Bard city blues, p.19
Bard City Blues, page 19
“—but if so, why did he take the job in the first place?” I shook my head. “That only leaves Born-with-a-Bow. He’s a member of the Bardic Guild, but he’s not working. Brother Tappleblatt said he’s out of favor with the Guild, possibly because of his drinking problem, and trying to get back in their good graces. I couldn’t get any more than that. Bow also told me he used to run a theater troupe in the city. Could he have staged some sort of trickery the night of the theft?”
“He’s obviously fallen on hard times, the poor fellow.” Chill rested a hand on his stomach. “Rumor has it he’s quite talented. Or was, before the bottle got the best of him.”
“So he needs money. Either to get his life back together, or…” I sighed. “To keep destroying it.”
“I still say it’s Tappleblatt,” said Alix.
“I’ll let you know if you’re right.” I pushed my chair back and stood. I had done my best to show off for Alix; all that remained was to make a strong exit. “But it won’t be tonight. It’s almost opening time. I should go make sure Xolgoth isn’t sick.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
POSITIVELY HAIRY
Saturday brought the first breath of spring since I moved to Lackmore. In the morning, I practiced Southack’s third étude without my hands cramping. When I walked to the Lifted Gate that afternoon, the sun was bright and the snowdrifts looked smaller and softer. Folk stood on the street corners, chatting and laughing. A few even smiled at me.
I found it hard to smile back, though. Spring meant Alix would be leaving soon, and worse, I hadn’t seen her since our awkward conversation on Wednesday. For all I knew she was already gone.
I ducked into the tavern to find Freda behind the bar, polishing a shot glass as though the place hadn’t been wrecked a week ago.
“You look glum,” she said, narrowing her eyes as though the concept of emotions was suspect.
“You’ve been cleaning,” I replied. It was true. All the furniture was gone save a table and five chairs, but the wreckage was cleared out, the uneven flagstone floor had been swept, and the paintings and knickknacks on the walls looked dust free. Overall the tavern was rather presentable, if spare.
“Old place’s seen worse. Seen better, too, of course. But seen worse. Would’ve been bad, if you weren’t here the other night.” Freda slapped her rag into her hand. “You took care of that elemental handily, I’ll give you that, bard.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, that’s all right, then.”
“Sure.” I smiled uncertainly. Where was she going with this?
“Been thinking, bard. Guess you might as well.”
I blinked. “Might as well what?”
“Since you’re workin’ here. And playin’ here. Might as well stay here, too. You can take the room by the hearth. It ain’t much, but it stays warm, so.”
I turned to examine the fireplace, but a door hadn’t suddenly appeared there. Just wall, covered in the usual knickknacks. I adjusted my glasses and looked again. Still nothing.
“Ah—thank you,” I said. “The door is by the hearth?”
“Yep.”
“And… when would you like me to move my things over?”
“Whatever you want.” Freda shrugged.
“I mean, do you need any time to prepare the room? Is it ready right now?”
“Now’s fine.”
I glanced back at the solid walls flanking the fireplace. Maybe there was a room and maybe there wasn’t, but I couldn’t worry about it now. “I think tomorrow would be best. I need to prepare for tonight’s show.”
Freda flipped her rag over her shoulder. “Just don’t forget about my painting.”
The Lifted Gate was packed. The regulars were all here: Brother Tappleblatt warming himself by the fire, Tails looking lonely at the one surviving table, Bow lecturing to Nose Cabbage at the bar. Skotleivo threaded through the press, balancing a tray on each bony arm. A dozen other familiar faces had shown up, but those weren’t enough to fill the barroom, especially with the furniture gone. More than half the tavern’s customers were new, and their eyes were on me.
It was still fifteen minutes to sundown, and I was relaxing in my corner, tuning my guitar and nursing a mug of cheap ale. Freda’s offer of a place to live was on my mind. Leaving the boardinghouse would mean escaping Filbert Bilberry’s unnerving vigilance and getting a little distance from the Southack Method. I could even practice something other than études.
