Harp of Imach Thyssel

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Then what are you going to do?” asked Har.

  Bracor straightened. “Lord Armin of Lacsmer and First Lord Gahlon of Meridel will be coming arrive here in three days on a courtesy visit.” He smiled wryly. “Protocol has its uses, after all. They are actually coming to discuss an alliance among us to meet the threat of the Lithmern. If we can come to an agreement, Brenn will have some support against the Lithmern, even if the Conclave of First Lords does not act.”

  “I do not know either of them,” Har said. “Do you think they will accept your proposal?”

  Maurin shifted slightly, uncertain whether to speak his doubts or not. The noble families of Alkyra were notorious for both their independence and their irritability. Though Maurin knew nothing of the two men Bracor had named, he did not think the chances of an alliance were good.

  “First Lord Gahlon is young, but he is dependable reasonable,” Bracor went on. “Armin has something of a temper, but things should go well if I can show him how great the danger really is.” Bracor He paused and looked sharply at Maurin and Har. “That is why I wish to talk to you; your caravan is the only one in the city which has taken the trade route just south of Lithra in the past month. So tell me about your journey.”

  For the next hour, Har and Maurin talked, describing the cities and towns they had passed through. Bracor had many questions, from how many men-at-arms they had seen in the streets of Sormak to what welcome the Traders had received from the people in Karlen Gale. To Maurin’s surprise, Alethia did not grow bored; on the contrary, she listened intently and occasionally made a comment of her own. Alethia’s comments were more intelligent and informed than his small experience with noble ladies had led him to expect. She spoke and acted more like a tradeswoman than like one of the stonebound, and he began to wonder whether his stay with Har’s family might not be more enjoyable than he had expected.

  Finally, Bracor sat back. “That is enough for today, I think. I need some time to consider what you have told me before we continue; we can talk more tomorrow.” He rose and nodded as the two younger men stood and followed Alethia out. Once I have considered, we can—”

  A perfunctory rap at the door interrupted him. A moment later, a tall woman with silver-white hair entered the room. She wore a simple gown of gray, trimmed with silver, and she moved like mist on the water. “Bracor, have you seen Tatia? She’s escaped from her nurse again.”

  Bracor shook his head. “We’ve been in here for the past hour.”

  “Then I won’t keep you longer from your business.”

  “We’re done,” Har said. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Welcome home, dear,” the white-haired woman said. “It is good to have you safe. But who is the friend you have brought with you?”

  “Forgive me; I should have introduced you earlier,” Bracor said. “Isme, may I present Maurin Atuval of the Traders?”

  “I am pleased to meet a friend of Har’s,” Isme said in her musical voice. Her tilted green eyes studied him for a moment, but the scrutiny was neither unfriendly nor unpleasant.

  Perhaps Har had been right about his family’s reaction after all, Maurin thought as he made a courteous bow to the Lady Isme. Certainly none of them had shown even a hint of annoyance at the unexpected guest Har had foisted on them. Idly, he wondered where Isme’s native land was. He had never seen the combination of white-blond hair and tilted green eyes before, though after his time with the caravans he knew most of the peoples of Lyra.

  “Journeyman Atuval is staying for a week or so, until the caravan leaves,” Alethia said. “I thought the big room in the south tower would be best for him, since those other lords are arriving at the end of the week.”

  Isme nodded approvingly. “Very good. Now, if you and Har are finished with your father, perhaps you would help me hunt for Tatia while Har shows his friend to the room.”

  Alethia made a face, but nodded and rose to her feet. One by one, the group followed Isme out.

  In the first edition, there was one small scene after this, of Alethia coming down to dinner, but I deleted the whole thing and substituted the above interruption. I kept a few descriptive bits but as you can see, I rewrote most of the end of the chapter.

  The rest of the book wasn’t edited quite as strenuously as this chapter, though there are certainly a number of scenes that were seriously reworked. The plot didn’t change at all but, as I’ve shown in this chapter, I reshaped quite a bit of dialogue and descriptions, often phrase by phrase.

