by Sharon Lee
Hakan's burden of guitar cases and song books, no larger than Cory's, grew heavier as they got closer to the far corner. "Cory, it's pretty dim back here!"
"So much the better," the small man said with half a grin. "This way everyone will watch someone else and not steal the tunes we play."
Hakan frowned, then jerked his head about as someone rolled out a quick, bright riff of a song they had been practicing. "Yeah, I see what you mean. But—I feel like we're exiled back here!"
Cory carefully put down his load of cases and music.
"It may be better, Hakan," he said finally. "We are different from all these others. We are—what would you say?—the gust that breaks the branch. Everyone here knows who we are. I know only you; you know only a few."
Hakan felt his cheeks flush. "Do they really think that way?" he demanded. "Do they think the King's Court will choose us because of . . ."
"Hero," Cory said succinctly, and Hakan flushed deeper. "We play at a handicap, alone or together."
"It's not fair!" Hakan muttered, suddenly seeing a dozen faces turned in their direction, a hand pointing them out, a huddle of curious youngsters . . .
Crash!
There was mild laughter nearby as Cory slowly extricated himself from the bench he had fallen over.
Hakan rushed to his side. "Are you all right, man? You never trip!"
"Ah," Cory said mildly. "Do you mean I am not perfect?"
Hakan looked at hint sharply. "You've done this before, haven't you?"
"I've never been to a Winterfair, Hakan; how could I?"
"Damn it, Cory, you play more games than a fall breeze in the leaves! You've played before—in competition!"
Cory smiled, gave Hakan a brotherly pat on the wrist, and turned his back to open an instrument case. He spoke softly, nearly to himself. "Hakan, I know competition. I know I play well. Here? How do I know? In Gylles I only know how you play . . .and I enjoy working with your music. But now we are not so great—and now perhaps your friends will talk with you if you see them without me."
Hakan grinned. "You're really devious!"
Cory shrugged. "I hope you have the old strings I asked you to save. We should practice with them—for a while . . ."
Hakan laughed, opening his mandolette case. "Until they all break?"
"Exactly!" the smaller man said, pulling out a guitar. "Exactly."
The fairgrounds were a marvel to Miri. Tucked into a valley with a large hill sealing the windward side, the place was built entirely of timber. The permanent buildings and the many raised walkways were of wood, and over both the Avenue of Artists and the Parade were tall wooden frames supporting taut canvas to help keep out the snow and wind while still letting in light and air.
Some of the fair events took place away from the structures: the downhill sled races, the woodcutting championships, and the team sled-drags. Clearly, though, the focus was the fairgrounds and the wooden structures.
"Kem, this is like there is two Gylles! One for all the time, and one for the fair!"
Kem laughed. "Of course! The fair is something special—it brings in a lot of money each year, but you can't hold it in town. People come from all over the country! Look over there—that pole now, that's for . . ."
Without missing a step Miri noted its location, ignoring Kem's explanation of the obvious: a radio tower higher than the pennant poles.
"Why don't I see that before?" she asked, pausing to stare.
"They bring it in by train—the King's Voice goes to all the big events. There's even a chance that Hakan and Cory could be on radio all over Bentrill if they win the competition!"
"And the electric?" Miri demanded. "I see no wires!"
Kem looked at her in surprise. "I don't know—I think they use the train for the electric."
"Do they?" Miri said, and headed that way, purpose in her small stride. Kem gaped for a moment and then followed, hoping that her friend was not going to do anything rash.
Val Con and Miri said good night to Hakan quietly, careful not to wake Kem, who was asleep against his shoulder.
"Drive well, my friend," Val Con said, and Hakan grinned.
"No fear." His grin widened. "Oh, man, we were great!"
Val Con laughed gently. "Yes, Hakan. Drive carefully. Sleep well. Good night."
They stood on the porch and waved until the taillights were lost at the end of the drive, then slipped inside, moving down the dark hallway and up the steps in utter silence. Zhena Trelu had left the fair soon after Hakan and Cory had finished their first set, claiming exhaustion; it would be less than wise to wake her at this advanced hour of the night.
