“Aye, lady,” he whispered.
“Don't ye go lookin' fer a bedmate 'mongst them lads, neither. They wants that, there's the Page, an' that's where they go. We got us agreements on the Row. I don' sell boys, an' I don' let in streetboys; the Page don' sell girls.”
“Aye, lady.”
“Ye start yer plunkin' at sundown when I open, an' ye finish when I close. Rest of th' time's yer own. Get yer meals in th' kitchen, sleep in th' common room after closin'.”
“Aye, lady.”
“Now - stick yer pack over in that corner, so's I know ye ain't gonna run off, an' get out there.”
He shed pack and cloak under her critical eye, and tucked both away in the chimney corner. He took with him only his lute and his hat, and hurried off into the common room, with her eyes burning holes in his back.
She was in a slightly better mood when she closed up near dawn. Certainly she was mollified by the nice stack of copper coins she'd earned from his efforts. That it was roughly twice the value of the meals she'd be feeding him probably contributed to that good humor. That no less than three of the prettiest of her “girls” had propositioned him and been turned down probably didn't hurt.
She was pleased enough that she had a thin straw pallet brought down out of the attic so that he wouldn't be sleeping on the floor. He would be sharing the common room with an ancient gaffer who served as the potboy, and the two utterly silent kitchen helpers of indeterminate age and sex. Her order to all four of them to strip and wash at the kitchen pump relieved him a bit; he wasn't looking for comfort, but he had hoped to avoid fleas and lice. When the washing was over, he was fairly certain that the kitchen helpers were girls, but their ages were still a mystery.
When Bel left, she took the light with her, leaving them to arrange themselves in the dark. Valdir curled up on his lumpy pallet, wrapped in his cloak and the blanket that still smelled faintly of Yfandes, and sighed.
:Beloved?: He sent his thought-tendril questing out into the gray light of early dawn after her.
:Here. Are you established?:
:Fairly well. Valdir's seen worse. At least I won't be poisoned by the food. What about you ?:
:I have shelter. :
:Good.: He yawned. :This is strictly an after-dark establishment; if I go roaming in the late morning and early afternoon, I should find out a few things.:
:I wish that I could help.: she replied wistfully.
:So do I. Good night, dearheart. I can't keep awake anymore.:
:Sleep well.:
One thing more, though, before he slept. A subtle, and very well camouflaged tap into the nearest current of mage-power. He needed it; the tiny trickle he would take would likely not be noticed by anyone unless they were checking the streams inch by inch. It wouldn't replenish his reserves immediately, but over a few days it would. It was a pity he could only do this while meditating or sleeping. It was an even greater pity that he couldn't just tap straight in as he had the night he'd rescued Tashir; he'd be at full power in moments if he could do that.
But that would tell Lord Vedric Mavelan that there was another mage here.
And if it comes to that, I'd rather surprise him.
He'd intended to try and think out some of his other problems, but it had been a full day since he'd last slept, and the walking he'd done had tired him out more than he realized. He started to try and pick over his automatic reactions to Bel's “girls”; had he led them on, without intending to? Had he been flirting with them, knowing deep down that he was going to turn them down and enjoying the hold his good looks gave over them? It was getting so that nothing was simple anymore.
But before he could do more than worry around the edges of things, his exhaustion caught up with him.
He slept.
Ten
“Boy?”
The harsh whisper in the dark startled him out of unrestful sleep; it jerked him into full awareness, dry-mouthed, heart pounding.
“Boy, be ye awake?”
“Yes,” Valdir replied. I am now, anyway.
Hot, onion-laden breath near his elbow. “Lissen boy, ye needs warnin'. The reason this place don' prosper. Bel drinks up th' profit.”
Valdir calmed his heart, nodded to himself. That explained a lot. “I'd wondered,” he whispered back.
“She be at the keg in 'er room right now. Come mornin' she'll be up wi' a temper like a spring bear. She won't go hittin' on th' girls, not them as makes her profit - but me an' Tay an' Ri be fair game. An' now you. Ye take my meanin'?”
“I think so.”
