IGMS Issue 7

by IGMS

  The busker was rolling her head around to release neck tension. I stepped closer. "You taking requests?"

  She flicked her red-gold hair out of her eyes with a little toss and eyed me. "Sure. What do you want?"

  "How about 'Sword in Hand'?"

  A momentary pause; then she shook her head. "I'm afraid I don't know that one -- at least under that name. Does it have another title?"

  "Not that I'm aware of." She didn't know one of the most popular tavern songs in Tir Diamh. As I had suspected. "How about 'The Lady at Home,' then?"

  Another shake of her head. "Sorry."

  "'Drink to the Sky'? 'Stone the Crows'?"

  She was still shaking her head, but now it came with a suspicious look. "Are you sure those are even Diamhair songs? Maybe you're thinking of a different country."

  As if, because my people move around so much, we can't tell countries apart. "They're Diamhair, believe me."

  "Well, I don't know them. Maybe they don't play those songs where I come from. Now, I'll thank you to stop wasting my time." She tucked the fiddle back under her chin with a determined look.

  I had to laugh. The Diamhair were wonderful. Outspoken as blue jays, every last one of them. "Look, they're tavern songs. Do you know any tavern songs?"

  After a wary moment, she put the fiddle down again. "I know 'Acha Bualach's Dance.'"

  "That, girl, hardly qualifies as a tavern song. Have you even been in a tavern?"

  Now I'd made her mad. "Of course I have."

  "Uh-huh." I looked her over. Neat, unfrayed clothing, all in a very sober style; she couldn't have been on the road for more than a month or two. If that. She was neither tattered nor flamboyant enough to be more of a veteran. "Let me guess. You were a minstrel's apprentice, and your master tossed you out."

  I found the end of her bow a scant inch from my nose. "He didn't 'toss me out,'" the busker snapped, punctuating it with a little jab of the bow. I jerked back. "I left. Of my own accord."

  "Really."

  My skeptical tone didn't help her mood. "It's true," she insisted, taking the bow back so she could glare at me without it getting in the way. "I disagreed with him, and chose to leave."

  It sounded far-fetched -- but then I remembered the way she'd played the waltz. She was a very good musician, far better than the average minstrel. I could hardly imagine a master turning her out on the basis of ineptitude. That left the possibility of an argument, as she said. An argument in which she enraged her master to the point where he'd give up on her? That sounded more likely.

  "How long have you been busking?" I asked, steering the conversation away from that topic.

  She glanced away. "A while."

  "A month?"

  A wry smile touched the corner of her mouth. "Not yet."

  "As I thought. You're probably living off your savings." That got a tiny nod. She still wouldn't meet my eyes. Common sense told me to leave her alone, but common sense has never been much of an obstacle to me. I couldn't just walk away without trying to set her straight. "Look, girl -- let me give you some free advice."

  That got her attention, although it was skeptical.

  "You're a fine musician," I said, nodding toward her fiddle. "I'm betting you can sing, and play other instruments. Skill like that puts you ahead of most buskers. But you don't know the first thing about how to play to a crowd, and that puts you behind. The music you're playing isn't right for people at a fair." I gestured at the laughing, strolling crowd. "Spend the rest of the fair in taverns. Buy cheap drinks, so you don't spend too much coin, and listen. Listen to what the other street musicians are playing. You've got the training to learn pretty quick. Put together a set of popular music, and save the fancy stuff for fancy occasions."

  Her eyes narrowed. "Why so generous?"

  "With my advice?" I laughed. "It's worth what you paid for it. Lending you a hand costs me nothing. And whatever you may believe of my people, I'm not going to steal your purse."

  "But I still see no reason for you to help me."

  I shrugged. "Maybe I'm just sick of hearing untutored hacks butcher perfectly good songs. It's nice to find a musician who knows one string from another."

  She stared at me for so long I had to fight the urge to fidget. Then, when I was about to give it up as a lost cause and walk away, she grinned. "Thanks."

  "You're welcome."

