A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  According to his research, the entire town was owned by the Bard’s College, and to live there one needed express permission from the Bard Master and no less than three instructors. If permission was granted, which was rare, you could not purchase a property; rather, you leased the building from the college for the duration of your life or until such time as you chose to move. It then reverted back to the college. And should your reputation as either craftsperson or citizen become tarnished, they had the right to evict without notice or compensation.

  The owner of the livery gave him a curious look as he pulled up. A portly fellow, with flat features and awkward gait, he eyed the wagon and heaved a breath.

  “Planning on staying for a while, are you?”

  Lem hopped down. “I hope not.”

  “Is that right? So, sent by your family, were you?” He let out a chuckle. “I’ve seen that before. Don’t worry. If your heart’s not in it, they won’t accept you.”

  “Can you hold my wagon?”

  The man nodded. “Your things, too, if you want. It’s not like they’ll let you take them anyway. Even if they accept you, you’ll need to sell most of it … or send it home. And that’d cost a fine bit of copper, I can tell you. More than what you brought is worth, I wager.”

  Lem removed a pack in which he kept a few days’ clothes and personal items. “I doubt it will come to that.”

  “I’m sure. Still, let me know. I can help with it in either case.” He took particular notice at Lem’s balisari. “I haven’t seen one of those in a while. You play that?”

  “I try.”

  This reaction was predictable. The balisari was rare in Lamoria, though not completely unknown. Compared to other instruments, it was more challenging to master. Even in Vylari, only a few made the attempt.

  “Well, if you’re any good, you might get accepted after all.”

  Lem reached into his pouch and produced a few silvers, but the man shook his head to refuse.

  “No need for that now. Just tell the innkeeper when you’re ready, and you’ll take care of it then. All I need is your name.”

  “Mercer. Inradel Mercer.”

  The inn was a bit farther down to his right. A flautist could be heard playing inside, though not as well as Lem would have thought. No better than Quinn had been, by his judgment.

  The sign above the door read Brambar and Halio. Lem looked back toward the livery. He should just retrieve the damned wagon and go back. To hell with the High Cleric. But Shemi’s reprimanding voice nagged at him, reminding him not to be impulsive.

  Inside was a common room with a hearth set against the far wall, and on his immediate right a counter where stood a middle-aged woman with dark hair wrapped into a bun, wearing a red shirt with the name of the inn stitched in white on her chest. Perhaps a dozen or so people were scattered about at the tables, most looking to be Lem’s age or younger. A boy in a shirt identical to that of the woman at the counter was busily scurrying from table to table, taking orders and bringing drinks. The flautist was perched on a stool beside the hearth at the end of a short bar, where a few more young people were seated.

  Lem approached the counter. “Is there a room available?”

  The woman glanced to his balisari then down at a ledger opened in front of her. “Ten silvers per night. The carriages leaving for the college depart at dawn tomorrow. If you want breakfast, you’ll need to be up an hour ahead of time.”

  Ten silvers was excessive for so small an inn. But with no other options, he handed over the coins. The woman reached down and gave him a key bearing the number 31.

  “Second door over there,” she said, pointing to a pair of doors just off from the bar.

  Lem bowed curtly and started across the common room, drawing more than a few stares and whispers as he passed.

  This was as much a competition as it was an audition; there were limited openings at the college. Applicants did their best to stand out, and a balisari would certainly achieve this goal.

  As he neared the door, a young man with blond curls and green eyes stepped in his path. He was dressed in the open-necked silk shirt and loose-fitting trousers of Ur Minosa nobility, and the diamond earrings and gold chains around his neck said that his family was either wealthy or, like as not, wanted to appear so.

  “Are you any good with that?” the young man asked, his tone haughty and his expression arrogant. “Because it will take more than a rare instrument to make it where we’re going.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Lem said. “If you will excuse me.”

  “Who did you study under?” he asked, ignoring Lem’s request to be let by.

  “No one you’ve heard of, I’m sure.”

  The man sniffed derisively. “I don’t doubt it.” He looked over to a group of people seated at a nearby table, all of whom were wearing similarly expensive garb. “Like I said,” he called over. “Another peasant who thinks he can play.” Turning his attention back to Lem, he stepped in uncomfortably close. “Is that even your instrument, or did you steal it?”

  “Please get out of my way.” Lem was not about to be goaded into a fight. The last thing he wanted was to be spending time in a local jail.

  “At least you’re a polite peasant.” He moved aside. “There’s a contest later tonight. You might want to think about joining us. See what you’re up against. No sense in wasting your time.”

  Lem kept his expression stoic and his tone calm. “The only thing that is wasting my time is you.”

  He laughed, hands on his hips, and shaking his head. “Not so polite after all.”

  Lem continued to the door, the mocking laughter of the man’s companions following him until he reached the room. He tried not to let it bother him. There was always an idiot in the crowd. And when you put a young noble among commoners, their inner idiot tended to surface, particularly when thrust into a situation where their wealth and influence counted for nothing. The Bard’s College was unique in the respect that wealth and title were not considerations. Talent was the only thing that would grant acceptance.

