The Knight, the Harp, and the Maiden Page 11

  She sighed and sipped the beer, the harsh, acrid taste bitter on her tongue. The landlord set a plate of golden fried bread before her, the fat pooling and gleaming on its surface. The scent of the meat rose from the bread, and she realized it had been fried in the same fat as the meat. Her mouth watered, despite her stomach’s rumbles of protest. She tore off a small piece. The fat-soaked bread at once repulsed and seemed as if it must be the most delicious morsel she had ever tasted. Tentatively she placed it in her mouth.

  The landlord leaned against the bar, wiping glasses with his rag, laughing. “By the goddess, I never saw a songsayer eat so sweetly—you have a dainty bent, I see.”

  She smiled at him then, apologetically, and wondered what he would say if she told him the truth, that she was no songsayer, that she was the daughter of one of the noblest houses in Sylyria, and that just down the street and over a few blocks was a house three times the size of this mean little inn that belonged to her brother, and if only she dared, she would have gone there by now, and thrown herself on their mercy. But she did not dare, did not dare to put all the people she loved so much at risk, and the thought of Neri’s blistered, bleeding hands rose before her like a vision. The bread lodged in her throat like a heavy lump and she choked a little, almost a sob.

  He looked at her critically as if just noticing her. She thought he might speak, and then he went back to wiping the glasses. When the woman came in, lugging the bucket and her mop and her brush, he said, “Just a few minutes, and your bath will be ready.”

  She nodded, chewing the food slowly, sipping the bitter beer every third or fourth bite. She stared out the window. Four or five other patrons had come in, and the landlord was busy, drawing beer, fetching food from the kitchens. The people paid her no mind. She was no more and no less than any other tired, hungry songsayer in the city for the Festival.

  A young man with sun-bleached blond hair went by, and her heart seemed to stop. Arimond, she thought. No, she reminded herself, it couldn’t be Arimond. It would never be Arimond again. Grief flooded through her like a wave and a hard lump rose in her throat. She choked on the bread and forced herself to swallow, but the taste of it was bitter on her tongue. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Best to put it all behind her and go on. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. Her life had changed irrevocably, there could be no going back.

  The landlord’s wife emerged from the kitchens and paused in the doorway. “You, girl. This way, if you will.” She beckoned with rough curtsey.

  Juilene took one more sip of the beer. There was no way she could ever finish it; it was too bitter and too foreign to her taste. But it had quenched her thirst, and washed some of the morning’s scum off her tongue, and so she rose and followed the woman down a low corridor to a rough door.

  “In there,” the woman said. “You’ll find the towel on the chair, fold it and leave it there when you’re finished. And here”—she fished in the pockets of her capacious apron—“you paid for soap.” She handed Juilene the smallest sliver.

  Juilene nodded her thanks. This was as good as she could expect, she supposed. She went into the room, where a huge wooden tub steamed, and pulled down the latch. She stared at the ceiling, black with age and dank with mold in spots. At least the place seemed clean enough. Suddenly, she felt as though her skin crawled.

  She fumbled with the lacings of her bodice. As she slipped her dress off her shoulders, she heard the jingle of coins in her pocket. She would have to find a better arrangement for her money, she thought. She thought of how Mathy had kept her coins from sight, tied securely to her bodice, and wondered if she might manage something like that. Perhaps if she could find the means to purchase a needle and a thread—the dressmaker’s shops she had frequented before always had plenty. But how to acquire such a necessity was beyond her; she had no idea whether or not she could simply walk into one and ask for a needle and thread. She sighed as she slipped into the water.

  The hot water enveloped her like a blanket, and she took a deep breath and leaned back against the wooden edge. She closed her eyes. She could feel all the muscles in her back and shoulders and neck, the soreness in her feet and calves from the long walk of the day before. Who would have thought that a songsayer’s life was so hard? No wonder her parents had been horrified at the thought.

