Redwing (6 page)

“Could I give you a sample, sir?” he asked.

The scratching stopped, and Rowan glimpsed the publican's tired eyes widening in surprise. The button box was a fairly new invention, and there were few with the know-how to make and set the delicate metal reeds and rows of horn buttons. They wouldn't see one often in the backcountry—and Rowan's was one of the best. More to the point for this demonstration, it was a beautiful instrument, inlaid on the ends with enamel and mother-of-pearl, the bellows made of supple black kidskin. Without waiting for permission, Rowan began a breakneck version of a popular reel. He wasn't a flashy-looking player—his father had told him more than once that he hunched over his box like a broody hen—but he didn't have to be. The box had enough flash for both of them.

“By the Blessed Brew! Now
that's
music!”

The old boy doesn't look so tired now
, thought Rowan. In fact he was grinning from ear to ear. “I didn't expect that from a lad so young, and that's a fact.” Young or old, it wouldn't be often that this town saw musicians as accomplished as Rowan. But in this case, being underestimated worked in his favor.

“There'll be plenty more tonight, and my partner here does a very good job of backing me up,” Rowan assured him. He felt Aydin stiffen behind him at the slight, but it was clear that the publican's first impression of Aydin had not been good. Better to downplay his role.

“We'll play for your best dinner and a silver dallion each,” Rowan offered.

“Dinner and a
half
-dallion apiece,” countered the owner.

“For a half-dallion each, we'll play through the dinner rush,” said Rowan. “Then you feed us. If there is enough of a crowd left afterward and you want us to continue, another half-dallion between us.” He stuck out his hand. “Mister…?”

“Oh, just call me Burl.” Burl sighed and brushed palms with Rowan. “If I'm going to be bleeding my life savings into your pockets, you'll hardly be calling me Mister.” He pointed a stubby finger at the boys. “People will come early on account of the rain. Be here by five bells—and you'd better have more than that one tune.”

They didn't have all that many more, Rowan reflected as they pelted back to the caravan under a cold driving rain. Aydin was a fast learner but easily distracted. They had less than one hour to cram a few more tunes. He hoped his new partner could beat a drum in time to the pieces he didn't know.

I'm having fun
, Rowan realized with a jolt, as they dove into the caravan. The bargaining, the practicing, even the challenge of putting together a decent act at such short notice. For the first time since—Rowan rarely finished that phrase in his thoughts.
Since
had come to stand for just one event. But for the first time since, he actually cared about his craft. He would work hard tonight to make it a good show.

IN BED THAT NIGHT, Rowan for once felt truly relaxed—tired in a good way, from a long day's work. “Well fed, well paid and well played,” his father used to say at the end of a day like this. The clenching knot in his belly that had become his constant companion had eased. The tension between himself and Aydin was also—for now—gone. They had done well together, Rowan even managing to drum up the crowd's interest in a few of Aydin's pieces by presenting his knowledge of “the exotic music of the Tarzine Lands” as a “rare treat” for their discerning ears.

Now, in the quiet darkness of the caravan, Rowan finally felt able to voice the questions that had been worrying him.

“Aydin.” He blurted it out before he had a chance to change his mind. “About my sister…”

“Finally.” Aydin's voice floated back to him from the back of the caravan. “I was beginning to think you would never speak of her.”

“Do you still see her?”

“Yes, she's here. Not as clear as last night.”

“Why is that—is she leaving?” Rowan didn't know if he would be relieved or sorry if Ettie left.

“I don't think so. We were sitting beside the stove that night—spirits are stronger around fire.”

“Why?”

The covers rustled, and Rowan could picture Aydin's elaborate rippling shrug. “Who knows? Maybe the heat gives them energy.”

“Aydin…” Rowan paused, trying to marshal his thoughts. What did he actually want to ask? “Why is she here?”

“How should I know? I don't talk to them, I just see them.” The dismissive, almost contemptuous tone was back (
stupid Backender
), but Rowan made himself ignore it. This was too important to get sidetracked into an argument.