Miri lay down on the bed with a deep sigh. Val Con sat on the edge, eyes smiling.
"Did you have a good time, cha'trez?"
"Wonderful. This thing goes on for another week? I'll be spoiled for doing anything that looks like work!"
He was laughing. She snapped her fingers and twisted to sit up, digging into the deep pocket of her skirt.
"Almost forgot, boss. I got—" She hesitated, suddenly shy. "I got a present for you."
"A present? Will it explode, I wonder? Is that why you're sitting so far away?"
She grinned and slid closer, until her hip was against his, then offered him the blue plush box.
He took it in his long fingers, found the catch, and opened it. Miri, watching his face closely, saw his expression go from pleased expectation to smiling delight.
"A 'jiliata," he murmured, inclining his head to the silver dragon on its black cord. "I salute you." He looked up, green eyes glowing. "Lisamia keshoc, cha'trez."
She smiled and answered in her still-careful Low Liaden. "You are welcome, Val Con-husband. It gives me joy to give you joy."
He laughed and hugged her. "Spoken with the accent of Solcintra!" He offered the box. "Will you put it on?"
She slipped the necklace from its nesting place, ran the soft cord through her fingers, and slid it around his neck, twisting the intricate clasp shut. "There you go."
He raised his head, smiling, then lifted a brow at the look he surprised on her face. "Is there something wrong?"
"Not wrong." She touched his face, her hand fluttering from cheek to brow to lips. "Right." She grinned. "Punch drunk—fair drunk. Gods."
There was a small silence; her hand fell away, and she shifted a little, recalling a question from much earlier in the day. "We rich now, boss?"
He laughed lightly. "We have been rich for some time now, you and I. Today they merely gave us some money."
It was her turn to laugh; she squeezed his hand tightly. "We got you out of there kind of late—I meant to ask if they told you 'bout the station?"
"Station?" His brows furled. "The Winter Train?"
"Nah. The one they call the King's Voice. The radio station."
His eyes sharpened. "Ah! That is it! I thought the King's Voice was like the King's Eyes or—a representative of the king."
She shook her head. "Nope. It's a portable radio station, tower and all. Goes all 'round the country. Uses a generator in one of the trains."
"I must see it." It was almost hunger she felt coming through the pattern in her head. "I must see the transmitter!"
She nodded and fumbled in the pocket of her skirt. "Thought you would. Here we go: four passes, special deal for hero types. Had a time talking 'em loose. Thought Kem was gonna disown me."
Val Con hugged her tightly. "Miri, Miri. Things come together! Soon we'll leave for Laxaco—the city where flying machines are ordinary and they have radio factories. We may be on our way home soon—or at least in contact."
"Promise me something," she said earnestly.
He moved back a bit. "What should I promise?"
"That we'll finish out this fair before you drag us away to the smog!"
He grinned. "Of course! We stay to the end of the party!"
She hugged him back then, for a long time.
VANDAR:
Winterfair
The icy gray clouds flowed through Fornem's Gap, relentlessly driven by the stiff, oceanic breeze. Miri glared at them without result, while Val Con leaned against the front porch rail at her side, watching six of the king's honor guard march up the lane from their temporary camp. He sighed lightly at the two cars farther down the lane: sightseers, looking over the battleground.
From the lane came a familiar roar, closely followed by Hakan's car, green and red fair-ribbons snapping smartly in the breeze. The driver's side window was down despite the cold, and Hakan's voice—but not his words—could be heard long before the car stopped.
"I said," he repeated breathlessly, "that we've got some bad news and some good news!"
"Bad news first," Miri said firmly as she opened the back door and started packing in the picnic lunch, picnic dinner, and snacks Zhena Trelu insisted on sending with them.
"Always," Val Con agreed.
"Right. The bad news is that Capstone Trio won't be coming in for the fair after all. They've all come down with pneumonia or something—the radio man called Kem's mother last night to tell her they'd need to come up with a replacement."