  "Let me buy you a drink."

  "Huh?"

  Her grin spread. It put more life in her face, which had been as still as a statue's while she played. "A drink. You said your advice was worth what I paid for it. Maybe if I buy you a drink, it'll be worth more."

  I snickered. "Girl, are you trying to be gypped?"

  She hopped down from the edge of the well and stuck out one hand. "My name's Tirean."

  I gripped her forearm in Ieric fashion, letting her feel there was no knife up my sleeve. On that arm, anyway. "Andris. Want me to pick a tavern, or do you know what one looks like?"

  My sister says I flirt too much, and maybe it's true. But I'm hardly the worst in our skian; some of our fellow travelers aim for the rich and powerful, who are likely to cause trouble, and others will make eyes at any warm body of the appropriate sex. Tirean was neither the Duchess of Eremon nor a local con artist, which puts me ahead of some people in my skian.

  I learned a lot about Tirean nes Bhiachar of Mol Alaic in the next hour -- a lot, and very little at all. I heard how she'd first gotten interested in music -- a broken leg at a young age left her bedridden and bored for a while -- and what instruments she knew how to play -- lots. I heard stories of the cat she'd had as a child, and how her mother had kept her away when an Ieric skian came to town, because in Tir Diamh they like to say we can turn into birds and fly off with curious children. But I heard nothing of her training, nor why she'd left. And it wasn't for lack of trying.

  She steered the conversation away from these topics so artfully that it took me a while to realize she was doing it. When I did notice, my suspicions grew stronger. She was more than just a minstrel; she'd been trained as a bard. And in Tir Diamh, music's magic, like our storytellers are for us. Bards learn more than just how to play; they learn how to find the power behind the notes and words, to sway people's hearts with them. Or to manipulate people, if you want to put it that way. Our storytellers do the same thing, but for some reason I wasn't expecting it from Tirean. More fool me. Maybe a clean, starving minstrel wasn't that much safer than the Duchess of Eremon.

  I should have just let it slide. What did it matter, how she'd come to be on the streets? But Tirean intrigued me; I'd never heard a musician with her skill, who still so obviously lacked something. I couldn't give up on my questions. I did, however, decide to be more subtle.

  We got drinks at a nearby tavern; then, as the afternoon was still young, I convinced Tirean to wander around with me for a while. She tried to protest, saying that she needed to keep playing, to make money. I told her the wandering would be a lesson. We could listen to minstrels as we walked.

  And we did listen -- some of the time, anyway. We also spent a lot of time chatting. I don't have my sister's skill, more's the pity, but I could and did try to make Tirean comfortable around me. If she was on the run from some angry master, I wanted to know, just in case he showed up while I was there. I also couldn't shake this niggling feeling that, underneath her vibrant smile and ready laugh, there was a woman who wasn't really happy.

  I stopped later that afternoon to buy us skewers of meat from a roving seller. When I was done paying for them, I went looking for Tirean, and found her standing in the middle of the street, listening to another busker.

  He was an older man, pattering away on a small drum tucked between his knees and singing. The song was familiar; it was a Diamhair one called "Flower Face" that's entered Ieric repertoire, although for the life of me I don't know why. It's a piece of tripe -- a children's nonsense song about talking flowers. The lyrics make no sense. I personally don't like the tune much
either, but other people must, because it's always a crowd-pleaser. Which is, of course, why our own singers have picked it up. We play what people want to hear.

  Tirean had a wistful look on her face. "Favorite of yours?" I asked, holding out a skewer.

  She took the meat with a laugh. "Hardly. The tune's annoying, and whoever thought up the lyrics must have been drunk."

  "Then why the expression? You looked like your head was in the clouds."

  "I don't know." Tirean shrugged and tore off a piece of meat. "Just made me think back to when I was a kid, I guess. Can we move on? I'd rather not have this stuck in my head for the rest of the day."

  We moved on, and on, and on. By the end of the afternoon we'd covered a good chunk of Taranabh Fair. Some areas we avoided: the animal pens, the seedier areas where men and women peddle their bodies, and the field where my skian was camped.

