She waited until dusk fell before venturing into the river and kept her eyes and ears open while she scrubbed herself down. Once clean, she debated whether or not to change into the special clothing she’d brought tonight; it might be better to save it—then the thought of donning the sweat-soaked, dusty traveling gear became too distasteful, and she rejected it out of hand.
She felt strange and altogether different once she’d put the new costume on. Part of that was due to the materials—except for when she’d tried the clothing on for fit, this was the first time she’d ever worn silk and velvet. Granted, the materials were all old; bought from a second-hand vendor and cut down from much larger garments. The velvet of the breeches wasn’t too rubbed; the ribbons on the sleeves of the shirt and the embroidery should cover the faded places, and the vest should cover the stain on the back panel completely. Her hat, once the dust was beaten out of it and the plumes she’d snatched from the tails of several disgruntled roosters were tucked into the band, looked brave enough. Her boots, at least, were new, and when the dust was brushed from them, looked quite well. She tucked her remaining changes of clothing and her bedroll into her pack, hid the lot in the tree-hollow, and felt ready to face the Fair.
The Fair-ward at the gate eyed her carefully. “Minstrel?” he asked suspiciously, looking at the lute and fiddle she carried in their cases, slung from her shoulders.
She shook her head. “Here for the trials, m’lord.”
“Ah,” he appeared satisfied. “You come in good time, boy. The trials begin tomorrow. The Guild has its tent pitched hard by the main gate of the Temple; you should have no trouble finding it.”
The wizard of the gate looked bored, ignoring her. Rune did not correct the Fair-ward’s assumption that she was a boy; it was her intent to pass as male until she’d safely passed the trials. She’d never heard of the Bardic Guild admitting a girl, but so far as she’d been able to determine, there was nothing in the rules and Charter of the Guild preventing it. So once she’d been accepted, once the trials were safely passed, she’d reveal her sex, but until then, she’d play the safe course.
She thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to the next in line. She passed inside the log walls and entered the Fair itself.
The first impressions she had were of noise and light; torches burned all along the aisle she traversed; the booths to either side were lit by lanterns, candles, or other, more arcane methods. The crowd was noisy; so were the merchants. Even by torchlight it was plain that these were the booths featuring shoddier goods; secondhand finery, brass jewelry, flash and tinsel. The entertainers here were—surprising. She averted her eyes from a set of dancers. It wasn’t so much that they wore little but imagination, but the way they were dancing embarrassed even her; and a tavern-bred child has seen a great deal in its life.
She kept a tight grip on her pouch and instruments, tried to ignore the crush, and let the flow of fairgoers carry her along.
Eventually the crowd thinned out a bit (though not before she’d felt a ghostly hand or two try for her pouch and give it up as a bad cause). She followed her nose then, looking for the row that held the cookshop tents and the ale-sellers. She hadn’t eaten since this morning, and her stomach was lying in uncomfortably close proximity to her spine.
She learned that the merchants of tavern-row were shrewd judges of clothing; hers wasn’t fine enough to be offered a free taste, but wasn’t poor enough to be shooed away. Sternly admonishing her stomach to be less impatient, she strolled the length of the row twice, carefully comparing prices and quantities, before settling on a humble tent that offered meat pasties (best not ask what beast the meat came from, not at these prices) and fruit juice or milk as well as ale and wine. Best of all, it offered seating at rough trestle-tables as well. Rune took her flaky pastry and her mug of juice (no wine or ale for her; not even had she the coppers to spare for it. She dared not be the least muddle-headed, not with a secret to keep and a competition on the morn), and found herself a spot at an empty table where she could eat and watch the crowd passing by. The pie was more crust than meat, but it was filling and well-made and fresh; that counted for a great deal. She noted with amusement that there were two sorts of the clumsy, crude clay mugs. One sort, the kind they served the milk and juice in, was ugly and shapeless (too ugly to be worth stealing) but was just as capacious as the exterior promised. The other, for wine and ale, was just the same ugly shape and size on the outside (though a different shade of toad-back green), but had a far thicker bottom, effectively reducing the interior capacity by at least a third.