“Yes, but…how does she seem? I mean, does she look sad or in trouble, or what?” Something had kept her from moving on to the deadlands. Why hadn't she gone with his parents?

Aydin's voice softened. “I don't think so. They say the dead sometimes stay because they get lost and cannot find their way to the spirit world, and that others stay because of a great anger that holds them to the earth. I do not think either is true of your sister. She is not drifting about aimlessly—she stays very close to you. It's hard to see ghosts in bright daylight, but she came up very clear on our first meeting, when I tried to chase you out of the square. And she doesn't look angry. She looks—” There was a pause while Aydin considered. “She looks
watchful.
”

She's watching over me.
The thought came to Rowan with a certainty that took his breath away. Hadn't she been like that in life, mending the rip in his shirt before their mother was even aware of it, slipping him the last honey cake from a pocket in her apron? Rowan was stricken with remorse at how little notice he'd taken of these gestures and how often he'd brushed off the little girl trailing behind him.

Oh, Ettie.
The tears welled up and spilled down Rowan's cheeks when he tried to blink them away. She was here because of him, so he wouldn't be left alone. But she shouldn't have stayed. He was holding her to the earth when she should be resting in the peace of the dead-lands before entering her next life.

Snores broke the dark silence. Aydin or Wolf? He couldn't tell. Either way, Rowan found it comforting rather than annoying. It was nice not to be completely alone. And it was nice—he surprised himself with this thought—yes, it
was
nice to think that Ettie was nearby. All the guilt he felt about keeping her earthbound could not change that fact: it felt good to fall asleep in his chilly caravan thinking that his sister was, in some way, still in the bunk across from his.

EIGHT

D
espite their late night, the boys had the mules harnessed and ready to go well before midmorning. It had been decided over dinner that they would travel together for a while.

“So you have plans?” Aydin had asked in his direct way. “Besides wandering around piss-pot towns in a caravan, I mean?”

“Of course I do.” Rowan's voice was a little too vehement, mainly because, until very recently, he
hadn't
had any plans. He had not been able to think in terms of a future extending beyond the next couple of days. Not that it had taken much thinking—it was obvious what he should do.

“I need to get to Clifton, on the south coast, by the beginning of the Month of Rains. That's…” Rowan squinted across the smoky inn, trying in vain to figure it out. “Well, I'm not sure exactly when that is. I've kind of lost track of time lately. But it's coming up soon.”

Aydin raised his eyebrows in mock dismay. “Weeks of snow, and now we are in for rains?”

“I heard,” said Rowan casually, “that half the Tarzine lands are desert, good for nothing but goats.”

“And I heard,” countered Aydin, “that the Backender old ones all have moss growing out their ears from the constant damp.”

Prosper and the Tarzine Lands did have very different climates. The sprawling island they shared was defined by the looming cones of three large volcanoes that had burst out of the high mountain backbone of the island. Though they had not erupted in living memory, the land surrounding them was a dead black sea of hardened lava, a harsh no-man's-land that no one—neither Tarzine nor Prosperian—cared to cross. The prevailing winds swept across Prosper and foundered on the mountains, bringing rain and a rich silt of lava ash that made the country green and sometimes sodden. The land on the other side was warmer and drier, less fertile overall but able to grow some crops—grapes, for example—that couldn't survive Prosper's winter storms.

“And so, why this Clifton place? You have family there?” Just for a second, Rowan thought, Aydin looked wistful. The impression was fleeting, but it gave him a jolt. Even when Aydin had told his terrible story, Rowan had never really thought how frightening his friend's flight must have been, how lonely to be traveling a strange land with no word of his family. For all his haughty self-assurance, Aydin was adrift, just like Rowan.

Rowan shook his head. He could go to his Uncle Ward and Aunt Cardinal—he would
have
to go at some point, at least to pass on the news of what had happened—but he couldn't see himself staying at their rural home up in sheep country for long. He was almost sixteen, too old to depend on others for his livelihood, and certainly not about to trade in his music to work in his uncle's business, even if it were offered. That big room full of clacking looms and the storefront piled to the rafters with bolts of cloth was the last place he'd want to spend his days.

