Lark and Wren

Church owned the docks, and probably owned all fishing rights to this section of river, they weren't likely to permit any competition.

The bank of the river was wilder here, and overgrown, not like the carefully tended area by the Faire docks. Well, that would discourage fairegoers from augmenting their supplies with a little fishing from the bank, especially if they were townsfolk, afraid of bears and snakes under every bush. She pushed her way into the tangle and found a game-trail that ran along the riverbank, looking for a likely spot. Finally she found a place where the river had cut a tiny cove into the bank. It was secluded; trees overhung the water, their branches making a good thick screen that touched the water, the ground beneath them bare of growth, and hollows between some of the roots were just big enough to cradle her sleeping roll. Camp, bath, and clear water, all together, and within climbing distance on one of the trees she discovered a hollow big enough to hide her bedroll and those belongings she didn't want to carry into the Faire.

She waited until dusk fell before venturing into the river, and kept her eyes and ears open while she scrubbed herself down. She probably wasn't the only country-bred person to think of this ploy, and ruffians preferred places where they could hide. Once clean, she debated whether or not to change into the special clothing she'd brought tonight; it might be better to save it-then the thought of donning the sweat-soaked, dusty traveling gear became too distasteful, and she rejected it out of hand.

I've got shirts and under-things for three days. That'll do.

She felt strange, and altogether different once she'd put the new costume on. Part of that was due to the materials-except for when she'd tried the clothing on for fit, this was the first time in her life she'd ever worn silk and velvet. Granted, the materials were all old; bought from a second-hand vendor back in Nolton and cut down from much larger men's garments by Maddie. She'd had plenty of time on the road to sew them up. The velvet of the breeches wasn't too rubbed; the ribbons on the sleeves of the shirt and the embroidered trim she'd made when she was sick should cover the faded and frayed places, and the vest should cover the stains on the back panels of each shirt completely. That had been clever of Maddie; to reverse the shirts so that the wine-stained fronts became the backs. Her hat, once the dust was beaten out of it and the plumes she'd snatched from the tails of several disgruntled roosters along the way were tucked into the band, looked both brave and professional enough. Her boots, at least, were new, and when the dust was brushed from them, looked quite respectable. She tucked her remaining changes of clothing and her bedroll into her pack, hid the lot in the tree- hollow, and felt ready to face the Faire.

The guard at the gate, a Church cleric, of course, eyed her carefully. 'Minstrel?' he asked suspiciously, looking at the lute and fiddle she carried in their cases, slung from her shoulders. 'You'll need a permit to busk, if you plan to stay more than three days.'

She shook her head. 'Here for the trials, m'lord. Not planning on busking.'

Which was the truth. She wasn't planning on busking. If something came up, or she was practicing and people chose to pay her-well, that wasn't planned, was it?

'Ah.' He appeared satisfied. 'You come in good time, boy. The trials begin tomorrow. The Guild has its tent pitched hard by the main gate of the Cathedral; you should have no trouble finding it.'

She thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to the next in line. She passed inside the log walls and entered the Faire itself.

The first impressions she had were of noise and light; torches burned all along the aisle she traversed; the booths to either side were lit by lanterns, candles, or other, more expensive methods, like perfumed oil-lamps. The crowd was noisy; so were the merchants. Even by torchlight it was plain that these were the booths featuring shoddier goods; second-hand finery, brass jewelry, flash and tinsel. The entertainers here were-surprising. She averted her eyes from a set of dancers. It wasn't so much that they wore little but imagination, but the way they were dancing embarrassed even her; Amber had never permitted anything like this in her House. And the fellow with the dancers back at the Westhaven Faire hadn't had his girls doing anything like this, either.

Truth to tell, they tended to move as little as possible.

She kept a tight grip on her pouch and instruments, tried to ignore the crush, and let the flow of fairgoers carry her along.

Eventually the crowd thinned out a bit (though not before she'd felt a ghostly hand or two try for her pouch and give it up as a bad cause). She followed her nose then, looking for the row that held the cook-shop tents and the ale-sellers. She hadn't eaten since this morning, and her stomach was lying in umcomfortably close proximity to her spine.

She learned that the merchants of tavern-row were shrewd judges of clothing; hers wasn't fine enough to be offered a free taste, but she wasn't wearing garments poor enough that they felt she needed to be shooed away. Sternly admonishing her stomach to be less impatient, she strolled the length of the row twice, carefully comparing prices and quantities, before settling on a humble tent that offered meat pasties (best not ask what beast the meat came from, not at these prices) and fruit juice or milk as well as ale and wine. Best of all, it offered seating at rough trestle-tables as well. Her feet were complaining as much as her stomach.

Rune took her flaky pastry and her mug of juice and found a spot at any empty table where she could eat and watch the crowds passing by. No wine or ale for her; not even had she the coppers to spare for it. She dared not be the least muddle-headed, not with a secret to keep and the first round of competition in the morning. The pie was more crust than meat, but it was filling and well-made and fresh; that counted for a great deal.

She watched the other customers, and noted with amusement that there were two sorts of the clumsy, crude clay mugs. One sort, the kind they served the milk and juice in, was ugly and shapeless, too ugly to be worth stealing but was just as capacious as the exterior promised. No doubt, that was because children were often more observant than adults gave them credit for-and very much inclined to set up a howl if something didn't meet implied expectations. The other sort of mug, for wine and ale, was just the same ugly shape and size on the outside, though a different shade of toad-back green, but had a far thicker bottom, effectively reducing the interior capacity by at least a third. Which a thirsty adult probably wouldn't notice.

'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 tomorrow'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 just going to gray a little at the temples, 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 costume was similar to her own, though; leather breeches instead of velvet, good linen instead of worn silk, a vest and a leather hat that could have been twin to hers. But the telling marks