Eric managed not to wince. “See you Saturday, then.”
* * *
Over the course of the week he found that he had cause, more than once, to look forward to that party on Saturday. Fitting back into the student life was much harder than he’d expected.
His alarm clock jarred him awake at seven a.m. Monday morning. It was set to an all news, all the time station, and a woman who sounded far too perky for this hour of the morning was chattering on about tie-ups at various bridges and tunnels. Eric staggered out of bed, groping for the “Off” switch.
A cold shower jolted him awake, but his brain didn’t seem to want to take the hint and join the rest of his body. He dragged a comb through his hair and tied it back with a strip of rawhide, then grabbed the first things out of his closet—chambray shirt, featherweight suede vest in a deep rich burgundy, and well-broken-in jeans.
Not bad, if I do say so myself, he decided, glancing into the mirror.
His stomach was too jumpy for breakfast to seem like much of a good idea, so he grabbed a handful of granola bars and stuffed them into his messenger bag for later. Fortunately he’d made most of his preparations the night before, so his course schedule and the paperwork he’d need for today was already stowed away, along with his flute in its case. With one last look around the apartment—amazing how much it had started looking like home in just a few short days—he headed for the street.
The hot weather had broken overnight—though according to his friends uptown, it would be back a time or two before autumn really came to stay—and the morning was bright and cool, a perfect early fall day. He hesitated about taking Lady Day over to the school, but then decided against it: the only easy-to-find parking around Lincoln Center was paid parking in garages, since most of the students couldn’t afford to keep cars in the city, and public transportation made it really unnecessary. He’d been in the subway a few times since his arrival, and there was a stop only a few blocks away. That would do for now.
The subway station was hot—the trains were air conditioned to the point of pneumonia, but the platforms weren’t—but as he passed through the turnstile, Eric was surprised to hear the sound of music echoing off the walls: a busker setting up his pitch to take advantage of the early-morning commuter traffic.
Can’t beat the acoustics, Eric thought, looking around for the source of the music. He saw a tall, regal young woman, her hair dyed a surreal cherry-black, playing an electric violin. Its silvery surface gleamed with rainbow iridescence in the florescent lighting of the platform. Her case was open at her feet, and there was already a tidy accumulation of coins and bills—even a few subway tokens. He caught her eye and grinned, giving her a thumbs up. She smiled back and nodded without missing a beat: he recognized Copeland’s Variations on a Theme from Appalachian Spring.
For a moment Eric thought about joining her for a little impromptu jam session, but decided against it: he’d heard that street musicians had to have a license to perform in New York, and that was something he hadn’t gotten around to finding out about just yet. He dug in his pocket and tossed a handful of change into her fiddle-case. With the practice of long experience, the violinist brought her music to an end just as the train pulled into the station and her appreciative audience began moving toward the open doors. Eric joined them.
In a few short stops he reached his destination: Lincoln Center. The Center was essentially the Juilliard campus: the school itself was a tall building tucked off in a corner behind Lincoln Center. Though when evening came this would be one of the busiest parts of the city, there were few people in the plaza at this hour of the morning. Familiar with the layout from previous visits, Eric found his way to his classroom without difficulty.
The halls were filled with students, some new, some returning. Juilliard wasn’t “just” a music school. It offered programs in Drama and Dance as well. The dancers were easy to spot, most of them already in leotards and soft shoes from early-morning practice, with their dance-bags slung over one shoulder. A number of the other students were carrying—or towing—instrument cases.
He found the auditorium without difficulty. There were several of his fellow students waiting around outside. One of them—a short blond kid who looked like he should still be in grade-school, waved.
“Hi. You must be ‘Pappy’ Banyon.” He grinned, relishing the joke. “I’m Jeremy Mitchell. Oboe. You know what they say about double-reed players.”
“Hi,” Eric said, holding out his free hand. “Pleased to meet you. Back when dinosaurs ruled the earth, they always used to say the pressure on the brain’d drive you crazy. Glad to hear it’s still true.”
