by Daniel Hood
Laughing, Liam flexed his fingers, pleased that he had remembered how to play. Another thing he had not done in a long time.
"Y'have a fair hand for the lute," Burus commented, cheeks red from playing the furiously paced song.
"And y'have a saucy, impertinent tongue, rascal!" Coeccias shook with laughter and clapped his servant on the shoulder, rocking the slighter man.
"I only learned because of that song," Liam said. He had indeed learned to play because of "The Lipless Flutist," taking up the lute to fill long hours on deck and as a way to remember the countless verses that had amused him in taverns and wineshops and camps in a hundred lands. He smiled at the pervasiveness of one song, and recalled a particular version.
"There's a variation to it, if you'd like to hear it." Coeccias loudly left no doubt that he was in favor of it, and Burus smiled indulgently.
He led them through the variation, called "The Lipless Flutist and the One-Armed Lutist," laying out each new line for Coeccias to roar along. He included a few of the special rills that went along with mention of the Lutist, and found Burus accompanying him easily, while Coeccias clapped with drunken joy. They sang the new verse twice, and then paused, drinking much more cider and laughing with the Aedile as he tried and failed to remember the lines Liam had just taught him.
"You' 11 write them out for me, Rhenford," he said angrily, and then called for another song.
Liam began one of the few others he knew, a sailor's song, high-spirited but relatively clean for the normally filthy genre. Burus picked it up effortlessly, and added a number of flourishes that enhanced the simple melody. As he bent his head to check his fingering, Liam marveled at the gnarled old servant's skill. He was a true musician, not a dabbler like Liam, who had only learned individual songs and not the theories or ideas behind them. He could play the songs he knew, but Burns could learn a new one easily, and make it better.
They played two more songs that Liam knew, and Coeccias remained silent, staring fixedly at a space between them. When they were done, Liam bowed over his lute at Bums.
"You're a fine player, Bums. A really fine musician."
The servant flushed and scowled, and the Aedile roused himself from his stupor to take another gulp of cider and fix his attention on the lute Liam held.
"And so he should be, Rhenford! My father had the teaching of him, and my father was the rarest that ever served the office of Duke's Minstrel!"
Burus's scowl deepened, but he did not speak angrily. "That lute was his," he said, pointing with his flute, "and though you do it no disgrace, he was as far your master as a king is a swineherd's."
"Aye, a rarer there never was, a rare man for a song," Coeccias muttered morosely, and then suddenly burst out laughing. "And the rankest time-server and flatterer the Duke's court ever saw! How think you I came to my own office? Son of the Duke's favorite, and good for naught but chucking tosspots into the street-so off with him to Southwark, and create him Aedile!"
"Y'have done credit to it, Coeccias," the old servant said mildly, and the Aedile nodded firmly.
"Truth, I've done my all, and few could do better. But go to, another song!"
Bums began a slow, mournful song, a dirge to Laomedon, the God of the W odds Beyond. He peered questioningly over his flute, but Liam shook his head and smiled, carefully putting the beautiful lute back into its case before refilling his mug.
The pot was finished by the time Bums had gone through four more songs, three of which Liam did not recognize. Finally, the servant put aside his flute and drained the last of the only cup he had taken.
"If there's nothing else, I think I'll to my cot."
"No, naught else, good Bums, beside my thanks." Coeccias seemed to be over his earlier wild drunkenness, and nodded gravely at his servant's bow.
Liam whistled after the old man had gone, now far worse off than his friend. The haze was fully extended now, and he was glad the pot was empty, because the thought of even another sip made his stomach ache.
"He's a fine musician," he whispered in awe.
"Truth, a fine man as well."
Unsteadily, Liam made his way to his feet. "It's time for me to go."
Coeccias did not argue, but he did stand and open the door for him with a wide smile.
"Y'are no poor player yourself, for all Burus's roundabout way of saying it. Y' ought to come again, and let him teach you some other tunes."