“Don' doubt me. An' don' go thinkin' ye got anywhere's else. Ev'ry inn on th' Row's got its singster or dancer. Bel's the only one did wi'out. That be 'cause she don't care for ye singsters, an' no dancin' girl'l stay where the profits be so lean. How long ye plan on stayin'?”
Valdir was profoundly grateful that he was not locked into this life. “I hadn't thought I'd be here long. I really sort of thought I'd look for a place at the Great Houses or the Palace,” he began timidly. “I used to be with a House. They mostly keep at least one minstrel, and I figure the Palace must use -”
The old man choked with laughter, and then broke into a fit of terrible coughing. Valdir acted as would be expected. “I'm not that bad!” he sputtered indignantly. “I'm just - out of luck, lately.”
The old man convulsed again. “Outa more'n luck. First off, there ain't no Great Houses in the city. They all be outside the walls. Second, the Remoerdis Family's dead. Ain't nobody in th' Palace but ghosts.”
Valdir gasped, and let the old gaffer tell the tale as he pleased. It was amazingly consistent with what Lores had told him, save only that the Herald who'd carried off Tashir had been seven feet tall, cut down a dozen guards, and rode away on a fanged white demon, “- an' third thing -” the rheumy voice continued, “- they wouldn't have anyone next or nigh the palace as wasn't blood kin; even the servants be blood kin on the backside. So even if they'd been alive an' ye'd been t' see, they'd not 'ave took ye.”
“Why?” Valdir asked, bewildered. “That doesn't make any sense! What does being blood relation have to do with serving - or talent?”
The old man coughed again. “Damn if I know. Been that way f'rever. Anyway, I'm tellin' ye, if ye wanta keep that purty face purty, save yer coppers an' get outa here soon as ye can; afore the snow flies be best. Otherwise ol' Bel likely to start seein' how far she can push ye. I've warned ye, now I'm goin' t' sleep.” And not another word could Valdir get out of him.
He found out how right the warning was the next day, when Bel stumbled down the stairs, red-eyed and touchy, smelling like a brewery. She started in on the two kitchen girls, looking for excuses to punish one of them. She found plenty; the girls sported a black eye each before she was through with them.
Valdir managed to stay out of her way long enough to get his pack and bed stowed safely and his lute placed beside the door. But then - then he got an unexpected and altogether unpleasant shock. Bel tried - him. First flirting, then, when that brought no result, threatening.
She disgusted and frightened him, and he knew he dared not retaliate in any way. Instead he had to stand and take her pawing, while his skin crawled and his stomach churned, trying not to show anything except his very real and growing fear of her. She finally convinced herself that she wasn't going to get any pleasure out of him in that way, so she chose another.
In the end he escaped with no worse than a darkening bruise on his cheekbone where she'd backhanded him into a wall - without his promised breakfast or lunch, and not willing to endure either more of her clumsy caresses or her brutality to get it. He flew out the door as soon as she unlocked it, resolving not to return until nightfall and the time appointed for him to perform. He paused long enough in his flight to snatch up his lute; he would not leave the means of his livelihood unguarded, and anyway, there might be the chance of making a few coins on the street as he had last night. Enough, maybe, to feed him.
Herald Vanyel w
ould not have tolerated that treatment, but Herald Vanyel was far, far away. There was only poor, timid Valdir, fallen indeed on bad luck, scrawny, fearful, and no little desperate.
Gods help her people. If I was what I'm pretending to be, I think I'd go hunting a sharp knife, and I'm not sure if I'd use it on her first, or myself...
“Thought you might end up here,” drawled a strange, well-trained voice, as he bolted out the door and into the street. He turned, blinking in the bright sunlight. Lounging against a wall across the street was the grizzled minstrel who'd been playing the gittern in one of the other taverns the night before. He was dressed in dull colors that blended with the wall; he'd taken up a post right opposite The Green Man. He looked bored and lazy; as Valdir watched him suspiciously, he pushed away from the wall and walked slowly toward him across the cobblestones. In the light of day he was clearly much older than Valdir; hair thinning and mostly gray, square face beginning to wrinkle and line. But as he approached Valdir, it was also plain that he had kept his body in relatively good shape; beneath the loose, homespun shirt, leather tunic and breeches, he had only the tiniest sign of a paunch, and the rest of him looked wiry and strong enough to survive just about any tavern brawl.
