The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III

by Mercedes Lackey

  He brought out a written list, which was thoughtful of him, and was what she would have done in his place. Armed with that, she was able to suggest alternatives to several of the songs she did not yet know, which left them enough time for her to pick up the melodies to the most important of the rest.

  This time, she was no longer so tired that the white marble corridors blurred, one into the other, like the halls in a nightmare. She had a chance to make some mental notes as she walked beside him, his talons clicking oddly on the marble floor.

  Did I have a nightmare involving these halls last night? Something about looking for T’fyrr in an endless series of corridors, all alike, all filled with strangers? Yes, and I kept finding single feathers, broken or pulled out at the roots—could you actually do that with feathers that long and strong? But I never found him, only rooms full of more strangers staring at me and saying nothing.

  She didn’t care much for the statuary, though. It all had a remarkable sameness to it, mannered and smug, beautifully carved and lifeless.

  Rather like the Guild versions of our ballads, actually.

  Was there a sculptor’s version of a Bardic Guild? From the looks of these statues, she suspected there must be.

  Theovere wasn’t responsible for this, though; she had seen his suite and knew for a fact that he had better taste than to order anything like this statuary.

  Huh. A Deliambren has better taste than this.

  Some other High King—or more likely, some other servants of some other High King were responsible. The King had probably waved his hand and ordered that the austere corridors be decorated, and lo—

  There were statues by the gross.

  He might even have done it for the simplest of all reasons; to keep people from becoming lost. Certainly Nob and probably everyone else navigated the endless hallways by the statuary. If that was the case, the statues didn’t need to be inspired, just all of the same theme. They could have been ordered like so many decorated cakes.

  Let’s see, we’ll have a dozen each—High Kings, nymphs, shepherds, famous women, famous men, famous generals, famous warriors, famous animals, dancers, musicians, saints—what did they do when they ran out of obvious subjects? She amused herself, thinking that somewhere there was a corridor decked out in the theme of Famous Village Idiots, or Famous Swinekeepers.

  Each with his favorite piggy at his feet—She smiled to herself, holding back a giggle, as they reached the door of the King’s suite.

  Well, once more into the fray. That was enough to sober her.

  There was another potential problem, as if they did not have troubles enough. She had not told T’fyrr about a thought that had disturbed her own dreams last night. She did not know that there were people other than the Bards and Elves who could detect Bardic Magic at work, but there might be. After all, those who used Bardic Magic could detect other Magics than their own. She did not know if the High King had someone with him or watching over him with the intention of catching anyone working magic on the King in the act. But it was a real possibility, and it was not likely that anyone would bother to ask why they were weaving spells if she and T’fyrr were caught at it.

  As they waited for the guards to open the doors now, there was the chance that she had been detected yesterday, and that they were not going in to a performance but a trap.

  But in all the years she had practiced her art, no one had ever accused her in a way that made her think they had proof she used magic. Nor had anyone else among the Gypsies. Churchmen, village heads, and Guildsmen told wild tales, but never with any foundation.

  And never with any truth—that was the odd and interesting part. In all the times that Free Bards and Gypsies had worked magic, there had been no hint that anyone, even their worst enemies, had a notion that anything of the sort had been done. It was only the unbelievable stories that were spread, of how impressionable youngsters were turned to demon-worship, immorality, or suicide by one or another particular song. They accused the song, and not the singer, as if it were the song that held the power.

  What nonsense. These are stories created by people who want to find something else to blame than themselves for their children’s acts.

  How could words and music, lifeless without the life given to them by the performer, ever influence anyone against his will or better judgment? Books could suggest new possibilities to an open mind, yes, so music could, too—but people were not mindless and they had their own wills, and it was the mind and the will that implemented decisions. The mind that made the decision was ultimately the responsible party.

  She had to assume that would hold true now; had to, or she would be too apprehensive to perform the task she had sworn herself to.

  She had sworn herself, knowing that this might take years, that it might cost her not only her freedom but her life if she were caught at it. She would not take back her pledge now.

  T’fyrr sensed I was making a formal pledge, even though I didn’t make a ceremony about it. Interesting.

  The doors opened, and the King was waiting, and it was time to make good on that pledge; now, and for as many days as it took to bring the bud to flower. If it could be done.

  ###

  T’fyrr watched Nightingale leaving the Palace from the balcony at the end of his corridor. It was a good vantage point, with the formal foregardens spread out beneath him in neat and geometric squares of color divided by walkways of white pavingstone, and was even better as a place from which to take to the air. He was at least four stories up—apparently, the higher you were in rank, the higher your rooms within the Palace. He could see all the way to the Bronze Gate from here, and he made a point of watching to see that Nightingale got that far. She always turned, just before she went through the Gate, and waved at him, knowing that he would see her clearly even though she was nearly a mile away.

  She could not see him, though, so he didn’t bother to wave back. Instead, he waited until that distant figure passed between the open leaves of the gate, then launched himself into the air, wings beating strongly, gaining altitude. The air above the Palace grounds was sweeter than that above the city, and cooler, yet another example of the difference between those who dwelled here and there.