“Come for the trials, lad?” asked a quiet voice in her ear. Rune jumped, nearly knocking her mug over, and snatching at it just in time to save the contents from drenching her shopworn finery (and however would she have gotten it clean again in time for the morrow’s competition?). There hadn’t been a sound or a hint of movement or even the shifting of the bench to warn her, but now there was a man sitting beside her.
He was of middle years, red hair going to gray, smile-wrinkles around his mouth and gray-green eyes, with a candid, triangular face. Well, that said nothing; Rune had known highwaymen with equally friendly and open faces. His dress was similar to her own; leather breeches instead of velvet, good linen instead of worn silk, a vest and a leather hat that could have been twin to hers, knots of ribbon on the sleeves of his shirt—and the neck of a lute peeking over his shoulder. A Minstrel!
Of the Guild? Rune rechecked the ribbons on his sleeves, and was disappointed. Blue and scarlet and green, not the purple and silver of a Guild Minstrel, nor the purple and gold of a Guild Bard. This was only a common songster, a mere street-player. Still, he’d bespoken her kindly enough, and the Three knew not everyone with the music-passion had the skill or the talent to pass the trials—
“Aye, sir,” she replied politely. “I’ve hopes to pass; I think I’ve the talent, and others have said as much.”
His eyes measured her keenly, and she had the disquieting feeling that her boy-ruse was fooling him not at all. “Ah well,” he replied, “There’s a-many before you have thought the same, and failed.”
“That may be,” she answered the challenge in his eyes, “but I’d bet fair coin that none of them fiddled for a murdering ghost, and not only came out by the grace of their skill but were rewarded by that same spirit for amusing him!”
“Oh, so?” a lifted eyebrow was all the indication he gave of being impressed, but somehow that lifted brow conveyed volumes. “You’ve made a song of it, surely?”
“Have I not! It’s to be my entry for the third day of testing.”
“Well then—” He said no more than that, but his wordless attitude of waiting compelled Rune to unsling her fiddlecase, extract her instrument, and tune it without further prompting.
“It’s the fiddle that’s my first instrument,” she said apologetically, “And since ’twas the fiddle that made the tale—”
“Never apologize for a song, child,” he admonished, interrupting her. “Let it speak out for itself. Now let’s hear this ghost-tale.”
It wasn’t easy to sing while fiddling, but Rune had managed the trick of it some time ago. She closed her eyes a half-moment, fixing in her mind the necessary changes she’d made to the lyrics—for unchanged, the song would have given her sex away—and began.
“I sit here on a rock, and curse
my stupid, bragging tongue,
And curse the pride that would not let
me back down from a boast
And wonder where my wits went,
when I took that challenge up
And swore that I would go
and fiddle for the Skull Hill Ghost!”
Oh, aye, that had been a damn fool move—to let those idiots who patronized the tavern where her mother worked goad her into boasting that there wasn’t anyone, living or dead, that she couldn’t cozen with her fiddling. Too much ale, Rune, and too little sense. And too tender a pride, as well, to let them rub
salt in the wound of being the tavern wench’s bastard.
“It’s midnight, and there’s not a sound
up here upon Skull Hill
Then comes a wind that chills my blood
and makes the leaves blow wild”
Not a good word choice, but a change that had to be made—that was one of the giveaway verses.
“And rising up in front of me,
a thing like shrouded Death.
A voice says, ‘Give me reason why
I shouldn’t kill you, child.’ ”
Holy Three, that thing had been ghastly; cold and old and totally heartless; it had smelled of Death and the grave, and had shaken her right down to her toenails. She made the fiddle sing about what words alone could never convey, and saw her audience of one actually shiver.
