Stillbright

by Daniel M Ford

  Long time past, she told herself silently. Be who you are, not who you were. With a determined hand she shoved the door open and made her way in. She couldn’t help but spare a glance towards one of the fireplaces in the corner of the room, where the music came from.

  She never got tired of being proved right. He was a Concordat man and trained in one of the better schools, probably the Tower. His skin was darker even than hers, that much was clear through the haze of smoke that hung in the taproom. She couldn’t make out too much of the lute in his hands, but the shell gleamed in soft bands.

  She couldn’t keep a tiny grin from twisting the corner of her mouth. Let fools ask for gold inlay and pearl pegs, she thought to herself. A musician cares about the wood.

  Quickly realizing that she was blocking the door, Idgen Marte stepped smartly up to the bar, a well-polished and well-attended slab of thick wood, its edge bound with hammered copper. As she was taller than most who stood or sat, and well-dressed, it wasn’t long before one of the three keepers who manned its length slid in front of her.

  A silver link already palmed, she spun it out to the tips of her fingers and then set it carefully down on the bar. “Red, Innadan.”

  He nodded and swept the link up, dropped it through a slot in the back wall into, doubtless, a strongbox. He returned quickly with her wine, a flagon and one well-made if plain clay cup, and set them down. “Anything else? Food?”

  “Just a question,” she said softly, even as she carefully poured from flagon to cup. “The lutist—is he house? Where’d he come from?”

  “He’s been in town a fair while,” the barkeep said. He was younger than her, thin and dark-bearded. “Working his way ‘round the better places. Most o’the owners’sve tried t’make him offers, though he says he don’t mean t’stay. I think he’s just anglin’ fer the top bid.”

  “Good plan,” she said, then turned around, cup in hand, to watch him play. She had a sip, found it too warm, too heavy for her tongue. Allystaire’d love it, she thought. At least this means I can sip and not guzzle.

  He’s better than this place deserves, she thought. Better than this country deserves, she amended, as she studied him. His hands glided across the strings, never giving an impression of effort or hurry. He had just the right aloof distance from the crowd, just the right combination of easy smile and concentration mingling on his features. The song she’d known had long since changed into something she suspected he was making up on the spot, and it had drawn nearly every eye and ear in the place. She felt it build, a run of impressive notes that called that high chanterelle into plenty of use, then resolve—as she knew it must for a drinking crowd in a small-town tavern—into a down-the-neck cascade and a final soft strum.

  He straightened his back, easing his hand off the strings, and flashed a small, confident smile at the crowd. Offers to buy him drinks began singing out from the listeners, and links, mostly copper but some with the more friendly gleam of silver, began to arc into the small box open before his stool.

  He sat casually flexing his hands for a moment before he adjusted his grip on the instrument. He stood and offered a brief, neat bow. Then he addressed the crowd in a resonant voice, and she shivered when she heard the rich accent of her homeland in his barony tongue.

  “A brief respite, good people,” he said. “To replenish my strength, revive my voice, and reinvigorate the hands, if you would be so kind as to extend your forbearance.” He waited till the last coin made its way into his box, then snapped it closed. He reverently cased his lute, and carried it to the bar slung on one shoulder.

  Idgen Marte cleared her throat as he approached, and pitched her voice to carry over the suddenly noisier room. More importantly, she spoke in the lyrical Concordat tongue.

  “You’re a long way from home.”

  He was a few seats down the bar, but a musician’s ears hear most everything, as she was counting on, and she thought she’d hear their native tongue if it were spoken as a whisper on a battlefield.

  He turned, smiled, rose from the stool he’d taken, and came to her side. She slid off her own stool and pushed it aside with her boot to make room. He wasn’t quite her height, with skin like well-polished dark copper, a thin beard around his mouth, and hair cut so close it was practically shaved. The flickering lamp and torch light, not to mention the smoke, made his features harder to see, but Idgen Marte was reasonably sure she liked them.

  “Home is the road,” he replied in the same tongue.