  They had been at this for two weeks now, and although he still had not seen any change in Theovere’s behavior, his Advisors were increasingly unhappy with the High King. In Court, Theovere continued to act as if he were supremely bored with his duties, but the Lord Seneschal frowned a bit less these days, and the rest of the Advisors frowned a bit more, which argued that, in private, Theovere might be flexing his royal muscles discreetly.

  Harperus showed no signs of disappearing the way he had right after he had gotten T’fyrr installed as Royal Musician. That should have been comforting, having at least one real ally with power and a great many tricks up his capacious and frothy sleeves, but it wasn’t as comforting as it could have been. For one thing, the Deliambren clearly had his attention and his mind on other things than T’fyrr. The Haspur actually saw the Lords Seneschal, Artificer, and Secretary more than he saw Harperus.

  They often arrived to share T’fyrr’s otherwise solitary dinners. The Lord Seneschal Acreon was more relaxed these days, though he was very disappointed to discover that Nightingale did not reside with T’fyrr in his rooms. She had impressed Acreon profoundly, it seemed.

  I think she must have done something for him specifically with that Magic of hers. I shall have to propose a special concert for him—perhaps a dinner concert on Nightingale’s night off? We could do worse than have him on our side.

  Lord Secretary Atrovel was his usual acerbic, witty, flippant self; whatever was going on in the private Council sessions didn’t seem to be affecting him in the least. He continued to amuse T’fyrr with his imitations of the other Advisors, and his opinions on everything under the sun.

  Lord Artificer Levan Pendleton came less often, as he was involved in some complicated project, but he was the only one of the thre
e who actually said anything about changes in Theovere, and only a single comment. “He’s up to mischief,” the Lord Artificer had said briefly but with ironic approval, as if Theovere was a very clever, but very naughty, boy.

  Atrovel was there last night with Pendleton, both of them flinging insults at each other and enjoying it tremendously. I wish Nightingale could have been there, too. I wish she would move into my suite . . .

  T’fyrr suppressed the rest of that thought and used his deepest wing beats to get himself high into the sky, to a carefully calculated point where he would be able to make out Nightingale in the street below, but she would not see anything but a bird-form above if she looked up. He was worried about her. She told him not to worry, but he did anyway.

  They tried to capture me, maybe even kill me. They haven’t been successful, and it is going to cost them to find someone willing to make a third try. At least, that is the way Tyladen says things are done here. He thinks that makes me safe.

  Well, maybe it made him safe, but it did nothing to protect Nightingale. An idiot could tell that he not only “hired” her, he cared for her. She was a single unarmed female; much easier to capture than a Haspur. She was, therefore, as much a target as he, and a much cheaper target at that.

  She had to travel the dangerous streets between Freehold and the Palace twice a day, every day. He had volunteered to escort her, in spite of the fact that the crowds made him queasy and the streets brought on that fear of closed-in places all Haspur shared.

  She had refused. He had offered to pay for a conveyance, and she had refused that, as well. Tyladen seemed unconcerned, saying only, “Gypsies can take care of themselves.”

  All very well and good, but there was only one Gypsy in this city, and she would have a difficult time standing up to six armed horsemen, for instance!

  So he had started following her himself; not only from the air, but in the places where the streets were too narrow to make out where she was, by descending to use the metal walkways that connected buildings together above the second stories.

  So far, nothing whatsoever had happened, but that did not make him less worried, it made him more worried. His unknown enemy could be waiting to see just how high a value T’fyrr placed on her before moving in to kidnap her. His enemy could also be trying to figure out just where she figured in Theovere’s altering personality. Anyone who wanted to ask the bodyguards could find out what they were singing for the High King, and at least half of the songs were of a specific kind. You wouldn’t even need magic to get a particular message across to Theovere, if he was listening. Their choice of music alone would alert that enemy to what they hoped to accomplish.

  He looked down, spotting her from above by the misshapen bundle of the harp case on her back. She was out of the better districts and down into the lower-class areas of the city; the streets narrowed, and it was getting harder to watch her from this high. On the other hand, she was jostled along by the crowd, and it would be a bad idea for her to look up now that she was in this part of the city.

  He descended. It wasn’t time to take to a walkway, yet; just the point where he should skim just above the roof level. People doing their wash or tending their little potted gardens would gawk at him as he flew past, but he was used to that now. He moved fast enough that their interest didn’t alert anyone in the street below.

  And speaking of the street below—

  He fanned his wings open, grabbing for a now-familiar roost. He came to rest on a steeple, clinging with all four sets of talons, and watched her as she turned the corner into another narrow street. He particularly didn’t like this one. There were a dozen little covered alleys off it, places where you could hide people for an ambush. This was one of the worst districts she had to cross to get back to Freehold, too. There had been murders committed here in broad daylight with a dozen witnesses present, none of whom, of course, could identify the murderer.

