Redwing

by Holly Bennett

  And so he had. But it was up to Rowan now. Up to him, as well, to be careful not to jump too quickly into a situation he’d regret.

  “I’d love to, of course,” he replied and listened carefully while Shay told him where and when.

  “Family band, is it?” he asked when she was done. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be the odd man out in a family group. But Shay shook her head.

  “Not really. I’m the only relative. The only young one too.” She grinned. “Another reason I’m pushing for you and your box.”

  Rowan nodded, shy again. “Well, thanks very much for the invite. I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

  Shay hesitated, then stood up. “Right. Nice to meet you both.”

  She was turning away when Aydin spoke up. “Wait!” He waited until she sat down again (looking a bit pink and breathless, Rowan thought glumly) and then asked, “Do you know anything about hair dye?”

  SIXTEEN

  Rowan woke up with a start. He was hot…and thirsty.

  And he had to pee, urgently. He flipped back the covers, swung his legs over the side of his bunk and sat up. A lightning fork of pain stabbed behind his eyeballs. Stifling a groan, he hunched against it and waited until it subsided into flickering heat lightning. Then he stood, braced against the second wave of pain that flared in protest, and stumbled through the dark caravan to the door.

  It was getting light outside, very early dawn. The grass underfoot was wet with dew, the air sweet and cool. Rowan would have taken deep, grateful breaths of it if his tongue hadn’t shriveled into a dry lump and glued itself against the roof of his mouth. He didn’t bother with the latrines on the other side of the campsite—he just picked his way to the back of the caravan, braced himself against it and let fly.

  Gods, no wonder his bladder ached. How much had he drunk last night? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember coming home either, or how—he winced as a new pain claimed his attention—he had bruised his hipbone.

  Water. Apparently all the water in his body had been sucked into his bladder. He wanted to wade into a lake and soak it up like a sponge.

  Back in the caravan, Rowan dippered water out of the bucket, chugged it right from the ladle and started in on another.

  Too late, he realized his mistake. His stomach lurched, then rebelled altogether. There was barely time to get back outside before he was on his knees, vomiting into the trampled grass outside the door. Each violent retch brought a new stab of pain to his head, so that when he was finally done, he just sat back on the step and rested, limp and miserable, against the caravan.

  At that moment Aydin decided to investigate, throwing open the door and ramming it into Rowan’s back.

  “OW! Heska’s teeth! Hang on, can’t you?”

  Rowan shifted himself off the side of the step and sat, miserable and seething, as Aydin emerged and took in the sorry scene.

  “Not feeling well?”

  Rowan glared. “It’s not enough that you got me poisonously drunk, now you try to push me into my own puke?”

  Aydin’s eyebrows lifted in innocent outrage. “Surely, it’s the other way round. Here I am in painful need of a piss, and you plant that mess right in front of the door so I am sure to land in it!” He stepped delicately around Rowan’s vomit and disappeared behind the caravan.

  LATER —MUCH LATER —that morning, Rowan gave up on his bunk and sat hunched at the table, trying to make himself function.

  “What did you do to me last night?” he demanded.

  Aydin, sprawled in a chair, looking pale and puffy himself, offered a brief echo of his usual lavish shrug. “I’m pretty sure I got you a job. That is, if you don’t bollocks it up.”

  Rowan sat up, stricken. “I have to play today! Oh, crap on a stick. I’m dead before I start!”

  “Not at all.” Aydin levered himself upright and busied himself in the galley, suddenly brisk. “Follow Dr. Aydin’s instructions, and all will be well.” He turned around and pointed officiously. “You wash up and get dressed. I will make the healing potion.”

  Minutes later, Rowan was peering into a glass half full of slime. “What is this?”

  “Special Tarzine remedy. Death to anyone who reveals the ingredients.”

  Rowan cast a suspicious eye at the Tarzine. “So why aren’t you drinking any?”

  Aydin shrugged, the full rippling roll this time. “I don’t have to audition today.” The grin he aimed at Rowan was pure evil. “It works, but you have to really need it.”

  “Why?” But one look at the ugly concoction answered his question. There was raw egg in there, that was plain, but what was that green froth?”