He shook his head again, this time to dispel that unwelcome vision. “No, Clifton is…well, it's like the center of all music.” Aydin snorted, and Rowan corrected himself. “I mean all
Prosperian
music. The guildhall is there, and many of the best instrument makers, master teachers in every instrument…But mainly, every spring there is a great gathering of musicians. Musicians looking for hire, ensembles that need extra players, stewards whose lords are wanting music for a special occasion or house players for the year. You can sign up to play on the official showcase program, but there is also work everywhere. Many people come just to listen, so every inn and pub has music night and day. Even the street players do well.”

Aydin was listening intently. “So you will go and find work, new people to play with?”

“I hope so, yes.” Said bald like that, it made Rowan's stomach roil. He'd often played with different people for a few tunes or an evening, but to actually join up with strangers, live with them, travel with them—well, plenty of players did just that. He would just have to get used to it.

“It's a big place, this Clifton?” Aydin waved his hand back and forth. “Bigger than this, I mean?”

“Much bigger,” Rowan assured him. “It pretty much doubles its population in the spring, but even through the year it's a good-sized town.”

“And it's a harbor town, I suppose, being on the coast?”

“Uh-uh.” Rowan shook his head, his mouth too full to speak. Piss-pot town or no, Burl's roast lamb was the best meal he'd had, well…since. He took his time swallowing, then shot Aydin a look. “Names mean something around here, remember? It's a cliff town. No harbor—just a sheer rock wall into the sea.”

Aydin nodded thoughtfully. “It will suit me, I think, this Cliff-town.”

THEY TRAVELED SOUTH into full spring. Rowan knew the weather was more or less the same all over Prosper, but it really seemed they were leaving the last of winter behind their wheels.

Within days, the nights were warm enough that they abandoned the smoky stove for open-air campfires and, when they weren't working, sat and watched the flames for hours. They talked (at Aydin's prodding) or played (at Rowan's urging) or simply sat, each wrapped in the private, drifting thoughts that fire always seemed to summon.

“Your sister likes our music, I think,” Aydin remarked one night.

“Why? Is she here now?” Rowan tried to peer into the darkness beyond the fire without looking like he was trying to see her.

Aydin rolled his eyes. “Of course she is here. She is always here. When she disappears, I will tell you.”

“So why do you think—?”

Aydin gestured at the air. Rowan squinted fiercely at the empty space, willing Ettie to appear.

“She is very clear by the fire here. But when we play, she becomes…brighter. Like a light was kindled inside her.”

Rowan's throat tightened, and the tears welled up treacherously. Just when he thought he was getting used to the idea, could think of Ettie with a semblance of composure, something like this would undo him. It was as apt a description of Ettie's smile as he could wish for. She was—had been—an ordinary-looking girl, not destined for any great beauty, but when she smiled, she was transformed.
Like a light was kindled inside her.
It was a minute before he trusted himself to reply.

“She used to love to watch us play.”

Aydin nodded. “And what did she play?”

“Ettie? Nothing.” But not for lack of trying. That was a not-so-good family memory: Cashel's growing frustration with Ettie's lack of ability and her growing despair. “She had…”
A tin ear. Wooden fingers.
“She just didn't have the gift, I guess.”

Cashel had given her a high whistle for her seventh birthday—a compact instrument just right for small hands, and a good counterpoint to their mother's lower wood flute. And she had been so excited to learn…except she hadn't. Couldn't. Cashel and Hazel both taught her, and she practiced as diligently as Rowan ever had. Yet month after month, her whistle was shrill and off-key, her fingering slow, her rhythm jerky.

Gently, Hazel suggested Ettie try the fiddle. Maybe she just wasn't a mouth player.

Things were even worse with the fiddle. It set Cashel's teeth on edge to hear his own instrument tortured day after day, and his usual kindness became strained. By the time Ettie was nine and had been training for two years, the whole family began to dread her lessons. Cashel's corrections became more and more impatient, his (blatantly untrue) accusations that she was “simply not trying” more frequent, and the whole ordeal, more often than not, ended with Ettie sobbing on her bed.