Fiddler Fair (anthology)

Trebenth was rather at a loss to answer that far-too-direct question.

“Never mind, let it go. I suspect, though, that you’re worried about what I’ve let leech onto me. Let me ask you a countering question. Is Lyran causing trouble? Acting up? Flaunting status—spending my gold like water? Boasting about his connections or—his ‘conquest’?”

 “Well,” Ben admitted slowly, “No. He acts just like he did before; so quiet you hardly know he’s there. Except—”

“Except what?”

“Some of the others have been goin’ for him. At practice, mostly.”

“And?” Beside her, Lyran shifted, and laid his right hand unobtrusively—but protectively—over the one of hers resting on the brown couch cushion between them.

“Everything stayed under control until this ­morning. Harverth turned the dirty side of his tongue on you ’stead of Lyran, seeing as he wasn’t gettin’ anywhere baiting the boy. Harverth was armed, Lyran wasn’t.”

Martis raised one eyebrow. “So? What happened?”

“I was gonna mix in, but they finished it before I could get involved. It didn’t take long. Harverth’s with the Healers. They tell me he might walk without limping in a year or so, but they won’t promise. Hard to Heal shattered kneecaps.”

Martis turned a reproachful gaze on the young, long-haired man beside her. Lyran flushed. “Pardon,” he murmured. “This one was angered for your sake more than this one knew. This one lost both Balance and temper.”

“You lost more’n that, boy,” Ben growled, “You lost me a trained—”

“Blowhard,” Martis interrupted him. “You forget that you assigned that dunderhead to me once—he’s damned near useless, and he’s a pain in the aura to a mage like me. You know damned well you’ve been on the verge of kicking that idiot out on his rear a half dozen times—you’ve told me so yourself! Well, now you’ve got an excuse to pension him off—it was my hireling and my so-called honor involved; deduct the bloodprice from my account and throw the bastard out of High Ridings. There, are you satisfied?”

Ben wasn’t. “Mart,” he said pleadingly, “It’s not just that—”

“What is it? The puppies in your kennel still likely to go for Lyran?”

“No, not after this morning.”

“What is it then? Afraid I’m going to become a laughingstock? Got news for you, Ben, I already am, and I don’t give a damn. Or are you afraid for me, afraid that I’m making a fool of myself?”

Since that was exactly what Trebenth had been thinking, he flushed again, and averted his eyes from the pair on the sofa.

“Ben,” Martis said softly, “when have you ever seen us acting as anything other than mage and hireling outside of my quarters? Haven’t we at least kept the appearance of respectability?”

“I guess,” he mumbled, hot with embarrassment.

“People would be talking even if there was nothing between us. They’ve talked about me ever since I got my Mastery. There were years at the beginning when everybody was certain I’d earned it in bed, not in the circles. And when you and I—they talked about that, too, didn’t they? The only difference now is that I’m about half again older than Lyran. People just don’t seem to like that, much. But my position is in no danger. When the push comes, it’s my power the Guild cares about, not what damage I do to an ­already dubious reputation. And I don’t care. I’m happy, maybe for the first time in years. Maybe in my life.”

He looked up sharply. “Are you? Really? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she replied with absolute candor, as Lyran raised his chin slightly, and his eyes silently dared his superior to challenge the statement.

Trebenth sighed, and felt a tiny, irrational twinge of jealousy. After all, he had Margwynwy—but he’d never been able to bring that particular shine to Martis’ eyes—not even at the height of their love affair. “All right, then,” he said, resigned. “As long as you don’t care about the gossip—”

“Not in the slightest.”

“I guess I was out of line.”

“No Ben,” Martis replied fondly. “You’re a friend. Friends worry about friends; I’m glad you care enough to worry. My wits haven’t gone south, honestly.”

“Then—I guess I’ll go see about paying a certain slacker off and pitching him out.”

* * *

Martis gestured the door closed behind the towering Guard-serjant, then removed the door with another gesture, and turned back to her seatmate with frustration in her eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were being harassed?” Lyran shook his head; his light brown hair shimmered in the warm sun pouring through the skylight above his head.

“It didn’t matter. Words are only as worthy as the speaker.”

“It got beyond words.”

“I am better than anyone except the Guild-serjant.” It wasn’t a boast, Martis knew, but a plain statement of fact. “What did I have to fear from harassment? It was only—” It was Lyran’s turn to flush, although he continued to hold her gaze with his own eyes. “I could not bear to hear you insulted.”

Something rather atavistic deep down inside glowed with pleasure at his words. “So you leapt to my