  She stopped herself just short of answering, And its next bend will surely take me there, forced a polite smile, and said, “Must get terrible drafty in the next few months.”

  She studied his reaction. It wasn’t the answer he’d expected, she could tell by the set of his eyes, but he was a performer and had a tight rein on his expressions. “Well, that’s what stops on the road are for, eh?”

  She sipped her wine and nodded in agreement. When she set her cup back down, she said, “That was the best version of ‘Flames on the High Tower’ I’ve heard in a long time. Perhaps ever.”

  “You’re too kind,” he demurred. “I’ve played it better before, in truth.” He extended a hand, even as the bartender was setting up some of the first of his free drinks. From what she could see, all of them were small beer, and well-watered at that. He was a professional. “Andus Carek.”

  She took his hand, feeling the familiar musician’s callouses thick on the pads of his fingers. “Radys Glythe,” she lied. Why bother? The odds he’d know my name are so long they’re beyond the counting. “Where are you from, Andus Carek? I’m of Cansebour, myself.” Speaking that truth felt almost physically painful. But it’s the place I can best describe, she thought, a longing for those wide streets, gleaming towers, and clean canals seizing her heart and tugging it hard for a moment.

  “The diamond of the south,” he said admiringly. “I grew up in Fen Isiel, less a diamond and more a festering boil. What brings you to the warlike and increasingly frozen north, so far from the greatest city in the world, Radys Glythe?”

  “The former part. Just a sword-at-hire.”

  He looked pointedly down at her hip and said, “It’s a curious sword-at-hire who doesn’t carry a sword.”

  Idgen Marte nearly clamped her teeth to keep herself from spitting a curse and forced herself to keep smiling. “Just a term,” she rebutted. Got to tell that dwarfish braggart to hurry up when I get back. “In fact, I’m not at-hire either. I’ve a job through the winter, little village a couple of day’s ride south and west of here.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Aye, a place called Thornhurst.” She tried to read his expression again but the falling dark and his tight control made it a challenge. “In fact, I’m here looking for musicians.”

  He held up a hand, palm out. “Whatever it was, I didn’t do it. Never met the girl, nor the boy. Never saw the jewels. And so forth.” He grinned with his own joke, the delivery smooth and natural.

  She laughed, then shook her head. “Nothing like that at all. Folk down there are aching for music. I volunteered to try and drive some in.”

  The man shrugged helplessly. “Wish I could help, if only to hear my native tongue all winter. Alas, I am contracted within Ashmill Bridge.”

  He lies, Idgen Marte thought, and for a moment wished she had Allystaire along. Though if he were he would’ve frozen it all up already. Scared him away or started a fight.

  She responded by waving a hand, casually dismissing his protest. “Easily bought off. Plenty of links to make in Thornhurst. I’ve got their proxy. Tell me what you’re making here, we’ll beat it. I guarantee.”

  “Where would Thornhurst get the silver? Thought they were farmer folk in rough times.”

  She snorted. “All time is rough for farmers in this country.”

  He glanced around the bar and leaned closer to her. He had a clean, mas
culine scent and she decided that she did indeed like his features: fine, high cheekbones and rich hazel eyes. “Listen, a friendly word from one who’s lately covered the barony. You’ll not want to be in Thornhurst long.”

  “Eh? What’ve you heard?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing certain. Just…too many whispers. Too many rumors. The fighting in Londray might spill out there, though, to be honest, that seems largely over now. Some rot about sorcerers and cultists. Too much stink attaching to the name. When you meet brethren on the road, you warn or are warned—nobody wants to be caught there.”

  “Wait, the fighting in Londray is over? What do you mean?”

  “One of the Baron’s children returned and made quick work of most of the grey-bands. Supposedly the pretender is still alive, but eh?” He drained his tea and set the cup down. “Unless he comes back to win and hold the seat, it won’t be much of a song, so what do I care?”

