by Alec Hutson
“That sounds exactly like what you’re looking for! The hidden ones must be the creatures that can assume the shape of men! And the other one?”
The thin black book had nothing written on its cover, so Keilan gingerly flipped through its brittle yellow pages. He noticed that there were many incomprehensible diagrams and formulas set within the text. Finally he found a page near the beginning that contained but a single phrase in large black lettering. “The Dream of the Warlock King,” he said slowly.
“Some study of the old sorcerer kings of Menekar? I wonder why the spirit felt you should have that?”
Keilan shrugged. Then he noticed a name in a small elegant hand at the bottom of the title page, and he glanced again at the cover of the other book.
“Oh, interesting. I believe the same author wrote both these books. Perhaps that’s the connection.”
“And what’s the name?”
“Alyanna ne Verell.”
The Cormorant was a lively inn and tavern, particularly in the evenings when the day’s work on the docks was done and the boats that fished the bay returned to port. Big, broad-shouldered laborers who earned their wages unloading cargo from trading vessels would arrive just as twilight was fading into night, their tunics darkened by sweat, and were followed soon after by the men and women who crewed the crab-boats and trawlers. Sprinkled among these regular patrons was always a shifting assortment of sailors from the visiting merchant ships: most were Dymorians themselves, or from the Gilded Cities just down the coast, Lyr or Seri or Ver Anath, but there were sometimes a few from farther and more exotic lands. Several of the ships had crewmen who hailed from the Eversummer Islands, tall and dusky sailors dressed in shawls of shimmering feathers. There were also hairless men from the Whispering Isles, veiled Keshian merchants, and on one occasion a small group of Shan from the great junk moored in the harbor had visited the tavern, their glistening black hair bound into top-knots. They had watched the noisy revelry without expression, smoking their twisting pipes and picking with slim metal sticks at the spiny, long-legged crabs set before them.
Serving girls would circulate around the large eating room during the supping hours, ladling out fish stew or pouring fresh mugs of grog or ale, evading with practiced grace the hands that tried to pinch and grab them. And there were always a few tables playing cards or tzalik, or enjoying the squat metal contraptions that dispensed dreamsmoke by means of serpentine tubes.
It was generally a merry and friendly atmosphere, but Jan understood why the Cormorant’s owner, Fendrin, had wanted a minstrel here, as arguments and fights were far less likely to break out if much of the crowd’s attention was trained on the raised stage in the center of the common room.
For the most part he played tavern favorites like One-Shoe Suli and Faye the Long-Haired Maid, fast-paced songs that caught the listeners up in their skirling melodies and carried them along like skiffs in a swift-running river. There was also a skilled piper who had been the sole entertainer before Jan had arrived, and they often performed together in racing harmonies that left the crowd pounding the tables for more. The remembered joy of playing to a large and boisterous crowd, the embers of which had first been stirred in the Demon’s Mouth weeks ago on the Wending Way, quickly was fanned into a full blaze. For a few days he allowed himself to set aside the task that had brought him to Herath and enjoy the simple but intoxicating pleasure of being a bard again.
While performing, he sometimes caught glimpses of the red-haired woman from the docks, Selene, sitting along the far wall at crowded tables full of young folk. While the others around her laughed and carried on their conversations, she always watched Jan carefully, her head slightly tilted to one side and the hint of a wry smile playing at the corners of her mouth. On several occasions he had tried to speak with her after he had finished his set, but each time when he had managed to get off the stage and push through the heaving crowds she had vanished.
There were other interesting visitors to the Cormorant, as well. When he had first sensed their presence in the tavern the surprise had caused him to stumble on the strings, which drew a few curious glances from the crowd – he had quickly earned a reputation as a near-flawless player. While working to recover from the misstep he had scanned the room, searching. He found them quick enough, a man with a forked black beard, and two young women, one with long straight hair the color of straw, the other more heavyset, her broad cheerful face framed by tight auburn curls.
All of them were gifted.
Carefully he tucked away every stray thread of his power, making sure that none of these sorcerers could accidentally notice what he truly was, and watched them closely as he continued playing. The man was nodding his head in time to the music and tapping the beat out on the table, while the two ladies were whispering quietly to each other as they watched Jan perform.
When he had finished the song he slipped from the stage to a scattering of applause and looked around for Fendrin. He found him leaning against a wooden post surveying the busy room.
“Good playing,” the tavern owner rumbled as Jan approached. Fendrin was an imposing figure, a giant of a man who, like his nephew, had once been in the city guard, though in the years since retiring he had gradually softened and gone to seed.
Jan nodded to show his thanks. “I’ll finish up with a few more once I get some ale in me. It’s thirsty work up there tonight.”
“Aye, it’s hot. Summer’s last gasp, I hope.”
A serving girl materialized beside Jan with a foaming mug, and he accepted it gratefully. “Ah, that’s good,” he sighed, after taking a deep draught.
For a few long moments they were silent, watching the swirl of people. Finally, Jan cleared his throat and gestured with his mug. “Say, who are those three over there? I haven’t seen robes like that before. Scribes? Clerks?”