Of course, as far as I could tell, there was no room by the hearth.
Another few people ducked under the portcullis, and I was surprised to see May Featherlight flanked by two equally cute halfling women about her age. I watched the trio glance around nervously and head to the bar, where Born-with-a-Bow said something that made May blush.
He gestured to me and May gave me a little wave. I smiled and waved back. Bow apparently thought it was meant for him, because he gave me a surprisingly sincere thumbs up, then tapped his lapel. The gesture was lost on me until I remembered his Guild badge, pinned to the underside of that lapel. What was he trying to tell me? It didn’t read as a warning…
The only two missing were Alix and Chill, for whom arriving at the last possible moment seemed to be a habit. Judging by May’s presence, I suspected Chill would show up, but Alix could have been a hundred miles from Lackmore for all I knew.
A drumroll of footsteps sounded on the stairs. By the time I looked over, Alix stood before the portcullis, arms spread, head thrown back. “Break out grandma’s whip!” she cried. “The night has begun!”
She came toward me right down the middle of the barroom, splitting the crowd like a ship’s prow and greeting regulars as she went. She had a few words for everyone: “Hullo, Anggar, old boy, how’s tricks? Knee still funny, Marjane? Only on days that end in a Y? Aye, and it’s Saturday, or as I call her, Friday’s daughter…”
She was covered from throat to ankle in a single close-fitting bodysuit of crushed green velvet, with high-heeled boots of the same material in crimson, her bandana knotted loosely around one ankle. She was nearly on top of me before she finally seemed to notice me, and I caught a strong whiff of perfume—it was actually quite nice, there was just too much of it—and a hint of something underneath that smelled like Born-with-a-Bow.
“How do, my people of the night?” She eyed me like a dire wolf appraising a stray lamb. “Gally girl, a pleasure, no doubt. You do look fine in that rigging.”
I looked down at my borrowed outfit. “Er—Alix, where are my clothes?”
“Missing in action. And the old highland lute on the knee, I see! Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Well, one shall just post up in the usual spot and we’ll have ourselves a singsong, shall we?”
And she was off, leaving me gape-mouthed and tearful.
She had thrown away my clothes?
Freda caught my attention with a particularly sharp slap of her rag. She locked eyes with me, gave me the you sell beer hand signal, and followed it up with a tap on the wrist, a reference that I guessed was to something called a watch, a halfling invention a bit like a tiny clock that I had heard of but never seen. Either way, her meaning was clear.
I shut my eyes and took a long, slow breath. Whatever in the names of the Lords Above and Below was happening with Alix tonight, I wouldn’t let it ruin my chance at a successful gig. The same had to be said of Chill’s absence. In his case, at least, I could guess where he was: off at some dull council meeting I had encouraged him to attend, wishing he were here.
No, I was a professional and I would act like one. When my heart had slowed its tempo I opened my eyes, put a smile on my face, and lifted my head to the crowd.
A few chords on my guitar served to both check its tuning and get the room’s attention. I was rewarded with a round of applause, with a few shouts mixed in. My smile became somewhat more genuine. How could two people wound me when there were dozens cheering me on?
“Let’s have a song, then!” someone shouted, audibly drunk.
Alix made her way to the hearth—the crowd parted for her, of course—and stood staring at me with an elbow propped on the mantel in a pose of perfect nonchalance. I stared back, looked away, caught myself looking again.
Freda signed YOU SELL BEER with such fury I could hear the capital letters.
I looked at my hands and launched into “The Traveler’s Drink.”
I played as lively as ever, made sure to include all the different peoples in the room, and even tacked on an entry for the orcs despite it unbalancing the penultimate line. (“A half-elf likes it half as strong, an orc will drink it twice as long”—I was improvising.) But the applause when I finished was much weaker than it had been the previous week, despite the larger crowd. Not even Nose Cabbage, usually my most reliable supporter, cheered. In fact, he looked rather weepy.
