Redwing

by Holly Bennett

  When he was done, Rowan looked up, a little dazed, with really no idea if he had played well or not. His audience was still there, at least. He gave himself a mental shake and put his mind to his final selection, a tricky set of reels. There could be no wool-gathering on this one—it took every ounce of his skill and attention. Not too fast, he reminded himself. Steady is more important than fast. Still, he meant to take it both fast and steady.

  At the end of the set, it was his mother’s voice that guided him through. “Smile, dearie. It’s a performance. Bow, don’t bounce. Say ‘Rowan Redwing’ slowly in your head as you hold it. Don’t bolt off the stage.”

  “Pretty waltz. What’s it called?” asked the attendant who escorted him to an alcove just outside the hall.

  “That’s ‘The Sun’s Desire,’” said Rowan. He must have played it decently then, he told himself. Or maybe the fellow was just trying to put him at ease. He appreciated the comment, either way.

  “Now don’t feel badly if nobody comes to speak to you,” continued the attendant. “No one gets job offers on the spot. If they’re interested, they’ll come to your second showcase, ask around…” He stopped in confusion. A half-dozen men and women, some of whom Rowan recognized, were lined up at the alcove, with more approaching.

  “Huh. Unless, I guess, you’re a brilliant young box player. Get in there now, and meet your adoring fans!” With a friendly push, the attendant left him to it.

  But they weren’t prospective employers. Timber had got the word out, and friends and colleagues of Rowan’s parents were dropping by to give their condolences. As Rowan stood and endured the painful repetition of sympathy, he was genuinely moved that people had come. Up to now, his family’s death had been so anonymous—as though they had never existed, except to him. But what if someone did want to speak to him about work and found him instead in the midst of—well—this?

  A large woman Rowan had never met flung her arms around him and pressed his face into her impressive bosom. “You poor thing.” Her loud, throaty voice resonated in his ears. “All alone in the world.” A last clench, and she released him. “If you need someone to sing at the funeral rites, I’d be honored,” she said. “When will you hold them?”

  “I don’t know,” Rowan admitted. Funeral rites. Wasn’t it too late for that? “I haven’t really had a chance to think about it.”

  The woman shot him a strange look—not much wonder, given that he’d had nearly three months to think about it—and made way for the next person. “I’m Iris,” she called over her shoulder. “Just ask around—you’ll find me.”

  She looks like an Iris, thought Rowan. Purple and overblown.

  SAMIK SAT ON THE FRONT STEP of the caravan, stretched his long legs out before him and tipped his head back into the sun. It was important to take full advantage of these rare interludes of sunshine; the constant damp was making him feel soggy, as though mushrooms might sprout up between his toes. He was pleasantly close to dozing off when Rowan returned, looking serious and preoccupied—as usual.

  “So no work yet?”

  Rowan shook his head. “Not even an inn or taproom—I think they were nearly all booked before we even arrived.” He shrugged. “Hopefully my second showcase will help.”

  “You look like you could use some fortification,” said Samik. “Come inside—you’re just in time for tea.” He pulled himself to his feet, pulled open the door and bowed grandly. He hadn’t known if Rowan would return or not and had been about to enjoy his little feast alone, but this was better. He couldn’t wait to see Rowan’s reaction.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Rowan’s eyes went round with surprise when he stepped into the caravan.

  “What’s all this?”

  “This,” said Samik, still with the grand manner, “is real food.” He turned to the stove, where the water was boiling, and busied himself making proper tea. “I thought the pastries would do well for our tea. They’re filled with berries and cream. But, as you can see, that’s not all I have.” He gestured toward the galley table, where meat pies, a wheel of cheese, fresh-baked bread and a dish Samik had never tried, made from eggs and new spinach wafted tantalizing smells into the air.

  Rowan demolished one pastry and started on another before coming up for air.

  “How did you buy all this?” he demanded.

  “I went busking today, as you suggested.” Samik flashed him a sly grin.

  “You made enough in one afternoon for this?” Rowan was incredulous.

