Bard city blues, p.5
Bard City Blues, page 5
I took a breath and smiled back at him. “Thanks, Chill, I’m sure she did. The fact remains that I can’t audition at the drop of a hat. Freda, thank you for the opportunity. I’d love—”
“Glad to hear you talk sense, bard.” Freda clapped her hands. “That’s it, folks, show’s over, back to drinkin’!”
Born-with-a-Bow hopped off his barstool and waved a hand in the air. “Not just yet, people! Who’d like to hear a little music?”
To my surprise, the crowd responded with whoops and calls for a song. Bow’s inscrutable crescent-moon smile flickered over his face as he turned to Freda with a shrug.
“Not you, too,” she muttered.
I narrowed my eyes at Bow, feeling as trapped as a lamb with its leg in a crevice. But if my glare bothered him, he didn’t show it, just gestured courteously to his vacated barstool. I hesitated, then pushed my glasses up.
If this was my audition, I would give them my best.
“Thank you,” I told Bow. “You can carry it to the corner for me.”
“Which corner?”
I pointed to the spot I had identified as the choicest in the tavern. Bow picked up the stool and was about to bring it over when Freda reached across the bar and set a heavy hand on his shoulder.
“The corner’s occupied. Quit stallin’, bard. It’s now or not at all.”
Bow set the stool down. I considered glaring at Freda, but there was no use. I would only be trying to cover up the nervousness that had started as a tingle in my calves, crept up my legs to my stomach, and was now trying to climb out my mouth, possibly as vomit. Auditioning for three Bardic Guild Masters in one day hadn’t intimidated me, but I’d had years to prepare. I had known exactly what piece they would want to hear, and practiced until I could play it blindfolded at double speed.
This was different. This had been dropped on me without warning.
By Alix Bon Vallu.
How had I ever been attracted to her?
I sat on Born-with-a-Bow’s barstool and settled my guitar on my lap.
“Is that a highland lute?” asked Alix.
“Guitar,” I said without looking up.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her flip her glass over and set it on the bartop upside-down. “Publican, I’m empty.”
Freda squinted at her. “Don’t interrupt. Soonest started, soonest ended.”
“A flicker of honey wine, please.” Alix laid a copper middie on the bar. I couldn’t help but glance at the coin—a middie was a lot for one drink, at least in a place like this.
“You don’t drink honey wine.”
“It’s for the gut scraper.” Alix nodded at me. “After she stupefies us.”
Freda’s lip curled, but she reached beneath the bar and produced a dusty lavender bottle and a rounded glass. The cork came out of the bottle with a satisfying pop and she poured out a meager serving of shimmering golden wine.
Alix pulled it over. “Ready.”
Determined not to let this interplay unnerve me, I reset my hands on my guitar and took in the room. Born-with-a-Bow had stepped back and was watching with something like professional interest on his face. Chill was nearby as well, his kind, calm presence steadying. The crowd had turned my way, clearly curious. I took a slow, settling breath. An audition at the Lifted Gate Tavern ought to be easy—after all, I had impressed Master Bard Cyprian Southack. I shut my eyes.
My guitar came to life as I launched into the galliard I had played three times on Symphony Hill. The jaunty triple-time dance flew from the sheepgut strings, and for a few bars I was lost in the music… but something was wrong. As soon as I identified it, I could hear it clearly: the voices of the folk filling the Lifted Gate hadn’t quieted. Plates, bowls, and glasses clattered around the room. Someone let out a braying laugh. Someone else belched boozily.
I opened my eyes. My ears hadn’t lied: I was losing the crowd. No, I’d never had them in the first place. I looked around desperately, seeking a friendly face. Freda was scowling, Chill looked concerned, and Alix just watched me with an eyebrow cocked. I hit a bad note, then another. Suddenly it was as though I had never heard a galliard in my life. The tune’s lively tempo slowed as I tried to concentrate on my fingering, but the more I focused on it, the worse it got. Now every third note was wrong, then every other one, until it barely sounded like music anymore.