The next verse described Rune’s answer to the spirit, and the fiddle wailed of fear and determination and things that didn’t rightly belong on earth. Then came the description of that night-long, lightless ordeal she’d passed through, and the fiddle shook with the weariness she’d felt, playing the whole night long, and the tune rose with dawning triumph when the thing not only didn’t kill her outright, but began to warm to the music she’d made. Now she had an audience of more than one, though she was only half-aware of the fact.
“At last the dawnlight strikes my eyes;
I stop, and see the sun.
The light begins to chase away
the dark and midnight cold—
And then the light strikes something more—
I stare in dumb surprise—
For where the ghost had stood
there is a heap of shining gold!”
The fiddle laughed at Death cheated, thumbed its nose at spirits, and chortled over the revelation that even the dead could be impressed and forced to reward courage and talent.
Rune stopped, and shook back brown locks dark with sweat, and looked about her in astonishment at the applauding patrons of the cook-tent. She was even more astonished when they began to toss coppers in her open fiddlecase, and the cook-tent’s owner brought her over a full pitcher of juice and a second pie.
“I’d’a brought ye wine, laddie, but Master Talaysen there says ye go to trials and mustna be a-muddled,” she whispered as she hurried back to her counter.
“I hadn’t meant—”
“Surely this isn’t the first time you’ve played for your supper, child?” the minstrel’s eyes were full of amused irony.
“Well, no, but—”
“So take your well-earned reward and don’t go arguing with folk who have a bit of copper to fling at you, and who recognize the Gift when they hear it. No mistake, youngling, you have the Gift. And sit and eat; you’ve more bones than flesh. A good tale, that.”
“Well,” Rune blushed, “I did exaggerate a bit at the end. ’Twasn’t gold, it was silver. But silver won’t rhyme. And it was that silver that got me here—bought me my second instrument, paid for lessoning, kept me fed while I was learning. I’d be just another tavern-musician, otherwise—”
“Like me, you are too polite to say?” the minstrel smiled, then the smile faded. “There are worse things, child, than to be a free musician. I don’t think there’s much doubt your Gift will get you past the trials—but you might not find the Guild to be all you think it to be.”
Rune shook her head stubbornly, wondering briefly why she’d told this stranger so much, and why she so badly wanted his good opinion. “Only a Guild Minstrel would be able to earn a place in a noble’s train. Only a Guild Bard would have the chance to sing for royalty. I’m sorry to contradict you, sir, but I’ve had my taste of wandering, singing my songs out only to know they’ll be forgotten in the next drink, wondering where my next meal is coming from. I’ll never get a secure life except through the Guild, and I’ll never see my songs live beyond me without their patronage.”
He sighed. “I hope you never regret your decision, child. But if you should—or if you need help, ever—well, just ask for Talaysen. I’ll stand your friend.”
With those surprising words, he rose soundlessly, as gracefully as a bird in flight, and slipped out of the tent. Just before he passed out of sight among the press of people, Rune saw him pull his lute around and begin to strum it. She managed to hear the first few notes of a love-song, the words rising golden and glorious from his throat, before the crowd hid him from view and the babble of voices obscured the music.
Rune was waiting impatiently outside the Guild tent the next morning, long before there was anyone there to take her name for the trials. It was, as the Fair-ward had said, hard to miss; purple in the main, with pennons and edgings of silver and gilt. Almost—too much; almost gaudy. She was joined shortly by three more striplings, one well-dressed and confident, two sweating and nervous. More trickled in as the sun rose higher, until there was a line of twenty or thirty waiting when the Guild Registrar, an old and sour-looking scribe, raised the tent-flap to let them file inside. He wasn’t wearing Guild colors, but rather a robe of dusty brown velvet; a hireling therefore.
He took his time, sharpening his quill until Rune was ready to scream with impatience, before looking her up and down and asking her name.
“Rune, child of Lista Jesaril, tavernkeeper.” That sounded a trifle better than her mother’s real position, serving wench.
“From whence?”
