The Harp of Imach Thyssel

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Bothering a Cilhar is a bad idea,” Flindaran said with an uneasy shrug. “They like privacy, and it’s not exactly healthy to argue with one of them.”

  “I see.” Emereck felt a sudden perverse desire to walk over and strike up a conversation with the Cilhar for no other reason than to annoy Flindaran. He suppressed the impulse; irritating Flindaran did not seem a sufficient reason for ignoring his advice. He glanced speculatively at the Cilhar as he seated himself at the table. Perhaps he could persuade Ryl to introduce him to the man before they left. That ought to ease Flindaran’s objections. Emereck shoved the matter to the back of his mind and began eating.

  The stew was excellent, and they finished it quickly. Emereck accepted a refill from the blond girl, but Flindaran, after a moment of indecision, shook his head. As the girl left, Emereck looked at him curiously. “Something wrong with your appetite?”

  “Not at all,” Flindaran replied, grinning. He picked up the empty bowl and balanced it on his finger, then flipped it into the air and caught it in his other hand. “But you don’t expect me to miss an opportunity like this, do you?”

  “Opportunity?”

  “I’m going to get my refill in the kitchen. Didn’t you hear Ryl say we could?”

  “Yes, but I got the distinct impression that she was interested mainly in getting you out of the kitchen at the time. And the stew’s the same in both places.”

  “It’s not stew I’m after, idiot. I want to talk to Ryl.”

  Emereck stared at him, then shook his head. “Why don’t you talk to that one instead?” he said, nodding at the blond serving girl. “She’s at least as pretty as Ryl is, and probably a lot more approachable.”

  “Ryl’s a challenge.” Flindaran paused and looked from Emereck to the blond girl. “Why don’t you—”

  “No.”

  Flindaran shrugged. “All right, then. See you later.”

  As Flindaran started to rise, Emereck shook his head and glanced toward the kitchen door. “Well, I wish you—” He checked in mid-sentence as Ryl came through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “—had better timing, I think,” he finished, nodding in the innkeeper’s direction.

  “Oh, demons!” Flindaran dropped back into his seat, looking disgusted. “Now I’ll have to think of something else. And on top of that, I have to sit here and watch you eat.”

  “I didn’t think it was food you were interested in.”

  “You have a low mind.”

  Emereck grinned and went on eating. A moment later, he heard Flindaran mutter, “Demons take it!”

  Emereck looked up in time to see Ryl seat herself across the table from the Cilhar man. “Try to be a little patient; she’ll have to get up eventually.”

  “So? You don’t think I’d cross a Cilhar, do you?”

  For a moment, Emereck could not believe Flindaran was serious. “He’s old enough to be her father! Maybe even her grandfather.”

  “What does that have to do with anything? Besides, he might be her father, and then where would I be?

  “You’ve managed before.”

  “Not when a Cilhar was involved.” Flindaran stared pensively at his empty bowl. “You know, I think I’d better ask that blond for some more stew after all. No reason to starve myself.”

  Emereck looked at him suspiciously. Flindaran grinned, then turned and began signaling the serving girl. With a resigned sigh, Emereck went back to eating.

  Chapter 2

  TWO BEERS AND ANOTHER helping of stew later, Flindaran and the serving girl were well on their way to a mutual understanding. About the middle of the evening, Emereck left them and went upstairs. The flirtation would keep Flindaran occupied for several hours at least, and Emereck wanted to practice.

  He unpacked his harp and tuned it, then began with half an hour of the exercises Flindaran most hated listening to. He worked for a while on the complex runs in the middle of “The Lay of Long Tormoran.” When he was satisfied with his progress, he stopped and stretched.

  He paced the room, then paused at the window, unable to decide what to do next. A glint of moonlight on the lake caught his eye, and he remembered the song he had started on the ride into Tinbri. With renewed enthusiasm, he went back to the harp and began picking out chords, pausing frequently to try different variations of words or music.

  Flindaran did not return until nearly midnight. When he arrived, he was clearly well pleased with his evening. As the door closed behind him, Emereck looked up from the small harp. “Flindaran! Listen to this and tell me what you think.”

  “Dark water, still water, darker yet the sky;

  Shadowed was the path beyond and cold the wind on high.