  The room was nicer than the size of the building and décor of the common room had suggested. The bed, two chairs, and dresser were of excellent make, and the space even had its own small tub and sink with running water behind a curtain in the far left corner.

  He didn’t bother unpacking, only kicking off his boots and retrieving a book he had brought along to pass the time. It was a recommendation of Shemi’s—which meant Lem would probably hate it. As he lay down on the bed, his stomach grumbled. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening, his mind intent on arrival and distracted by imagining scenarios about how to leave as quickly as possible. He was loath to return to the common room, not in the mood for a confrontation, but another complaint from his belly had him shoving the book under the pillow and sitting upright.

  He wasn’t afraid. He doubted that even a man like Durst could elicit fear in him these days. Lem was useless with a sword, and no better than the average man with his fists, but he had learned a dozen ways to kill and incapacitate. Unexpected ways. Clever ways.

  Rummaging around in his pack, he found his dagger and a small box of tiny darts. The dagger would be unwise, he thought, but some of the darts were only meant to render a target unconscious. He tucked one into a specially made pouch on the inside of his belt. He probably wouldn’t need it. People like that young noble were typically cowards, backing down when their challenge was met by anyone not intimidated by their bluster. But better to be safe. Another acquired trait. It was always wise to exhibit an overabundance of caution than to be caught defenseless. The old Lem would have never given that a passing thought. But then the old Lem was gone.

  Back in the common room, an area on the opposite end of the hearth from where the flautist was still playing was being cleared of tables and chairs. Lem caught the arm of one of the servers carrying a tray of mugs.

  “How long until supper?”

  “I can have something for you
now,” he replied, his eyes darting to a table of impatient customers.

  “Can you bring it to my room?”

  “Sorry, but no. Inn rules. The mistress stopped letting applicants do that a few years back. Too much of a mess to clean.”

  “I promise to be careful.”

  The server shook his head, stepping toward the table. “I’m afraid there are no exceptions. Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Lem spotted the young noble and his friends near the front door, who were, from the look of it, harassing another new arrival—a young girl with a long-necked, four-stringed instrument over her shoulder and holding a lyre in her arms. Lem averted his eyes. Leave it alone. It’s none of your business.

  He found a table off from the bar. Barely had he sat down when a young girl with olive skin, short cropped black hair, and sharp features plopped down across from him. She was clad in a leather jerkin, stained from wear, and had a black oval hoop in her right ear.

  “You’re the one with the balisari, right?” she asked, grinning.

  Lem nodded. “If you don’t mind, I’m hungry.”

  “Then eat. No one’s stopping you.” She leaned back, knee pushed to the edge of the table to lift her chair onto its rear legs. “Name’s Karlia.”

  “Inradel.”

  Karlia cocked her head. “Not Inradel Mercer?”

  “Yes.” He had hoped no one would recognize the name. But being in Callahn, he should have known better.

  “So you’re here to apply?” Lem asked, realizing that the woman had no intention of leaving him alone.

  “Nope. I’m already a student. On my way back from a hunt. No luck, though. Figured I’d stop by to check out the hopefuls.” She waved over a server and ordered two ales. “Glad I did.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I get to hear you play.” She dipped her head toward the area that was being cleared. “You are planning to enter the contest, right?”

  “No.”

  The mugs arrived, and Karlia removed her knee from the table, the chair returning to four legs with a thump. “Why not? I saw Lord Tilmin giving you a hard time. It would be funny to see him put in his place.”

  Tilmin. He had heard the name—a moderately wealthy Ur Minosan family. A few months back, he had killed one of their cousins. “I’m tired. If I’m to audition tomorrow, I need to rest.”

  “If you’re as good as they say, I doubt that will be much of a problem.”

  Lem had actually been curious as to what the bards thought of him. “And what do they say about me?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. Just that you think you’re better than you are. You know—the usual jealous nonsense musicians spout off.” She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Don’t repeat that. I’m only a third year. I just received permission last month to leave the college on my own. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  Lem smiled. “I won’t say anything.”

  “Ah. You’re back.” Tilmin, apparently tired of tormenting the girl by the door, had turned his attention back to Lem.

  “Is there something you want here, applicant?” Karlia said. She placed her left hand flat on the table, displaying a silver ring bearing an engraving of a lute on its face.

  Tilmin sniffed. “So? You’re a student. You think I care?”

  Karlia smiled. “You should. I was just named tenish to Bard Master Feriel.”

  Tilmin was visibly unsettled by this revelation. “I … I see. I meant no disrespect. Just having a bit of sport.”

  “I like sport. In fact, I’m looking forward to hearing your little contest. Think of it as a pre-audition.”

  Tilmin’s confidence returned. “It will be my pleasure.” His eyes fell on Lem. “I hope you’re ready.”

  “I won’t be taking part.”

  Karlia’s smile turned sour. “Of course you will. Don’t be silly.”

  “I wouldn’t want to embarrass him,” Tilmin said, smirking. “So maybe it’s better he withdrew now.”