Miri shrugged. "Bad news like that beats the wind out of something serious!"
Hakan barely flushed. "Well, you haven't heard them, so you don't know—and I was going to get to meet them!"
Val Con finished stowing the extra blankets Zhena Trelu had sent and slid close to Hakan on the bench seat, keeping a wary eye on the large hot mug perched precariously next to the driver. "Then," he said, "you may tell us the good news."
"Right," Hakan said again. "The good news is that they've decided—the fair governors—to have a contest for the slot the Capstones would have been in. It'll be open to any trio!"
Miri snuggled in next to Val Con and slammed the door shut as the car began to accelerate.
Val Con stared straight ahead as Hakan shifted and looked at the two of them.
"Well?" he demanded.
"Well what?" Miri asked, then began shaking her head. "No. No. No chance. No way. I don't stand in front—"
Val Con was laughing, eyes straight ahead.
"Miri, I've heard you sing—you're terrific!" Hakan said. "We've got a great chance of winning. All we need to do is come up with a good name—already have a couple for you to think about—and practice today after the duo competition." He glanced at her face. "Look, you don't even have to sing all that much if—"
"No!" Miri exclaimed. In Terran, punctuated by an elbow in Val Con's side, she said, "Stop laughing, you devil!"
But Val Con continued to chuckle, ducking to let the argument bounce back and forth over his head, all the way to the fair.
Miri grumpily folded the newspapers under her arm as they left the practice room and headed for the competition hall. The problem was not listening to Val Con and Hakan practice. It was listening to the people around them, hearing the remarks—and collecting the papers. The two men were in a world only peripherally connected to Vandar, mumbling about song order and such like, oblivious to the points and the stares and the papers.
They were yesterday's papers, mostly, each with accounts of the battle, and four of the five, including the King's Press, featured photographs taken at the awards ceremony. The other paper had sketches that were barely recognizable—and which tipped her annoyance into anger, for the one of Val Con made the scar the most prominent feature on his face.
It was not snowing yet, which was some comfort, Miri thought. She shook her head. Somehow it had been settled that she would sing with them the next day, and she could not even blame the decision on Val Con, who had merely laughed throughout the whole argument. She still needed to come up with a name, though, having rejected out of hand Hakan's favorites: the Gap Trio, the Zhena Robersun Trio, and the Springbreeze Farm Trio.
"Wind'll take these things," she grumbled in Terran. "And I'm damned if I—"
Karooom!
"Wow! It's going to snow now!" Hakan cried. Then he stopped, abruptly realizing that his friends stood rooted in their tracks, heads craned skyward.
Miri's eyes were on one spot in the overcast; she moved her head ever so slightly, following the sound.
"What's the matter?" Hakan demanded, puzzled. "It's only thunder—"
"Hush!" Cory snapped.
Hakan listened, too. True, it had been a rather sudden bit of thunder; there was a distinct but distant rumble trailing away to the northeast and Fornem's Gap.
"That's funny," he said a moment later. "It sounds like the thunder there is echoing against the wind!"
Miri said something in the language she and Cory sometimes used between themselves. She said it three times, progressively louder, as if casting an incantation. "Sonic boom. Sonic boom. Sonic boom."
Cory answered in the same language, moved his shoulders in that foreign way of his, and finished with the same words.
"Sonic boom."
He sighed. "Do you always have this kind of thunder, Hakan? So isolated? No flash of lightning?"
"Well, we get thunder in snowstorms a few times a year—usually means it's going to be a big one. But I think I still hear that—you don't think it's a windtwist, do you? We haven't had one of those since I was a baby!"
"No, I think not, friend. Probably just a squall. I have heard this thunder once or twice—at home—and so has Miri, but we have heard nothing like it here."
The sound faded out; the conversations of the crowd around picked up, and in moments the isolated, far-rumbling thunder was stored away as a strange memory from the Winterfair.
