Read Online A Minstrel’s Quest (The Trouble with Magic Book 4) by B. J. Beach - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: B. J. Beach
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back as Otty sat beside him, a tankard of ale in his hand. “Are you going to play?”
The minstrel nodded. “I will directly, but first I want to tell you what’s been happening, and how I got this gimalin.”
Apart from making the odd comment, Otty listened quietly, supping his ale as Corlin told him how he came to be the proud possessor of the beautiful instrument and of everything that had happened since he left Redmire. By the time he had finished, their tankards were empty and the bar was full. His expression thoughtful, Otty pushed his way through to the bar for more ale, while Corlin un-wrapped the gimalin, settled it against his body and fingered a few notes to check the tuning. The loud voices and hearty laughter faded to a subdued hum of murmured conversation as expectant faces turned toward him. The minstrel played. He began with a traditional tune just to get the gimalin in full voice. When the polite applause had died down he struck up a popular and rather bawdy ballad. By the time he had reached the second verse most of the inn’s customers had joined in and the bar was alive with music and laughter. The innkeeper smiled in anticipation of a lively and profitable night.
While Corlin was taking a short break he noticed that Otty wasn’t nearly as drunk as he knew he could be. He peered into Otty’s tankard. It was still half full and the ale looked decidedly flat. The man still hadn’t got round to telling Corlin why he was in Tregwald, and the minstrel’s curiosity was really beginning to burn. Although he’d only known him for a few days, Corlin already thought of Otty as a friend. Now, he wasn’t drinking, hardly talking and Corlin was worried.
He had played no more than the opening bars of another ballad when his worries about Otty were pushed aside by worries of a far different and more immediate kind. The loud and urgent clangour of several bells carried in from outside, laying a jarring disharmony over the music of the gimalin.
Someone cried out “That’s the alarum!”
Drink and music were instantly forgotten as customers rushed for the door and surged out into the street. The innkeeper, his face set in a disapproving scowl, leaned heavily on the bar, his gaze fixed on the view through the open door. Eyes wide, Corlin and Otty looked at each other and stayed put. Shouts, exclamations and the clatter of clogs and boots running in the packed-stone street provided a fractured accompaniment to the uncoordinated voices of the bells, whose message had changed from alarum to a chorus of single tolling notes from at least half a dozen bell-towers. Sensing that this was the wrong time for music, Corlin wrapped the gimalin in its blue cloth and put it aside. He looked up to see Otty with his mouth open and staring at the doorway. Corlin followed his gaze.
Standing with arms outstretched, one hand on each doorpost and effectively blocking the doorway, a heavily built man wearing a pitted and scorched leather apron, glared down the room at Corlin. “Will you try and run, minstrel?” He gestured towards Corlin’s twisted left foot. “I don’t think you’d get very far.”
Otty made to stand up but Corlin put a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. The minstrel’s rich voice carried out into the street to the mob gathered pushing, muttering and threatening behind the man in the doorway. “What reason would I have to run, master black-smith?”
The man held his position in the open doorway. His mocking laugh rang round the room. “You deny it was you, minstrel?”
Corlin felt he knew what was coming. “Are you accusing me of something?”
The smith scowled as the mob howled behind him. “Strange that you should turn up here barely a day after Duke Ergwyn’s gimalin was played. Who else could it have been but you? You have the talent, you played it, and now the duke is dead.” He turned and roared at the swelling crowd out in the street. “Keep quiet and stay back.
The minstrel nodded. “I will directly, but first I want to tell you what’s been happening, and how I got this gimalin.”
Apart from making the odd comment, Otty listened quietly, supping his ale as Corlin told him how he came to be the proud possessor of the beautiful instrument and of everything that had happened since he left Redmire. By the time he had finished, their tankards were empty and the bar was full. His expression thoughtful, Otty pushed his way through to the bar for more ale, while Corlin un-wrapped the gimalin, settled it against his body and fingered a few notes to check the tuning. The loud voices and hearty laughter faded to a subdued hum of murmured conversation as expectant faces turned toward him. The minstrel played. He began with a traditional tune just to get the gimalin in full voice. When the polite applause had died down he struck up a popular and rather bawdy ballad. By the time he had reached the second verse most of the inn’s customers had joined in and the bar was alive with music and laughter. The innkeeper smiled in anticipation of a lively and profitable night.
While Corlin was taking a short break he noticed that Otty wasn’t nearly as drunk as he knew he could be. He peered into Otty’s tankard. It was still half full and the ale looked decidedly flat. The man still hadn’t got round to telling Corlin why he was in Tregwald, and the minstrel’s curiosity was really beginning to burn. Although he’d only known him for a few days, Corlin already thought of Otty as a friend. Now, he wasn’t drinking, hardly talking and Corlin was worried.
He had played no more than the opening bars of another ballad when his worries about Otty were pushed aside by worries of a far different and more immediate kind. The loud and urgent clangour of several bells carried in from outside, laying a jarring disharmony over the music of the gimalin.
Someone cried out “That’s the alarum!”
Drink and music were instantly forgotten as customers rushed for the door and surged out into the street. The innkeeper, his face set in a disapproving scowl, leaned heavily on the bar, his gaze fixed on the view through the open door. Eyes wide, Corlin and Otty looked at each other and stayed put. Shouts, exclamations and the clatter of clogs and boots running in the packed-stone street provided a fractured accompaniment to the uncoordinated voices of the bells, whose message had changed from alarum to a chorus of single tolling notes from at least half a dozen bell-towers. Sensing that this was the wrong time for music, Corlin wrapped the gimalin in its blue cloth and put it aside. He looked up to see Otty with his mouth open and staring at the doorway. Corlin followed his gaze.
Standing with arms outstretched, one hand on each doorpost and effectively blocking the doorway, a heavily built man wearing a pitted and scorched leather apron, glared down the room at Corlin. “Will you try and run, minstrel?” He gestured towards Corlin’s twisted left foot. “I don’t think you’d get very far.”
Otty made to stand up but Corlin put a firm hand on his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. The minstrel’s rich voice carried out into the street to the mob gathered pushing, muttering and threatening behind the man in the doorway. “What reason would I have to run, master black-smith?”
The man held his position in the open doorway. His mocking laugh rang round the room. “You deny it was you, minstrel?”
Corlin felt he knew what was coming. “Are you accusing me of something?”
The smith scowled as the mob howled behind him. “Strange that you should turn up here barely a day after Duke Ergwyn’s gimalin was played. Who else could it have been but you? You have the talent, you played it, and now the duke is dead.” He turned and roared at the swelling crowd out in the street. “Keep quiet and stay back.
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