"That would be good," Liam said thickly, trying forcefully to regain control of his reluctant legs. Their talk of Coeccias's father had brought to mind his own, and he felt inexpressibly sad beneath the numbness of the cider.
"On the morrow, then," the Aedile said, as Liam went out the door.
"Yes, tomorrow," he muttered, waving a hand over his shoulder.
There was a cold breeze in the street, and it thinned the haze enough for him to realize that trying to ride out to Tarquin's would be pointless, if not dangerous. With that muddled thought, he forced himself to start for his garret.
The stairs seemed to stretch interminably ahead of him, but eventually he reached the top, bumping from wall to wall. Sad, fuzzy thoughts of his father and muddled curses for Coeccias's wickedly spiked cider echoed in his head. Fully clothed, he collapsed onto his pallet and into sleep.
Chapter 12
AS USUAL WHEN he was even slightly drunk, Liam slept poorly, plagued by nightmares.
In Tarquin's house, which the dream meant for his father's keep, a wild revel was going on, and he, as a crippled jester, was being baited like a bear. Hounds snapped savagely at him, biting his legs and hands. Blood streamed down his legs, but he could not move to defend himself. This greatly displeased the revelers who circled him. The wizard himself, Donoé at his side, his face a demon-mask with the flickering orange candlelight, laughed disdainfully at Liam's pitiful gestures. Coeccias tossed a seemingly endless supply of lutes at his head and growled encouragement to the dogs. Lons and Lady Necquer, lying together on the same couch, shrieked with delight as a particularly large bite was tom from his leg. Others he had met—Viyescu and Marcius, Kansallus and his actors, even Mother Japh the ghost witch-gorged themselves on wine and roasted meat, screaming for the dogs to dispatch him.
Weaker and weaker, Liam tried to avoid the pack, but the laughter and the hatred of the revelers discouraged him, and he allowed himself to fall.
The dogs pounced on him from all sides, rolling him over with the pressure of their attack, and he gazed up into Fanuilh's eyes. The dragon was hovering high above him, gazing imperturbably down on the dog's feast. Suddenly, it flapped its wings gently, and at each downstroke a sound like thunder echoed through the suddenly silent chamber. The revelers stopped indulging themselves, and looked in awe at the dragon as more peals of thunder rang out. Liam looked helplessly into the creature's eyes, searching for something he could understand.
Knocking at his door, subtly like thunder, woke him up, and be left the dream with a muffled gasp. He. jumped to his feet, disentangling himself from his blanket with difficulty. He could not have slept very long; it was still dark out, his candle was still burning, and he was still slightly drunk. There was another knock and he jumped, . then took a deep breath to steady himself and hurried to the door.
Rora stood there, a concerned look on her flawless face. Liam recoiled in surprise and her concerned look grew troubled.
Must be a dream, Liam thought; where are the dogs?
"Master?" she said, taking his sweating palm in her own cool one. "Is all well? Your face's a fright." Her voice was a wellspring of good intentions and honest worry, and her hand felt wonderfully cool and smooth, but he pulled away roughly and turned into the room, soddenly aware that it was wrong for her to be there.
"Nothing. Just a dream." He scrubbed at his hot face and swiped his hair back, knowing enough to know his wits were not with him. He did not hear her come up behind him, and jumped again when she laid her hand on his shoulder.
>
"Master, is all well?"
He saw his chair by the window and, convinced it was a refuge, threw himself into it.
Rora followed, dropping her heavy cloak on the bed, and knelt by him. Her skirts ballooned out from above her waist in a black mushroom, and he focused on them, sternly forcing himself to ignore the low cut of her bodice. She laid a light hand on his knee.
"Master Rhenford, y'are not well, I fear." Her hair was held away from her face by a simple clasp, and rippled down her back. A sweet perfume crept like a thief behind what was left of the cider's haze, and he stirred and shoved at her hand.
"I'm fine, fine. What do you want?"
She took his bluntness in stride.
"Faith, Master," she said, rising smoothly and pacing a few steps away, "I must beg a boon." She turned on him, her eyes sparkling with tears, pressing her hands tightly palm to palm.