  I thought about taking her there. Ennike was probably hanging around, and I suspected my sister would get along very well with Tirean. She might even be able to wheedle the story of Tirean's training out of her. But I didn't just want answers; I wanted to get them myself. I wanted Tirean to tell me, not my sister.

  So we avoided the caravan, until the afternoon began to wane. Then I made an apologetic face to the minstrel. "I've got to head off, I'm afraid. I'm in an acting troupe, and we're going to be doing a couple of performances tonight." I gave her a sly smile. "Want to come watch?"

  Tirean frowned. "I'd love to, but really, I do need to busk some more. My savings won't hold out forever."

  I decided not to press it. "Mind if I find you afterward?"

  "Sure. I'll probably be back at the well."

  "Sounds good." I gave her shoulder a little pat -- nothing too familiar. I know better than to drive a woman off that way. "I'll come by some time after full dark, then."

  Taranabh Fair changed with the setting of the sun. A lot of the sellers retired early; they had to get up the next morning. But for those adventurous souls who had fewer responsibilities or needed less sleep, the night had just begun.

  The troupe's run went well. I was glad for that; we'd been having some rough patches lately, with people botching the oddest things, and if we'd had another bad night Ennike probably would have made us go back to the wagons and practice. But we made a good amount of coin, and my sister was satisfied, so I was free to go find Tirean.

  Moonrise found us on the bank of the nearby river, some distance south of the fair. We'd both had a fair amount to drink -- Tirean more than me. It hadn't been my plan to get her drunk and hear her story that way, but it worked.

  "I just couldn't take it any more," she said, unbridled frustration in her voice. Bardic training stood her in good stead; even with mead in her, she still enunciated clearly. "It was so suffocating. And it was all the worse because Decebhin's supposed to be this big name, a Great God of bards. He performed at the satire festival, more than once, and won an award."

  "Satire festival?" I repeated. It wasn't the drink clouding my mind; she said the words as though they ought to mean something to me.

  Tirean flopped back in the grass. "Yeah. You have to have heard of it. Bards go to Seamháir and satirize the king -- sing songs about what he's doing wrong. But with protections, of course, so the satires don't actually have the power to hurt him. It's an old tradition. They give you an award if you do well."

  "As Decebhin did."

  "Oh yeah. He's won two awards there -- the festival's held every five years. Anyway, he's this amazing bard, and for a long time I felt like there must be something wrong with me, for me to disagree with him like that."

  "Like what?"

  She waved her long-fingered hands through the air, as if trying to describe her frustration with motion. "For a while I wanted to be like Decebhin. When I was fourteen I begged him to let me to go to the festival. I was nowhere near good enough, of course, but I wanted to go." She sighed, and her hands fell limply to the grass. "That was how I used to feel. But as I got older, it started to seem kind of empty. Not the festival -- it's a good tradition to have. But the music started to seem dead, when it had always been so alive."

  Like I've said, I'm not that much of a musician. But I compared it to the performances our troupe gave, and understood what Tirean meant. How horrible would it feel, if suddenly Ennike's words didn't bring the story to life anymore? If my own movements began to feel empty? If the power of the stories went away?

  Tirean had continued on without looking at me. "Decebhin works at a different level than most bards. Some of the music he plays is really bizarre; most people don't like it." She snorted. "Most people don't get it. I was learning to understand some of it, but it's work. There's a very limited number of people who are well-enough educated in music to understand those pieces, much less enjoy them."

  "Sounds to me like that defeats the purpose," I said.

  "I thought so. And that was where it started -- me wondering what the point of that kind of music was. It spread from there. A lot of the stuff I played started to sound like all the life had drained out of it. Whatever magic was in it, went away. I could have satirized the king to his face and it wouldn't have mattered, because it was just notes."

  "So you quit?"

  Tirean hesitated. I found myself praying that she wouldn't clam up now. I sensed I was coming close to whatever was plaguing her still.