  And what would her father say now? she wondered. What would he do, besides go rage at the new Over-Thurge? Nothing could lift a thurge’s curse, not even the thurge himself. No, Lindos had known what he was doing. And what man would love her now? she wondered. She thought of Mathy, of her hard, calculating face and the way she had argued with Eral over a few pennies. It wouldn’t be much longer before she too was reduced to quarreling over pennies, and she knew that whatever was soft and innocent about her would be more of a liability than an asset. Mathy was a far cry from the girl her father had raised her to be.

  Slowly, she worked the scrap of soap into a lather, working it over her shoulders and breasts and arms. She let down her hair and wet it, working the harsh lather through it. Who knew when she would next have the luxury of a bath? She looked at her clothes and where she had left them on the chair. No Neri now to whisk them away, to replace the soiled underlinen with snowy fresh, no maid to brush and shake and air her dresses. She reached for her underlinen. It was badly creased. If she washed it, here in the water, and put it on, it would dry on her body. She wet it, scrubbed it with the soap, and wrung it out as best she could. Then she shook it out and laid it over the rim of the tub. She reached for her dress. She dabbed at the stains as best she could, and tried to scrub the underarms with the sliver of soap. Then she splashed the water on the fabric, rinsing as much of the soap away as she could. She rose unsteadily on her feet and shook the dress out, placing it flat over the back of the chair.

  A knock on the door startled her. “You drown yourself in there, Sissy?” It was the landlord’s rough voice.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” she managed. “I’m nearly finished. I’ll be right out.”

  “Someone’s asking for you.”

  She heard the heavy clump of his boots as he went down the hall and froze as she reached for the threadbare piece of linen that passed as a towel. Who could be asking for her? No one knew her name—she had been so careful not to go anywhere she might have been recognized. She dried herself thoroughly, then stepped out onto the cold stone floor. She put on her damp underlinen. The fabric clung wetly to her skin, and she grimaced. This was going to be uncomfortable.

  She shook out her petticoats and put on her chemise, her fingers fumbling with the buttons and the fastenings. She reached for her dress. The wet spots under the arms chafed terribly as she laced it. She dried her hair with the damp towel, and braided it loosely. She thrust her feet into her shoes and picked up her cloak. She folded the towel neatly over the back of the rickety chair.

  Well. The goddess had seen her clean and fed, her first day as a songsayer. She had a few coins in her pocket, and her harp. Time to face the day.

  She strapped her harp on her back and went out into the passage. The landlord’s wife gestured her to go on ahead. “There’s a man been asking for you, sister.”

  Juilene bit her lip and peered into the tavern. Eral stood beside the bar, laughing and joking with a few of the men who had gathered there. The morning was well along, the sun was high, and she could see people hurrying past in the streets. The square was crowded again.

  He smiled broadly when he caught sight of her. “There you are, little sister.” He waved her over to him. “It’s nearly time for the noon performance. You must have known we couldn’t start without you.”

  Juilene blinked. He seemed to take for granted that she was a member of the company. She gave him a puzzled frown. “I—I didn’t realize my presence was wanted.”

  “Not wanted?” He clapped an arm around her shoulders and she winced. “Surely you realize how much of an asset you are. What’s a troupe without a songsayer? We couldn’t have performed
last night if it weren’t for you—you know that. And you profited, too, didn’t you?”

  He winked at her broadly and for a moment Juilene wanted to pull away. Then she thought again. It was true, she had profited and a dozen coins or so every performance would be enough to earn her bread and a few other necessaries. It wasn’t much but it would be a start. “Yes,” she said at last. “I did.”

  “Good,” he said with a laugh and a smile so broad, she thought his face must ache with the stretch. “And we can count on you to come with us, when we leave here?”

  Juilene blinked. She hadn’t considered that possibility—that the actors troupe would be leaving the city. “When—when will you leave?”

