Lark and Wren (32 page)

She shook her head. "Here for the trials, m'lord. Not planning on busking."

Which was the truth. She wasn't
planning
on busking. If something came up, or she was practicing and people chose to pay her-well, that wasn't planned, was it?

"Ah." He appeared satisfied. "You come in good time, boy. The trials begin tomorrow. The Guild has its tent pitched hard by the main gate of the Cathedral; you should have no trouble finding it."

She thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to the next in line. She passed inside the log walls and entered the Faire itself.

The first impressions she had were of noise and light; torches burned all along the aisle she traversed; the booths to either side were lit by lanterns, candles, or other, more expensive methods, like perfumed oil-lamps. The crowd was noisy; so were the merchants. Even by torchlight it was plain that these were the booths featuring shoddier goods; second-hand finery, brass jewelry, flash and tinsel. The entertainers here were-surprising. She averted her eyes from a set of dancers. It wasn't so much that they wore little but imagination, but the
way
they were dancing embarrassed even her; Amber had never permitted anything like
this
in her House. And the fellow with the dancers back at the Westhaven Faire hadn't had his girls doing anything like this, either.

Truth to tell, they tended to move as little as possible. 

She kept a tight grip on her pouch and instruments, tried to ignore the crush, and let the flow of fairgoers carry her along.

Eventually the crowd thinned out a bit (though not before she'd felt a ghostly hand or two try for her pouch and give it up as a bad cause). She followed her nose then, looking for the row that held the cook-shop tents and the ale-sellers. She hadn't eaten since this morning, and her stomach was lying in umcomfortably close proximity to her spine.

She learned that the merchants of tavern-row were shrewd judges of clothing; hers wasn't fine enough to be offered a free taste, but she wasn't wearing garments poor enough that they felt she needed to be shooed away. Sternly admonishing her stomach to be less impatient, she strolled the length of the row twice, carefully comparing prices and quantities, before settling on a humble tent that offered meat pasties (best not ask what beast the meat came from, not at these prices) and fruit juice or milk as well as ale and wine. Best of all, it offered seating at rough trestle-tables as well. Her feet were complaining as much as her stomach.

Rune took her flaky pastry and her mug of juice and found a spot at any empty table where she could eat and watch the crowds passing by. No wine or ale for her; not even had she the coppers to spare for it. She dared not be the least muddle-headed, not with a secret to keep and the first round of competition in the morning. The pie was more crust than meat, but it was filling and well-made and fresh; that counted for a great deal.

She watched the other customers, and noted with amusement that there were two sorts of the clumsy, crude clay mugs. One sort, the kind they served the milk and juice in, was ugly and shapeless, too ugly to be worth stealing but was just as capacious as the exterior promised. No doubt, that was because children were often more observant than adults gave them credit for-and very much inclined to set up a howl if something didn't meet implied expectations. The other sort of mug, for wine and ale, was just the same ugly shape and size on the
outside
, though a different shade of toad-back green, but had a far thicker bottom, effectively reducing the interior capacity by at least a third. Which a thirsty adult probably wouldn't notice.

"Come for the trials, lad?" asked a quiet voice in her ear.

Rune jumped, nearly knocking her mug over, and snatching at it just in time to save the contents from drenching her shopworn finery. And however would she have gotten it clean again in time for tomorrow's competition? There hadn't been a sound or a hint of movement, or even the shifting of the bench to warn her, but now there was a man sitting beside her.

He was of middle years, red hair just going to gray a little at the temples, smile-wrinkles around his mouth and gray-green eyes, with a candid, triangular face. Well, that said nothing; Rune had known highwaymen with equally friendly and open faces. His costume was similar to her own, though; leather breeches instead of velvet, good linen instead of worn silk, a vest and a leather hat that could have been twin to hers. But the telling marks were the knots of ribbon on the sleeves of his shirt-and the neck of a lute peeking over his shoulder. A minstrel!