Fendrin shifted, the post he leaned against creaking alarmingly. “Them? They’re from the Scholia. Green means they’re apprentices, I think, not full magisters yet – we’ve had them in a few times before. The fellow there appreciates a good tune; when we had another bard come through here a few months back he came near every night. Must’ve just heard about you.”
“The Scholia?”
The tavern keeper glanced at him in surprise. “You don’t know it? Hmm, I thought they were talking about it all over Araen. It’s a new academy founded by Queen Cein,” Fendrin knuckled his brow in deep respect when he spoke her name, “dedicated to churning out learned men and women like that big place down in Ver Anath. The magisters they produce have pretty much taken over the running of the city, and they’re a good deal fairer than the old leeches who used to govern around here and shake me down for bribes. So I like them, and give a good discount on their drinks.”
“A prudent man curries favor with the magistrates,” Jan said, quoting some tract on governance he’d read a long time ago – probably well before Fendrin’s great-great-grandfather was a squalling infant – then he drained his mug and placed it on the tray of a passing serving girl. “Ah, I feel the music bubbling up again. I’ll do my best to keep those apprentices coming back.”
Jan returned to the stage, settling back onto his stool. There were a few suggestions shouted at him, most of them bawdy, but he smiled and waved them away. “A new one for you,” he said loudly over the din, “though in truth it’s very old.”
With a brief glance to make sure he had the attention of the sorcerers, he began to play one of the ballads of the old north, a haunting tale of a spurned lover’s terrible revenge. He sang in the lost language of Nes Vaneth, the dialect of Min-Ceruth that he had grown up speaking, and by the time the last note faded away the tavern had fallen almost silent. Whether they had enjoyed the song or were simply bewildered by its strangeness he could not be sure, but he suspected probably a little of both.
Across the room he caught the eye of Selene, and she smiled; she was se
ated beside a handsome young man wearing a rich doublet of yellow silk slashed with red. He leaned close to her and whispered something into her ear, and she laughed, covering her mouth. To Jan’s surprise he felt a flicker of jealousy. How was that possible, when he had spoken to her only briefly?
Ah, he had such a weakness for strong and clever women. Leaving his lute leaning against the stool to show that he’d return soon, Jan hopped down again from the stage and began threading his way between the tables and knots of standing patrons, trying his best to keep Selene in sight. She smiled when she noticed him approaching and moved a bit closer to the man beside her, who glanced at her in surprise. After a slight hesitation he slipped his arm around her shoulders; she winked at Jan and wriggled into the embrace.
So that’s how it’s going to play, Jan thought, feeling pity for the clueless fop at her side.
He was almost to her table and just opening his mouth to say something when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned. It was the apprentice, the man with the forked black beard. The Scholia sorcerer smiled broadly and knuckled a respectful greeting.
“Master bard, excuse me please.”
Jan cast a quick glance behind him; Selene now wore an amused expression, her eyebrows raised in mock surprise.
“Of course, young scholar,” Jan said, turning back to the apprentice.
“Yes, ah, my name is Malichai d’Kalas. I had the great good fortune of hearing you sing tonight. Wonderful! Particularly that last piece – tell me, was it from the old north? Min-Ceruth, perhaps?”
Jan bowed slightly. “It was, learned master d’Kalas.”
Malichai pounded one hand with the other, grinning. “I knew it! I told my companions I thought it was and they scoffed at me. Truly remarkable. Master bard . . .”
“Jan.”
“Master Jan. I must know – where did you learn those words? Can you speak the language? I had been told there was no one alive who knows the tongue of Min-Ceruth.”
Jan ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out a way to disentangle himself quickly from the apprentice. “Just a few songs, I’m afraid. I studied in Vis for a time, and the lore masters there have preserved a handful of the old ballads of the ancient north.”
“Then it is amazing how well you sing it. Such passion, such feeling. Even though I did not know what the words meant the song still stirred something in me.”
“Yes, well, I’m pleased you appreciated it.”
Malichai reached out and grabbed Jan’s arm in a fierce grip. “Master Jan, I would like to extend an invitation to you to come perform at Saltstone tomorrow, in the queen’s own dining hall. There will be many magisters from the Scholia in attendance, and I believe they would find your mastery of the old songs of Min-Ceruth as fascinating as I do. What say you? I can promise the compensation for such a performance would be rich indeed.”
That took Jan back. Here he had been expecting a long, arduous journey from tavern minstrel to performing before the queen, with the slow accretion of fame bringing him from the Cormorant to a finer eating house frequented by the city’s elite, to a noble’s private function or perhaps a post as a house bard, and then once enough people were speaking of the new minstrel in Herath he might – if he was fortunate – receive an invitation to perform at a dinner hosted in the royal palace. A few months, at the very least. And yet here he was, only several days in Herath, and by some great stroke of luck he had already been given an opportunity to see the queen in person. It was almost like Alyanna was still pulling strings from a half a world away.
Jan bowed deep. “I would be most honored, Master d’Kalas.”
Malichai clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Excellent! Present yourself tomorrow at the gates to Saltstone before the sixth bell and tell the guards I have invited you. Show them this.” The apprentice passed him a small bronze medallion stamped with an image of an eagle in flight, a writhing snake in its talons. “My family crest. I will let them know you are coming. Until tomorrow, then!”