To someone like Valdir, this stranger meant danger of another sort. The man could be looking to eliminate a rival, or intending to bully him - or worse.
Talk about luck being out. Have I leaped out of the pan into the fire?
Valdir backed up a pace, letting his uncertainty show on his face.
A tired horse pulled a slops-wagon down the center of the street, and the stranger stepped deliberately toward him once it had passed.
“Ah, ease up, boy, I'm not about to pummel you,” the minstrel said, a faint hint of disgust twisting his lips. Valdir continued to step back, until the minstrel had him trapped in a corner where a fence met the inn wall. Valdir froze, his hands pressed against the unsanded wood behind him, and the minstrel reached for his face, grabbing his chin in a hand rough with chording-calluses. He turned Valdir's cheek into the light, and examined the slowly purpling bruise.
“Got you a good one, did she?” He touched the edge of the bruise without hurting his captive. “Huhn. Not as bad as it could be.”
The minstrel let him go and backed up a few steps. Valdir huddled where he was, watching him fearfully. The stranger scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Heard you last night when I went on break. You aren't bad.”
“Thank you,” Valdir replied timidly.
“You're also going to get your hands broken if you stay with Bel for very long,” the other continued. “That's what she did to the one before the one that ran off with her girl.”
Valdir did not reply.
“Well? Aren't you going to say anything?”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Valdir asked, letting his suspicion show. He stood up a little straighter, and rubbed his sweaty palms on his patched and faded linen tunic in a conscious echoing of an unconscious gesture of nervousness.
“Because the one before the one that ran off with her girl was a good lad,” the older man said, impatience getting the better of him. “He was pretty, like you, and he was fey, like I bet you are, and I don't want it happening to another one. All right?” He turned on his heel and started to walk away.
Don't turn away a possible ally!
“Wait!” Valdir cried after him. “Please, I - I didn't mean -”
A bit of breeze blew dry leaves up the street. The minstrel halted, turned slowly. Valdir walked toward him, holding out his hand. “I'm Valdir,” he said shyly. “I've been - north. Baires.” The other showed his surprise with a hissing intake of breath. “I made a bit of a mistake, and I had to make a run for it.” He looked down at his feet, then back up again. “It hasn't been easy; not while I was there, and not getting across the border to here. They got me out of the habit of looking for friends up there, and into the habit of looking for enemies.”
“Renfry,” said the older minstrel, clasping his hand, with a slow smile that showed a good set of even, white teeth. “Not many real musicians on the Row. I s'ppose I should be treating you as a rival - but - hell, a man gets tired of hearing and singing the same damn things over and over. Bel had Jonny for a long while before she ruined him, and he trained here.”
“What happened to him? After, I mean.”
“We clubbed together and sent him off to a Healer the very next day, ended up having to send him across the Border. Uppity palace Healer didn't want to 'waste his time on tavern scum.' Never heard anything after that.” He shrugged. “If the poor lad ended up not being able to play again, I don't imagine he'd want anyone to know.”
Valdir shuddered; genuinely.
“Ol' Bel don't believe in letting the help sample the goods. She got drunk and thought Jonny had his eye on one of the girls.” He snorted in contempt. “Not bloody likely.”
“She must have slipped up once -” Valdir ventured. “I mean - the one that romanced her girl, like you said.”
Renfry laughed, and started up the dusty, near-empty street with Valdir following. The thin autumn sunlight stretched their shadows out ahead of them. “She did, because she was bedding the fellow herself. She never figured him for having the stamina to be double-dipping!
Truth to tell, I hope he was good in bed, because he surely had a voice like a crow in mating season, and maybe four whole chords to his name.”
Valdir thought about the way Bel had tried to come on to him, and could actually feel a shred of sympathy for the unknown minstrel. “Were you waiting out here for me?” Valdir asked, as they approached the closed door of The Pig and Stick, the tavern Renfry had been playing in last night.