  “Why, right after Festival, of course.” He laid a silver coin down on the bar and gently propelled her toward the door. “We’ll head south, south to Khardroon. We don’t want to be stuck up here in the winter—already the nights are getting too cold for my blood.” He steered her through the crowded square. “Ever been to Khardroon? No place is prettier, to my way of thinking. Of course, that’s where I was born, so you might say I am biased. If you want to come with us, you’re welcome and I offer the same terms I offer the others—an equal share of each performance’s profits.”

  “But if I come,” she said with a puckered frown, “there will be less for the others—won’t they mind?”

  “Goddess bless you, you’ve a head on your shoulders,” he said, hugging her so close, her bones ached, and she had to stop herself from instinctively drawing away. “Why, think, foolish child. Without a songsayer, we’d be lost. It was the grace of the goddess which led me to that dark corner by the temple, where you had hidden—you were hiding, weren’t you?” He cocked his eyebrow at her.

  So that’s it, she thought, he thinks I am a thief or worse. Well, it’s true I have something to hide, and the less he knows the better. Let him think I only want to get out of the city. “I—I just have one question,” she said.

  “Anything, goddess-sent, anything.”

  “Last night, I played behind the scenes and no one saw my face. Is—is that how you want it done, all the time?”

  He raised one eyebrow. “Well. Let’s do it that way for now, shall we? Once we’re out of Sylyria, we’ll see. Mathy’s been overstepping herself lately—you might try the role of the goddess herself once or twice.”

  “No.” Juilene blushed furiously. “That isn’t what I meant at all—”

  “No?” He smiled and his teeth were white, so white against his sun-browned face, and inexplicably she was reminded of Lindos. She shuddered before she could stop herself. “Well. We’ll just leave well enough alone for now. You stay in the shadows, little sister. It’s the music you make the people will pay to hear. No one need know who makes it. For now. Do we have a bargain?”

  Juilene took a deep breath. This was surely the most immediate answer to all her troubles. She looked into Eral’s dark eyes. They danced and gleamed with a merry light. She remembered the misgivings Mathy had raised, and dismissed them from her mind. Just as she nodded, a group of excited men burst past them into the tavern. They were gesturing and talking loudly among themselves, and Juilene thought she heard the names “Lindos” and “Ravenwood.”

  She peered around Eral, and he, at once catching her interest, turned around. He glanced back down at her, his eyes narrowed. “Good sir,” he said as the group jostled past, “what news is there, so early in the day?”

  The man stopped and stared. “Can you not have heard? The whole city is alive with it.”

  Eral shrugged and spread his hands. “Alas, I’m just a poor actor newly come to the city but late last night. I have scarce found a place to water my horses, let alone hear the latest news. Pray, tell us.” With one sweep of his hand, he included Juilene.

  The man eyed her briefly. “Arimond of Ravenwood and half the young thanes and demi-thanes of the outlying districts were slain night before last.”

  “By whom?”

  “It’s said by Lindos, one of the master-thurges. He denies it, yet the thanes have sworn revenge, and the whole district is in turmoil. There’s talk of wild magic—that Lindos has found a way to unbind the magic. He’s locked himself within the walls of his keep and they say he’s plotting to take over the entire city. There is to be a Gathering in the city day after tomorrow, and Thane Jiroud swears he will have this Lindos strung upon the walls—wild magic or not.”

  Juilene raised her eyes. Eral was watching her closely. She hoped the expression on her face did not betray her.

  The man shook his head. “If you’re an actor, my advice to you is to leave the city as soon as possible. There’s likely to be rioting and who knows how the new Over-Thurge will put it down?” He nodded toward the open door, and in the square, Juilene could see throngs of people.

  “’Tis Festival,” said Eral.

  “Festival be damned, friend.” The man shook his head. “You earn your bread on the road—there’ll be nothing here for you if the thurges retaliate to the demands of the thanes. Do you know what I’m saying, friend?”

  Eral nodded slowly. “I do, indeed. Thanks for the wisdom.”

  The man shrugged and hurried off to join his companions at a table on the other side of the room.

