The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III

by Mercedes Lackey

  As usual, she spread out a threadbare napkin, and the chief cook filled it with her “pay”—mostly leftover bread, with a bit of bacon and a scrap of cheese, some of last night’s roast from the Upper Servants’ Kitchen that was too tough and stringy to even go into soup today. Tanager thanked her with a little bobbing curtsey, tied it all up into a bundle, and slipped out the door just in time to avoid the lunchtime rush.

  She always hurried across the cobbles to the gate, but today she had more reason to half-run than usual. She wanted to find out if anyone in the city had heard anything about the bird-man, or the Law of Degree, and to that end, there were two places she needed to go. First, as Nightingale, the Chapel of Saint Gurd. Second, the square just down the street from Freehold where she generally met Maddy and the rest of her army of urchins just after lunch.

  Surely, between them, Father Ruthvere or the children would have heard or seen something. And at the moment, she was not certain whether she wanted to hear more about the Law of Degree or—T’fyrr.

  If that was who the feathered wonder was.

  ###

  Nightingale slipped back into Freehold by the back door feeling quite frustrated. There had been nothing worth bothering about in the way of news at the Chapel; the Priest, Father Ruthvere, had heard nothing about a “Law of Degree,” but he promised Nightingale fiercely that he would do his best to find out about it.

  Father Ruthvere was something of an odd character, and Nightingale never would have trusted him with her true Bard-name if it had not been that he had recognized her Free Bard ribbons during one of her visits (not as Tanager) and had asked her how Master Wren and Lady Lark were faring. It turned out that he had some sort of connection to that cousin of Talaysen’s who was also in the Church. He had been promoted to his own Chapel here, and he had promised Priest Justiciar Ardis when he was sent on to Lyonarie that he would keep an eye out for Free Bards and help them when he could.

  That in itself was either an example of how small a world it truly was—or that there was something in the way of Fate dogging her footsteps.

  The convoluted twists that this little mission of hers was taking were beginning to make her head spin.

  For the meantime, however, Father Ruthvere was an ally she was only too glad to have found. He was one of the faction that followed the “we are all brothers” faith, and that made him doubly valuable to her, and vice versa. He knew what was going on, to a limited extent, within the Church—she had her information from the street and the Court. Together they found they could put together some interesting wholes out of bits and pieces.

  Maddy and her crew hadn’t come up with anything either, though as usual they were glad enough for her bag of leftovers and the pennies she gave them all. The only thing that one of the boys knew was that his brother had actually seen the horseless wagon on its way to the Palace. It had not been pulled or pushed by any beasts, and from the description, it could have been the wagon that Harperus used.

  But then again, she thought to herself, as she scrambled up the staircase, wouldn’t any Deliambren wagon look like any other? I don’t know for a fact that Harperus is the only one traveling about the countryside.

  But would any other Deliambren have a Haspur with him?

  She slipped down the hall, making certain first that there was no one around to catch her in her Tanager disguise, then unlocked the door to her room and whisked inside.

  “I don’t even know that it’s a Haspur,” she told herself, thinking out loud. “There is more than one bird-race, and most of them would match the description that girl gave. It could be anyone. In fact, it’s just not likely that it’s Harperus and T’fyrr.”

  But as she changed out of her Tanager clothing and headed for the bathroom for a needed sluicing, she couldn’t help but think that—given the way that things were going—the fact it wasn’t likely was the very reason why it would turn out to be her friends.

  ###

  She drifted down the stairs in one of her rainbow-skirts; the blue one this time. Today, Lyrebird was in a casual mood and had dressed accordingly.

  Actually, today Lyrebird was ravenous and wanted to be able to eat without worrying about delicate dagging and fragile lace. She had missed her lunch in order to fit in a stop at Father Ruthvere’s Chapel, and she’d given all those leftovers to the children without saving even a roll for herself.

  Not that she had been hungry enough for stale rolls and stringy beef. Her stay here had spoiled her; there had been plenty of times when those leftovers would have been a feast.

  Well, plenty of times in the long past, when she was between villages and her provisions had run out, maybe. Nightingale had never been so poor a musician that she’d had to sing for leftovers.

  This hour was too late for lunch and a bit too early for dinner. Only a few of the eating nooks were open and operating, and all of those were on the ground floor. Lyrebird went to one of her favorites, where the cook was a merry little man with no use of his lower limbs because of an illness as a child. Not that he let it get in the way of his work; he was a cook, after all, and he didn’t need to move much. He plied his trade very well from a stationary seat within a half-circle of round-bottomed pans, all heated on Deliambren braziers to the sizzling point. You picked out what you wanted from a series of bins of fresh vegetables, and strips of fowl, fish and meat in bowls sunk in ice, and brought it to him in your bowl; he would quick-fry it in a bit of oil, spice it according to your taste, and serve it all to you on a bed of rice, scooped out of the huge steamer behind him. If he wasn’t busy, he was always happy to talk.

  Nightingale was always happy to talk to him, and this time of day she was often his only customer.

  “Well, Lyrebird, you’re eating like a bird indeed today—twice your weight in food! You’re eating like dear little Violetta!”