  “What is the rise or fall of a great man but for the song to be made of it?” She smiled at that and lifted her wine, drinking to the sentiment, still minding how much she actually imbibed. “There must be some price that’ll get you down in Thornhurst. Even for a week.” She leaned forward just enough to press her leg against the inside of his. Lutist’s hands, she thought, surprising herself. A singer’s mouth. And lovely eyes.

  He smiled, and there was more warmth in it than performance, she thought, but a wistful tinge to those eyes of his. “Afraid not.” He tilted his head, shifted his hips to press against her lightly. “I may not stay here all winter, but for the next week at least. And if you’d like to continue this talk, native tongues and all, I’m staying at the Sign of the Silver Fish, west of the bridge. And now,” he said, smoothly pulling away from her, “I’m back to business. Got to talk to the publican, then more music. Maybe I’ll play something from home for you.” He grabbed a small drink out of his queue and tossed it back. He disappeared through a door behind the bar with a backwards glance and a sensual smile.

  She drained her wine, trying to ignore the heat she felt moving up her cheeks. She refilled her cup, intending to toss that down as well. Caution and self control kept her to another sip. Sign of the Silver Fish, she thought. May have to take a walk. That would count as developing intelligence of the wider picture in the barony, surely? He’s recently crossed it, as he says. Probably got dust from it everywhere. It would be the work of a good scout to find all of it. She let the thought die, watching the crowd. Mostly it seemed like local tradesmen, but the well-to-do sort who could drink better than swill and pay for top music.

  No dirt under their nails, no more ache in their hands, she thought as she studied them, the fur-trimmed collars, the occasional flash of gold or gemmary on fingers or necks. So long as they killed no one for it, not my place to judge, she told herself.

  There were a few swords in the room, worn by men dressed for traveling, and a smattering of less common weapons. She mentally inventoried her own: mainly the two long knives strapped underneath her coat, her bow and quiver with her mount at a cheap livery near the road.

  Her attention was drawn to the minstrel as he made his way to his stool. He carefully set out his coin-box, then even more carefully uncased his lute and sat, making a great show of tuning and strumming it to his satisfaction. To Idgen Marte’s ear, most of the adjustment was unnecessary, but it served to quiet the crowd and draw their attention.

  Once he had it, he began, with the fast and familiar “Wastrel of Arabel,” which soon had the crowd singing, or at least chanting, along. Never my favorite. If they want to sing, let ‘em learn how first, she thought, keeping her own mouth clamped shut.

  From the raucous, bawdy crowd favorite to a thumping adventure, he next played “Fenren’s Final Ride,” and Idgen Marte found herself admiring not only his speed, but also his precision. Hard to be both, she admitted. Again, she considered the Sign of the Silver Fish and just whether or not it might be worth walking.

  Then he took a brief pause to wet his whistle from one of his free drinks, that she was more than half sure was water, before clearing his throat to introduce his next song. “A song many of you may not have heard, from my homeland far, far south of here, from its largest and greatest city.”

  Her back straightened. She quickly guessed what he meant to play, and the first chord proved her right. “The Streets of Cansebour.”

  Her mind was drawn instantly back to the wide clean streets, the gleaming white stone, the towers both graceful and imposing, the light of dawn flaring purple through the stained glass windows of one particular tower, of the music heard and played there.

  Of blood splashed on the stones beneath it.

  She tossed a link on the bar and stood up, made for the door. She heard the small hitch in the music, in his voice, could feel his eyes on her as she left.

  Once out in the night she took a deep, gulping breath of stinging winter air, and pulled her coat tighter, felt it tug against the knives on her back. She began walking the narrow, dark streets of Ashmill Bridge with the song of her home taunting her ears all the way.

  She wasn’t sure how long it was that she walked, but a long stretch of night passed. She stared at the bridge and wondered if it was still worth finding the Sign of the Silver Fish, and giving Andus Carek the waking of his life. But then I’d have to explain why I left, she thought. Not if I’m too busy to talk and he’s too busy to listen.