“We’ve heard that one!” called a voice, I thought the same early drunk as before.
I considered my collection of tricks for tough crowds. If I could get someone in the audience on my side, their energy would help turn the others around. Luckily, I knew a song few goblins could resist. It was an old one, and not very long, and I would have to sing the bowdlerized version rather than the bloodthirsty original, but it was worth a try.
Goblins live to fight and play
Drink, drank, drunk!
Golden treasure every day
Clink, clank, clunk!
Foodstuffs piled up like hay
Stink, stank, stunk!
Put a couple kegs away
Drink, drank, drunk!
Again I received a polite smattering of applause but little more. Nose Cabbage had barely stirred. He slumped on his barstool, ears drooping, and I would have sworn Born-with-a-Bow glanced at him with concern pinching his face.
I hastily scanned the room: Freda scowling. Tails picking at the table. Alix not even looking. She was chatting with a handsome, sharp-dressed elf I didn’t recognize, and as her brassy laugh reached my ears, I grasped what was wrong: the composition of the room had changed. The newcomers in the crowd weren’t the Lifted Gate’s usual clientele.
I found May Featherlight and her friends. Just as I expected, they were glancing around, staring into their drinks, and generally looking out of place.
It wasn’t Nose Cabbage I needed on my side, it was May. But how? I wasn’t certain she would enjoy an ostentatious Symphony Hill galliard any more than the regulars, and even if she did, I would still be leaving half my audience unenthused. What would May Featherlight, halfling soapmaker, want to hear?
Then I recalled something she told me that day at her shop, when I had made a remark about city magic. Like so many halflings, she came from the Reeve, where—how had she put it? Our magic’s not quite so wild as yours, but it’s positively hairy compared to Lackmore.
With the smile reviving on my face, I clambered up to stand on my stool so I could gaze out over the heads of the crowd. All the faces in the room turned to me in curiosity, even Alix’s.
“It seems to me,” I said, “that it’s not a good night for drinking songs. Who wants to get smashed so soon after the bar did?” That earned a few chuckles. “But the gamblers down in Skorsov have a saying: disaster is the head of the coin, but opportunity is the tail.”
There was some more laughter at that, and scattered applause. I could tell I had piqued the audience’s curiosity, and that was good. Curiosity I could work with.
I was about to continue when my eyes met Tails’s, and for a moment an eerie sense of déjà vu gripped my throat. I was remembering Chill’s throw of the coins my first night at the Lifted Gate. We had assumed all those tails signified the young thief, but since my question had actually been whether I would join the Bardic Guild or not, it struck me that Chill’s numispection might hold some other meaning entirely.
“Well?” yelled my now-familiar heckler.
“Well—is this a bar with no furniture, or are you all standing on a perfectly good dance floor?” I made a parting motion with my hands. “Clear some space—open out the middle of the room, there you go—come on, you can’t all be wallflowers.”
The crowd did as instructed, shuffling uncertainly toward the walls until an empty space remained in the approximate center of the floor. Behind the bar, Freda had stopped serving and was glaring as though she might turn me to stone with the power of her fury. I ignored her and glanced at May.
Was that a look of hope on her face?
I knew only one place to rival the highlands for dances, and that was the Reeve. As May might have put it, they weren’t quite so wild as ours, but they were positively hairy compared to the stodgy ballroom compositions of Symphony Hill. They were also a great deal of fun to play, as I had learned from a wandering halfling troubadour a few years before leaving home.
I set my hands on my guitar, swallowed in a very dry throat, smiled at May, and launched into a traditional halfling circle dance.
May’s hand flew to her mouth.
“I know this!” chirped one of her friends.
“I haven’t heard this since we left home,” said the other. She probably thought she was being quiet, but there was no other sound except the music.
“Well, come on, then!” cried May, and, grabbing her friends by the hands, she pulled them onto the impromptu dance floor.