  He winked at that; most of the staff found Violetta amusing. The name was female, and surely the little misfit dressed like a woman, but there wasn’t a person on the staff who was fooled.

  No matter. Freehold was full of misfits, and if “Violetta” wanted to dress in fantastic gowns and gossip like one of the serving wenches, no one here would ever let “her” know that they had seen past the disguise.

  “Skip your breakfast?” Derfan asked, eyeing the size of the bowl she had picked up at the start of the bins.

  “And lunch,” she confirmed, bringing him her selection and taking a seat on one of the stools nearby to watch him work. He had the most amazingly quick hands; she would have scorched everything, or herself, but Derfan never spoiled a meal that she had ever heard. And he never once burned himself, either.

  He pursed his lips and shook his head at her. “That’s very bad of you. You’ll do yourself harm if you make that a habit. I should think you’d be ready to faint dead away. What was so important that you had to skip two meals?”

  “That business with that new law people were so upset about last night,” she replied casually. Since it had been the talk of Freehold, there was no reason why she should not have been out looking for confirmation. “I know a good Priest who keeps his ear to the ground and hears a great deal, but he’s halfway across the city.”

  “And?” Derfan prompted, dashing in bits of seasoning and a spot of oil while he tossed her food deftly on the hot metal.

  “He hadn’t heard a thing,” she told him. “I’m halfway convinced now that it was a rumor being spread so that our good leaders can slip something else into law while we are out chasing our tails over this.”

  “Could be, could be,” Derfan agreed, nodding vigorously. “It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done things that way.” The jovial man grinned infectiously as he ladled some juices here and there. “But we’ve got enough excitement right here in Freehold to keep everyone stirred up for the next few days, and never mind some maybe-so, maybe-no law out there.”

  She shook her head as he handed her the bowl full of rice and stir-fried morsels. “I haven’t been her
e, remember?’ she said, fanning the food to cool it, and daring a quick bite. It was too hot, and she quickly sucked in cool air to save her tongue.

  “Our leader’s shown up.” Derfan raised both eyebrows at her.

  She wrinkled her brow, unable to guess his meaning.

  “Our real boss,” Derfan elaborated. “The one Kyran works for.” He sighed when she shook her head blankly. “Tyladen, the Deliambren, the owner of Freehold. He’s here.”

  She stopped blowing on her food and looked up at him sharply. “No,” she said. “I thought he never came here!”

  Oh, this is too much! she thought as Derfan nodded and shrugged. Not one, but two Deliambrens showing up in the space of a single day? What is this, a conspiracy? Is everyone around here involved in some kind of plot?

  “It isn’t that he never comes here, it’s just that he doesn’t do it often,” Derfan told her as she applied herself grimly to her food again. “Maybe he’s decided he ought to, seeing as there’s been all that law talk. Maybe it’s about time he did, too—he’s the one with all the money. Precious little you and me could do if the High King decides to make trouble for our friends, but Deliambrens have got the stuff that the high and mighty want, and that means they have money and a reason for the lords and ladies to listen to ’em. They’ve used that kind of influence before, I’ve heard.”

  “Well, if he wants to have any customers, he’d better get involved, I suppose,” she agreed mildly.

  Now what? What happens if he recognizes me? I didn’t recognize his name, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know me. I’ve met a lot of Deliambrens, and I don’t remember half of them. Damn! The last thing I want is some wealthy fuzzy-faced half-wit breathing down my neck right now, watching everything I do and wanting to know why I haven’t found out more!

  As if to confirm her worst fears, Derfan had even more news about Tyladen. “Word is,” Derfan said in a confidential tone, “that Tyladen’s going to make the rounds of the whole place tonight; look in on all the performers, the cooks and all, see how they’re doing, see how many customers they’re bringing in.”

  “Well, you have no worry on that score,” Nightingale pointed out. Derfan blushed, but Nightingale spoke nothing but the truth. Derfan’s little corner was always popular, since his customers always knew what was in the food he fixed for them.

  Some of them, like the Mintak, were herbivorous and could not digest meat. In addition, the food was ready quickly, and if you were very hungry, you didn’t have to spend a lot of time waiting for someone to prepare your dinner, the way you did in some of the other little nooks.

  “You don’t either, from what I’ve heard,” he countered. “You’re very popular.”

  She shrugged. “Usually I would agree with you, but any musician can have a bad night. It would be my luck that tonight would be the one.”

  Derfan snorted. “I doubt it,” he began. “A bad night for you is a terrific night for some other people around here and—” He interrupted himself. “Turn around! There he is, out on the dance floor, looking up at the light-rigs on the ceiling!”

  She turned quickly and got a good view of the mysterious Tyladen as he stood with his hands on his hips, peering up at the ceiling four floors above. And to her initial relief, she didn’t recognize him.

  He was much younger than she had thought, although age was difficult to measure in a Deliambren; the skin of his face was completely smooth and unwrinkled, even at the corners of the eyes and mouth. He was dressed quite conservatively for a Deliambren, in a one-piece garment of something that looked like black leather but probably wasn’t, with a design in contrasting colors appliqued from the right shoulder to the left hip and down the right leg. His hair was relatively short, no longer than the top of his shoulders, and so were his cheek feathers, although she could have used his eyebrows for whisk brooms.

