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ready to wrestle someone. Or go off and break a wild horse.”
    “She does.” Manet chuckled again. “If we were living in a better age they’d build a temple around a woman like that.”
    We fell silent as Marie finished tuning her fiddle and eased into a sweet roundel, slow and gentle as a soft spring breeze.
    Though I didn’t have time to tell him, Simmon was more than half right. Once, in the Flint and Thistle, I had seen Marie punch a man in the throat for referring to her as “that mouthy fiddler bitch.” She kicked him when he was on the ground, too. But only once, and nowhere that hurt him in a permanent way.
    Marie continued her roundel, the slow, sweet pace of it gradually building until it was trotting along briskly. The sort of tune you would only think of dancing to if you were exceptionally light on your feet, or exceptionally drunk.
    She let it build until it was beyond anything a man could dream of dancing to. It was nothing like a trot now. It sprinted, fast as a pair of children racing. I marveled at how clean and clear her fingering was despite the frantic pace.
    Faster. Quick as a deer with a wild dog behind it. I started to get nervous, knowing it was just a matter of time before she slid or slipped or dropped a note. But somehow she kept going, each note perfect, sharp and strong and sweet. Her flickering fingers arched high against the strings. The wrist of her bow hand hung loose and lazy despite the terrible speed.
    Faster still. Her face was intent. Her bow arm a blur. Faster still. She braced herself, her long legs planted firmly on the stage, her fiddle tucked hard against her jaw. Each note sharp as early morning birdsong. Faster still.
    She finished in a rush and gave a sudden, flourishing bow without a single mistake. I was sweating like a hard-run horse, my heart racing.
    I wasn’t the only one. Wil and Sim each had a sheen of sweat across their foreheads.
    Manet’s knuckles were white where he gripped the edge of the table. “Merciful Tehlu,” he said breathlessly. “They have music like this every night?”
    I smiled at him. “It’s still early,” I said. “You haven’t heard me play.”

     
    Wilem bought the next round of drinks and our talk turned to the idle gossip of the University. Manet had been around for longer than half of the masters, so he knew more scandalous stories than the three of us put together.
    A lutist with a thick grey beard played a stirring version of “En Faeant Morie.” Then two lovely women, one in her forties and the other young enough to be her daughter, sang a duet about Laniel Young-Again I’d never heard before.
    Marie was called back onto the stage and played a simple jig with such enthusiasm that it set folk dancing in the spaces between the tables. Manet actually stood for the final chorus and surprised us by demonstrating a pair of remarkably light feet. We cheered him, and when he took his seat again he was flushed and breathing hard.
    Wil bought him a drink, and Simmon turned to me with excitement in his eyes.
    “No,” I said. “I’m not going to play it. I already told you.”
    Sim deflated into such profound disappointment that I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take a turn around the place. If I see Threpe, I’ll put him up to it.”
    I made my slow way through the crowded room, and while I did keep an eye out for Threpe, the truth is I was hunting for Denna. I hadn’t seen her come in by the front door, but with the music, cards, and general commotion there was a chance I’d simply missed her.
    It took a quarter hour to methodically make my way through the crowded main floor, getting a look at all the faces and stopping to chat with a few of the musicians along the way.
    I made my way up to the second tier just as the lights dimmed again. I settled in at the railing to watch a Yllish piper play a sad, lilting tune.
    When the lights came back up, I searched the second tier of the Eolian: a wide,