  When she spoke, the words came reluctantly. "Yeah. I told Decebhin I didn't want to do his kind of music anymore. I wanted to play out here."

  Among the common folk of Tir Diamh. "Why?"

  She didn't answer. I glanced sideways, trying to be subtle, and found tears glimmering on her cheeks in the moonlight. "I thought I might find it here," she whispered. "The power my music had lost."

  My mind could still hear her, playing that court waltz, perched on the side of a well. Technical skill to put nine out of ten buskers to shame: she played the music to perfection. But it was, as she had said, lifeless. There was no soul to it. And the crowds could hear that.

  I searched for words that might help Tirean, and found none. Now I began to wish I had introduced her to my eloquent sister; surely Ennike could have found something to say.

  "I'm beginning to doubt myself," Tirean murmured, her voice hardly carrying to my ears. "I've been out on the roads for a month and I haven't found it."

  "Did you get anything useful from the other buskers?" I asked. "The ones we listened to today?"

  She shook her head, brushing the tears away with one hand. "Nothing. The stuff they play -- useless. Like that nonsense song this afternoon. What power is there in music like that? It's worthless."

  My head came up sharply. "Worthless?"

  "Yeah. The tunes are simplistic; half of them sound alike. The lyrics aren't anything special. If I can't find magic in Decebhin's music, or in the country junk these people play, then where is it?" Despite Tirean's efforts to keep her voice steady, it wavered, and new tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving silver tracks behind. "Maybe I'm chasing something that's not real."

  Country junk. My throat had closed up; I opened and shut my mouth, trying to put together some kind of response. Too many possibilities warred in my head.

  I finally managed to voice an answer, and once it was spoken I wished I'd stayed silent. "Maybe it's you."

  Tirean froze, staring at me. I stared back. She sat up slowly, until she could face me properly. "What?" she asked, eyes trembling full of tears.

  I winced. Andris, the Prince of Tact. How could I explain what I'd meant? "Tirean, you're evaluating minstrel music the way you would Decebhin's stuff." She tried to protest; I held up one hand to stop her. "Listen. More free advice for you. Stop thinking with your head."

  "What else am I supposed to think with?"

  "Your heart," I said. "Think about that nonsense song, 'Flower Face.' Yes, from a technical standpoint it's a piece of tripe. And an annoying one at that. But for a moment there it stopped you, got your attention, took you back to yo
ur childhood days. Is that worthless?"

  "I --" Tirean began, but she stopped, as though she didn't know what to say.

  "That stuff you dismiss as 'country junk' has plenty of power. As does the bardic stuff, from what I've heard of it. Oh, sure, not all of it is good; there's always going to be badly-written crud. But I think a lot of it depends on the player, and her opinion of it. A musician who really believes in her music, who finds the part of it that speaks to her, and that speaks to her audience -- she can make damn near anything worthwhile." I glanced down at my hands. "That's what I meant when I said it might be you. Maybe you just need a new perspective on things."

  Tirean got up, a little unsteadily, and walked a few steps away. I watched her back and hoped I'd made some kind of sense. Late at night, with my blood full of mead, is not the best time for me to be making speeches.

  "I don't know how to fix it," Tirean said at last, her finely-trained voice clogged with tears.

  A smile spread slowly across my face as an idea came to me. "I do."

  Tirean protested the whole way. I admit I was being cryptic; I hadn't told her a damn thing about my idea since I came up with it the previous night. But I was afraid that if I told her what we were doing she'd put her foot down and refuse.

  The idea was simple, really. I couldn't match Tirean's skill, and neither could any of my friends. But we all knew how to play one or more instruments, and what we lacked in technique we made up for in enthusiasm.

  That was why I was dragging her through the fields toward our encampment. I'll never have Tirean's skill; it just isn't in me. But it seemed I could hear things in the music that she'd become deaf to. And that was what I couldn't stand: she could be so brilliant, if only she understood. I could never be that good. But maybe I could help her be that good.