  He dropped his eyes just as she took the last of this in, and she found herself staring right into them. For one frozen moment, she thought she saw a flash of recognition there.

  But if she had, in the next instant it was gone again. He waved his hand slightly in acknowledgement of the fact that he knew they were both watching him and they were his employees, then went back to staring at the ceiling, ignoring them.

  But now she was so keyed up, she even read that as evidence that he was going to try to interfere in her careful and cautious plans.

  She finished her dinner quickly, thanked Derfan, and hurried up to the Oak Grove, certain that Tyladen was going to show up there and demand an explanation.

  But as the evening wore on and nothing happened—other than Violetta showing up, as if Derfan’s earlier mention of “her” had conjured “her”—she began to feel a bit annoyed. Granted, she really didn’t want some Deliambren meddling in her affairs, but she wasn’t sure she liked being ignored either!

  When Tyladen finally did show up, it was during the busiest part of her evening and she was in the middle of a set. She didn’t even realize he was there until she looked up in time to see him nod with satisfaction, turn, and walk out the door.

  Just that. That was all there was to it.

  Her shift came to an end without anything more happening, and none of her customers had any more information about either the Law of Degree or the mysterious bird-man at the High King’s Court. Not even Violetta, who knew or at least pretended to know something about everything, had anything to say on either subject. On her way upstairs, she stopped at a little nook that sold pre-baked goods and got a couple of meat rolls and an apple tart to take up to her room, half-expecting to be intercepted between her room and the Oak Grove. No one materialized, though, and no one was waiting in her room.

  She ate and cleaned up, and finally went to bed, feeling decidedly odd.

  She was just as happy that she wasn’t going to be interfered with, but after getting herself all upset about the prospect to find that she was being ignored was a bit—annoying!

  But that’s a Deliambren for you, she decided, as she drifted off to sleep. If they aren’t annoying by doing something, they’re bound to annoy you by not doing it!

  ###

  T’fyrr checked the tuning on his small flat-harp nervously for the fifth time. He had decided this morning what he was going to perform for this, his first private concert for the High King, and he was going to need more accompaniment than even his voice could produce. The flat-harp would be ideal, though, for the songs he had selected were all deceptively simple.

  He had wanted to do something to remind the King of his duty; he had found, he thought, precisely the music that would. He had modified one of those songs about the King himself for his first piece—not changing any of the meaning, just perfecting the rhyme and rhythm, both of which were rather shaky. But from there, he would be singing about Duke Arden of Kingsford, a series of three songs written since the fire by a Free Bard called Raven. The first was the story of the fire itself, describing how the Duke had worked with his own bare hands in the streets, side by side with his people, to hold back the fire. While not the usual stuff of an epic, it was a story of epic proportions, and worthy of retelling.

  Let him hear that, and perhaps it will remind him that a ruler’s duty is to his people, and not the other way around.

  If nothing else, it might remind the King of Duke Arden’s straitened circumstances, better than a cold report would. That might pry the help out of him that the Duke had been pleading for.

  That will make the Lord Seneschal happy, at any rate.

  The second was a song about the first winter the city had endured, a saga as grueling, though not as dramatic, as the fire. It described the lengths to which Arden went to see that no one died of hunger or lack of shelter that season. The third and final song described not only Arden but his betrothed, the Lady Phenyx Asher, a love story wound in and around what the two of them were doing, with their own hands, to rebuild the city.

  Actually, it is more about the lady than about the Duke; Raven trul
y admires her, and his words show it.

  The next songs were all carefully chosen to do nothing more than entertain and show off T’fyrr’s enormous range. A couple of them were not even from human composers at all.

  And the last song was another designed to remind the King of his duties—for it had been written by another High King on his deathbed, and was called “The Burden of the Crown.” Though sad, it was a hopeful song as well, for the author had clearly not found the Crown to be a burden that was intolerable, merely one that was a constant reminder of the people it represented.

  If that doesn’t do it, nothing will, T’fyrr thought, then sighed. Well, I suppose I should not expect results instantly. I am not a Gypsy, with magic at my command. If he only listens to the words, it will be a start.

  He had been given nothing whatsoever to do except practice and wait for the King to send for him. He hadn’t especially wanted to venture out of his suite, either; not until the King had heard him play at least once. He had spent all his time pacing, exercising his wings, and practicing. Nob had enjoyed the virtuoso vocalists practice, but the pacing and wing-strokes clearly made him nervous. He had sought his room when T’fyrr suggested that he might want to go practice his reading and writing for his daily lessons with the pages’ tutor.

  Finally the summons had come this afternoon, and Nob brought T’fyrr to this little antechamber to the King’s personal suite, a room with white satin walls, and furnished with a few chairs done in white satin and gilded wood. There he was to wait until the King called for him.

  It seemed he had been waiting forever.

  At last, when he was about to snap a string from testing them so often, the door opened and a liveried manservant beckoned. T’fyrr rose to his feet, harp under one arm, and followed him, the tension of waiting replaced by an entirely new set of worries.