands by plainly dressed men, and with a little shock, Juilene realized that these must be from the carriages that had stopped at the very perimeter of the crowds.
Eral kissed the notes, tucked them away, bowed. “Thank you, thank you all—come again… our next performance will be at noon tomorrow.” As the crowd slowly dispersed to find another diversion, Eral leaped off the stage, running his fingers through his hair. He swept all the coins that had fallen on the stage into his pocket, and motioned for the sharp-faced boy to bring the hat over. “A goodly take tonight, Maggot,” he said cheerfully.
Maggot—if that was truly the name he bore, Juilene doubted her hearing—nodded and grunted something unintelligible. Eral came around behind the stage, his arm over Maggot’s shoulder. “Gather round, my children, gather round,” he said, making the same expansive gesture he used before the crowds.
“Oh, drop it,” said the younger woman. She still wore her bloodstained goddess costume, and the greasepaint on her face gleamed in the torchlight. “We’ve all seen that act time out of mind—there’s no need to practice on us.”
Eral grinned as though she had complimented him to the skies. “And each time it’s as fresh as a day-old rose, eh, sweetheart?” He pinched her cheek despite the greasepaint, and she slapped him away, ducking out of his reach.
“You keep your hands to yourself, Eral, or you’ll be shy a few fingers less of a hand,” she snarled.
“Oh, my little kitten has such claws.” He laughed, waving the hat, which made a loud clinking noise.
Juilene watched the faces of the others, sullen and surly all of them, except for the old woman who hung back, arms crossed over her bony bosom.
“Let’s see the color of the coin,” she said.
“What will it matter,” muttered one of the men, “we know our share is all copper and brass.”
“Copper and brass buys warm food and a soft bed,” Eral said. He walked over to Juilene and smiled down at her. “And there’s more of it tonight than ever, mostly due to the efforts of our songsayer, here, don’t you all agree?”
The others nodded and shrugged, muttering noncommittal responses. Juilene smiled at them tentatively. To the crowd they had appeared happy, like one large family working in concert, but behind the scenes, she could see that was not at all the truth. If anything, they behaved more like strangers than people who spent most of their lives with each other every day, and every night.
Eral’s hand fell on
her shoulder, and she could feel the strong fingers massaging and caressing the muscle beneath her skin. Involuntarily she stretched a little, her back and her neck ached from the long day, from carrying her possessions, and she saw the younger woman snort and turn away.
“What’s wrong, Mathy?” he asked. “Don’t want your share of the take tonight?”
“Aye,” the girl turned back. “I’ll take my share of the whole take, if you don’t mind. Let’s see you empty those pockets of yours into the pot.”
He stopped caressing Juilene and drew himself up with an expression half shock, half hurt. “You shame me, Mathy, and before our new songsayer, too. You make me sound like a cheat.”
Juilene stared at him, shocked. New songsayer? When had she become that?
But Mathy kept speaking, her tone bitter and angry. “Aye, that’s my intent. You are a cheat, Eral. And why don’t you tell our new songsayer what happened to our old one, before she decides to berth with us? Just to let her know what she’s getting into?”
Juilene glanced around the circle. The men were watching with guarded expressions, the boy crouched with his eyes fastened on the small hoard. The old woman turned away, her mouth set. She seemed determined to ignore the discussion.
“My arrangement with each of you is private,” he said, with a trace of anger in his tone. “And each of us takes a fair share of the take, an equal share. That never varies and it never changes.”
“Faugh.” Mathy spit to the side. “Give me what’s mine. You leave a bad taste in my mouth every time I have to speak to you.”
Eral crouched down, sorting the coins, his lips moving as he counted out the money. In the end there were nine piles of a dozen coins each. “And here,” he said, “since I am so generous, and the hour is so late, and you all worked so hard and so well, I’ll take one coin out of my share for each of you—call it a Festival bonus, if you like.”
Juilene wondered what hold he had on the rest of the troupe that made them turn away so obediently, the money jingling in pockets or purses. But not Mathy.
“Yah,” Mathy said with a sneer as she counted her coins, feeling the weight of them in her hand. “We’ll try not to spend it all in one place tonight.” She turned away, the coins tied up in a kerchief she tied into the lacings of her bodice.
The others slowly dispersed, muttering and grumbling among themselves, and Juilene was left alone with Eral, her harp still cradled in her arms, a small pile of coins at her feet.
He smiled at her, as if the incident with Mathy had never happened, and picked up the coins. He took her hand and poured them into her palm, closing her fingers around the small copper and brass pennies. “Never mind Mathy,” he said, holding her hand closed around the greasy feel of the money. “Some of us never know our place. She thinks she should have made it on the legitimate stage, with a King’s company, or maybe an Over-Thurge’s. Not all of us recognize our own limitations, my dear. It leads to rash and foolish acts.”
Juilene stared at the man who knelt before her. Weariness washed over her, making his face suddenly swim before her eyes. He wagged a finger before her nose. “You don’t look like the type to hit the rude-wine.”
“The child is exhausted, Eral.” The sharp voice of the older woman pierced the fog that was clouding Juilene’s vision. “You come with me, child. You’ve earned a safe place to sleep tonight.” The old woman stood over Juilene like a mother hen, holding out her hand.