Of the Guild? Could it be possible that here at the Faire there'd be Guild musicians working the "streets"? Rune rechecked the ribbons on his sleeves, and was disappointed. Blue and scarlet and green, not the purple and silver of a Guild Minstrel, nor the purple and gold of a Guild Bard. This was only a common busker, a mere street-player. Still, he'd bespoken her kindly enough, and God knew not everyone with the music-passion had the skill or the talent to pass the trials-

Look at Tonno. He'd never even gotten as far as busking.

"Aye, sir," she replied politely. "I've hopes to pass; I think I've the talent, and others have said as much."

Including the sour Brother Pell. When she'd told him good-bye and the reason for leaving, he'd not only wished her well, he'd actually cracked a smile, and said that of all his pupils,
she
was the one he'd have chosen to send to the trials.

The stranger's eyes measured her keenly, and she had the disquieting feeling that her boy-ruse was fooling
him
not at all. "Ah well," he replied, "There's a-many before you have thought the same, and failed."

"That may be-" She answered the challenge in his eyes, stung into revealing what she'd kept quiet until now. "But I'd bet a copper penny that none of
them
fiddled for a murdering ghost, and not only came out by the grace of their skill but were rewarded by that same spirit for amusing him!"

"Oh, so?" A lifted eyebrow was all the indication he gave of being impressed, but somehow that lifted brow conveyed volumes. And he believed her; she read that, too. "You've made a song of it, surely?"

Should I sing it now?
Well, why not? After the next couple of days, it wouldn't be a secret anymore. "Have I not! It's to be my entry for the third day of testing."

"Well, then . . ." he said no more than that, but his wordless attitude of waiting compelled Rune to unsling her fiddle case, extract her instrument, and tune it without further prompting.

"It's the fiddle that's my first instrument," she said, feeling as if she must apologize for singing with a fiddle rather than her lute, since the lute was clearly his instrument. "And since 'twas the fiddle that made the tale-"

"Never apologize for a song, child," he admonished, interrupting her. "Let it speak out for itself. Now let's hear this ghost tale."

It wasn't easy to sing while fiddling, but Rune had managed the trick of it some time ago. She closed her eyes a half-moment, fixing in her mind the necessary changes she'd made to the lyrics-for unchanged, the song would have given her sex away-and began.

"I sit here on a rock, and curse my stupid, bragging tongue,

And curse the pride that would not let me back down from a boast

And wonder where my wits went, when I took that challenge up

And swore that I would go and fiddle for the Skull Hill Ghost!"Oh, that was a damn fool move, Rune. And you knew it when you did it. But if you hadn't taken their bet, you wouldn't be here now. 

"It's midnight, and there's not a sound up here upon Skull Hill

Then comes a wind that chills my blood and makes the leaves blow wild-"Not a good word choice, but a change that had to be made-that was one of the giveaway verses. 

"And rising up in front of me, a thing like shrouded Death.

A voice says, 'Give me reason why I shouldn't kill you, child.' "The next verse described Rune's answer to the spirit, and the fiddle wailed of fear and determination and things that didn't rightly belong on Earth. Then came the description of that night-long, lightless ordeal she'd passed through, and the fiddle shook with the weariness she'd felt, playing the whole night long.

Then the tune rose with dawning triumph when the thing not only didn't kill her outright, but began to warm to the music she'd made. Now she had an audience of more than one, though she was only half aware of the fact.

"At last the dawnlight strikes my eyes; I stop, and see the sun

The light begins to chase away the dark and midnight cold-

And then the light strikes something more-I stare in dumb surprise-

For where the ghost had stood there is a heap of shining gold!"The fiddle laughed at Death cheated, thumbed its nose at spirits, and chortled over the revelation that even the angry dead could be impressed and forced to reward courage and talent.

Rune stopped, and shook back brown locks dark with sweat, and looked about her in astonishment at the applauding patrons of the cook-tent. She was even more astonished when they began to toss coppers in her open fiddle case, and the cook-tent's owner brought her over a full pitcher of juice and a second pie.

"I'd'a brought ye wine, laddie, but Master Talaysen there says ye go to trials and mustna be a-muddled," she whispered as she hurried back to her counter.

But this hadn't been a performance-at least, not for more than one! "I hadn't meant-"

"Surely this isn't the first time you've played for your supper, child?" The minstrel's eyes were full of amused irony.