  Samik shrugged. “You were right; the people here have good taste. One man called me ‘The Street-Corner Sensation of Clifton.’” He swallowed and pointed. “But let’s talk about you.”

  “What about me?”

  Samik stretched out a lazy hand and poured more tea. “You need to get out there. You’re always practicing or busking or running errands.”

  “So?” Rowan bridled. “I need to do all those things.”

  “Yes, yes. But you also need to meet people, find out who is looking for players and put yourself in their path. Sell your wares.”

  “I know lots of people here,” Rowan muttered. Samik kept silent and waited. Rowan might know people, but he wasn’t making contact with them. Avoiding them, more like. Samik had to be careful though—Rowan was touchy. If pushed too hard, he would just dig in his heels and close his ears.

  Instead, Rowan sighed and gave up the pretense. “You’re right. I know you’re right. When I used to come here with my family, it was like a big holiday—if we weren’t playing, we were going to hear someone else, talking music with my father’s friends, running around with the other kids… My ma used to get mad at me ’cause I’d come home so late.”

  He looked at Samik and flopped his hand on the table helplessly. “But I’m not a kid anymore, and I don’t know how to do this on my own.”

  He seemed wary, as if braced for ridicule. But Samik was on another mission altogether.

  “So,” said Samik briskly. “Tonight we go drinking. We will put you back into circulation, and I will tell you my news.”

  SAMIK WAS GLAD TO SEE Rowan’s features relax as they strode through the dark streets, torch-lit for the festival. The rain was a mere mist on their faces, and the streets were full of revelers with no more pressing business than to enjoy a few hours with their friends. And, for once, Rowan was one of them. He actually had a little spring in his step, Samik noticed, smiling with satisfaction at the sight. It was true that it would help Rowan’s job prospects to circulate a little. But that had just been the lure. Mostly, Samik wanted to remind his new friend how to have fun.

  Samik knew exactly where he was going. “The Rusty Snail, I think. You know it?” Big, crowded and noisy, it was probably not a favorite place for musicians to play. It was, however, a very good place to meet up with other people.

  Rowan nodded. “How do you know so much about Clifton watering holes?”

  “Watering holes. I don’t know that expression. I like it.” Samik grinned at Rowan. “Watering holes are not hard to learn about. You just have to go to them.”

  “And here I thought you were busy earning us cream pastries when you were out.”

  “There’s a time for work and a time for play,” Samik countered, quoting his granny. “Now, we should be early enough to get a seat, but you aren’t allowed to stay in it all night. Two mugs, and then we launch forth and—”

  Samik stopped midsentence, frozen in place, a hand held out to bar Rowan’s progress. He grabbed Rowan’s arm and pulled him into a dark side alley, shrinking back against the dark wall.

  “What—?” Samik clapped a hand over Rowan’s mouth, urging silence. He cocked his head, straining to hear. Tarzine. Men’s voices speaking Tarzine.

  As the voices drew closer, Rowan’s eyes widened, showing Samik that he heard it too. Samik eased his hand away from Rowan’s face.

  Gradually, the voices grew clear—a loud, somewhat argumentative exchange among three or four men. Rowan glanced at Samik, an
d his face became alarmed. He reached out and pulled Samik deeper into the alley, motioning to his hair. Samik stared at him blankly for a moment, not understanding, and then his hand flew to his head. His bright hair must have caught the light from one of the fluttering torches that lit the street.

  With a whispered curse, Samik eased into a crouch, far from the torch’s flare. What to do? He didn’t know for sure that they were Jago’s men, but he couldn’t risk being seen by them, just in case.

  “Try to get a look at them,” Samik whispered to Rowan. They didn’t know him at all, would not even notice him in the busy streets.

  Rowan peered around the corner of the alley, then with a deep breath straightened up and stepped smartly into the street, stopping to look as though he meant to cross. Then he melted back into the alley.

  “Give it a minute,” he muttered. “They’re almost gone.”

  Samik waited impatiently, then blurted, “Well?”

  “They’re headed toward Provisioner’s Row. I couldn’t see much. They looked big. Bright clothes. One was bald—the torches shone off his head even brighter than your hair.”