  She was nervous here, too; he sensed that as his neck hackles rose. His beak clenched tight, and the talons on his hands etched little lines into the shingles on the steeple. She felt that something was wrong—

  And it was.

  Three men stepped out of an alley in front of her just as three more stepped out of one behind her. They were armed with sticks and clubs—and as everyone else sandwiched in between their ranks fled the immediate area without being stopped, it was obvious who they were after.

  One of them stepped forward and gestured with his club as Nightingale shrank away, putting her back up against a building.

  T’fyrr shoved himself away from the steeple, plunging toward them in a closed-wing stoop.

  ###

  Nightingale knew she was being followed; she’d known it the moment that her tailer picked her up just outside of Leather Street. He had been following her for the past five days, in fact, always picking up her trail at Leather Street and leaving it just before she got to Freehold. He was good, but not good enough to evade someone who could sense a tracker’s nerves behind her.

  That was why she had paid all of her army of street urchins an extra penny to follow her, as well, from the Palace gate to Freehold. They might be children, but they weren’t helpless; you couldn’t live in and on the street around here if you were helpless. They had their own weapons; tiny fists as hard as rocks, the stones of the street, slings like her own, even a knife or two. They had their orders: if someone tried to hurt Nightingale, they were to swarm him, give her a chance to escape, then run off themselves.

  But she had not expected to be attacked by more than one or two at the most.

  The three stepping out in front of her made her freeze in shock; the three closing in from behind brought a cold wave of fear rushing over her.

  Quickly, as the normal denizens of the street vanished into their own little hiding places, she put her back to a wall and reached inside her skirt for her own knife. This was no time or place for Magic—

  Although a nice Elven lightning bolt would be welcome right now!

  At that moment, the bolt from above did come in, wings half-furled, talons outstretched, screaming like all the demons of the Church put together.

  T’fyrr!

  He raked the scalp of one with his foreclaws as he plunged in, striking to hurt and disable, not to kill. That man was down, blood pouring over his face so that he couldn’t see; he screamed as loudly as T’fyrr. The pain of his wounds probably convinced him that T’fyrr had taken the top of his skull off and not just his scalp.

  With a thunder of wings that sent debris flying, and a wind that whipped the ends of her hair into her face, he landed beside her and turned to face the rest of her enemies.

  He didn’t speak; he just opened his beak for another of those ear-shattering screams.

  But any hope that he might simply frighten them into giving it up as a bad job died when three more appeared behind the five that remained standing.

  Nightingale’s fighting knife was out and ready in one hand, a nasty little bit of chain in the other. Good enough in the ordinary run of street fighting—

  None of those men seemed at all impressed as they closed in.

  She had never been in this kind of a fight before; she spent most of her time ducking, and the rest of it trying to fend off grasping hands with her knife. Fear choked her and made it hard to breathe; T’fyrr panted harshly through his open beak. Every fiber of her wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run to, no opening to seize. Bile rose in her throat; she tasted blood where she had bitten her lip. One of them kicked at her legs, expertly, trying to bring her down. She ducked head blows, but not always with complete success. Her breath burned in her throat, and sweat ran into her eyes and coldly down her back.

  Nightingale fought like a cornered alleycat and T’fyrr like a grounded hawk, but neither of them was willing to strike to kill, and that actually worked against them. There were too many times when the only option open would have meant killing one of their assailants . . .

  A glancing b
low to her shoulder made her drop her bit of chain as her arm and hand went numb; she slashed feverishly at the man who’d struck her, but he only stepped out of the way and came in again, swinging his lead-weighted club. With the chain, she might have been able to get the club away from him—

  We’re not going to get away—She swallowed bile again, and backed away from the man with the club, her stomach lurching with fear.

  Suddenly, the street erupted in screams.

  The children swarmed fearlessly into the fight, screaming their lungs out, kicking, biting, throwing stones, hitting, and most of all getting underfoot. They were too small and agile for the startled attackers to stop them, and there were too many of them to catch; when one of the bullies actually managed to grab an urchin, three or four more would mob him, kicking and biting, until he let go.

  Nightingale spotted an opening at the same time T’fyrr did; they seized each other’s hands, and T’fyrr charged through first, knocking one man aside with a wing, Nightingale hauled along in his wake.

  They ran until their sides ached; ran until they could hardly breathe, ran until they were staggering blindly with exhaustion—and did not stop running until they came to The Freehold.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “I can’t believe you didn’t break anything,” Nightingale said as she carefully checked every bone in T’fyrr’s fragile-appearing wings. She had already checked every inch of his body, from feet to sheath to keel, knowing from her experience with birds that the feathers could hide a number of serious to life-threatening injuries, and that seemingly insignificant tears in the skin could spread under sudden pressure to an unbelievable extent, especially across the breast muscles. Fortunately, his skin proved to be much tougher than the average bird’s.

  She ached, not only from her own injuries, but from his. I know every bruise, every sprain, every torn muscle. I feel as if I am inside his body. This never happened with Raven!