Eral laughed as the old woman led Juilene away. She looked over her shoulder as the old woman said something that sounded like a curse, but might have been an admonition, and then all she knew was a nest of moldy blankets, which seemed softer than a feather mattress as she sank down into sleep.
The sun had not yet risen above the rooftops when Juilene opened her eyes. For a moment, she lay looking up at the cloudless sky above her head and wondered what on earth she was doing out-of-doors. Then the smell of the old wool and her own body came to her, and she remembered everything that happened in the last two days. She felt the weight of the coins in her pocket, and saw the harp in its wrappings lying next to her. She sat up. Three of the other actors, including Mathy and the older woman, and the sharp-faced boy, snored gently beside her. There was no sign of the rest. Her joints were sore and cramped, and every muscle in her body ached. She rose unsteadily to her feet, wincing as her blistered feet touched the ground. She felt the jingle of the coins in her pocket, and she remembered everything. She had to get out of the city. It was only a matter of time before someone from her father’s house or Lazare’s recognized her. This was probably the first place they would come looking. In the grey light of morning, she counted out the meager store of her coins. She bit her lip when she saw how few there were. Barely enough to buy a day’s meals, she thought, not to mention the fact that she would dearly love to buy a bath at one of the inns in the square. She sighed, tucking her hair back around her ears. She bent to fold the blankets that had made her bed, and a voice startled her so that she nearly stepped on her harp.
“Early riser?”
She turned to see Eral standing with folded arms, leaning against a corner of the wagon. “I suppose I am.” She remembered Mathy’s words of the night before. What had happened to the other songsayer, she wondered.
“That’s good,” he said. “Going for breakfast?”
She shrugged. “I—well—I—yes, I suppose I am.”
“Good. The tavern across the way is the only one open right now, but the landlord is generous with his bread and beer.” He pointed across the square.
Juilene picked up her harp and sidled past him. “Thank you.”
“Your harp will be safe here.” He caught her under the elbow.
“I might earn my breakfast,” she said, amazed at how easily the lie slipped off her tongue. Something about this man and the way the others had reacted to Mathy’s accusations made her uneasy.
“Good for you,” he said, and she knew he watched her as she limped across the square.
The tavern door was open and the smell of frying meat pervaded even the square as she made her way toward the door. A woman was on her hands and knees, scrubbing the cobblestones in front of the tavern.
“Goddess blessing,” she said as she saw Juilene.
“Goddess blessing,” Juilene answered. She bit her lip. “I say the songs the goddess sends,” she said after an awkward pause.
The woman laughed a little, running her red, work-worn hand over her forehead, pushing back an errant strand of grey hair. “I’m sure you do, child. But you’ll find no ears to listen inside. Still, if you have coin, you’ll find a hot breakfast.”
The woman nodded toward the door, and went back to scrubbing. Juilene backed away, the smell of the meat making her mouth water, the blood stinging her cheeks. Surely she would have to get over some of this embarrassment, or she was going to spend the rest of her life with a permanent flush on her face. She skirted the wet area on the cobblestones, and went into the inn. The only patron at that hour of the day was slumped in a chair before the cold hearth, his boots on one chair, his mouth hanging open, his eyes shut. He snored in happy oblivion.
The landlord behind the bar looked up at her. “Greetings to you,” he said shortly, forestalling any on her part.
She nodded, pressing her lips together.
“Breakfast?”
“Well…” she hesitated, feeling in her pocket, wondering how to ask the price. It occurred to her that she had never in her life had to ask the price of anything. “How much?”
“Fried bread and meat together cost you six, bread only cost you three. A tankard of beer is another two,” he said, frowning a little.
Juilene fingered her coins. “And—and a bath? Do you—?”
He nodded. “During Festival, always. The tub’s in a room off the kitchen—it’s nothing fancy, mind.” He gave her a long measuring look as if considering what she might consider fancy.
“How much?”
“Three pe
nce. And this time of day, the water will be fresh and hot, just off the stove. You won’t have to share it with anyone.”
She gaped at him. The thought of sharing another’s bathwater, water that a stranger had bathed in, had never occurred to her. “That—that’s fine,” she managed finally.
“Be another penny for soap and another for use of a towel.”
“All right,” she said. “A bath, and I’ll have the fried bread and beer.”
“Sit yourself down—I’ll call for the mother.” The landlord slung his rag over his shoulder and went to the door as Juilene took a chair by a window. The woman paused in her scrubbing as the landlord spoke, and said something Juilene couldn’t hear through the thick leaded glass.
The burly man came back inside, reached for a tankard from beneath the bar, and filled it with foamy beer. He set it down in front of Juilene. “Eat first. She’ll have the bath ready for you in a few minutes.”
She nodded, reaching for the tankard, hearing her stomach growl alarmingly. Except for the meat last night, she had eaten almost nothing the entire day yesterday. He curved his huge hand over the top of the tankard. “You’ll pay for everything first.”
She fumbled in her skirt, and counted out the coins. Two for the beer, three for the bread, three for the bath, two more for soap and a towel. She had eight coins left. But at least, she thought, as she watched him slide the money off the table, she still had the original coins Neri had given her. She clung to the thought of those coins as if they were a good luck charm, a talisman against everything that could happen to her in the harsh world in which even the use of a towel cost a penny, where water could be shared with a stranger, and where even a pack of clothing could be stolen without a moment’s thought.
The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 10