  Bald. Samik felt the hair lift along the back of his neck. The man in his dream? He had never thought that Rowan could be in danger from Jago. “Probably traders or sailors on shore leave,” he said. But he didn’t really believe it, and Rowan’s doubtful face showed he was not convinced. It would be unusual for sailors to wander this far from their port of call.

  “Dance troupe?” Rowan suggested. Tarzine dancers were renowned for their skill and showmanship, and a troupe would do very well at the Clifton festival.

  Samik shrugged. “They sound a bit rough around the edges for dancers.” Then he straightened himself and slapped Rowan on the back. “But then, everyone becomes rougher around the edges after a few pots. Let’s go.”

  Rowan held back. “Are you sure you want to—?”

  “Yes, yes.” Samik spread his hands as if to say, Why not? “They went that way, we go this way. We need not cross paths again.” He gathered his hair into a ponytail and flapped it up and down. “But I will have to do something about this.” Even here in Prosper, where blond hair was more common, his long pale hair stood out too much.

  He was doubly glad, now, that his new plan would soon be under way. The best way to keep himself—and Rowan—safe was to move on, and soon.

  FIFTEEN

  At least Aydin was showing a little caution. Rowan was glad to see him take a good long look over the room—already filling up—before selecting a seat at the back table, near the scullery door. It gave them a view of most of the taproom, as well as a handy escape hatch.

  They nodded to the other drinkers sharing the long trestle table and settled themselves at one end. Aydin took a sip of his dark stout, grimaced (Rowan didn’t ask why—he could well imagine Aydin’s views on Prosperian ale), and dove right in.

  “So,” he said, his pale eyes intent. “I am going into business.”

  Rowan didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

  “Really?”

  Aydin nodded. “With Armstrong.” He smirked. “Armstrong,” he repeated. “What a name.”

  Rowan was sure he had never heard the name before. “Who’s Armstrong?”

  “You know, the man who helped fix our wheel.”

  Or rather, the man who volunteered his servant to fix our wheel, thought Rowan.

  “You mean he’s hiring you?”

  A firm headshake sunk that notion. “Partners.”

  “Partners,” Rowan repeated. Armstrong, from what he had seen, was a wealthy man. Aydin had a pocketful of coins. So with nothing to invest in a business, how had Aydin talked his way into a partnership? “Doing what?”

  Aydin flashed him a grin. “He wants to bring decent wine to Prosper. I know where decent wine is to be had. His money, my know-how. I take him to Tarzine winemakers, translate, negotiate price, select the wine—with his guidance on local tastes, of course, though I must say local tastes leave a lot to be desired—and he ships them here. I get all expenses up front, and a share of the sales.” Another grin. “It’s brilliant.”

  Aydin waited expectantly while Rowan absorbed this information. Finally, he lost patience. “Perhaps the social graces are different here. In my country, one would say something along the lines of ‘Congratulations. How wonderful. A toast to your success.’ Any one of those would be suitable.”

  “But—” Was Rowan missing something? He didn’t think so. “How can you do that without going to the Tarzine lands?”

  Aydin rolled his eyes. “Obviously, I will be going to the Tarzine lands. That is where the growers are.”

  “But you can’t. You’re supposed to stay here until it’s safe.”

  “I will be perfectly safe.” Aydin’s long hand flapped carelessly. “Cut and dye my hair, arrive in these dismal Prosperian clothes with a group of Prosperian traders. We visit two or three key vineyards and are back on a ship before anyone is the wiser. Then we wait for the wine to arrive.” His airy manner changed when he saw Rowan’s reaction. “Oh, what? You have a better plan for me?”

  Rowan hadn’t even realized he was slowly shaking his head. He stopped at the Tarzine’s annoyed tone.

  “You think I should just hang around here and beg on street corners forever?”

  “What do you mean, beg?” Now they were both bristling, and Aydin’s dismissive wave did nothing to set things right. But his next words did.

  “All I know about my brother is that he can feed himself. I don’t know if he is really all right. I don’t know if Jago is alive, if my family is safe. You have had a great loss, yes. I don’t mean to compare. But at least you know. This is business, and I would do it regardless. But I also need to find out where things stand.”

