Fiddler Fair (anthology)

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 night-long, 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 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 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 cooktent. She was even more astonished when they began to toss coppers in her open fiddlecase, and the cooktent’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.

“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 sighed. “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 gracefully 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-dressed 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, tavernkeeper.” 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.”