  Lem was not going to be baited. “I appreciate your concern.”

  Tilmin snorted a laugh as he turned to leave.

  “You really aren’t going to do it?” she asked, with unmasked disappointment.

  “Why would I? I have nothing to prove to him … or to anyone else.”

  “Well, you are special. I’ve never seen an applicant who wasn’t nervous. Why, I threw up twice before I even made it to the inn when I first arrived.”

  “Did they have a contest then?”

  “Of course. It’s a tradition.” She emptied her ale in a single series of swallows and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Half leave afterward, once they see how good some of the others are.”

  “Did you win?”

  Karlia chuckled, raising her mug to the server for another. “No. But I did well enough to know that I had a chance. Some of the others, though … they just couldn’t take it. One young boy pissed his pants right there on the stage. Packed his bags without playing a note. I always wondered if he was any good.”

  “Not everyone likes to play in front of people. Especially strangers.” He recalled how nervous he’d been during his first performance … made more nerve-racking by the fact that Mariyah had been watching him.

  “Then why become a bard?” she countered. “That’s what they do. No. I think it’s better to find out before you get there. But I suppose you have no problem. As I understand, you’ve played for nobility.”

  “On occasion. I prefer playing for friends, though.”

  “Is it true you wear a mask?”

  “I cover my face.” It hadn’t occurred to him that people would now be able to describe his Inradel Mercer identity. It had happened once or twice before that someone had seen his face, but only for a moment. He quickly dismissed the concern. Soon it wouldn’t matter. Once Mariyah was free, he would find a way to be released from his duties as the Blade of Kylor. Besides, a few people who were mostly cooped up in a dusty old college for the foreseeable future knowing who he was would not likely endanger him. Still, better to be safe. “If you don’t mind, keep my name to yourself.”

  “Not a problem,” she said, waving her hand. “No reason to tell anyone.”

  When the food arrived, Karlia excused herself.

  “I hope you’ll stay and watch,” she said, draining yet another mug. “Good to see what you’re up against.”

  Lem smiled. “Thank you. I might.”

  He was admittedly curious to see the level of talent hoping to become bards. Only one in a hundred students made it that far. The rest were asked to leave once they reached the limits of their abilities, if they didn’t leave of their own volition. He remembered Clovis telling him about it. Eight years of training were allowed; if the student had not achieved bard status by then, it was over.

  However, expulsion didn’t mean you could not have a decent musical career. Many former students went on to play in theater troupes, orchestras, or small ensembles, or made a living in taverns and inns. But to become a bard was the real prize. It was said that by the time a bard retired, they could earn enough gold to buy a kingdom. This was an obvious exaggeration. What wasn’t was the amount of gold they charged for a performance. And to be given a private lesson could cost more than most people made in a year. It was easy to see why people would be eager to come here. Acceptance would at minimum grant you a living afterward, and possibly much more.

  Karlia was chatting among a group of commonly dressed prospects at the bar, though her eyes drifted over to Lem several times. He took note that the young girl whom Tilmin had harassed was also taking a meal a few tables away. She looked terrified. As she ate, one hand kept a constant grip on the lyre placed in her lap. Lem thought to perhaps speak to her, offer a few words of encouragement.

  No, he thought. Keep your head down and mind focused on getting the hell out of here.

  The woman he had seen at the front counter pushed her way to the cleared area, carrying a stool that she plac
ed near the wall.

  “Quiet down,” she shouted.

  The room fell silent. Lem noticed Tilmin had wandered to the bar, wearing a confident smirk that he would like nothing more than to remove.

  “Listen to me, you lot,” she continued once the room was quiet. “This is a friendly contest. No shouting. No complaining. And for the sake of Kylor, no crying.” This was met by a round of laughter. “Thankfully, this time I do not have to be the judge.” She gestured over to Karlia. “We have a student here among us who will do the honors. And don’t let me catch you trying to bribe her.”

  Karlia did not look pleased. “I … if I must.” She finished her ale and crossed over to the stool. Casting a long, appraising stare over the room, she shook her head. “Not a single one of you are ready.” She paused for effect. “Where are your instruments?”

  Straightaway, the crowd erupted in a flurry, as the applicants scampered back to their rooms. Lem glanced over to the girl. Tears were already swelling and ready to fall as she did her best to hide her lyre under the table. But Karlia noticed despite her efforts.

  “Come on,” she said. “Better to get it over with.”

  The girl rose and approached the stool with small, timid steps. Applicants were returning by the time she had taken her seat and placed the lyre in her lap. A few had flutes and various woodwinds, but most carried stringed instruments—some plucked, others bowed. Lem saw that Tilmin was carrying a balisari. It was more ornate than his own. But ornamentation did not mean it was of good quality … only that it was expensive. Tilmin cast him a derisive sneer before joining his friends.

  For a few seconds, the girl sat staring at her lap. This drew several mean-spirited jibes and mocking laughs.

  “What are you going to play?” Karlia asked.

  “I…” Her voice was barely above a whisper. “It’s called ‘A Winter’s Night.’”