She flushed. "Well, no, but-"

"So take your well-earned reward and don't go arguing with folk who have a bit of copper to fling at you, and who recognize the Gift when they hear it. No mistake, youngling, you
have
the Gift. And sit and eat; you've more bones than flesh. A good tale, that."

She peeked at the contents of the case before she answered him. Not a single pin in the lot. Folks certainly do fling money about at this Faire. 

"Well," Rune said, and blushed, "I did exaggerate a bit at the end. 'Twasn't gold, it was silver, but silver won't rhyme. And it was that silver that got me here-bought me my second instrument, paid for lessoning, kept me fed while I was learning. I'd be just another tavern-musician, otherwise-" She broke off, realizing who and what she was talking to.

"Like me, you are too polite to say?" The minstrel smiled, then the smile faded. "There are worse things, child, than to be a free musician. I don't think there's much doubt your Gift will get you past the trials-but you might not find the Guild to be all you think it to be."

Rune shook her head stubbornly, taking a moment to wonder why she'd told this stranger so much, and why she so badly wanted his good opinion. Maybe it was just that he reminded her of a much younger Tonno. Maybe it was simply needing the admiration of a fellow musician. "Only a Guild Minstrel would be able to earn a place in a noble's train. Only a Guild Bard would have the chance to sing for royalty. I'm sorry to contradict you, sir, but I've had my taste of wandering, singing my songs out only to know they'll be forgotten in the next drink, wondering where my next meal is coming from. I'll never get a secure life except through the Guild, and I'll never see my songs live beyond me without their patronage."

He sighed. "I hope you never regret your decision, child. But if you should-or if you need help, ever, here at the Faire or elsewhere-well, just ask around the Gypsies or the musicians for Talaysen. Or for Master Wren; some call me that as well. I'll stand your friend."

With those surprising words, he rose soundlessly, as gracefully as a bird in flight, and slipped out of the tent. Just before he passed out of sight among the press of people, he pulled his lute around to the front, and struck a chord. She managed to hear the first few notes of a love song, the words rising golden and glorious from his throat, before the crowd hid him from view and the babble of voices obscured the music.

She strolled the Faire a bit more; bought herself a sweet-cake, and watched the teaser-shows outside some of the show-tents. She wished she wasn't in boy-guise; there were many good-looking young men here, and not all of them were going about with young women. Having learned more than a bit about preventing pregnancy at Amber's, she'd spent a little of her convalescence in losing her virginity with young Shawm. The defloration was mutual, as it turned out; she'd reflected after she left that it might have been better with a more experienced lover, but at least they'd been equals in ignorance. Towards the end they'd gotten better at it; she had at least as much pleasure out of love-play as he did. They'd parted as they'd begun-friends. And she had the feeling that Maddie was going to be his next and more serious target.

Well, at least I got him broken in for her! 

But it was too bad that she was in disguise. Even downright plain girls seemed to be having no trouble finding company, and if after a day or two it turned into more than company-

Never mind. If they work me as hard as I think they will in the Guild, I won't have any time for dalliance. So I might as well get used to celibacy again. 

But as the tent-lined streets of the Faire seemed to hold more and more couples, she decided it was time to leave. She needed the sleep, anyway.

Everything was still where she'd left it. Praying for a dry night, she lined her chosen root-hollow with bracken, and settled in for the night.

Rune was waiting impatiently outside the Guild tent the next morning, long before there was anyone there to take her name for the trials. The tent itself was, as the Faire guard had said, hard to miss; purple in the main, with pennons and edgings of silver and gilt. Almost-
too
much; it bordered on the gaudy. She was joined shortly by three more striplings, one well-dressed and confident, two sweating and nervous. More trickled in as the sun rose higher, until there was a line of twenty or thirty waiting when the Guild Registrar, an old and sour-looking Church cleric, raised the tent-flap to let them file inside. He wasn't wearing Guild colors, but rather a robe of dusty gray linen; she was a little taken aback since she hadn't been aware of a connection between the Guild and the Church before, other than the fact that there were many Guild musicians and Bards who had taken vows.