“… can’t imagine why…,” murmurs Eltara in a voice so low that the bard is the only one to hear her words.
“Don’t care much for news about women,” says Hardyn dismissively.
“The Sarronnese have found and re-opened the lost Cyadoran copper mines,” replies Bard.
“Those were played out years ago, I thought.”
“Centuries back,” adds Leydon.
“The mages in the white city are paying more for copper. They need it to make their white bronze. That made the lower-grade ore remaining worth the search and mining. The price of tin will likely go up as well, if it hasn’t already.…”
A look passes between Hardyn and Leydon, suggesting that that particular piece of information might be useful in some fashion.
“… and one of the Jeranyi clans crossed the Stone Hills and raided Biehl. They fired part of it before the Duke’s troopers could muster and drive them off…” Perhaps half a glass later, he clears his throat. “If you’d like some songs…” His tone suggests that his voice will not last for the entertainment if he keeps talking.
Hardyn nods. “That’d be good.”
Bard loosens the ties on the pack and eases out the guitar—wrapped in a neatly trimmed section of an old blanket—then checks the strings and tunes it. He frowns. Does he sense the white mist of chaos to the north of the camp? He seats himself on one end of the log that has been set on the west side of the fire, forces a smile and runs his fingers over the strings, then begins.
When I set out for Lydiar
A thousand kays away …
That spring, it scarcely seemed that far,
A season and a day …
By the second stanza the four were smiling … and laughing as he finished.
When I reached my end in Lydiar
A thousand kays away,
A journey not so very far,
My hair, I found, was gray.
His fingers stray soundlessly across the strings for a few moments as he again feels the growing chaos that approaches, the chaos of men bent on violence, still not that close, and thinks about the next song he will sing.
Once I knew a maid so fair
When spring had turned the evenings gold
She was a vision bright and rare,
But, alas, a druid, truth be told …
After the fifth song, he is certain about the approaching chaos on the road from Vryna. While those who create it are yet a kay or more away, he decides he has finished paying for his supper. “It’s been a long day, and my fingers are numb.” He smiles and stands, for more than one reason. “You’re going to have company before long, I think,” he says to Eltara.
She frowns.
So does Hardyn.
“I’ve learned to trust my feel for these things,” says Bard quietly. “If you don’t mind. I think I’ll get my bow ready.”
Hardyn looks as though he will complain.
Eltara looks at the trader. “You’d better get ready for trouble. I’m getting my crossbow.” She stands and walks toward the farther wagon.
Bard eases the remaining two items from his pack and sets them beside the log, then wraps the section of blanket around the guitar and places it back in the pack.
Eltara returns, carrying a small crossbow similar, if not identical, to the one carried by her partner. Her head tilts as Bard takes what appears to be a circular shape and, using both legs, and both hands and arms, strings the composite bow, turning the near circle into a double curved bow.
“It’s a Westwind bow.”
Her mouth opens, then closes.
“We all have our secrets,” he says dryly as he straps the quiver in place, counting the shafts—twenty—the same number as that with which he began, if about a third the number that a true warrior archer would carry. Then he extracts the thumb ring from his belt pouch and places it on his left thumb. “Shall we join your partner?”
“We should. She shouldn’t have all the entertainment to herself.”
When they are well away from the three men, Bard looks at the armswoman, the older of the two, if far younger than he is. “It will be better if I act first. Much better. You two are younger.” All of that is true, but, again, not the real reason for his suggestion. He knows that he must be accurate and swift, for he will have but a short time before he will be unable to act, at least if there are as many riders headed their way as he fears. Before she can question, he asks, “What did Hardyn do to upset the locals? People usually don’t just decide to attack after dark for an evening’s entertainment.”
“He’s got bolts of black wool. He’s also got saffron, cardamom, and vanilla, and healer-quality brinn.”
“Expensive goods.”
“He told the locals he had nothing for sale. He wants to sell it all in Sarronnyn, where he can get much more. The local innkeeper begged him for brinn … for his wife. He could tell that Hardyn was lying when he said he didn’t have any.”
“She’s dying or mortally ill from a flux?”
Bard can both hear and sense the movement of the other armswoman.
“Something like that.” After a pause, Eltara says in a stronger voice, “Delana … we’re going to have company.”
The other armswoman moves toward them, stopping as she sees Bard and the bow he carries. “That’s a—”
“Yes, it is,” he agrees. “The nearest rider is less than half a kay away. We should let them get within a few yards without letting them see us.”
The fact that both women agree confirms their experience.
Another quarter glass passes before he hears what he has sensed for far longer. The dark-clad riders, a party of ten, move slowly, quietly, as they ease toward the traders’ camp.
“Wearing dark clothes and skulking around … that’s the mark of a brigand,” calls out Bard when the lead rider is less than thirty yards away.
The lead rider says nothing, but raises a blade of some sort and rides directly toward Bard, who immediately looses the first shaft, then a second, third, and fourth. His movements are practiced and fluid, almost unthinking, which is even more necessary than his speed and accuracy. He manages seven shafts before the white-tinged miasma sweeps over him. He does manage to extend the bow and cushion his fall with his left hand before everything goes totally black.
