my own strength,' the Mintak said, smiling. 'I began to break things. And when he ordered me beaten, I would catch the hand of the overseer, and ask him, ever so mildly, why he did this to me. Soon I was costing the scum much, and there was no one in his employ willing to face me, much less beat me.'
'That's when I bought 'im out,' Mathe said. 'I've had a Mintak cust'mer or twain here, an' I knew th' breed, d'ye see. He earned back 'is fine a long time agone, but he reckoned on stayin' wi' me, so we've got 'im listed as adopted so's he c'n live here.' He and the Mintak exchanged backslaps, the Mintak delivering one that looked like a fly-swat and staggered his employer. 'He'll run th' place fer the wife when I'm gone, won't you, old horse?'
'May God grant that never come to be,' the Mintak said piously. 'But admit it-you are the exception with indentures.'
Mathe shrugged. 'Sad, but Boony's got the right 'f it. And 'member, boy-if ye get indentured, the law says ye work at whatever yer bondholder says ye do. That means 'f he runs a boy-brothel. . . .'
'Which is where a-many young men and women go,' Boony rumbled. 'Into shame. The law says nothing about that. Nor the Church.'
Mathe made a shushing motion. 'Best not t' get inta that. Best t' jest finish warnin' the young'un here.' He took another pull on his beer, and Boony chomped up a couple of carrots and a head of lettuce, jaws moving stolidly. She took the opportunity to finish her food.
'All right,' Mathe said after a moment of silence. 'Tonight, ye sleep on that straw mat by th' fire-which's what payin' customers'd get if I took any-an' in the mornin' I feeds ye, an' yer on yer way. Now, ye know where ye go first?'
'To get a permit?' she ventured. He shook his head.
'Not 'less ye got a silver penny on ye; that's th' cost 'f a street-buskin' permit. No, ye go straight t' Church- box on t'end 'a this street, an ye pay yer tithe an' tax from today. Church clerk'll put down yer name, an' that goes in at end 'f day t' Church Priest-house w' th' rest on the records. Then ye busk on street, outside Church-box. By end'a day, ye'll have th' silver penny, ye' get the permit. Go get that fr'm same place; Church-box. Then ye busk where the pleasure-houses be, thas on Flower Street, 'till ye can't stay awake no more. That'd be dawn, an' ye'll have 'nough for tithe an' tax from t'day.'
'This is the one time you may safely skim a little, to pay for the permit, in all the time you may be here,' the Mintak rumbled. 'They will not expect you to play enough to earn double wages.'
She nodded. 'But-' she began, then hesitated.
'So?' Mathe said, as his wife shooed her children up the stairs behind them to their living quarters.
'Don' be t' long, eh sweeting?' she called. 'Boy's a good'un, but ye both needs sleep.'
Mathe waved at her, his eyes fixed on Rune. She dropped her eyes to her hands. 'What I-really came here for, to Nolton, I mean, was lessons. I-want to join the Guild.'
'I told you,' Boony said, booming with satisfaction. 'Did I not tell you he knew more than to be simple busker?'
'Ye did, ye did, I heerd ye,' Mathe replied. 'Ye won yer bet, old horse. Now, boy, lemmee think.' He rubbed his bare chin and pursed his lips. 'There's places t' get secondhand instruments, an' places t' get lessons. Sometimes, they be th' same place. Tell ye what, I gi' ye a map i' th' mornin'. Tell ye what else, sommut 'em gonna know where there's places lookin' fer musickers. If ye got a place, ye don' need no permit-or ye c'an git one, an' play double, by day fer pennies i' th' street, an' by night fer yer keep.'
Rune could hardly restrain herself. This was far more than she'd expected in the way of help. 'I don't know how to thank you, sir,' she said, awkwardly. 'I mean-'
'Hush,' Mathe said. 'Thank yon Beth an' Boony. 'Twas she brought ye back; 'twas he tol' me I'd best sit ye down an' 'splain how things is 'round here, afore ye got yersel' in a mess.'
'I've already thanked Beth, sir,' she said, truthfully, for she'd asked the girl what her favorite tunes were, and had played them all. 'It was kindness to take me back to you and not show me the street.'
'Well, she said ye had th' look'a sommut that knew his way about an inn,' Mathe replied, blushing a little. 'I figgered if ye did, ye knew what t' play t' please m' custom. An' ye did; sold a good bit'a beer t'night. Ye done good by me.'
