“What I want you to do,” the Bard continued, “is go to the castle of Count Volmar—”
“And deliver a message from the King?” At least that would be something halfway dramatic!
“And copy a manuscript for me,” his Master corrected, looking down his long nose at the bardling. “You’re to copy it—copy it exactly, understand—and bring the copy back to me.”
Kevin barely silenced a groan. “Is it very long?”
“I believe so.”
And it was probably unbearably dull, too. “But, Master,” Kevin asked desperately, “why don’t you just ask them to send the manuscript to you?”
“No! It’s too valuable to be moved.”
Naturally. “If you want it copied exactly,” the bardling said as casually as he could, “why not hire a trained scribe—”
“No!” For a startling moment, the Bard’s face was so fierce Kevin could almost believe the heroic tales—But then the fierceness faded, leaving only a weary old man behind. “I have given you your orders. The manuscript you are to copy is known as The Study of Ancient Song. It is approximately three hands high and one and a half hands wide, and is bound in plain, dark brown leather that, I imagine, must be fairly well worn by now. The title may or may not be embossed on the spine, but it should be printed clearly enough on the cover.” He paused—”In brief: the manuscript cannot be moved from the count’s library. And only you are to copy it. Each day’s work must be hidden. It must not be shown to anyone. Is that understood?”
Kevin frowned. Had the old Bard’s mind turned? Or, more likely, was he simply trying to enliven a dull job for his apprentice with a touch of the dramatic?
The bardling bowed in resignation. “Yes, Master,” he muttered.
“Good. Now, here’s a letter of introduction to the count from me. He should recognize my seal. Be sure you keep it safe in your belt pouch; nobles are suspicious sorts, and unless they know you’re really from me, you’ll never get past the castle gates.”
Kevin obediently stuffed the parchment into his pouch. Ah well, he’d try to make the most of this. At least it meant getting out of this dull old inn for a few days. Yes, and he would be staying in a castle. Hey now, maybe even rubbing elbows with the nobility!
The bardling fought down a sudden grin, imagining himself at court, impressing somebody important, maybe even the count himself, with his talent. Who knew? If he was really lucky, he might get a chance to really prove himself. He might even end up being named a true Bard!
Oh, right If he didn’t wind up spending all his time stuck in the count’s library.
“Kevin? Kevin! Listen to me, boy,” his Master fussed. “You must hurry. I have a way to get you to the count safely—friends are coming through—but time is short Can’t have a lad your age traveling all by himself.”
The bardling straightened, insulted. “Your pardon, Master, but I’m not a baby. I’ll be all right, don’t worry.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about, boy. It’s what you might meet along the way. You’re a bardling, not a trained warrior.”
“I can handle a sword!”
“But you won’t,” the Bard ordered bluntly. “A musician doesn’t dare risk injuring his hands.”
“Well, yes, of course, but—”
“I repeat, you are not a trained warrior. If someone attacked you, you wouldn’t stand a chance of defending yourself.”
“I’m nearly sixteen!” Kevin began body. “I can take care of myself!”
But the Bard was no longer listening to him. Head cocked, the old man murmured, “Well now, do you hear that?”
“Singing?” the bardling said in surprise. Who in that quiet town would suddenly be frivolous enough to burst into song? And raucous song at that!
