Fiddler Fair (anthology)

He raised an eyebrow; the usual order was lute, primary; fiddle, secondary. For that matter, fiddle wasn’t all that common even as a secondary instrument.

“And you will perform—?”

“First day, primary, ‘Lament Of The Maiden Esme.’ Second day, secondary, ‘The Unkind Lover.’ Third day, original, ‘The Skull Hill Ghost.’ ” An awful title, but she could hardly use the real name of “Fiddler Girl.” “Accompanied on primary, fiddle.”

“Take your place.”

She sat on the backless wooden bench trying to keep herself calm. Before her was the raised wooden platform on which they would all perform; to either side of it were the backless benches like the one she warmed, for the aspirants to the Guild. The back of the tent made the third side, and the fourth faced the row of well-padded chairs for the Guild judges. Although she was first here, it was inevitable that they would let others have the preferred first few slots; there would be those with fathers already in the Guild, or those who had coins for bribes. Still, she shouldn’t have to wait too long—rising with the dawn would give her that much of an edge, at least.

She got to play by midmorning. The “Lament” was perfect for fiddle, the words were simple and few, and the wailing melody gave her lots of scope for improvisation. The row of Guild judges, solemn in their tunics or robes of purple, white silk shirts trimmed with gold or silver ribbon depending on whether they were Minstrels or Bards, were a formidable audience. Their faces were much alike: well-fed and very conscious of their own importance; you could see it in their eyes. As they sat below the platform and took unobtrusive notes, they seemed at least mildly impressed. Even more heartening, ­several of the boys yet to perform looked satisfyingly ­worried when she’d finished.

She packed up her fiddle and betook herself briskly out—to find herself a corner of Temple Wall to lean against as her knees sagged when the excitement that had sustained her wore off. It was several long moments before she could get her legs to bear her weight and her hands to stop shaking. It was then that she realized that she hadn’t eaten since the night before—and that she was suddenly ravenous. Before she’d played, the very thought of food had been revolting.

The same cookshop tent as before seemed like a reasonable proposition. She paid for her breakfast with some of the windfall-coppers of the night before; this morning the tent was crowded and she was lucky to get a scant corner of a bench to herself. She ate hurriedly and joined the strollers through the Fair.

Once or twice she thought she glimpsed the red hair of Talaysen, but if it was he, he was gone by the time she reached the spot where she had thought he’d been. There were plenty of other street-singers, though. She thought wistfully of the harvest of coin she’d garnered the night before as she noted that none of them seemed to be lacking for patronage. But now that she was a duly registered entrant in the trials, it would be going against custom, if not the rules, to set herself up among them.

So instead she strolled, and listened, and made mental notes for further songs. There was many a tale she overheard that would have worked well in song-form; many a glimpse of silk-bedecked lady, strangely sad or hectically gay, or velvet-clad lord, sly and foxlike or bold and pompous, that brought snatches of rhyme to mind. By early evening her head was crammed full—and it was time to see how the Guild had ranked the aspirants of the morning.

The list was posted outside the closed tent-flaps, and Rune wasn’t the only one interested in the outcome of the first day’s trials. It took a bit of time to work her way in to look, but when she did—

By the Three! There she was, “Rune of Karthar”— listed third.

She all but floated back to her river-side tree-roost.

The second day of the trials was worse than the first; the aspirants performed in order, lowest ranking to highest. That meant that Rune had to spend most of the day sitting on the hard wooden bench, clutching the neck of her lute in nervous fingers, listening to contestant after contestant and sure that each one was much better on his secondary instrument than she was. She’d only had a year of training on it, after all. Still, the song she’d chosen was picked deliberately to play up her voice and ­de-­em­phasize her lute-strumming. It was going to be pretty difficult for any of these others to match her high contralto, (a truly cunning imitation of a boy’s soprano) since most of them had passed puberty.

At long last her turn came. She swallowed her nervousness as best she could, took the platform, and began.

Privately she thought it was a pretty silly song. Why on earth any man would put up with the things that lady did to him, and all for the sake of a “kiss on her cold, quiet hand” was beyond her. Still, she put all the acting ability she had into it, and was rewarded by a murmur of approval when she’d finished.

“That voice—I’ve seldom heard one so pure at that late an age!” she overheard as she packed up her instrument. “If he passes the third day—you don’t suppose he’d agree to become castrati, do you? I can think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have him.”

She smothered a smile—imagine their surprise to discover that it would not be necessary to eunuch her to preserve her voice!

She lingered to listen to the last of the entrants, then waited outside for the posting of the results.

She nearly fainted to discover that she’d moved up to second place.

“I told you,” said a quiet voice in her ear. “But are you still sure you want to go through with this?”

She whirled, to find the minstrel Talaysen standing behind her, the sunset brightening his hair and the soft shadows on his face making him appear scarcely older than she.

“I’m sure,” she replied firmly. “One of the judges said today that he could think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have my voice.”

“Bought and sold like so much mutton? Where’s the living in that? Caged behind high stone walls and never let out of the sight of m’lord’s guards, lest you take a notion to sell your services elsewhere? Is that the life you want to lead?”

“Trudging down roads in the pouring cold rain, frightened half to death that you’ll take sickness and ruin your voice—maybe for good? Singing with your stomach growling so loud it drowns out the song? Watching some idiot with half your talent being clad in silk and velvet and eating at the high table, while you try and please some brutes of guardsmen in the kitchen in hopes of a few scraps and a corner by the fire?” she countered. “No thank you. I’ll take my chances with the Guild. Besides, where else would I be able to learn? I’ve got no