“Karthar, East and North—below Galzar Pass.”
“Primary instrument?”
“Fiddle.”
“Secondary?”
“Lute.”
He raised an eyebrow; the usual order was lute, primary; fiddle, secondary. For that matter, fiddle wasn’t all that common even as a secondary instrument.
“And you will perform—?”
“First day, primary, ‘Lament Of The Maiden Esme.’ Second day, secondary, ‘The Unkind Lover.’ Third day, original, ‘The Skull Hill Ghost.’ ” An awful title, but she could hardly use the real name of “Fiddler Girl.” “Accompanied on primary, fiddle.”
“Take your place.”
She sat on the backless wooden bench trying to keep herself calm. Before her was the raised wooden platform on which they would all perform; to either side of it were the backless benches like the one she warmed, for the aspirants to the Guild. The back of the tent made the third side, and the fourth faced the row of well-padded chairs for the Guild Judges. Although she was first here, it was inevitable that they would let others have the preferred first few slots; there would be those with fathers already in the Guild, or those who had coins for bribes. Still, she shouldn’t have to wait too long—rising with the dawn would give her that much of an edge, at least.
She got to play by midmorning. The “Lament” was perfect for fiddle, the words were simple and few, and the wailing melody gave her lots of scope for improvisation. The row of Guild Judges, solemn in their tunics or robes of purple, white silk shirts trimmed with gold or silver ribbon depending on whether they were Minstrels or Bards, were a formidable audience. Their faces were much alike: well-fed and very conscious of their own importance; you could see it in their eyes. As they sat below the platform and took unobtrusive notes, they seemed at least mildly impressed. Even more heartening, several of the boys yet to perform looked satisfyingly worried when she’d finished.
She packed up her fiddle and betook herself briskly out—to find herself a corner of Temple Wall to lean against as her knees sagged when the excitement that had sustained her wore off. It was several long moments before she could get her legs to bear her weight and her hands to stop shaking. It was then that she realized that she hadn’t eaten since the night before—and that she was suddenly ravenous. Before she’d played, the very thought of food had been revolting.
The same cookshop tent as before seemed like a reasonable proposition. She paid for her breakfast with some of the windfall-coppers of the night before; this morning the tent was crowded and she was lucky to get a scant corner of a bench to herself. She ate hurri
edly and joined the strollers through the Fair.
Once or twice she thought she glimpsed the red hair of Talaysen, but if it was he, he was gone by the time she reached the spot where she had thought he’d been. There were plenty of other street-singers, though. She thought wistfully of the harvest of coin she’d garnered the night before as she noted that none of them seemed to be lacking for patronage. But now that she was a duly registered entrant in the trials, it would be going against custom, if not the rules, to set herself up among them.
So instead she strolled, and listened, and made mental notes for further songs. There was many a tale she overheard that would have worked well in song-form; many a glimpse of silk-bedecked lady, strangely sad or hectically gay, or velvet-clad lord, sly and foxlike or bold and pompous, that brought snatches of rhyme to mind. By early evening her head was crammed full—and it was time to see how the Guild had ranked the aspirants of the morning.
The list was posted outside the closed tent-flaps, and Rune wasn’t the only one interested in the outcome of the first day’s trials. It took a bit of time to work her way in to look, but when she did—
By the Three! There she was, “Rune of Karthar”— listed third.
She all but floated back to her riverside tree-roost.
The second day of the trials was worse than the first; the aspirants performed in order, lowest ranking to highest. That meant that Rune had to spend most of the day sitting on the hard wooden bench, clutching the neck of her lute in nervous fingers, listening to contestant after contestant and sure that each one was much better on his secondary instrument than she was. She’d only had a year of training on it, after all. Still, the song she’d chosen was picked deliberately to play up her voice and de-emphasize her lute-strumming. It was going to be pretty difficult for any of these others to match her high contralto (a truly cunning imitation of a boy’s soprano), since most of them had passed puberty.
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