ticked with mustard flecks watched him back, neither dazzled nor curious. Not a lash or a lid quivered at Dakar’s display; the minstrel apprentice’s pupils, widened in the dimness, failed to narrow so much as a hair’s-breadth.
‘Forgive me,’ Medlir said. ‘I wasn’t thinking, of course. You must still be feeling quite shaky.’ He pushed aside his plate, leaned on his elbows, and peeled a flaked callus from a fingertip well thickened from fret board and lyranthe string. ‘We probably won’t be moving on today, anyway. Halliron slept poorly last night. Since he’ll do best if he rests until tomorrow, I will play in the common room to satisfy the landlord. You can have a bed and hot soup.’
Now Dakar grinned slyly back. ‘Actually, I’d rather hear you sing me the ballad of the Cat and the Mead.’
‘Which version?’ Medlir reached across the bench, lifted Halliron’s instrument, and began with enthusiasm to untie wrappings. ‘There’s the one that’s suitable for little children, and the one fit for nowhere but the bawdy house, and a half dozen variations that fall in the range in between.’
‘Oh, try the one that’s obscene,’ Dakar said, his plump chin propped on folded knuckles and his cheeks dimpled in contentment over his scraggle of red beard.
‘The one with eighty eight verses and that awfulrepetitive chorus?’ Medlir tucked the lyranthe on his lap, made swift adjustment of the strings, and caught Dakar’s nod as he dashed off a run in E major to test his tuning. ‘Well,’ he said with a long-suffering patience that Arithon s’Ffalenn had never owned. ‘About verse fifty, please remember, you were the one who insisted.’
Tribulation
When Halliron took a chill that left him unfit to travel for two days, Medlir accepted the setback in stride. In no haste himself to reach Shand, he regarded his requisite nightly performance in the posthouse taproom as time well spent in extra practice.
Confounded by his good nature, for the apprentice bard spent both mornings and afternoons put to task under his master’s critical ear, Dakar warmed his feet by the hearth and his belly with flagons of ale. He listened to Medlir’s stock of drinking songs, ready to pounce if the repertoire suffered repeats. When the minstrel’s inventiveness did not falter, he snatched sleep in catnaps and escaped any dreams of vengeful sorcerers.
Their last night at the posthouse was made rowdy by a passing company of mercenaries, ten men under a surly, sword-scarred captain who demolished a platter of roast turkey in the best corner and smoked a pipe until the air around his head blued to fug. Still in their mail and rust-stained tunics, his fighting company drank and gambled, enthusiastically abetted by Dakar.
Between the jingle of gear and rattling dice, the bittencurses and sarcastic slurs and rounds of big-bellied laughter, there came the inevitable exchange of news.
‘You come from northwards,’ the captain bellowed across the taproom to Medlir. He paused to pick gristle from his teeth. ‘What’ve you heard? We’re bound that way into Etarra. Ship’s Port was thick with rumour that the Prince of the West is luring on swords to build a retinue.’
Medlir companionably shrugged, his hands in idle play upon his strings. ‘Why should he? The city council keeps him in comfort. Last I heard, he hadn’t yet tired of the garrison commander’s pretty sister.’
The mercenary captain hunched forward like a bear. Through the incisors clamped on toothpick and pipe stem, he said, ‘Well, the recruiter sent out by the head-hunters’ league claimed Prince Lysaer’s been deeded Avenor’s lands. The grant came from the Mayor Elect of Korias.’
The silvery spill of notes changed character, became thinner, brighter, more brittle. If so, the charter’s hardly legal.’
Nobody took umbrage,- the comment was scarcely out of turn, Athera’s Masterbard being a keeper of traditions often consulted to clarify
‘Forgive me,’ Medlir said. ‘I wasn’t thinking, of course. You must still be feeling quite shaky.’ He pushed aside his plate, leaned on his elbows, and peeled a flaked callus from a fingertip well thickened from fret board and lyranthe string. ‘We probably won’t be moving on today, anyway. Halliron slept poorly last night. Since he’ll do best if he rests until tomorrow, I will play in the common room to satisfy the landlord. You can have a bed and hot soup.’
Now Dakar grinned slyly back. ‘Actually, I’d rather hear you sing me the ballad of the Cat and the Mead.’
‘Which version?’ Medlir reached across the bench, lifted Halliron’s instrument, and began with enthusiasm to untie wrappings. ‘There’s the one that’s suitable for little children, and the one fit for nowhere but the bawdy house, and a half dozen variations that fall in the range in between.’
‘Oh, try the one that’s obscene,’ Dakar said, his plump chin propped on folded knuckles and his cheeks dimpled in contentment over his scraggle of red beard.
‘The one with eighty eight verses and that awfulrepetitive chorus?’ Medlir tucked the lyranthe on his lap, made swift adjustment of the strings, and caught Dakar’s nod as he dashed off a run in E major to test his tuning. ‘Well,’ he said with a long-suffering patience that Arithon s’Ffalenn had never owned. ‘About verse fifty, please remember, you were the one who insisted.’
Tribulation
When Halliron took a chill that left him unfit to travel for two days, Medlir accepted the setback in stride. In no haste himself to reach Shand, he regarded his requisite nightly performance in the posthouse taproom as time well spent in extra practice.
Confounded by his good nature, for the apprentice bard spent both mornings and afternoons put to task under his master’s critical ear, Dakar warmed his feet by the hearth and his belly with flagons of ale. He listened to Medlir’s stock of drinking songs, ready to pounce if the repertoire suffered repeats. When the minstrel’s inventiveness did not falter, he snatched sleep in catnaps and escaped any dreams of vengeful sorcerers.
Their last night at the posthouse was made rowdy by a passing company of mercenaries, ten men under a surly, sword-scarred captain who demolished a platter of roast turkey in the best corner and smoked a pipe until the air around his head blued to fug. Still in their mail and rust-stained tunics, his fighting company drank and gambled, enthusiastically abetted by Dakar.
Between the jingle of gear and rattling dice, the bittencurses and sarcastic slurs and rounds of big-bellied laughter, there came the inevitable exchange of news.
‘You come from northwards,’ the captain bellowed across the taproom to Medlir. He paused to pick gristle from his teeth. ‘What’ve you heard? We’re bound that way into Etarra. Ship’s Port was thick with rumour that the Prince of the West is luring on swords to build a retinue.’
Medlir companionably shrugged, his hands in idle play upon his strings. ‘Why should he? The city council keeps him in comfort. Last I heard, he hadn’t yet tired of the garrison commander’s pretty sister.’
The mercenary captain hunched forward like a bear. Through the incisors clamped on toothpick and pipe stem, he said, ‘Well, the recruiter sent out by the head-hunters’ league claimed Prince Lysaer’s been deeded Avenor’s lands. The grant came from the Mayor Elect of Korias.’
The silvery spill of notes changed character, became thinner, brighter, more brittle. If so, the charter’s hardly legal.’
Nobody took umbrage,- the comment was scarcely out of turn, Athera’s Masterbard being a keeper of traditions often consulted to clarify
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