'I'm glad,' she replied sincerely. 'And thank you, sir,' she said, turning to Boony. 'Although I'm sure I know your reasons-that you didn't want to see a weaker creature put in the same position you'd been in. I've heard many good things about the Mintak; I will be glad to say in the future that they are all true.'
Boony laughed out loud. 'And I will say that it is true that Bards have silver tongues and the gift of making magic with word and song,' he replied. 'For I am sure you will be a Bard one day. It pleases me to have saved a future Bard from an unpleasant fate. And now-' he looked significantly at Mathe.
The man laughed. 'All right, old horse. It's off t' bed for all of us, or m'wife 'll have Boony carry me up. G'night, young Rune.'
He and Boony clumped up the stairs, taking the candle, but leaving the fire lit so she could see to spread her blankets out on the sack of clean straw they'd given her to sleep on.
She had thought that she'd be too excited to sleep, but she was wrong. She was asleep as soon as she'd found a comfortable position on the straw sack, and she slept deeply and dreamlessly.
CHAPTER SIX
Breakfast, dished up by Mathe's wife after the morning cleaning crew rousted her out of her bed, was not bread and drippings nor leftover stew; it was oat-porridge with honey and a big mug of fresh milk. When Rune looked at her with a lifted eyebrow, she shrugged, and cast a half-scornful look at Mathe's back.
' 'Tis what my younglings get,' she said, 'Ye need a healthy morning meal, ye do. And I told Mathe, I did, that you're not much bigger nor they. Bread and drippings, indeed, for a growing boy! Ye'd think the man had no childer of his own!' And she sniffed with disdain.
Rune knew when to leave well enough alone, and she finished the porridge with appreciation. She gathered up her things, slung her pack and Lady Rose over her back, and headed for the outer door. She found the owner there, as if he was waiting for her, and somehow she wasn't surprised when Mathe slipped a packet into her hand as she bade him farewell. The cooks from last night were already hard at work in the kitchen; the serving-boys were scrubbing down tables, benches and floor, while the girls swept the fireplaces and cleaned beer mugs. Mathe took her outside, and stood on the door-sill, closing the door behind them.
The street before them had a few carts on it, but not many. By the angle of the sunlight it was about an hour past dawn. In the country, folks would already be out in their fields, working; here in the city, it seemed that most people weren't even awake yet. Since Rune had always preferred lying late abed, she had the feeling she was going to like being a city person.
'Ye go straight down this street, east,' Mathe said, waving his hand down the quiet, sunlit lane. Dust-motes danced in the shaft of light that ran between the overhanging buildings. 'At second crossing, there be a little black stall. That be Church-box; there be priest inside, ye gi' him yer tithe an' tax, an make sure ye gi' him separate. Elsewise, he'll write all fourpence down as tithe, an' leave ye owin' fourpence tax.'
And I wonder how many people that's happened to? I bet the Church wouldn't give it back, either, even if you could get them to admit that a mistake was made.
She nodded, slipping the packet into the pocket in her vest. It felt like bread; maybe even bread and cheese. That would be welcome, in a few hours. It meant something more she wouldn't have to buy.
And courtesy of Mathe's wife, too, she had no doubt. That was a good woman, and very like Rose.
Mathe continued with his directions and instructions. 'Now, then ye go 'cross street; there be couple stalls sells vittles. Play there. There's always a crowd there-ye got the people as come t' pay tax an' tithe, ye got people as wants a bit t'eat. It's a bit too noisy fer a singer, but ye'll do fine. Nobody got that as set yet, that I heerd of. Here's bit'a map.' He handed her a folded paper, and watched as she unfolded it; the maze of lines was incomprehensible at first, until she resolved it into streets, and even found the one the public house stood on, the gate she'd come in by, and the street she had followed. 'See, this here, this's where we be. These little red dots, thas some'a them teachers an' instr'ment makers. See if any on 'em'll do ye.' He nodded as she folded it up and stowed it in her belt-pouch, where the ten pennies from her evening's labor chinked. 'Now, if I was in yer shoes, I'd play till after nuncheon, thas midmeal, when people stop buyin' things at stall, an then I'd go look up some'a them teachers and the like. But thas me. Think ye'll do?'
'You've done more for me than I ever hoped, sir,' she replied honestly. 'I can't begin to thank you.'
And I don't know why you've done it, either. I'm glad you did, but I wish I knew why. . . .