  Aydin’s laugh confirmed it. “You should maybe drink it outside…just in case.”

  ROWAN TRIED DESPERATELY to keep down something his entire body wanted to be rid of. He stood like a horse that had been run into the ground—head down, sides heaving, breath bellowing in violent snorts. Think about something else, he told himself—but he couldn’t. All he could summon to mind was the way that stuff had slid down his throat.

  He gagged, clapped a hand over his mouth and flared his nostrils as he sucked in air.

  “Something wrong?”

  Rowan goggled his eyes left and then let his hands fall in dismay.

  Shay. What was she doing here? Rowan raked a hand through his jumbled curls, his nausea forgotten. Gods, he must look terrible.

  She took a step closer and confirmed his fears. “You look terrible. Are you sick?”

  Rowan was still too cotton-headed to make up a lie. “Drank too much last night,” he admitted.

  Shay’s features tightened. “Do you have a problem with drinking?” she asked point-blank. “If you do, best tell me now. My uncle won’t abide a drunk in his band, not after last time.”

  Rowan made a poor attempt at a smile. “My problem with drinking is that I can’t do it. You can ask Aydin.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, then gave a tiny nod. “I hope you’re in better shape than this when you play with us later.”

  “I will be,” Rowan promised, without any conviction. Though, come to think of it, he did feel a little better… maybe. His attention returned to Shay. She looked as fresh as if she’d sprung out of the dew. He still had no idea why she was here. “Um, did you want to—?”

  The door banged open, and Aydin stepped out. His blond hair had resembled a haystack the last Rowan had see it. Now it hung in a brushed, gleaming sheet to his shoulders.

  “Shay! I hoped that was you. Did you find what we need?” The peaky look had vanished, Rowan noticed. Aydin was all startling blue eyes and chiseled cheekbones, and Shay brightened visibly when he appeared. She pulled a bundle out from under her arm and waggled it with a grin. “Lucky for you, I found black walnut dye—much better than henna. I don’t really think having bright-orange hair would make you less noticeable, do you?”

  Now he remembered. Aydin had enlisted Shay to cut and dye his hair today.

  Well, he would leave them to it. He’d take Wolf and go for a walk, try to blow the cobwebs out of his brain. Then a proper wash, eat a bit and warm up for his audition. His heart quickened at the thought. He really wanted this job. He might change his mind when he met Marten or heard the band, but he was determined it wouldn’t be his own failings that might lose him the job.

  “WHAT DO YOU THINK?”

  Shay frowned at her handiwork, looking, Rowan thought, justifiably worried.

  Aydin sat in a chair in front of the caravan, most of his hair piled at his feet.

  The dye job had been quite successful, except for the brown stain on Aydin’s temple, where it had run. His hair was now very dark brown, though with an odd, almost charcoal-gray cast to it. The haircut was another tale. Aydin’s straight, fine hair showed every scissor cut, and Shay was clearly not an experienced barber. The result was a choppy patchwork that was anything but inconspicuous.

  Rowan hesitated. He wanted to burst out laughing, but he didn’t want to offend S
hay.

  “He certainly looks different.”

  Aydin raised an eyebrow. “But?”

  This was no joking matter, Rowan reminded himself. Aydin’s life might even depend on this disguise.

  “The haircut’s too…people will notice it too much.”

  Aydin scowled at Shay, who colored and said defensively, “He wanted it longer on top and short underneath, and I didn’t really know how—”

  “All one length,” Rowan pronounced. “You want a home haircut, it has to be the same length all over. Short.” He shrugged. “Either that, or go to a barber.” Shay smiled at him gratefully, and Rowan basked in this little chance to redeem himself in her eyes. He gazed at Aydin, who looked uncharacteristically vulnerable with his chunky hair and bare neck and sulky look. Rowan was trying to remember…

  “My father wanted his hair really short one summer when we had a long hot spell,” he said slowly. “My ma…” He walked up to Aydin and took a section of hair between his fingers. “I think she did it like this.” Rowan held out his hand, and Shay handed over the scissors. “Hold it vertically, and then cut just above your fingers so they measure the length.” Shay nodded encouragement, and Rowan snipped. A fringe of dark hair fluttered to the ground.