Water on his face wakes him, enough that he can feel his skull being pounded by an invisible hammer. Bright points of white pain flare before his eyes, making what he can see intermittent at best. With the help of one of the armswomen—he cannot tell which at that moment—he struggles into a sitting position.
“They didn’t wound you, did they? I can’t see anything. The light’s not the best, though.”
“No. They didn’t.” You might say that the weight of the past did. He does not utter those words, however, but merely attempts to concentrate on where he is. After several moments, he asks, “Did you get the last three?”
“We did. How did you know?”
“I see well in the dark.” That is also true, but not all the truth. “My bow?”
“It’s fine. You didn’t fall on it.”
Bard can finally determine that Eltara is the one who helped him. “Thank you.”
“We’ll be the ones thanking you.”
“It took the three of us,” he replies.
Delana approaches through the darkness. One hand holds shafts. “There are seven. One’s broken.”
“I’ll take it, too.” He accepts the shafts and eases them into the quiver.
She says to her partner, “Every one through the eye.” She looks back to Bard. “Your entire shaft and the head—they’re wood.”
“Of course,” says Eltara quickly and firmly. “Later. We need to get the bard on his way, and us on ours. We’ll only have a few glasses before the locals decide that their raiding expedition was unsuccessful, if that. We’ll need to be well west of here.”
“Leave the bodies where they fell and take the horses, all but one. Tie th
e one to a tree near the bodies. I assume you took everything of value.”
Eltara fumbles in her wallet then extends her hand. “Of course. A third’s yours. That’s the rule for traders’ guards.”
Bard smiles. It is, if he happened to be a paid guard, but to refuse would be an insult. “Thank you. It will make the rest of my journey easier.” He lets her drop the eleven coppers into his extended palm.
“Not that much easier,” replies Eltara. “They only had a bit more than three silvers in coppers among them.”
“Every copper helps when you’re traveling.” He stands, carefully. The worst is past … he thinks. This time. Until he sleeps and dreams.
“You got most of them…,” begins Delana.
“I have … difficulty finishing a fight,” he admits. That is the statement with the fewest omissions he has made the entire evening.
“The way you start,” says Eltara, “there’s not much finishing needed. Will you need help saddling up?”
He shakes his head.
“Then we’d all better get moving.”
IV
The late afternoon sun beats down on Bard’s back as he rides from the west city gate into the heart of Jellico. Heat oozes from the cracked paving stones that date back a century or more, and possibly even to the time just after when Kastral held off Fenardre the Great. Before too long, he reins up outside the inn’s stable. He glances back at the signboard—the faded image of a bronze bowl. There is no lettering.
A boy hurries out from the shadows beyond the double doors. “You be staying here, ser?”
For a moment, Bard has to struggle to understand the words. Has the speech changed that much? Then the accent tells him that the youngster must have come from Montgren or even Sligo, likely indentured by his family after a bad year.
“If there’s room.”
“I couldn’t say, ser.”
“A copper to keep the horse while I eat and find out.”
“Yes, ser.”
Bard dismounts and removes the guitar from his pack before leaving the stable and walking into the inn.
The angular man who has to be the innkeeper stops him in the hall that serves both the inn and the tavern. “We don’t give rooms to minstrels. You can sleep by the fire if folks like your songs.”
“What’s the tariff for a garret with a pallet?” Before the innkeeper can reply, Bard goes on, “A pair of coppers?”
“Three.”
“The stable?”
“Copper a night. Another copper for grain.”
“And some ale without charge if the public room likes my songs.”
“One mug every half glass you sing. If they like you. No food.”
Bard studies the innkeeper. Hard as the man’s voice is, there is but the faintest trace of white about him, and far more of the blackness Bard wishes to see. He hands over three coppers, holding the fourth back. “For the grain? Now or later?”
The innkeeper pauses, then says, “One for today. We’ll see about later.”
Bard nods and hands over the fourth copper.
“Garret room for you has a horn painted on the door. Be another glass before anyone wants a song. Maybe longer.”
“Then I can eat first. I’m paying. What’s good today?”
“Pearapple pork ragout.”
“I need to get my gear.” With a nod, Bard heads back to the stable to finish the arrangements with the ostler’s boy.
Once the mare is settled in a stall to herself, and fed a grain mixture that is mostly oats, Bard uses the stable pump to wash his hands and face, then takes his gear up to the third floor and the corner garret. After securing his belongings in a suitable fashion, he makes his way down to the public room, less than half-full, where he takes a small table with two chairs and places the guitar on the other chair.
Before that long, a serving woman appears. She is neither young nor old, but her hair is bound up in a bun, although a few brown wisps have escaped. Her face is thin and worn beyond her years, and there are circles under her eyes. “Ser?”
“Is the pearapple pork as good as the innkeeper claims?”
“It’s not bad, ser.”
“Is there anything better?”
“I’d take the pork, ser.”
“How much?”