  The streets were largely deserted, but she suddenly heard staccato footsteps on the street behind her. Instinctively, she rolled her shoulders inside her coat to loosen the fit and make it easier to shed in order to draw her knives. When a side-alley approached on her right, she ducked into it, loosening a blade.

  The footsteps went right on past the alley, the product of a thin figure wrapped in a thinner cloak. Idgen Marte quietly counted ten and then returned to the wider street. The figure was distant, but not out of sight.

  Some sense, some tickle along the back of her neck, told Idgen Marte to follow.

  She let herself blend into the shadows, which were abundant. The Goddess’s Gifts to her, primarily this—the blending, the movement through the meeting of light and dark—felt so natural, came so easy, she sometimes couldn’t remember what life had been like without them. And yet she had resisted using them flippantly, despite herself. Not that Allystaire couldn’t use a good scare now and then, she idly thought as she followed the figure that scurried through the streets.

  After a few yards, though, Idgen Marte let the shadows drop away. I could follow this one in broad daylight. For all the nervous movement of the figure, looking over its shoulder, flattening against walls, she—Idgen Marte was certain it was a she—did a terrible job of keeping out of sight.

  It was a simple matter then to simply stick close to the walls, duck into the occasional alley, and stay in blind spots.

  The longer she followed, the poorer the town got. Ashmill Bridge was large enough to have its prosperous and its poor quarters, and looking around, Idgen Marte realized that she was in the worse half of the latter; the houses got smaller, meaner, closer together. The stench of the place tugged at her nose, but she pushed it aside and flattened herself against a wall, trying not to think of the wet now sloshing around her ankles, as the figure she followed stopped at a door and knocked carefully, speaking some hushed words. The door opened and the figure slipped inside, pulling it tightly closed behind her.

  When she turned to pull the door, her face had been clearly visible, if distant. Something of it tugged at Idgen Marte’s memory. Thin, young, blonde.

  Well, I’ve come this far. Idgen Marte dashed across the open space of the lane and pushed herself against the stone wall of the house the woman had disappeared into. The windows were all tightly shuttered but still the faintest hint of light leaked out.

  Nobody in this part of town wastes candles or lamp oil this late. Couldn’t be more obvious if they tr
ied.

  Why do I care? Where have I seen that woman before? And do I wish to get in there? She felt herself melting into the shadows the starlight projected against the wall, started envisioning the shadow on the other side of it. She could move between the two—but would there be enough room inside the tiny hovel to contain her? Was it her business? Happenin’ in this part of town, women trying to hide? Sounds like my business.

  Then she heard the unmistakable tramp of booted men moving with swift purpose, and the jingle of armor and weapon. Without a second thought, she blurred away from the small house, to the shadowed top of a wall roughly ten yards distant, crouched invisibly upon it.

  Men, perhaps a dozen of them in long cloaks and scarves around their faces, half of them bearing torches and the other half clubs—and all of them armed further, she was sure—swarmed around the house. The door was forced open amidst the sound of screams, and Idgen Marte’s arms tensed as she heard the unmistakable dry thud of a club on flesh. Greenhats, she thought, have to be. But why?

  Her hands went to her knives, and she started to pull them free. My business now for sure, she thought, but then one of the men started to speak, pronouncing his words with a casual assumption of mastery and power that caused her hands to go white-knuckled on her hilts. Even so, she paused to listen.

  “You are in violation of several proclamations of the Baron Delondeur, all of which have been read publicly,” he began, holding a torch aloft while half a dozen women were pulled from the building. “It is past the twelfth turn since noon and you are not in your homes. You are engaging in a secret meeting for seditious purpose. You engage in a heathen faith that has been proclaimed Anathemata by the Temples of Braech and Fortune, an Anathemata that is endorsed by the Baron.”

  By the time Anathemata was out of his mouth, Idgen Marte had pulled her knives free and began stalking across the street. She heard but barely registered one of the women cry out that they were only praying, while another sobbed. One, whom Idgen Marte believed was the one she’d followed, took a defiant step forward, lifting her eyes towards the man who threatened her.