“Some things never change,” Jeremy agreed happily. “I’m a musical prodigy—but then, hey, aren’t we all? This is Lydia,” he added, pulling a redheaded girl forward. “Lydia Ashborn, meet the legendary Eric Banyon.”
“Hi,” Lydia said, blushing heavily. If he hadn’t met her here, Eric would have been sure she was one of the drama students. She had the looks for it—flaming red hair, ivory skin, and the most amazing eyes Eric had seen outside of Underhill, a deep violet color.
“With Banyon here, Rector won’t have any time to pick on you,” Jeremy promised her. “He’s supposed to be a real monster—likes to keep his students from getting too stuck on themselves, from what I hear.”
“I know the type,” Eric said. “Ashborn. Isn’t—”
“Yeah,” Lydia said too quickly, looking even more uncomfortable than before. Marco Ashborn was a world-class violinist, and Lydia was obviously his daughter. And equally obviously would rather be anywhere but here.
“But it isn’t your fault,” Jeremy said. “Nobody’s going to hold it against you. We won’t, anyway. Right, Banyon?”
“Right,” Eric said, because it seemed to be expected of him. For all his upstart sassiness, Jeremy seemed to be fond of Lydia and doing his best to put her at ease. It couldn’t be easy coming here as the child of a star of the music world. Talk about performance pressure. . . .
At least that was one thing I never had to face: parents who were expecting me to follow in their golden footsteps.
Just then the bell rang. “Time to face the lions,” Jeremy said cryptically. “C’mon. Let’s sit together.”
Before long, Eric knew exactly what Jeremy had meant, and was grateful for the warning.
Professor Rector taught History of Music. He was new since Eric had last studied here, and seemed to be one of those professors who believed in teaching through intimidation. That meant that somebody in the class had to be the scapegoat, and after meeting the sixteen-year-old Lydia, Eric was just as glad it was him. Before the hour was over, he’d already had his fill of sardonic comments about unusual aspects of the work of this or that obscure composer aimed directly at him and ending with, “but I don’t imagine that you encountered any requests for his work in the subway, Mr. Banyon.”
It was obvious that his history had preceded him, and if there’d been anyone at the school who didn’t know that he’d left Juilliard years before and gone out to make his living as a street-busker, they all certainly knew by the end of the first class.
Eric kept his temper, although the constant gibes really began to grate after the fourth time. When Mr. Rector actually phrased his comment as a question, Eric answered it when he could, and when he could not, he admitted it. Otherwise, he ignored the constant stream of barbs—at least that was something at which he had plenty of practice, thanks in no small part to having studied under Dharinel. Dharinel didn’t like anybody, least of all half-trained ragamuffin scapegrace dragged-up-anyhow human Bards foisted on him by his liege-lord. When it came to hitting nerves, Dharinel had all the accuracy of a surgical laser, and had taken just as much malicious enjoyment in getting a reaction out of Eric as Professor Rector did.
Probably Rector thought Eric was a pushover, and some of the students might, too—but the ones who weren’t getting off on seeing Eric constantly slapped down were beginni
ng to see just what a sadistic bastard the man was without having to become a target themselves. So in a way, Eric was giving them a useful lesson in maintaining dignity in the face of adversity. And that was certainly a vital survival skill in the world of music.
I’ve faced off with bastards who could kill the populations of entire cities, and who got a kick out of the kind of torture that leaves lifelong scars. I can handle a little harassment. And besides, it’s still the first week. Maybe he’ll get tired of it. It’s possible.
Fortunately, none of his other professors were as confrontational as Rector, nor did they seem to want to waste class time busting his chops, and by the end of the day, Eric had figured out a way to take the wind out of Rector’s sails if he ever needed to. He’d bought a very nice microcassette recorder with a good microphone in order to tape all of his lectures in addition to taking his own spoken notes. When he got home that evening, he sat down to transcribe his notes—including every word of Professor Rector’s lecture, inappropriate gibes and all.