And they could dance. The Lifted Gate watched in awe as three halfling girls leapt, kicked, and tossed their skirts with the same gleeful abandon as the orcs at the Underworld. Occasionally one would let out a wordless shout to punctuate the rhythm, or celebrate a particularly flashy move, or sometimes for the sheer joy of making noise. It was all I could do to keep my tempo in check—I could feel them pressing me to speed up. Eventually I resorted to keeping time on the barstool with the heel of my boot.
The end of the dance was nearing, but May and her friends showed no indication they wanted to stop. I couldn’t keep repeating the same tune, though, so I hastily changed keys and shifted to another reel. The girls came together, twirled, and broke apart, and spun out to the edges of the dance floor to grab the hands of three astonished audience members.
And what could they do—say no?
Two dances later, the whole room was in motion, a steaming, swirling turmoil of barely organized chaos. I caught a glimpse of Tails dancing with May, his face alight. One of her friends grabbed hold and twirled him into the other’s arms. He was smiling for the first time since his fight with Fhraff.
Alix spun by in the arms of the well-dressed elf. Our eyes caught for a moment—my heart stuttered and I almost lost the time of the dance. There was a smile on her face, but I thought it looked painted on, like a carnival mask that might hide anything underneath.
The moment passed. The tune was about to end, Freda looked antsy to sell some ale, and the crowd needed a break. I played out the melody with a flourish and let the last chord ring away into jubilant applause.
“Catch your breath, everyone,” I called. “Be sure to a grab a drink, the dances are back on in five!”
I sat and retied my hair, which was springy with sweat and had come almost completely free from its ponytail. I needed a moment to tune my guitar, then I would keep up incidental music while the crowd mingled, just to make sure no one got the impression the night was over. But first, I had half a mug of Freda’s cheapest waiting for me.
I downed the ale and smiled, watching the crowd. Not quite so wild as a highland fling, perhaps, but positively hairy. I made a mental note to send May a thank-you card, pushed up my glasses, and got back to work.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HARP AND WREATH
And I thought I shook a lot of hands after my last gig.
So many strangers stopped me with a kind word or question that it took me a full quarter-hour to make my way to the hearth. I was introduced to so many new people I had to give up trying to remember their names. They were friends of the regulars, or friends of those friends, or of those friends. Apparently word had spread since last week.
They had all come to see me.
A bobbing mass of auburn curls split the crowd and became May Featherlight, eyes glittering. She grabbed my hands and gave me a spin. “Gally, you play like a proper halfling! Where did you learn so many circle dances?”
“A troubadour called Tallfellow came through the highlands—”
“Not Oddrew Tallfellow?” cried one of May’s friends, a willowy, dark-skinned halfling lass in purple skirts. “That’s my cousin!”
“You haven’t seen Chill, have you?” asked May. “I wanted to thank him for inviting us.”
I hesitated, unsure how to explain his absence. “I think he had an early night. I’m sure he’ll be delighted you came, though.”
May’s brow furrowed, but her friends pulled her away, and there were more well-wishers crowding me. When I finally reached the hearth, Alix had floated to the bar, where she was talking with Nose Cabbage. He looked as upset as he had at the top of the show. I took a moment to catch my breath and watch them. I couldn’t make out what they were saying over the noise of the crowd, but Alix seemed to be trying to comfort Nose, and he clearly wasn’t receptive to it.
Something was wrong.
I excused myself to a white-haired elf matron and started for the bar, but Born-with-a-Bow caught my eye. He seemed to think I wanted to interact with him, and as he pushed toward me, I steeled myself for the usual barrage of backhanded insults and half-compliments.
“I must say, from one bard to another…” Bow tossed a gray-shot braid over his shoulder. “Your voice is absolutely lovely.”
I waited, but when he didn’t follow it up with a barb, there was nothing to do but say, “Thank you.”
He reached out his hand. I looked at it, but only for a moment. My brain was catching up quickly: he was being genuinely kind tonight.
I grasped his hand and we shook.