I stopped.
I was expecting awkward, pitying silence, but the tavern kept chattering away. They didn’t seem to have noticed the music was over. It was almost worse.
“Well, she’s got the last bugger beat,” said Alix, leaning on the bar with glass in hand.
Freda shook her head. “Bard…”
“Wait,” I said. I hadn’t asked for this audition, but now that I had it, I wouldn’t let it go so easily. “One more song. If it stinks, I’ll go back to the kitchen.”
“That’ll make a nice epitaph.”
I looked at my hands. What could I play that would go over in a place like this? I had spent a year learning all the latest dances and processionals before leaving the highlands for Lackmore, but that effort plainly meant nothing at the Lifted Gate. Maybe…
“Maybe something simple?” said Alix.
I glanced up in surprise. Could she read minds? No, that was unlikely. Unless Alix was a mage, in which case it was entirely possible. Did Alix look like a mage? She certainly looked like something.
Whatever she was, she was right. I needed something simple, something to appeal to the folk who drank at taverns like the Lifted Gate, where Masters Stringfellow, O’Shanties, and Southack dared not tread.
I reset the guitar on my knee and strummed a few sad, simple chords. Then I opened my mouth and sang.
The shepherds have come in from all the far hills
The smith from her smithy, the boys from the mill
So put flint to tinder and strike up the fire
That burns in a highland hearth
The shearing is done, well, at least for today
We’ve taken the yoke off the sleepy old bay
So put down your carding and sit by the fire
That burns in a highland hearth
The third verse arrived—the moment I loved most, when the song shifted from melancholy harmonies to hopeful ones.
Play me a song, bard, or tell me a tale
And you’ll have a mug of the finest brown ale
Oh put words to music and hands to your lyre
And sing by a highland hearth
The barroom was quiet. Next came the singalong, and as I approached it I grew anxious that nobody would join in. Back home, everyone joined in. But here…
Come, all, come to the fire
Come, all, come to the fire
Come, all, come to the fire
And sing by a highland hearth
Not a single voice had accompanied mine. Rather than repeat the singalong like usual, I ended it there, with a final chord that rang out into the room. The sound of the guitar died, leaving silence behind. I opened my eyes and found every face in the tavern turned toward me. Then, one by one, the customers went back to their food and drink. The clatter of dishware rose up again, but not the conversation. There was no suggestion of applause.
I slipped off the stool and leaned my guitar against it. At the other end of the bar, Alix gave her glass of honey wine a push. It slid the length of the bartop and came to rest directly in front of me, and she followed it, skirting barstools until she stood at my side.
I stared down into the swirling golden drink. “Are you joking? That was a disaster. Do you not know ‘Highland Hearth’ down here? No one sang along.”
“No.” Alix put a finger to her lips. “Hark.”
I did as instructed, but like before, all I heard was spoons, bowls, and glasses rattling. I shook my head. “There’s nothing.”
“Bingo. They didn’t applaud you, they shut their chops and drank. Now shut yours and mind, for in three, two, one…”
A chair scraped against the floor as the dwarf Bim pushed back from his table and stood. By the fire, a rotund halfling in a friar’s robe heaved himself up. One by one, nearly everyone in the tavern finished their drink and headed to the bar, crowding around and calling for Freda’s attention. Soon she was a blur of activity, tapping, pouring, wiping, and stuffing coin after coin into her apron.
Alix and I watched her work for a minute, then suddenly Alix stuck out her hand. “Alix Bon Vallu, post to post. If you’ve ever sent a letter between here and Sunhollow, chances are it rode in my pouch.”
I gripped it, feeling strangely self-conscious about the calluses on my fingertips. “Gally Chaparral. I do the dishes.”