  Black forest, clouded road, where still the bloodstains lie:

  Dark the day and dark the way, when Corryn went to die.”

  “I like the tune,” Flindaran said.

  “I think there’s something wrong with the third line.”

  Flindaran shrugged. “It sounded fine to me. But don’t you ever write any cheerful songs?”

  “I should know better than to ask you for criticism.” Emereck set the harp down. “What are you doing back already, anyway?”

  “There are still two customers downstairs, and Sira won’t be available until they’re gone. So I left, to provide them a good example.”

  Emereck shook his head, half in envy, half in admiration. “I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Talent, hard work, clean living…”

  “Luck, more likely. Much more likely. Though, knowing you, I’d be willing to believe you stacked the odds in your favor somehow.”

  “Certainly not,” Flindaran protested. “I come by it honestly, whatever it is.”

  “How can you come by something like that honestly?”

  Flindaran shrugged. “It runs in the family. Father has seven or eight half-bloods at home, and Gendron has been flipping skirts for years.”

  “You mean your whole family is as bad as you are?”

  “Oh, no. Gendron’s the heir; he has to keep up family traditions. Oraven isn’t nearly as bad, and the girls are too young.”

  “I can see it’s going to be an interesting visit,” Emereck said dryly.

  “You’re too stiff in the backbone. Now, if you’d just—”

  A loud shout from just below their window interrupted Flindaran. Emereck glanced over, but Flindaran shook his head. “Drunks,” he explained, “only get noisier if you shout back.”

  “Who’s shouting? And speaking of drinking, I think you’ve—”

  This time, the interruption was a scream, ending in a choked, gurgling sound. As one, Flindaran and Emereck lunged for the window.

  Two armored men stood in the courtyard below. One held a drawn sword that glistened wetly. A body sprawled in front of him, half in, half out of the pool of light that spilled down from the windows of the inn. As the swordsman bent to wipe his blade clean, Flindaran stiffened and sucked in his breath. “Syaski!”

  “What? They can’t be!”

  “Look at the shape of their breastplates. No one but Syaski wears armor like that.”

  “Maybe they’re just a couple of stragglers,” Emereck said, but even as he spoke, four men rode out of the darkness to join the first two.

  “So much for that theory. That means there are at least eight of them; they’ve probably left two in back of the inn.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Emereck muttered as the six men in sight spread out around the front of the inn. “Syaskor is a week’s ride north of here! A raid here risks provoking Kith Alunel; they wouldn’t dare.”

  “Tell it to them,” Flindaran said grimly, nodding at the men on the ground. “But keep a dagger handy while you do. They don’t look much like figments of your imagination to me.”

  “What are they after, in a town this small?”

  As if in answer to Emereck’s question, one of the men outside shouted, “Ho, Narryn! Come down and play!”

  “Come fight,
Cilhar scum,” added another in a heavily accented voice. “Or we burn you out.”

  “Now you know.” Flindaran stepped back from the window and began scooping their belonging into their packs. Emereck stayed where he was, frowning down at the soldiers and listening intently to their continued taunts. Something was wrong; those weren’t true Syaski accents, though Emereck couldn’t quite place them. Then the light outside changed, and he tensed. “Hurry up,” he said over his shoulder. “They’ve set the inn on fire.”

  “Bloodthirsty half-wits.” Flindaran buckled his sword belt in place, then shoved the packs and the harp case at Emereck. “Here, take these. I’ll go first.”

  Flindaran pushed the door open. The hallway was dark and already filling with smoke. Muttering curses, he stepped out of the room. Emereck followed as closely as he dared. He could hear shouts and screams from the lower floor, and the sounds of fighting outside. He ignored them as best he could, and concentrated instead on the steady, muffled cursing ahead of him. If he lost Flindaran now, they might never— The cursing stopped. Emereck hurried forward and almost immediately ran into his friend from behind.

  “Ouch! Demons take it, can’t you watch where you’re going?” came a furious whisper.

  “In the dark? Anyway, why’d you stop?”

  Flindaran hesitated. “I think we’ve missed the stairs.”

  “Keep going. There ought to be a service stairway at the end of the hall, and we still have a little time before the fire gets here.”