When he was done, he labelled the tape and put it aside—from now on he was going to save every golden word of Rector’s lectures, and if the man tried to drive Eric out of Juilliard by any monkey business with Eric’s grades, he’d find out in a hurry that Eric Banyon wasn’t the pushover he’d thought. Those tapes would be in the hands of the president of Juilliard—along with a neatly typed transcript with the important parts highlighted—within hours, and the good professor would have a hard time explaining away what would look like a really unhealthy negative fixation on a student.
Microcassettes were wonderful things.
But Eric didn’t think he’d ever have to use that weapon. He’d eaten lunch with Jeremy and Lydia, and Jeremy seemed to be a clearing-house for every scrap of gossip on the Juilliard campus. He’d told Eric that Professor Rector didn’t have tenure—and as a result, Rector didn’t have any real power in the Juilliard hierarchy.
So Eric didn’t waste any energy fretting over one more bully. Energy and time were two things he didn’t have enough of to waste; there was an awful lot to learn, and the structured classes—with their structured expectations—were more of a drain on his energy than he’d thought they’d be. Students were expected to do three things in the course of their studies: learn, perform—and compose original works.
When it came to composition, he’d always worked on pure inspiration and impulse; now he had to learn music theory and be able to explain why certain things worked or didn’t. It was a lot like mathematics, and left his head aching with the amount he was trying to comprehend. And this was only the first week, the overviews of what students would be expected to master in the weeks ahead.
It was only when it came to performance that Eric was completely at ease. The years of playing at RenFaires and on the street had taught him how to improvise endlessly on common themes, and playing before the Sidhe—the toughest audience on either side of the Hill—had polished his performances. All of that showed, even when he was playing classical or contemporary music, and so Eric was quickly recruited, not only for the main orchestra, but for the chamber group and a trio.
He wouldn’t take any more ensemble groups after that, in spite of the fact that he was repeatedly asked to, and the fact that many of the Advanced Certificate students were carrying a lot more. He was older than they were. He needed a life away from music; he was too old to be able to dedicate himself obsessively the way some of the younger kids could, playing in half a dozen chamber groups besides their regular work. Granted, some of it paid—and that was another reason not to take potential work away from people who needed the money more than he did.
He reflected with some irony that, as with mainstream religion, it was easy enough to dedicate your life to music before you discovered sex—but afterwards, it was a different proposition. The way the kids threw themselves into everything—they had an intensity he’d lost somewhere along the path to growing up. He didn’t regret his loss—change was normal everywhere but Underhill—but sometimes he envied the passion the younger students seemed always to carry at their fingertips.
By Friday, Eric had less idea than before if he was going to come out of this experience as a really brilliant musician (as opposed to a Bard) or merely a competent one, like the normal run of Juilliard graduates. If he didn’t add magic to the music he played, just how good a flute player was he going to be, anyway? He was way too old to be a prodigy now, but had the years of actual playing been enough to make up for lack of formal schooling?
It was not a question that caused him to lose any sleep—as Greystone had pointed out, he could get a decent-paying professional gig just as he stood, and he could even go back to the Faire circuit with time in between spent Underhill—but it was a question that he pondered in the few moments not devoted to his coursework. Did he really want to be another James Galway? Eric didn’t think so—being a True Bard and having the high profile of a celebrity musician could be a dangerous combination.
But being very good didn’t necessarily mean you had to be very famous. There was always studio work, for instance, if he wanted to stay in one place. And there were a lot more recording studios in New York than most people thought.
The weekend arrived, and he spent Saturday afternoon happily shopping for his party, taking Lady Day rather far afield to obtain some of the things he wanted. After all of the celebrations Underhill and in the house in San Francisco, he had the feeling he would never again be content with potato chips and dip, a platter of cheddar and jack, and boxed crackers, and he was rather proud of the spread he assembled.
I know I don’t really have to try to overawe these guys, even if I could, but heck, it sure would be nice if they liked me. Greystone’s cool, and I like Toni—and I guess I can judge the rest of them by the company they keep, at least more or less—but it never hurts to make a good impression. And besides, after a week like that one, I’m entitled to a little celebration.