I'm not up to this, Liam thought, feeling very stupid.
"You'll clap my sweet brother in for a crime he had no hand in, Master, and I must plead his innocence! On my body I swear his soul's free of taint!"
Oh, gods, why did she swear on her body? I'm going to regret this.
"Plead to the Aedile," he snapped, shaking his head in wide arcs he almost could not control. "I can't do anything for you."
"The Aedile! Even I can see y'are his genius! I pray you, Master, speak with him! Plead my brother's half, bespeak his innocence, I pray you!"
She knelt again squarely in front of him, claiming his wandering attention. He could not look at her for longer than a few seconds; the only thoughts that came to mind were dangerous.
If only she'd go away, he thought vainly, I could stop worrying about looking at her breasts.
Two tears welled up, and then traced perfect courses down her fair cheeks, and he knew he was going to make a mistake.
"I'm only a common player, I know, Master, but I've as much honesty as a gentle! Lons is guiltless in this, I swear! By Uris I swear, Master!"
"Don't call me that; I'm not your Master," he protested feebly, waving his hand at the entrancing vision, hoping it would go away.
"Y'are, Master," she cried, and her hands flashed spontaneously to his knees.
Much higher than before, he thought with alarm, and though he tried to move them, could not. She tried to bury her head in his lap, beginning to weep in earnest, but he managed to fend her off.
I can't let this happen.
"I pray you, Master, bespeak the Aedile as you can! You know you can turn him off that track! I'd do anything to prove Lons honest!"
Anything? No.
She managed to get her head onto his lap, and continued to plead, though her sobs were muffled.
This is so wrong, he thought, and tried to stand up, which was a mistake;
Rora came up with him, and somewhere in the confusion of rising, her lips met his. The cider and conversation had left him flushed and hot, his lips dry, and hers felt cool and moist, tasting slightly of salt from her tears.
Damn cider, damn Coeccias, damn Lons and Poppae Necquer. I'm making a mistake.
"I'd do aught," she whispered, her voice suddenly low and throaty in his ear.
Damn me.
Sometime later, she stirred beside him on the pallet, and then, even later, Liam rolled over and found her gone. The cider, too, was gone, and his head was clear enough to allow him to curse himself soundly.
"Damn, damn, damn, damn," he chanted into the darkness, with his hands knotted behind his head. He had made a mistake, he knew, and tried to console himself by cursing Coeccias' s cider and thinking about how· long it had been since he was with a woman. It did not work. Would she expect him now to leave her brother alone? That was ridiculous, of course; Lons had had every reason to kill Tarquin, and despite his alibi, everything pointed to him. There was no way he could convince Coeccias otherwise without some new piece of evidence, and it was entirely unlikely that one would come his way. If only Marcius had done something, or if Donoé had told him a different story, then he might have supported his belief that Lons was not the killer. As things stood, though, there was no other conclusion.
But Rora would not see it that way, naturally. With his foolish, stupid, damnable drunken acquiescence, he had as much as told the tearful, pleading innocent that he would help her brother.
Innocent? Her perfume lingered, and he imagined his blanket and mattress still held a hint of her warmth. Naive, perhaps, but not innocent. She had been ... amazing, he thought guiltily, so that even a half-drunk man might look back on the experience and shake his head in wonder, and regret that it was over. And doubly regret that it had happened at all. Kansallus had only partly guessed about Rora. No virgin, certainly.
Liam groaned out loud, trying to express the mix of sensual reminiscence and self-condemnation, or at least drive it away.
Poised over him at one point, she had looked down on him, flushed and deeply involved in what she was doing to him with her body, her hair in wild disarray.
"You're going to get fat," he had murmured, running his hands over her silky, sweat-damp skin.
"Too much wine," she had laughed. 'You know players .... " The rest was lost, spoken into his throat as she arced downward to begin again.
The memory was so vivid that Liam had to sit up in bed and rub his eyes to keep from actually seeing it.