  Together they blundered on. When they reached the end of the hall, there was a moment of confusion; then Flindaran found the right door and they half fell into the narrow stairwell. Emereck shoved the door closed, shutting out most of the smoke, and they groped their way to the foot of the stairs. The door at the bottom was closed, but sounds of fighting came clearly through it. Cautiously, Flindaran eased it open far enough for them to see what was happening.

  The door opened onto the rear of the kitchen, close to the back door of the inn. Ryl and the white-haired Cilhar stood on the far side of the room. Three Syaski faced them, their backs to Flindaran and Emereck. Wisps of smoke curled up from the edges of the far wall, and the door leading to the main taproom was already ablaze. Ryl fended off one of the Syaski with a long chopping knife, while the Cilhar’s sword danced back and forth between the blades of the other two. A fourth Syask lay motionless on the floor beside the Cilhar.

  Emereck had only an instant to absorb the scene; then Flindaran flung the door open with a crash and leaped forward. Emereck followed, wishing momentarily that he had some weapon. Flindaran pounced on the Syaski in front of Ryl. One of the others was distracted by their sudden entrance, and before he recovered from his surprise, the Cilhar ran him through. The third Syask stepped back and glanced quickly around.

  Automatically, Emereck shifted his weight and swung one of the packs in a slow arc. It hit the man’s head with a satisfying thud just as he opened his mouth to give the alarm. He collapsed with only a huff of air. Feeling a little surprised and rather pleased with himself, Emereck hefted the pack and looked for another opponent.

  There were none. Flindaran was just dispatching the last of the three. The Cilhar wiped his sword on the cloak of the nearest corpse, then glanced at the burning wall behind him. He looked at Ryl. “I don’t suppose—”

  “It would take too much concentration,” Ryl said.

  “Then we’d best get out of here. Quickly.”

  Emereck did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He took a firmer grip on the two packs and the harp case, and kicked the outer door open. A moment later he stood in the courtyard behind the inn, waiting for his eyes to readjust to darkness and hoping fervently that none of the Syaski would spot him in the interim. He heard the others behind him and turned.

  Flindaran and the Cilhar came out of the doorway first, their swords held ready. The Cilhar seemed to have no trouble adjusting to the relative darkness of the courtyard. He scanned the shadows thoroughly, then sheathed his sword with an absentminded flourish. An instant later, Ryl appeared, dragging the body of the Syask Emereck had knocked down. Emereck looked at her in surprise as she dropped the man in the shadows a short distance from the doorway.

  Ryl saw his look and frowned. “You’d rather I left him to burn to death? He’ll not wake until we’re gone.”

  Emereck’s lips tightened, but he did not feel like explaining that his expression had been caused by surprise at Ryl’s display of strength, rather than by disapproval of her actions. Dragging an armored Syask for even a short distance would be a heavy task for a large man, much less a small woman, but the innkeeper wasn’t even breathing hard. Then the last half of her statement registered, and he said, “No, he should be coming around any minute now. I didn’t hit him that hard.”

  Ryl looked at him. “I did. Now, shall we get the horses?”

  As Emereck turned toward the stable, he heard Flindaran ask, “Where’s Sira?”

  “Heading for the woods with the rest of Tinbri,” Ryl said. “They fled while we were holding the Syaski. You need not worry about her; she’s safer now than we are.”

  The four headed for the stable. Their luck held; none of the Syaski appeared before they were safely out of sight. Inside, they saddled their horses as quickly as they could. Even so, Emereck took time to make sure his harp case was securely fastened to his saddle. As they led the horses to the door, the Cilhar said, “I have not thanked you for your assistance. Will you give me your names?”

  “Emereck Sterren of the Minstrel’s Guild,” Emereck replied, and glanced at Flindaran.

  “Flindaran Sterren,” Flindaran lied, bowing. “Also of the Guildhall in Ciaron.”

  The Cilhar raised an eyebrow. “I am impressed by your training. It is unusual to find a minstrel who is also such an excellent swordsman. Your skill does you credit.”

  Flindaran flushed with pleasure. “I am honored by such praise, especially from a Cilhar.”