  “Well, little sister,” Eral said, turning a speculative look upon Juilene once more, “it seems our stay in the city is to be briefer than I ever thought. What do you say? Will you come?”

  Juilene nodded. What choice did she have? She clutched her harp close and whispered a prayer. “As the goddess wills it, I obey.”

  Chapter Six

  The fire snapped and hissed as Juilene crouched in the flickering light, her hands wrapped around a tin cup full of thin broth. Behind her, she could hear Maggot’s snorts as he tossed in his sleep. She wondered what dreams tormented him every night, for only toward dawn did he fall into an exhausted slumber. Then he lay as still as the dead, his mouth hanging open, his hair falling over his sharp-boned face. But as deep as it might appear he slept, he was easily roused by even the slightest noise, leaping to his feet, with one hand at his waist, the other clenched in a fist.

  She heard the old woman, Nuala, stir. Nuala shook the boy and murmured something, and Maggot quieted down. Every night that ritual was repeated more times than Juilene could count. She was learning to sleep through it, though; the last few nights she had been so tired, she had fallen asleep as soon as her head had touched the blanket, and had not awakened until the smell of the breakfast gruel had reached her nostrils.

  She sipped her broth, watching the flames dance and sway in the cold breeze. On the other side of the fire, in the shadows beyond the periphery, she heard Mathy’s sharp whisper and a muffled slap. There was a grunt, and a man’s low murmur, and Juilene waited to see whether it would be Yoshi or Thaddam who would emerge from the shadows. But there was silence, and Juilene realized that Mathy must have reached an understanding with either or both of her two admirers.

  None of the men had approached her, although they eyed her speculatively. Nuala kept a sharp eye on her, and more than once, each of the men, including Maggot, had heard the sharp side of her tongue where Juilene was concerned. The old woman seemed to notice everything.

  Juilene shivered and pulled her cloak closer around her body. The heat of the fire was seductive—it made her reluctant to leave its warmth and seek the thin nest of blankets that served her as a bed. By unspoken agreement, the women had the use of the wagon at night, while all the men but Maggot slept on the ground. Except for Mathy—she was as likely to disappear of an evening as was Eral and the other men.

  He was gone now, Juilene knew, off entertaining one of the women who had crowded around the base of the stage that evening, and had perhaps wrapped her coins in a note of invitation. And the other men who formed the company—Yoshi, Thaddam, and Ruell—one was with Mathy, and the others must be off gambling or drinking or doing whatever it was that kept them occupied until the small hours of the morning.r />
  More than once Juilene had been awakened by their voices, in the greying light of a wintery dawn, and had known that they were just coming back from a night spent doing what she could probably not even begin to imagine.

  But she kept to herself. Nuala made her nervous in a way even Eral did not. The old woman might be tough and proud and sharp as ten-year-old cheese, but she was kind. And there was nothing Juilene feared more than kindness. The others left her alone, too, after a few attempts at conversation. She was too different and they all seemed to know it.

  A twig snapped, and Juilene jumped. Mathy stood on the other side of the fire, a ragged shawl clutched over a shapeless gown that served as her nightdress. She shrugged a greeting. “Can’t sleep,” she said as she settled down beside the fire, one hand held out to its warmth.

  “It’s cold tonight,” Juilene said.

  “Mm,” the other girl agreed. The firelight was kind; she looked not much older than Juilene in its rosy glow. “Another week or so, we’ll be through the last of these mountains, and the weather will be warmer. Thank the goddess Eral at least has the sense to take us south for the winter.”

  “You go there every year?”

  “Of course. A troupe that doesn’t have a regular berth in one of the cities or with a thane or thurge would be foolish to wander through the northern cities during the cold weather. Gravenhage must be a very dull place.” She laughed a little.

  Juilene frowned a little and cocked her head. “Why’s that?”

  “It’s so cold there.” Mathy looked at her as if Juilene had spoken in another tongue. “Have you never been there?”