  —Patricia C. Wrede

  Chapter 1

  DARK, STILL WATER REFLECTED darker trees and a shadowed sky. As he rode along the lake, Emereck studied the scene, wondering whether he could capture it in words. It would make a good opening for a tragic song, and he’d been thinking of doing a new arrangement of “Corryn’s Ride.” He hummed the first line of music and paused to fit words around it. Dark water, still water, darker yet the sky…

  “Emereck!” Flindaran’s voice jolted him out of his reverie. “Is that an inn, or am I seeing things?”

  Emereck glanced at his friend, puzzled. He looked at the lake again, and for the first time became aware of the town farther down the shore. It was a small village, hardly more than a cluster of cottages, but even at this distance Emereck could see the bulk of an inn at its center. “For once you’ve gotten something right. It’s an inn. I take it you mean to stop?”

  “Of course! I think we’ve earned a few small comforts after all this riding. A jug of Brythian wine, a pretty girl, a little entertainment…”

  Emereck laughed in spite of himself. “Beer and a bed is all you’re likely to find here. And if there is any entertainment, we’ll probably be providing it ourselves.”

  Flindaran looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t expect me to sing for them, do you?”

  “How else would we get a meal and a room?”

  “We could pay for them.”

  “With what?”

  “I’ve got more than enough to pay for both of us, if you’d just stop being so sticky about—”

  “We’ve been through that argument before, and you never win. Besides, this time it’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s not? That’s a first.”

  Emereck ignored him. “If you’re going to pretend to be a minstrel, you’ll have to act like one. And no minstrel would pay for dinner if he could sing for it instead.”

  “Then I’ll be a smith or a soldier or something instead.”

  “You’d give yourself away inside of three sentences. At least you know a little about music.”

  “After two years at the Ciaron Guildhall, I ought to,” Flindaran muttered.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll only have to do a few songs. Just enough so people don’t wonder.”

  “They’ll wonder if they hear me sing.”

  “Your voice isn’t that bad. But you don’t have to fake it unless you want to. We could just tell them the truth.”

  Flindaran eyed him with disfavor. “You take all the fun out of things,” he complained. “Besides, you’d still make me sing.”

  “Probably,” Emereck said cheerfully. “So it really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “All right, all right!” Flindaran heaved an exaggerated sigh. “The things I do for my friends.”

  “Oh? Whose idea was this? For that matter, who suggested leaving Goldar’s caravan in the first place?”

  “Don’t remind me! I’ll hear enough about it from my father when we get to Minathlan.”

  “Then why were you so pigheaded about taking this shortcut?”

  “Because I’d rather be uncomfortable than bored. And the only thing more boring than spending four more weeks with a caravan of Traders is being a Duke’s son and spending four more weeks with a caravan of Traders. I’m sick of their bowing and my-lording. Besides, the girls were all either too old or too young.”

  “I thought that might have something to do with it.”

  Flindaran grinned. “So I’m going
to be a minstrel for a while. Come on, let’s see what this inn has to offer.”

  The two men nudged their horses to a faster walk. A little farther on, the main road slanted away from the village to skirt the end of the lake. A smaller road, little more than a path, branched off toward the town, and in less than an hour they had reached their destination. The town was just as small as it had looked from a distance, but the people seemed used to travelers; only the children paid any attention to the two riders as they passed through the town and stopped before the door of the inn.

  As they dismounted beneath the faded sign, a black-haired woman came out to meet them. She was small and neat and quiet looking; a far call from the usual innkeeper, Emereck thought. Her eyes swept over the horses and their riders in cool evaluation, then she nodded. “Good day to you, sirs,” she said in Kyrian. “And what do you wish from this house?”

  “Whatever you would willingly spare a pair of minstrels in return for song and story,” Emereck said in the same language.

  “Song and story are very well, but there are few guests to be entertained tonight, and the folk of this town have a choosy taste in such things.”

  “Including you?” Flindaran asked.