  “You won’t go home, will you?” Now Rowan was really alarmed, even though he understood better. Imagine if he had been away and only heard his family was sick and then…nothing. It would drive him mad. But Aydin was shaking his head.

  “I am not that stupid. But I will get news from the vintners and send a letter home just before I board ship.” He offered a weak smile, and Rowan had a glimpse of the loneliness and worry Aydin hid so well. “So little, yet it is still much better than nothing at all—yes?”

  This time Rowan found himself nodding. “I guess it is. But Heska’s teeth, be careful, Aydin.” And then, belatedly, he offered his hand. “Congratulations. I guess I’d better get another round, so we can toast your success.”

  The front of the room had filled up while they talked, and Rowan had to wait at a counter lined three-deep with customers. He nodded at a couple of people he recognized, but they weren’t close enough to actually talk to. He was just about to place his order when he caught the eye of a russet-haired girl. She didn’t look familiar, but her eyebrows shot up in seeming recognition when she saw him, and then she smiled and waggled her mug at him.

  Rowan smiled back vaguely, furiously trying to remember who she was. He drew a blank, lifted his fingers to signal “two” to the overworked barkeep, and only as he was paying did he realize what was going on. His cheeks did a slow burn, as much at his own slow wits as the girl’s invitation. Gods, hadn’t he spent all last summer wishing some girl would express the least interest in him?

  He picked up the two mugs and pushed his way back through the crowd. He checked over his shoulder—she was still watching him, and her two girlfriends too. Offering an apologetic shrug, he hurried to his seat.

  “I shouldn’t be allowed to have this,” he groaned as he planted the two mugs on the table.

  “Why? Because you took so long fetching it?”

  “Nope. Couldn’t do anything about that.” Rowan slumped onto the bench and rested his chin in his hands, defeated. “A girl invited me to join her, and I ran away.” He couldn’t believe he was even admitting it.

  Aydin’s hoot of laughter made him wish he hadn’t. “Was she pretty?”

  “I don�
��t know.” Rowan considered. “I guess. Yes. What does it matter? Pretty or not, she’s gone.”

  Aydin shook his head. “I don’t think so.” He flicked his eyes above Rowan’s shoulder.

  Rowan looked around. She was heading straight for him, mug in hand. Without her girlfriends.

  “Hello, lads,” she said. “Mind if I sit for a bit?”

  She choose a spot on the bench across from Rowan. “You’re the box player.”

  Direct hazel eyes appraised him. So it was a business call, this. Rowan smiled, hoping it would cover the painful mix of relief and disappointment that hit him.

  “I am.”

  “Saw you at the showcase. You’re good.” She held out a hand. “I’m Shay.”

  “Rowan. This is my friend Aydin.” Shay’s eyes lingered over Aydin’s striking features, and for the first time it occurred to Rowan that the Tarzine’s blond hair and high cheekbones might add up to good looks. The smile the two exchanged confirmed his hunch. It would be just my luck, thought Rowan. Lose out to a foreigner with stork legs and bad manners. But Shay turned back to him and got right to the point.

  “I play in my uncle’s band—Marten Waterford.” Rowan had heard of him, though he couldn’t recall having heard him play. “He’s got a spot open for the pipes.” She grinned. “But I’m thinking a button box would be that much better.”

  “I’d have to agree with you there,” Rowan said. Funny how much easier it was to talk music than, well, just talk. “But what does your uncle think about it?”

  “He thinks I am probably wrong,” she confessed cheerfully. “But he’s open-minded enough to admit he may just be clinging to what he’s used to. And he says I should invite you to come play with us tomorrow afternoon so he can judge for himself.”

  Rowan’s heart kicked into a trot that had nothing to do with flirting. This could be the chance he needed. He cut his eyes quickly to Aydin, who was studiously watching a fly labor up the side of his mug. The smirk on his face was just what Rowan had expected to see. If this worked out, Aydin would forever take credit for having flung Rowan into the path of employment.