Magic in Ithkar 3

by Andre Norton

  “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 said, “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 fiddle case, 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 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, 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 nightlong, 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 dawn light 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, looking about her in astonishment at the applauding patrons of the cookshop. She was even more astonished when they began to toss coppers in her open fiddle case, and the cookshop’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 must’na be amuddled,” she whispered, and 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 signed. “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 grace-fully 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 dresse
d 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, tavern-keeper.” 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 “Fiddler Girl,” its real name. “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 others would have the preferred first few slots: 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 had given her that much of an edge, at least.

  She got to play by midmorning. “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 tunics or robes of purple, white silk shirts trimmed with gold or silver ribbon depending on whether they were minstrels or bards, was 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 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 hurriedly 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 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 deemphasize 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.

  At long last her turn came. She swallowed her nervousness as best she could, took the platform, and began.

  Privately she thought it was a pretty silly song. Why on earth any man would put up with the things that lady did to him, and all for the sake of a “kiss on her cold, quiet hand,” was beyond her. Still, she put all the acting ability she had into it and was rewarded by a murmur of approval when she’d finished.

  “That voice—I’ve seldom heard one so pure at that late an age!” she overheard as she packed up her instrument. “If he passes the third day—you don’t suppose he’d agree to become castrati, do you? I can think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have him.”

  She smothered a smile—imagine their surprise to discover that it would not be necessary to eunuch her to preserve her voice!

  She lingered to listen to the last of the entrants, then waited outside for the posting of the results.

  She nearly fainted to discover that she’d moved up to second place.

  “I told you,” said a familiar quiet voice in her ear. “But are you still sure you want to go through with this?”

  She whirled to find the minstrel Talaysen standing behind her, the sunset brightening his hair and the soft shadows on his face making him appear scarcely older than she.

  “I’m sure,” she replied firmly. “One of the judges said today that he could think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have my voice.”

  “Bought and sold like so much mutton? Where’s the living in that? Caged behind high stone walls and never let out of the sight of m’lord’s guards, lest you take a notion to sell your services elsewhere? Is that the life you want to lead?”

  “Trudging down roads in the pouring cold rain, frightened half to death that you’ll take sickness and ruin your voice—maybe for good? Singing with your stomach growling so loud it drowns out the song? Watching some idiot with half your talent being clad in silk and velvet and eating at the high table, while you try and please some brutes of guardsmen in the kitchen in hopes of a few scraps and a corner by the fire?” she countered. “No, thank you. I’ll take my chances with the guild. Besides, where else would I be able to learn? I’ve got no more silver to spend on instruments or teaching.”

  “There are those who would teach you for the love of it—welladay, you’ve made up your mind. As you will, child,” he replied, but his eyes were sad as he turned away and vanished into the crowd again.

  Once again she sat the hard bench for most of the day while those of lesser ranking performed. This time it was a little easier to bear; it was obvious from a great many of these performances that few, if any, of the boys had the gift to create. By the time it was Rune’s turn to perform, she judged that, counting herself and the first-place holder, there could only be five real contestants for the three open bardic apprentice slots. The rest would be suitable only as minstrels, sing
ing someone else’s songs, unable to compose their own.

  She took her place before the critical eyes of the judges and began.

  She realized with a surge of panic as she finished the first verse that they did not approve. While she improvised, she mentally reviewed the verse, trying to determine what it was that had set those slight frowns on the judicial faces.

  Then she realized: boasting. Guild bards simply did not admit to being boastful. Nor did they demean themselves by reacting to the taunts of lesser beings. Oh, holy Three—

  Quickly she improvised a verse on the folly of youth; of how, had she been older and wiser, she’d never have gotten herself into such a predicament. She heaved an invisible sigh of relief as the frowns disappeared.

  By the last chorus, they were actually nodding and smiling, and one of them was tapping a finger in time to the tune. She finished with a flourish worthy of a master and waited breathlessly.

  And they applauded. Dropped their dignity and applauded.

  The performance of the final contestant was an anticlimax.

  None of them had left the tent since this last trial began. Instead of a list, the final results would be announced, and they waited in breathless anticipation to hear what they would be. Several of the boys had already approached Rune, offering smiling congratulations on her presumed first-place slot. A hush fell over them all as the chief of the judges took the platform, a list in his hand.

  “First place, and first apprenticeship as bard—Rune, son of Lista Jesaril of Karthar—”