  A couple of musicians from a nearby caravan strolled by. They nodded and grinned at the makeshift barbershop.

  “Everyone in the camp can see you here,” Rowan muttered. He handed the scissors back to Shay. “Here. Just work your way all around his head—I’ll clean up these long cuttings. Then he’ll just be a guy getting a trim.”

  He was dropping the last clump of hair into the garbage pail when two bells sounded. The gatekeepers at the players’ camp sounded the bells every hour from midmorning to midnight to help everyone meet their various engagements.

  Shay gave a yelp of alarm. “Blast! I have to go. It won’t look good if I’m late ’cause of you.”

  I didn’t make you late, Rowan wanted to protest, but Shay was running on. “You can finish up here, right? And be at Traveler’s Rest at three bells. Don’t be late!”

  “Traveler’s Rest. I wonder how long it took them to think up such an original name?” Aydin smirked. There seemed no end to his amusement at Prosperian names. Unimaginative or not, it was one of Rowan’s favorite venues—a musician’s room, with good acoustics and a nice spacious alcove for the band.

  Brandishing the scissors, he advanced on Aydin. “Looks like you’re stuck with me. But believe me, I can’t possibly make it worse.”

  “How do I look—honestly?” asked Aydin.

  “Like a half-plucked chicken,” said Rowan solemnly, pressing his lips tight to keep from grinning.

  Aydin clucked—twice—and then they both were cackling with laughter.

  SEVENTEEN

  Traveler’s Rest was already busy, and the band in full swing when Rowan arrived. He had come early, hoping he could lurk in the back unnoticed and listen for a while.

  He could tell right away they were good. That crossed one worry off his list: what to do if he were offered a place with poor players. “If I accept, I might lose a place with a better band,” he had fretted to Aydin. He would have liked to ask Timber’s advice, but there was no time to search out the older man.

  “And if you decline, you might end up with nothing.” Aydin had no trouble finishing the thought, which was obvious enough. That didn’t make it easier to work out though.

  He threaded his way through the drinkers to get a look at his potential colleagues. Shay’s red hair shone in the dim room. She played with assurance and grace, not as well as Rowan’s father, but not needing any allowances for her age either. Rowan looked next for her uncle.

  Marten Waterford gave an impression of squareness: a broad face topped by a full head of wiry, graying hair, wide shoulders, big hands. It made a comical contrast to his instrument—the wood flute looked too dainty for him, as though he’d be more likely to snap it in half than make music with it. That had been Rowan’s mother’s instrument, and he had a sudden, vivid memory of how she had looked playing, her body swaying a little to the rhythm and her lips pursed just so as she blew across the mouth hole.

  He hadn’t time for more than a hurried glance at the other two players—on tenor mandola and, Rowan was delighted to see, a drum—when Shay caught his eye and waved him over. He was on.

  “We’ll play first and talk later, yes? Just play along on whatever you know, and we’ll give you some requests in a bit.” Marten had a deep voice to match his solid build, and the slightly brusque manner of a man used to being in charge. But the crinkled lines around his eyes suggested good humor as well, Rowan thought. He hoped so, anyway. He took the seat offered him by the mandola player and flipped the latches on his case.

  It was hard work, playing with new people, without the comfortable patterns and easy communication developed over the years with his family. Though Rowan knew most of the tunes, he was feeling his way through them, trying to find the openings where the piper used to play and adapt to the variations any long-standing group of players brought to their music. When they finally took a break and Marten shooed the others away from their table so they could talk privately, Rowan was not at all sure how well he had done.

  “Your parents were fine players,” Marten began. “A great loss.”

  Rowan nodded. Sheer frequency had made it easier to handle condolences, and Marten’s were blessedly brief. What bothered him now was how rarely his sister was mentioned. Ettie was a great loss too, he wanted to yell—but you couldn’t blame people for focusing on the ones they knew.

  “And you do them credit, Rowan, without a doubt.” Rowan braced himself for a but to follow.