  Emereck frowned, but the woman did not seem offended. “Perhaps, though I think my likes are somewhat different from those of the people of Tinbri,” she replied calmly.

  “You don’t consider yourself one of them?”

  “There are those who’ve lived half their lives in Tinbri and don’t consider themselves townsfolk. But no, this is not my home. I’m keeping this inn for a time as a… favor to a friend.”

  “If songs are unwelcome, is there some other way we might earn your hospitality?” Emereck said. He heard Flindaran shift uncomfortably, and shot him a warning look. Two wandering minstrels would never offer to pay for a room in hard coin, and it was too late now to change their story.

  The woman did not notice. “If you and your brother are willing to work, I think I can arrange something.”

  Emereck did not correct her mistake, though he grinned inwardly. Though they were not even distantly related, they were both tall, brown-haired, and trimly built. He and Flindaran had frequently been taken for brothers during their two years in Ciaron and their resemblance had been of use to them before. Emereck glanced at Flindaran and said, “We’re willing to do whatever’s reasonable.”

  The woman laughed suddenly. Emereck blinked. There was music in that laugh, and a startled amusement, and the shadow of a joy as pure as sunlight, and… and his imagination was running wild again. Emereck shook his head as the woman said, “And we may differ somewhat on the definition of reasonable? Well, I will try not to be too stern. My stableboy has been ill three days, and the stable needs cleaning. Or there is wood to split, or you may help in the kitchen if you prefer. Is that to your liking, or shall I keep naming chores until you hear one that suits you?”

  “No need!” Emereck protested, laughing. He glanced at Flindaran and made a quick, questioning gesture toward the horses. Flindaran nodded slightly, and Emereck looked back at the innkeeper. “By your leave, we’ll begin with the stables.”

  “And see your own horses tended as well, I suppose. No, I do not mind; it does you credit that you think of your beasts before yourselves.”

  “If you’d rather choose the work yourself—”

  “As long as the stable ends cleaner than it began, your motives are none of my concern; I’m simply glad it will be done at last. When you’re finished, come to the kitchen and I’ll show you your room. And if any question you in the meantime, say I sent you. I’m called Ryl.”

  Emereck bowed and gave her their names in return. Ryl smiled and directed them to an enclosed courtyard at the back of the inn. The stable was set on the far side, opposite the only gate into the courtyard. A large, sweaty man was forking hay into a small wagon just outside the stable door. He looked at them suspiciously, but when they mentioned Ryl’s name, he grunted and went back to his work. Flindaran looked at Emereck and raised his eyebrows. Emereck shrugged, and they went on into the stable.

  Inside, they found five empty stalls and two occupied ones. The empty stalls were clearly in need of cleaning, but the occupied stalls had recently been swept out. Judging by the condition of the gear hanging beside her stall, the sturdy brown mare was a recent arrival. The roan gelding in the next stall showed signs of longer residence.

  A variety of shovels and rakes were hanging on the wall beside the door; they each selected one and began on the stalls near the entrance, where they planned to put their own horses. Flindaran was in an excellent mood, since it appeared he would not have to sing for his supper after all.

  “This is going to be even more fun than I expected,” he said, pulling a clump of moldy straw out of one of the stalls with a long-handled rake.

  “You call this fun?” Emereck looked skeptically at his friend.

  “Not this, half-wit! The trip, the inn, the whole evening.”

  Hearing a familiar note in Flindaran’s voice, Emereck shook his head in amusement. “And Ryl?”

  “What? No! I—Oh, blast you, Emereck, you know me too well. Yes, and Ryl.”

  “I’d be careful there if I were you,” Emereck said thoughtfully. “She certainly isn’t what I’d expect to find in a village like this.”

  “Weren’t you listening? She’s not from this village.”

  “She also speaks as if she’s well-born.”

  “She’s probably from Kith Alunel; everyone there sounds like a noble or a minstrel or something.”

