Lark and Wren

were the knots of ribbon on the sleeves of his shirt-and the neck of a lute peeking over his shoulder. A minstrel!

Of the Guild? Could it be possible that here at the Faire there'd be Guild musicians working the 'streets'? 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 busker, a mere street- player. Still, he'd bespoken her kindly enough, and God knew not everyone with the music-passion had the skill or the talent to pass the trials-

Look at Tonno. He'd never even gotten as far as busking.

'Aye, sir,' she replied politely. 'I've hopes to pass; I think I've the talent, and others have said as much.'

Including the sour Brother Pell. When she'd told him good-bye and the reason for leaving, he'd not only wished her well, he'd actually cracked a smile, and said that of all his pupils, she was the one he'd have chosen to send to the trials.

The stranger's eyes measured her keenly, and she had the disquieting feeling that her boy-ruse was fooling him not at all. 'Ah well,' he replied, 'There's a-many before you have thought the same, and failed.'

'That may be-' She answered the challenge in his eyes, stung into revealing what she'd kept quiet until now. 'But I'd bet a copper penny 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. And he believed her; she read that, too. 'You've made a song of it, surely?'

Should I sing it now? Well, why not? After the next couple of days, it wouldn't be a secret anymore. '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, feeling as if she must apologize for singing with a fiddle rather than her lute, since the lute was clearly his instrument. '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 I took that challenge up

And swore that I would go and fiddle for the Skull Hill Ghost!'Oh, that was a damn fool move, Rune. And you knew it when you did it. But if you hadn't taken their bet, you wouldn't be here now.

'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.' '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 night-long, lightless ordeal she'd passed through, and the fiddle shook with the weariness she'd felt, playing the whole night long.

Then 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 dawnlight 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 angry dead could be impressed and forced to reward courage and talent.

Rune stopped, and shook back brown locks dark with sweat, and looked about her in astonishment at the applauding patrons of the cook-tent. She was even more astonished when they began to toss coppers in her open fiddle case, and the cook-tent'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 mustna be a-muddled,' she whispered as she hurried back to her counter.

But this hadn't been a performance-at least, not for more than one! '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.

She flushed. '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.'

She peeked at the contents of the case before she answered him. Not a single pin in the lot.