Renfry nodded, holding the door to “his” inn open.
“Why?”
“To warn you, like I said. Let you know you'd better make tracks.”
Valdir shook his head, and his hair fell over one eye. “I can't. I - I haven't got a choice,” he confessed sadly. “I haven't anywhere else to go.”
Renfry paused in surprise, half in, half out of the doorway. “That lean in the pocket?” he asked. “Lad, you aren't that bad. You're a good enough musician, for true. Unless you really made more than just a mistake.”
Valdir nodded unhappily. “Made a bad enemy. Sang the wrong song at the wrong time. Used to be with a House. Now I've got the clothes on my back, my lute, and that's mostly it.”
“Save your coppers and head over the Border into Valdemar,” the other advised. “Tell you what, I'll stand you a drink and a little better breakfast than you'd get from old Bel, then I'll steer you over to a decent corner. Not the best, but with the palace a wreck, there's a, lot of guards standing about with nothing to do but make sure our High and Mighty Lord Visitor doesn't get himself in the way of a stray knife round about the Town Elder's house. You ought to collect a bit there, hmm?” He grinned. “Besides, I got an underhanded motive. You're about as good as me, and you know some stuff new to our folk. I'm going to bribe you with food to learn it, and then I'm going to get you out of town so you aren't competition anymore.”
Valdir smiled back hesitantly, at least as far as his sore cheek permitted. “Now that I understand!”
By nightfall Bel was sober, and when Valdir crept in at the open door she waved him to his place on the hearth with nothing more threatening than a scowl. He sat down on the raised brick hearth with his bruised cheek to the fire, and began tuning the lute. There were one or two customers; nothing much. Valdir was just as glad; it gave him a chance to think over what he'd picked up.
It had been a very profitable day. The Town Elder's servants were entertainment-starved and loose-tongued; once Valdir had gotten them started they generally ran on quite informatively and at some length before demanding something in return.
Ylyna had been a child-bride; that made Tashir's arrival eight-and-a-half months after the wedding so much more surprising. Several of the Mavelan girls had been offered as prospective treaty-spouse,
but of them all, only Ylyna had lacked mage-powers, so only Ylyna had been acceptable to Deveran Remoerdis or his people. It was generally agreed that she was “odd, even for a Mavelan.” And strangely enough, it was also generally agreed that up until the night of the massacre Tashir had been a fairly decent, if slightly peculiar, young man. “A bit like you, lad,” one of the guards had said. “Jumpin' at shadows, like. Nervy.” If it had not been for his mage-powers there likely would have been no objection to his eventual inheritance of the throne of Lineas. But once those powers manifested, it became out of the question. No Linean would stand by and see a mage take the seat of power.
“We seen what comes o' that, yonder,” an aged porter had told him a bit angrily, pointing with his chin at the north. “Put a mage in power, next thing ye know, he's usin' magic t' get any damn thing 'e want out 'o ye. No. No mages here.”
So as soon as it had become evident that several of Tashir's younger brothers - all of whom markedly resembled Deveran - were going to live into adulthood, the Council demanded that Deveran disinherit the boy. They didn't have to pressure him, according to the Lord Elder's first chambermaid; he gave in at once, so quickly that the ink wasn't even dry on the copies of the proclamation when his heralds cried the news.
And strangely enough, Tashir didn't seem the least unhappy about it. “Didn”xactly jump for joy, but didn' seem t' care, neither,” a fruitseller had observed.
Lord Vedric - that was who Valdir assumed was the “Lord Visitor,” though he was never referred to as anything but “that Mavelan Lord” - had come as something of a surprise to the folk of Highjorune. They'd expected him to attempt to defend Tashir; instead he'd listened to the witnesses with calm and sympathy, and had expressed his horrified opinion that the boy had gone rogue. He'd kept displays of magery to a minimum, and had made himself available to the Council as a kind of advisor until someone figured out how to get Tashir back to be punished, and until they determined who the new ruler of Lineas would be.
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