“Like hell you do,” Alix said. “You’re a born bard, Gally girl.” Just as suddenly, she let go of my hand and went back to watching Freda. When the last drinker had ambled back to his seat, Alix cocked an eyebrow at me. “See? When people use their gobs for talking, they don’t use them for drinking. You reversed that with a song. Now Freda’s rolling in coin.”
“I hate to say she’s right, so I won’t.” Freda was there, wiping her hands on a fresh rag. “But I’ll admit we’ve not seen a run like that in months. Throw something together for Thursday night, bard, and we’ll see how the punters like it. But don’t you start playing any of that fancy stuff. Your job is to sell ale, and don’t forget it.”
CHAPTER SIX
MOLTO ALLEGRO
When I entered Master Southack’s studio on Sunday morning, he was at his writing desk studying some papers. He didn’t look up. “Ah, Miss Chaparral. Right on time.”
“Good morning, sir.” I set my guitar case down and knelt to open it, stifling a yawn as I did. Southack’s chambers were as blessedly warm as before—if anything, the fire in the hearth was even bigger. It was dangerously soporific, especially after a late night washing dishes, but welcome nonetheless. For a moment I didn’t move, just let the heat seep into my bones.
I pulled out my guitar and began tuning it. The warmth was almost enough to drive away the nervousness rattling around my stomach like the last nut in a bowl. I had put in the time with Southack’s étude, and I felt I knew it well, but there was no way to anticipate a new teacher’s expectations. On the other hand, he had shown flexibility in accepting me despite my highland upbringing and unusual instrument. Surely he would be reasonable in lessons.
“I understand you’ve been staying out late,” he said.
“Sir?” I stared at him, anxiety humming in my limbs. Filbert Bilberry had been reporting on me, that much was plain. What sort of trouble I was in remained to be seen.
“Are you performing, Miss Chaparral?”
“No, sir. I have a trial gig at a tavern this week—”
“Performance. True bards don’t ‘play gigs,’ they give performances.”
“A trial performance on Thursday, but the late nights are due to my job.”
“Ah.” Southack looked up from his desk and papers at last. “I would prefer you not maintain a job while studying under me, but if you must, you’ll have to find something else. It’s bad enough that practice time should be wasted, but missing out on sleep is simply unconscionable. You cannot master the pieces I assign without adequate rest. You will be incapable of performing to the degree I require. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I had come to Lackmore to study with the best, and that was Cyprian Southack. It would be foolish to waste that opportunity. And yet I couldn’t afford to give up my job, no matter how much he disapproved. If gigging—performing—would make my late nights acceptable to him, I would just have to land a gig.
“Henceforth, please bring your instrument in tune,” Southack said. He tapped his papers into a tidy stack and dropped them decisively on the desk. “Let’s begin. Étude number one, please. Molto allegro.”
“Of course, sir, just a moment.” I stood and looked for somewhere to sit while I played. There was a music stand of carved and polished oak, and I set my sheet music on it, but no stool.
“Now, please.”
“Of course, I just—er, do you have a stool? Or should I stand?”
“You will walk a circuit of the room while you play.” Southack stared at me, completely still-faced. I wondered if he was displaying a sense of humor, and if so, I should laugh.
“The étude, please,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” I ducked my head into my guitar strap and settled it on my shoulder. “It’s only… I can’t see the sheet music if I’m walking.”
“No.”
“Right, sir. From memory, then.”
I placed myself in front of the music stand—might as well grab what help I could—and thought of Thromli, whacking away at that great hunk of meat in the kitchen. We had worked up to quite a tempo together. A little smile curved my lips at the memory. With his brisk, steady rhythm in my head, I launched into the étude.
“Walk,” said Southack.
I walked. As I played through first bars of the piece, I stepped away from the music stand, trying to hold as much of the étude in my head as I could. A minor-key run was coming up, but was it the natural minor or the harmonic minor? I reached Southack’s desk, turned left, and chose the harmonic.
The melody rolled from my fingers in swift and steady time. My smile tightened in satisfaction—I had picked correctly. The tension in my stomach shrank away as I realized I could almost see the sheet music running along, measure after measure, as though it had been written on a single long scroll that was now unspooling before my eyes.