By the time his guests began to arrive, he’d finished arranging the food in the living room and kitchen—not at all bad for a lone bachelor, he congratulated himself. There was something here for every taste—he figured that between him and Greystone, there wouldn’t be any leftovers, either. There were two plates of the sushi rolls he’d grown to love on the West Coast; a cheese platter containing brie and neufchatel and other strange or strong cheeses; lox and cream cheese and bagels from the corner deli; a cold hors d’oeuvres tray from Balducci’s, with shrimp and miniature quiches and spinach rolls and stuffed mushrooms; fresh-baked, thinly sliced, miniature loaves of bread for the cheese and the handmade Amish jams and jellies he’d found down at the 14th Street Farmers’ Market.
Remembering what Toni Hernandez had said, for drinks he had gourmet teas and coffee, his vast assortment of designer waters, Classic Coke, plain seltzer, and a couple of oddball soft drinks. He could hardly wait for his guests to arrive.
Eric found himself going to the mirror nervously, over and over. He’d dressed carefully, in a mix of the clothing Kory had kenned for him and more mundane garb. Tucked into a pair of black suede trousers from a leather store was a deep burgundy silk shirt straight from Underhill, and the pants were tucked into his Faire boots with the burgundy leather pattern laid into the side. Under a side-laced, black suede vest he wore his sword belt without the sword, and wondered if any of the four would notice that omission.
Greystone slipped in the window as he was going to the mirror for the fourth time. “You look simply fah-bulous, kiddo,” the gargoyle said, with a wink. “Settle down, you’ll like these people, and they’ll like you. You’ve already made points with them, just by being low-key.”
“I wish you’d told me more about them,” Eric fretted. “At least what they look like! I mean, I’m never comfortable meeting people cold, and you’re hitting me with three total strangers! I don’t even know how many are men and how many are women—”
“Well, they won’t be strangers for long, now, will they?”
Greystone countered, scarfing up a plateful of food and a bottle of water. “Toni an’ me, we didn’t want you forming any opinions in advance. Have some sushi and relax.”
“As if I could,” Eric grumbled sotto voce, and just then the door buzzer sounded. He opened it to let in the four “senior mages” of the House.
And as Greystone had said, maybe it was a good thing that he hadn’t been told anything about these people, because he couldn’t have picked out four more normal folks if he’d tried.
“Everyone, this is Eric Banyon,” Toni said, as they all moved inside and Eric shut the door. “Eric, this is Jimmie Youngblood—that’s short for ‘Jemima,’ and she’ll kill you if you use it. Jimmie is with NYPD Detective Division.”
Even in her street clothes, Jimmie looked like a female cop; Eric had come to be able to recognize the commonalities with other LEOs2 he’d met. She didn’t have to look tough, it was simply a part of her. In point of fact, if you only looked at the surface and not at the way she moved and the carefully wary way in which she was always checking her surroundings, you’d have said she looked frail—but she wasn’t thin, she was whipcord and muscle. It was difficult to identify a nationality for her; she had thick, lustrous straight black hair, very dark eyes, a bronzy complexion under a good, even tan, and cheekbones a model would kill for, though the rest of her face was too strong to be called “pretty.” Maybe some Cherokee in there? Eric thought.
“Good to meet you, Eric,” Jimmie said formally, shaking his hand firmly. She raised an eyebrow, glancing at his waist. “Nice belt, but isn’t there something missing?” she asked with a glint of a smile in her amber eyes.
“Now it’s my turn to make an introduction. This is Paul Kern: computer nerd by day, gaming addict by night.”
“Eric,” Paul said, shaking his hand with a grin. Paul was a tall elegant black man who carried himself with the grace of a dancer. Most of the computer nerds Eric had known had moved as if they weren’t sure where to put their hands and feet, but Paul moved like a cat turned into a human. Eric noted that his eyes had already flicked to the computer in the corner and back to Eric’s face in the brief instant of their introduction. “You get in trouble with that system of yours, give a shout,” he said with a grin. His voice held a faint trace of a British/Islands accent.
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