"There!" Hakan said as they arrived at the competition hall. "It was the first cloud breaking its ice!"
He pointed to a gray curtain moving down the side of the mountain, obscuring all behind it.
"Just like Surebleak," Miri said in unenthusiastic Terran. "Except there's too many happy people around. And some idiot skypilot who don't know the local limits!"
"Cha'trez, we don't know that. After all, there is an active Benish aviation industry."
"Yeah? I'll tell you what. You prove that was homegrown or natural, and I'll take the next ten watch details we come up with!"
"Ah, but what if we are done with watches?"
She grinned. "Always wanna hedge your bet, doncha, Liaden?"
"Come on!" Hakan said, grabbing Cory's arm. "They're posting the competition order!"
Grinning, they made appropriate haste.
VANDAR:
Winterfair
The snow pelted Miri as she wandered through the double-flapped cloth door, cold bit her nostrils, clearing them instantly of the scent of a thousand humans.
Hakan and Cory were scheduled after the next group. Miri grappled with the name once again, struggling to avoid "Hakan and Cory and Miri" or, as Hakan had also suggested, "Miri and Hakan and Cory." She sighed. Hakan's musical talent was balanced by inability to choose a name with a snap to it.
Despite the snow—or because of it—the fair outside the performance hall was lively. The sleds that had been sitting idly in the fields were in full use, ferrying families to and fro; the hill in the distance was masked by the white stuff. The braziers spotted here and there were well tended, and Miri moved slowly toward one, trying not to step on a child.
As a Merc, she had never had much to do with children; certainly she had never developed the amazing talent Val Con had demonstrated yesterday, of being able to talk and patiently answer questions. The man seemed to actually like kids!
Good thing, too, Miri thought, 'cause they were everywhere. One was at that very moment angling toward the brazier, followed by a shorter version, both with coats carelessly unfastened and hoods hanging down their backs. They stood in front of the fire and turned their faces into the snow, giggling, until the taller of the two spotted her beside them and smiled.
"Good fair, zhena."
"Good fair, zama," she answered, feeling her mouth curve into a smile. "Button your coats before you go sledding."
The smaller one
gave a crow of laughter. "We been sledding," he told her. "Now we go eat!"
"Good choice," Miri said, and they laughed, waving as they moved away from the fire.
Miri moved down the snow-covered path, admiring the true whiteness of the snow, so unlike the gray precipitation of Surebleak. Kids could be happy here—
She broke the thought off, ears straining against the muffling of the snow, against the soft whisper of flakes striking her coat.
It was there! From above the clouds came a thrumming, lurking noise, the sound of a modern craft, hovering.
Fair noise overwhelmed the sound, and for a moment she doubted herself. Then it came again—the kind of sound she had hoped and prayed and cursed for when Klamath had come apart around them, freezing them, frying them, killing them . . .She banished the memory and ran through the Rainbow's sequence so quickly that the colors blurred into a wheel before her mind's eye.
The thrumming sound came again—louder, it seemed—and she turned, resolved to run to Val Con, to bring him out to listen.
What for, Robertson? she asked herself derisively. What's he gonna do about it? Yell? You need a radio, quicktime.
Damn. A radio right here, and no way to send a message! There had to be a way . . .
A man came around the corner of the hall, shrouded in snow and blinded by it. She dodged, blinking up at the hugeness of him, and called out of happier memories, out of hope. "Jason? Edger?"
He stopped, taking shape out of the snow and smiling down at her. "Zhena?"
Miri laughed and apologized. "In the snow I mistake you for someone I know."
"Easy to do when the snow winds come!" he boomed good-naturedly. "Good fair!" He was gone then, leaving warmth behind amid the confusion.
A gong banged in the distance and was echoed by others—the new hour was starting. She rushed into the hall, a name for the trio on her lips.
Hakan and Val Con were still setting up. Miri moved to a front-row bench and instantly felt Val Con's gaze on her. She smiled, adding quick flutter of hand-talk—Old Trade—that said "Need to talk later." His wave and smile reassured her.