“Walk!”
I strolled to the hearth and glanced into the leaping flames. I ambled back to the music stand but felt no need to peek at the étude. I took another turn past the writing desk, and all the while, my left hand dashed up and down the fretboard of my guitar as if Master Southack’s deadly molto allegro were a mere andante stroll.
With a final flourish I brought the piece to an end, confident I hadn’t made a single mistake. The fire crackled cheerily as I stood awaiting Southack’s response.
He frowned. “Did you take your time from a woodcutter?”
“Did I—” I tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone suddenly dry. “What do you mean, sir?”
“Your tempo was adequate, but the cadence was stiff.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Just because a piece is an étude, Miss Chaparral, does not mean we may handle it roughly. To play a piece without grace is to disrespect it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Half of me wanted to make excuses and the other half wanted to defend Thromli’s axe-work. But more than anything I wanted to ask how, by all the Lords Above and Below, Master Southack had known.
“Now listen.” Southack moved to a cabinet and lifted out a viol of heartwood so deeply polished it seemed to glow golden in the firelight. He produced a bow, drew it once across the strings to reveal the instrument was perfectly in tune, and launched into the étude I had just played.
I stared in awe as the piece flowed from his fingers. His tempo was faster than mine by at least ten heartbeats, but beyond that, I heard immediately how it moved in a way mine hadn’t, speeding and relaxing subtly like the ebb and flow of a pulse. Not because Master Southack was incapable of keeping perfect time; rather, he played with such control that those nearly imperceptible shifts in tempo occurred at his whim, adding emphasis as he desired.
For all his words stung, they had been true. I had played the étude without any mistakes, but also without any grace. Southack played it not as a teaching exercise, but as music.
When it was over, he set his viol back in its cabinet and turned to me with a question implicit on his face.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I understand.”
“Very good.” He nodded. “From the top, Miss Chaparral.”
I spent the week practicing, but not what I wanted.
After a late Tuesday night at the Gate, featuring a trio of elven doctors who generated more dishes than a dozen average orcs, I slept until nearly noon. When I finally woke on Wednesday, the boardinghouse was alive with music: a rich soprano singing melismatic warmups, ringing scales on a lyre, and somewhat inexplicably for a cramped basement, the tinkling of a harpsichord. Maybe there was something to Filbert’s theory that the Southack Method made you an early riser.
I crawled out of bed and tied up my hair. I had focused on Southack’s étude all week, and I was overdue to construct a setlist for my performance at the Lifted Gate the next day. As I tuned up my guitar, I pondered what songs would be certain to go over well—I wanted no replays of Friday’s close call.
Inspired by Nose Cabbage, I decided to try “Drink, Drank, Drunk,” a goblin carousing song that came in about two dozen versions ranging from child friendly to extravagantly gory. I played a short intro and sang,
Goblins live to fight and slay,
Drink, drank—
A vigorous knock at the door interrupted me. I set my guitar down and was about to rise to answer it when a voice called, “Hello, Gally! It’s me, Filbert Bilberry, the boardinghouse prefect! Can I speak to you a moment?”
I sighed. “Come in, it’s not locked.”
The door creaked open and Filbert’s felt-hatted head appeared, peering around as though he might encounter something dangerous or immoral in my room. Apparently he found the coast clear, because he entered and shut the door behind him.
“I wanted to talk to you about your playing.”
“Is there a problem? Everyone else is practicing—pretty loud, in the case of that lyre.”
“That was me. Did you like it? But no, the volume is fine, thank you. It’s the piece itself. I just wanted to make sure you remembered our chat about boardinghouse etiquette. No outside music is permitted.”
I didn’t remember that—I hadn’t paid much attention to Filbert’s list of rules after the one about goats—but I didn’t want to admit it. “Of course,” I said. “Could you remind me what’s meant by ‘outside music?’”