It had been so long that he only wanted to revel in it, but he could not allow that. He had to do something, anything, to avoid remembering, or it would only strengthen his guilt.
He had effectively pledged to help her brother, and racked his brain for a way to do it. He went over the investigation point by point, rethinking every clue, reexamining each possibility. Was there something he and Coeccias had missed? Some old idea they had put aside that might be dusted off?
The sky outside his window had taken on the deep royal blue of predawn before he thought of even one thing he might check. Viyescu's hooded woman, and her desire for new poison. It was almost surely pointless, but the druggist had for some reason thought it worth telling. And there was Coeccias's report of Viyescu's nervousness and, more important, his own strange meeting with the druggist. What if the mystery woman had threatened him? What if they had gotten closer to the truth with Viyescu, and then passed it up for the easier explanation that Lons afforded? What if, what if. Since Marcius had not seen fit to confess, it was the only thing he could imagine as a possibility, however slim. He decided to visit the apothecary again, to ask the questions he should have asked before, and just then noticed the color of the sky.
It was far too early to go to Viyescu's, he knew, but he was afraid to sleep, afraid that Coeccias would arrest Lons before he could unearth a new clue to protect the player, and his sister. He shifted uncomfortably on the pallet, wondering how to occupy the time before he could go to Northfield and, worn out by the hard cider and his exertions, fell instantly asleep.
Panicking, Liam woke all at once, jumped up from his pallet, and ran to the window. The sun was still low; he had only been asleep for a few hours. Still, he felt a tremendous pressure to be out and on his way to Viyescu's. He stripped and splashed the entire contents of his washbasin over his body, then dried himself patchily with his blanket.
Lying directly in front of his door was a folded piece of paper, pure white and of good quality, one of the sheets he had bought on his arrival in Southwark. Sunlight from the window slanted onto it, and he frowned as he knelt to pick it up. It was too far into the room to have been shoved beneath the door; Rora must have left it. There was no name on the outside of the paper, and he opened it as if it might contain a dangerous animal.
Wincing, he read the short note through twice. The writing was crude, the letters poorly formed, the spelling atrocious, and the message painful.
I know you won't fail me, Master, not now. Pray you, bespeak the Aedile on my sweet brother's part. I swear his innocence!
Growling, he almost c
rumpled the page, but instead threw it towards the table. He did not wait to see it flutter to the ground like a wounded dove, several feet short of the table. He hurried passed the shrinking drudge and out into the street, buckling his belt as he went and haphazardly tucking his breeches into his boots. Outside, the sky stopped him for a moment. It was a fine morning, just cold enough to chill the wet spots left by his uneven toweling, and the vault of the sky was unbroken blue, pale and bright. A line of black clouds, however, like waves in the sky, were building up far out over the sea, and he knew that by afternoon the day would be shattered by storms.
It made little difference to him. He was concerned with his own stupidity, and the obligation he had foolishly assumed. He found he was grinding his teeth, and he strode through the streets like an ill wind, cursing himself. Beggars, seeing his clenched fists, did not try to stop him, but he did not notice.
Gods, let the druggist have something.
Liam was grasping at straws, and knew it, but when he allowed himself to consider the fact his mind dropped back to the night before, and to what he had tacitly agreed. So he tried to reorder what he knew, and cast about for new constructions that would, if not find another murderer, at least clear Lons.
Viyescu turned white beneath his untamed beard and began shaking when Liam entered. Dismissing it as the product of his own undoubtedly grim appearance, Liam crossed to the counter.
"Hierarch," the druggist whispered anxiously, "what brings you here again?"
"I spoke with the Aedile yesterday, and he gave me some news from you."
"Yes, certainly, but surely there's no need to—"
Liam cut the strangely distressed apothecary off. "The woman who mentioned Tarquin came back?"
"Yes, Hierarch." Viyescu was subdued, accepting questions much more easily than before.
"And asked for more santhract?" Viyescu nodded. "You didn't sell her any?"