  “I have to admit, I was reluctant to give up the pipes. They’re an old and honored tradition, you know, and have been part of our sound since I began. But”—and here Marten spread out his big hands with a self-deprecating laugh—“you play the shite out of that thing, and the crowd loves it. So if you’re interested, let’s talk business.”

  Relief washed over Rowan and left him almost giddy. He really wanted this job, had known that almost as soon as he started playing. Marten seemed like a leader to trust, the players were tight and capable, and he had always wanted to add a drummer to his family’s ensemble, loving the drama and drive a simple goatskin could add. Best of all, there was another player his age in the group—a player he was already on his way to being friends with. He’d never find a better fit.

  “Yes, sir,” he managed. “I’m definitely interested.”

  Now Marten’s grin was wide and open. “Right. Then let’s get a couple of pints, and I’ll fill you in.”

  Arrangements were easily made: Rowan would start playing with them in Clifton right away, but then he was free to make the journey to his uncle’s and rejoin them at the start of the summer season. Like most players, Marten’s group traveled a good deal through the summer, but they stayed in the royal seat of Kingstown for the winter. “The king has his royal musicians, of course, but there is plenty more work,” Marten assured Rowan. “The nobles in the city rarely hire a band for the season like the country gentry do—they prefer to vary their entertainment, depending on the occasion. But there are so many occasions that, between that and the local watering holes, we never go hungry.

  “I have a house there,” he added, answering Rowan’s next question. “You are welcome to Ash’s old room.”

  “It sounds great,” said Rowan. “I’d be honored.”

  IT WOULD BE VERY DIFFERENT, living in the biggest city in Prosper instead of the small world of a country estate. Less secure, certainly, but Rowan couldn’t help being excited at the prospect. He tried to imagine it as he walked back to the caravan: the crowded streets, the lavish affairs thrown by the king’s entourage, and the rich merchants, the rough taverns and lodgings clustered around the dockyards. What kind of house did Marten own, and who else would be living there?

  Marten had said he would pay half the cost to win
ter the mules and store the caravan if Rowan kept it, explaining they were already too cramped in his smaller rig. It would be expensive in the city though. Rowan wondered if he might leave his rig with his Uncle Ward instead.

  Lost in his thoughts, Rowan didn’t realize at first that the guard at the gate was talking to him.

  “Sorry?”

  “I asked if that friend of yours is in some kind of trouble.”

  “Why?” The question came out too sharp, Rowan’s alarm plain for the guard to see.

  “I thought as much.” The man, a plump old fellow who had worked the gate to the musician’s park for years and seemed hardly to notice who came and went, nodded in satisfaction. “Bit of an odd one, your friend, even among this lot.” He cast his eyes over the park, as if cataloguing in his mind the many oddities of musicians.

  Rowan wanted to shake the old bugger. “What happened?”

  The guard’s eyes fixed on him, bright with curiosity. “A bunch of foreigners came asking after him. Big men, and rough, looking for a tall young ’un with long blond hair and a fiddle.”

  Rowan’s heart sank. Jago’s men had found Aydin. He looked wildly toward his caravan, torn between racing over to see if Aydin was there and trying to find out more. The guard’s hand came down on his arm, staying him.

  “Never fear, young sir, they learned nothing from me. I saw you mucking with his hair this morning. I said I hadn’t seen no one like that. They tried to push through and look around, but I told them anyone comes in the park unauthorized, I sound the alarm.”

  Rowan glanced at the man, aware of the courage it would take to stand up to thugs like that. His pink, round face was indignant. “I don’t take kindly to bully boys, and that’s a fact. Thinking they could swagger in here like they owned the place!” He shrugged. “Anyway, your friend wasn’t here. He ain’t back yet neither.”

  NOT KNOWING WHERE TO LOOK for Aydin, Rowan decided to stay put at the caravan. He tried to work on some of the tunes he’d be playing with Marten’s band tomorrow, but it was useless—his mind kept hopping like a flea back to Aydin. Where was he? What if Jago’s men had already found him? What if they came back to the players’ camp to try the night guard? This time they might not take no for an answer…