Still bemused by his sudden good fortune Jan watched Malichai shoulder his way back to his table, where the two sorceresses were waiting.
“Until tomorrow,” he murmured to himself, idly stroking the medallion as he turned back to Selene’s table.
She was gone.
The castellan who greeted him at the entrance to Saltstone’s servant quarters did not seem impressed. He sniffed disdainfully, his gaze lingering on the new damask tunic Jan had spent much of his savings on that afternoon, his lip actually curling in disgust when he noticed his well-worn traveler’s boots. Jan sighed inwardly. Of course, his shoes – he had not bought a new pair. It had been too many years since he had performed in a royal court, and he had forgotten which articles of clothing the nobility and those that attended to them always checked first to see if there was an imposter in their rarified realm.
“Good evening. The guards at the gate said I should come here and speak with you. I was invited by Master d’Kalas.”
The castellan’s eyes did not soften. “Yes. He told me you would come. When I heard he was going slumming down at the docks I wondered what riff-raff he would bring back this time.”
Jan flourished a courtly bow. “This riff-raff is very honored to be here.”
“You should be.” The castellan turned sharply on his heels and began walking briskly down the corridor. Jan hurried to catch up. “Payment will be fifty silver kitari, and you may collect them from me here at the end of the night. You are the third and final performer, and you will continue playing until the dinner is finished, or the queen bids you stop. If your playing displeases her you shall receive no silver, and I will have you beaten and thrown back into the gutter from whence you came. Understood?”
“I can see the legends of this hall’s kindness were not exaggerated.”
The castellan did not reply, but his footsteps echoed a little louder as they passed through the maze of twisting servant’s passages. These were the corridors the queen and the nobles would never see, the ways by which the servants scurried to their tasks without disturbing the high-born. Occasionally they passed men and women wearing the livery of House d’Kara, a sinuous red dragon on a white field, and every time the pace of those servants quickened noticeably when they realized it was the castellan approaching. Finally, they stopped at the entrance to a small room and the castellan gestured for him to enter.
Inside, a beautiful woman with a small golden harp waited on a bench beside an oaken door banded by iron. Nothing adorned the bare stone walls of the chamber save for a single guttering lamp.
“Wait here until a servant comes to fetch you,” the castellan said, then after a final withering look whirled around and strode away.
“A pleasant fellow,” Jan murmured, finding a seat on the edge of the bench.
The woman’s laughter tinkled like the ringing of musical bells. “Geramin isn’t so bad, really. He’s strict but fair, and if you please the queen tonight the next time you’re invited to the palace he’ll be much kinder.”
Jan unslung his lute and began tightening the strings. “You’ve been here before, then?”
The woman nodded slightly. “I have that honor. I’ve been invited up to perform at least once a month for the past year.”
“You must have a great gift. My name is Jan Balensorn, of the Shattered Kingdoms.”
“Rhianna ri Numil, once from Lyr.”
Jan knuckled his brow. “A high name. Excuse me, my lady.”
The harpist waved away his words with an exquisitely pale and long-fingered hand. “No apologies, please. I’ve kept my name because it puts me in better graces with the nobles here, but I left my family a long time ago. They could never understand a musician’s calling.”
“I wager they regret all those harp lessons they forced upon you when you were young.”
Rhianna laughed again. “Almost c
ertainly, master Jan.”
The door suddenly swung open, the mournful final notes of The Brother’s Lament preceding a boy in Dymorian livery as he slipped quietly into the room. Behind the servant Jan glimpsed a huge chamber filled with long trestle tables, many of which were crowded with men and women wearing a riotous assortment of colors and dresses, including some in the same green robes the apprentices had worn the night before at the Cormorant.
“Lady Rhianna. The lutist is nearly finished. Please come with me.”
The harpist rose and spent a moment smoothing her dress, making sure her beautiful blond curls were artfully arranged with the help of a small silver mirror.
“Luck be with you,” Jan said, and she smiled.
“To you as well, master bard,” she replied, then followed the serving boy through the door, which swung shut behind them.
Jan finished tuning his lute and plucked a few simple ditties to make sure everything was to his satisfaction. Then he leaned back against the stone and sighed, feeling the familiar tingling begin in his fingers as he reviewed which songs he would play tonight. A half-dozen or so fast and familiar melodies, to put the audience in a good mood and to demonstrate his skill, then something slow to show the depth of his passion. And to finish, a Min-Ceruthan ballad that should pique the interest of the scholars – hopefully it would earn him another invitation to the palace.
Jan stood and went over to the door, pressing his ear to the wood. It must have been thick, as he could just faintly hear the ethereal notes of a plucked harp. She did have a great talent, Jan decided, after listening for a few moments. There was no handle on the door, so he could not open it a crack and spy on the performance. For a brief moment he entertained the thought of magically forcing it open, but quickly discarded that idea when he remembered Alyanna’s beliefs about the queen’s strength. Jan was sure he could conceal simple magic from the Scholia’s sorcerers, but if Cein d’Kara was a true Talent then it would be far more difficult to keep such an act secret.