“Three, ser, if you take ale with it.”
He eases out three coppers and leaves them on the table.
She nods and moves toward the archway into the kitchen. He smiles as she moves adroitly to avoid the questing hand of an older merchanter at the circular table. The merchanter looks vaguely surprised, then turns back toward the graybeard across the table from him.
Bard listens.
“… avoid Lydiar … Duke’s armsmen shaking down small traders … cut down a minstrel … didn’t like what he sang about the Duke…”
“… Sligan black pine up a copper a hundred cubit-length…”
“… might try Spidlaran yellow pine…”
The lecherous merchant snorts. “Not with the whites adding a half-copper surcharge for the use of the stone roads into their city…”
Bard isn’t surprised, although he wonders when the white mages had started the practice. You should have traveled more. At that thought, he smiles to himself. Traveling long ago lost its appeal, as dreaming has.
“… Viscount and Prefect can’t do anything…”
“Do you blame them?”
Bard continues to listen until he sees the server returning.
She sets the mug of ale on the table, followed by the brown crockery platter with a chip on one edge. A battered tin spoon is stuck into the ragout, and a small loaf of bread, more the size of a bun, perches on the other side of the platter.
He immediately studies the food and the ale, but can sense no chaos of any sort. He hands her the coppers. “Thank you.”
The coppers vanish into the wallet at her waist. Another pair of coppers appears in his fingers. “For you and the little one.”
Her eyes widen.
“Not a word.” He doesn’t wish to explain how he knows.
“Thank you, ser.” Her voice is barely audible, and she turns quickly.
He breaks off a chunk of bread and uses it to push part of the not-quite-soupy mass onto the spoon. He lifts the spoon and samples the yellowish concoction. To his surprise, its taste belies its appearance, and he has another spoonful. He takes his time finishing, watching as the public room slowly fills.
Finally, he begins to tune the guitar. Then he plays a melody without song, after which he pauses and takes several sips from the mug that is almost empty, before he plays a second tune, and then a third. The notes are faint silver, but silver indeed.
“A song! Let’s have a song,” someone calls.
He smiles and stands beside the table, his back to the wall. After adjusting the strings again, he begins.
Once I knew a maid so fair
When spring had turned the evenings gold …
He offers a comical and wry expression and continues with the next stanzas of the song before reaching the last one.
That is why I do but sing
In winter of my wandering ways.
A woman is truly a deadly fling
And I’d like to keep my lingering days.
There are enough smiles around the room when he finishes that he bows slightly before the next song.
When I set out for Lydiar
A thousand kays away …
The song after that is more for the merchants.
Sing a song of coppers, pocket full of sky,
Four and twenty traitorbirds, baked into a pie.
Three others follow before Bard announces cheerfully, “This one’s for the fellows in the corner.”
When the bones roll sole, or sevens thrice,
There’s weight out of hand, and the snow is ice …
Make your sum with grief, and you’ll sleep with ease,
Make it with no effort, and you’ll sleep where oth
ers please …
Several of the older men chuckle. One of the hard-eyed younger men around the corner table stiffens, ever so slightly, and only for an instant.
Bard keeps his headshake to himself and finishes the song, even as he notes that the sad-eyed server has refilled his mug. He is about to set the guitar in the empty chair when a black-haired woman slips into it. Despite the warmth in the room, she wears a long-sleeved and form-fitting blouse that, while showing nothing, reveals everything.
“You looking for company, minstrel?”
“Only to share words over an ale, fair lady. I’ll pay, but just for an ale for you.”
She raises one eyebrow.
Definitely a practiced expression. “There’s another fair lady.” And that is also true in its way, truer than his other truths.
“A faithful bard?”
“I know,” he replies. “Rarer than an honest ruler or a Rational Star.”
“Then I won’t take your coin, even for ale.” She smiles. “You’re from the West, beyond the Westhorns.”
“How do you know that?” He takes a swallow from the mug, wondering about her, but there is no free chaos around her.
“When I was very small, I heard a singer. I don’t think he was a bard or a minstrel. He had silver hair like you. He didn’t have a beard and he would still be younger than you. He sang like you. Do you know him?”
“I couldn’t say. Not without knowing more.” That is strictly true, but he doubts his guess would be wrong.
“I can remember parts of one of the songs.” Her voice drops as she sings, barely above a whisper.
Down by the seashore, where the waters foam white,
Hang your head over; hear the wind’s flight …
She looks at him inquiringly.
He realizes she is much older than he had thought, enough older … “That’s an old song. It’s a song of mourning for unrequited or lost love. Most wouldn’t sing it except in private.”
“It was sung in private.”
“Since you were small, I’d guess it was sung to your mother … or an aunt.” He knows it was sung to her mother, who had also been black-haired with intense blue eyes. How have you come to be here, Rhianna? A thought strikes him and he glances across the public room to the wall, where stand two men, both wearing nondescript cloaks—private guards. He almost nods. “You’ve been looking for him for years. You paid to be told if a silver-haired singer ever appears.”
Recluce Tales Page 20