  “I owe you a life,” the Cilhar replied. “If chance ever takes you to the Mountains of Morravik, claim hospitality there in the name of Kensal Narryn.”

  “First we have to get away,” Ryl said. “And if there are more Syaski coming…”

  Flindaran leaned forward and peered out a crack in the stable door. “Looks quiet; they must still be around front.”

  Kensal Narryn shot a sharp look at Ryl. “When we’re clear of the yard, turn left and head southeast around the lake toward the woods,” he said as they left the stable. “If there are more of them, they’ll be coming down the road on the west side of town, and we’ll gain a little time.”

  Flindaran nodded and swung himself onto his horse. “Anything that keeps us out of the way is fine by— Uh oh.”

  Four Syaski stood at the corner of the inn, silhouetted against the flames. Emereck mounted hastily, hoping that they still had a chance of escaping if they moved quickly enough. When he looked again, the Syaski had not moved, but a row of mounted men had joined them, completely blocking the only exit from the courtyard.

  “So there was a sentry,” Kensal said calmly. He and Ryl had not yet mounted, and he had to look up to study the horsemen.

  “Of course,” said the man on the end of the line. “Now, throw down your weapons, grandpa, and we’ll let you live.”

  “Will you indeed?” Kensal’s voice expressed mild curiosity and slight skepticism. His lips curved in a faint smile. Emereck thought he had never seen anyone look so dangerous.

  “Even a Cilhar can’t beat ten men at once. And there are your friends to—”

  A shout from the other side of the inn interrupted the Syask’s speech. As he turned in his saddle, another man appeared, running toward his mounted companions. He called a warning as he came, and Emereck stiffened as he recognized the language. “Lithmern!” he blurted in shock. “That’s why the accent was wrong. These aren’t Syaski, they’re Lithmern!”

  Flindaran turned and stared at Emereck as if he had gone m
ad. Kensal looked at Ryl, his face an expressionless mask. The innkeeper herself stood motionless beside him, staring with tense concentration at the riders.

  The leader of the false Syaski glared at Emereck, then transferred his attention to the runner. “Well?” He spoke in Lithran; apparently he had decided there was no further need for pretense.

  “The sentry’s back,” the runner panted. He took a deep breath and poured out a stream of Lithran. Emereck caught the words “Syaski” and “road,” but most of the speech was too rapid for his meager knowledge of the language.

  The leader gestured impatiently and the runner fell silent. The leader sheathed his sword and reached under his cloak. He drew out a small pouch, opened it, and sprinkled a pinch of black powder into his hand. Carefully, he closed the pouch and replaced it, then hesitated and glanced at Kensal. “I’m afraid we’re out of time. My apologies; I was looking forward to the fight.”

  With his last words, he stretched his hand out to one side and began to chant. The words were harsh and repetitive, and they bore no resemblance to any language Emereck knew. He could tell from the way the soldier spoke that the words had no meaning for him, either; he was speaking from memory alone. Emereck glanced uncertainly at his companions. He saw Kensal half draw his sword, but Ryl put her hand on his arm and stopped him. She said something in a low voice, and then Emereck’s attention jerked back to the chanting Lithmern.

  A thread of blackness moved in the man’s upturned palm, like a wisp of smoke or a thin black snake. It curled and coiled around the Lithmern’s hand, moving almost too rapidly for the eye to follow. Emereck’s horse danced nervously, and the riders nearest the spell-caster shifted in their saddles as if they shared the horse’s unease. The smoke began to grow, and the leader flinched, though his chanting did not falter. The blackness thickened, and the man’s arm sagged with the weight of it. Suddenly the blackness dropped to the ground and flowed toward Emereck and his companions like a carpet of clouds unrolling rapidly.

  Emereck’s horse reared, and he almost lost his seat. The blackness rippled and came on. The horse came down fetlock-deep in darkness, and stuck fast. Emereck could feel the animal’s muscles straining, but not a foot stirred. Flindaran’s horse was caught, too, and the smoky carpet had almost reached Kensal and Ryl. Kensal was eyeing it measuringly, as if trying to decide whether his chances were better on foot or astride his skittish horse. Ryl’s eyes were closed; she seemed to have withdrawn completely.