  “It’s possible. But—”

  “Oh, pack it up!” Flindaran poked his head around the end of the stall Emereck was working on and scowled at him. “You know, what you need is a girl of your own to worry about, instead of picking on mine.”

  “Don’t start that again! All right, I’ll quit annoying you. But I still wish I knew why Ryl didn’t want us to sing.”

  “Is that what’s bothering you? You ought to be glad I won’t be ruining your reputation. Watch where you’re stepping!”

  Emereck glanced down and sidestepped. “It’s not my reputation that’s worrying me at the moment, it’s Ryl. Innkeepers are usually happy to have a minstrel stay the night, but she wasn’t even interested.”

  “Maybe she’s just being careful about how she runs her friend’s inn.”

  “Maybe.” Emereck did not believe it, but he could think of no argument that would convince Flindaran. Particularly when Flindaran was clearly determined not to be convinced: Emereck had caught the note of stubbornness in his voice. He shook his head and said lightly, “And maybe she doesn’t like minstrels. Where would that leave your plans for tonight?”

  “Ryl may think she dislikes minstrels,” Flindaran said with dignity, “but if so, I shall convince her otherwise.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Good looks and irresistible charm, of course.”

  “Is that what you tried on that farmer’s daughter in Harmalla? The one who blacked your eye?”

  “I’m sure Ryl has far more discriminating taste. You realize, of course, what a favor I’ll be doing the Minstrel’s Guild?”

  “I’ll make sure to let the Master Singer in Ciaron know as soon as we get back.”

  “Thank you. No doubt the Guild will find a way to return the kindness.”

  “Oh, if that’s all you’re worried about, I’ll write you a ballad,” Emereck said, bowing.

  “You already owe me four ballads and a drinking song, and I haven’t seen any of them yet,” Flindaran said, unimpressed. “How long do I have to wait?”

  “Quality takes time. But if you’re in a hurry, I suppose I could dash off a third-rate epic poem or a few scurrilous couplets.”

  “What I’m in a hurry for right now is dinner,” Flindaran said. “So pick your feet up! I’m ahead of you already, and I don’t intend to do all the work.”

  The sun was setting when they finally finished in the stable and hau
led their packs to the kitchen where Ryl awaited them. She studied them briefly with the same cool appraisal she had given them when they arrived, then led them to a room on the upper floor. The room was large, with a window overlooking the lake, and to Emereck’s surprise, a tub of steaming water was waiting for them to wash off the dirt and stable smells. By the time they descended the stairs once more, Emereck was willing to admit even to Flindaran that their hostess did not seem to dislike minstrels.

  When they entered the kitchen, Ryl was stirring a large pot of something dark and spicy-smelling. She gave them each a bowl of it and sent them back to the taproom to eat, pointedly ignoring Flindaran’s attempts to strike up a conversation.

  The taproom smelled of beer, onions, and wood smoke. Several of the rough-hewn tables were already occupied. A tall blond girl moved among them, serving beer and stew with bored efficiency. Most of the customers were clearly locals, but a wiry, white-haired man in faded green leather caught Emereck’s attention. He nudged Flindaran and pointed him out.

  “So?” Flindaran said after glancing toward the corner table where the man sat.

  “So what’s a Cilhar doing in a place like this?”

  “Spending the night, the same as we are.”

  “I didn’t think Cilhar traveled much on the east side of the Mountains of Morravik.” Emereck studied the man speculatively. “I wonder if he knows any of the Witrian song cycle.”

  “The what?”

  “The Witrian song cycle. It’s a series of Cilhar songs based on the Two Century War. I heard part of it from a Cilhar woman who stopped at the Guildhall last summer, and I’ve been looking for a chance to learn the rest ever since.” Emereck set his bowl on an empty table and paused uncertainly.

  “You’re not thinking of asking him about it, are you?” Flindaran demanded.

  “Why not? I may not get a chance like this again.”

  “Most people don’t have your passion for obscure old songs. He’s probably never heard of it.”

  Emereck started to reply, then paused. “What’s worrying you? All I wanted to do was ask a few questions.”