melodies. A tune anyone with a bucket could carry. A bucket was overkill, actually. A pair of cupped hands would manage nicely. A single hand. Two fingers, even.
It was, plainly said, folk music.
There have been a hundred songs written to the tune of “Bell-Wether.” Songs of love and war. Songs of humor, tragedy, and lust. I did not bother with any of these. No words. Just the music. Just the tune.
I looked up and saw Lord Brickjaw leaning close to Denna, making a dismissive gesture. I smiled as I teased the song carefully from the strings of my lute.
But before much longer, my smile grew strained. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. I hunched over the lute, concentrating on what my hands were doing. My fingers darted, then danced, then flew.
I played hard as a hailstorm, like a hammer beating brass. I played soft as sun on autumn wheat, gentle as a single stirring leaf. Before long, my breath began to catch from the strain of it. My lips made a thin, bloodless line across my face.
As I pushed through the middle refrain I shook my head to clear my hair away from my eyes. Sweat flew in an arc to patter out along the wood of the stage. I breathed hard, my chest working like a bellows, straining like a horse run to lather.
The song rang out, each note bright and clear. I almost stumbled once. The rhythm faltered for the space of a split hair. . . . Then somehow I recovered, pushed through, and managed to finish the final line, plucking the notes sweet and light despite the fact that my fingers were a weary blur.
Then, just when it was obvious I couldn’t carry on a moment longer, the last chord rang through the room and I slumped in my chair, exhausted.
The audience burst into thunderous applause.
But not the whole audience. Scattered through the room dozens of people burst into laughter instead, a few of them pounding the tables and stomping the floor, shouting their amusement.
The applause sputtered and died almost immediately. Men and women stopped with their hands frozen midclap as they stared at the laughing members of the audience. Some looked angry, others confused. Many were plainly offended on my behalf, and angry mutterings began to ripple through the room.
Before any serious discussion could take root, I struck a single high note and held up a hand, pulling their attention back to me. I wasn’t done yet. Not by half.
I shifted in my seat and rolled my shoulders. I strummed once, touched the loose peg, and rolled effortlessly into my second song.
It was one of Illien’s: “Tintatatornin.” I doubt you’ve ever heard of it. It’s something of an oddity compared to Illien’s other works. First, it has no lyrics. Second, while it’s a lovely song, it isn’t nearly as catchy or moving as many of his better-known melodies.
Most importantly, it is perversely difficult to play. My father referred to it as “the finest song ever written for fifteen fingers.” He made me play it when I was getting too full of myself and felt I needed humbling. Suffice to say I practiced it with fair regularity, sometimes more than once a day.
So I played “Tintatatornin.” I leaned back into my chair and crossed my ankles, relaxing a bit. My hands strolled idly over the strings. After the first chorus, I drew a breath and gave a short sigh, like a young boy trapped inside on a sunny day. My eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, bored.
Still playing, I fidgeted in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position and failing. I frowned, stood up, and looked at the chair as if it was somehow to blame. Then I reclaimed my seat and wriggled, an uncomfortable expression on my face.
All the while the ten thousand notes of “Tintatatornin” danced and capered. I took a moment between one chord and the next to scratch myself idly behind the ear.
I was so deeply into my little act that I actually felt a yawn swelling up. I let it out in full earnest, so wide and long that the people the front row could count my teeth. I shook my head as if to clear it, and daubed at my watery eyes with my sleeve.
Through all of this, “Tintatatornin” tripped into the air. Maddening harmony and counterpoint weaving together, skipping apart. All of it flawless and sweet and easy as breathing. When the end came, drawing together a dozen tangled threads of song, I made no flourish. I simply stopped and rubbed my eyes a bit. No crescendo. No bow. Nothing. I cracked my knuckles distractedly and leaned forward to set my lute back in the case.
This time the laughter came first. The same people as before, hooting and hammering at their tables twice as loudly as before. My people. The musicians. I let my bored expression fall away and grinned knowingly out at them.
The applause followed a few heartbeats later, but it was scattered and confused. Even before the house lights rose, it had dissolved into a hundred murmuring discussions throughout the room.
Marie rushed up to greet me as I came down the stairs, her face full of laughter. She shook my hand and clapped me on the back. She was the first of many, all musicians. Before I could get bogged down, Marie linked her arm in mine and led me back to my table.
“Good lord, boy,” Manet said. “You’re like a tiny king here.”
“This isn’t half the attention he usually gets,” Wilem said. “Normally they’re still cheering when he makes it back to the table. Young women bat their eyes and strew his path with flowers.”
Sim looked around the room curiously. “The reaction did seem . . .” he groped for a word. “Mixed. Why is that?”
“Because young six-string here is so sharp he can hardly help but cut himself,” Stanchion said as he made his way over to our table.
“You’ve noticed that too?” Manet asked dryly.
“Hush,” Marie said. “It was brilliant.”
Stanchion sighed and shook his head.
“I for one,” Wilem said pointedly, “would like to know what is being discussed.”
“Kvothe here played the simplest song in the world and made it look like he was spinning gold out of flax,” Marie said. “Then he took a real piece of music, something only a handful of folk in the whole place could play, and made it look so easy you’d think a child could blow it on a tin whistle.”
“I’m not denying that it was cleverly done,” Stanchion said. “The problem is the way he did it. Everyone who jumped in clapping on the first song feels like an idiot. They feel they’ve been toyed with.”
“Which they were,” Marie pointed out. “A performer manipulates the audience. That’s the point of the joke.”
“People don’t like being toyed with,” Stanchion replied. “They resent it, in fact. Nobody likes having a joke played on them.”
“Technically,” Simmon interjected, grinning, “he played the joke on the lute.”
Everyone turned to look at him, and his grin faded a bit. “You see? He actually
Marie laughed an easy laugh.
Manet spoke up. “So it’s really an issue of two audiences,” he said slowly. “There’s those that know enough about music to get the joke, and those who need the joke explained to them.”
Marie made a triumphant gesture toward Manet. “That’s it exactly,” she said to Stanchion. “If you come here and don’t know enough to get the joke on your own, then you deserve to have your nose tweaked a bit.”
“Except most of those people are the gentry,” Stanchion said. “And our clever-jack doesn’t have a patron yet.”
“What?” Marie said. “Threpe put word out months ago. Why hasn’t someone snatched you up?”
“Ambrose Jakis,” I explained.
Her face didn’t show any recognition. “Is he a musician?”
“Baron’s son,” Wilem said.
She gave a puzzled frown. “How can he possibly keep you away from a patron?”
“Ample free time and twice as much money as God,” I said dryly.
“His father’s one of the most powerful men in Vintas,” Manet added, then turned to Simmon. “What is he, sixteenth in line to the throne?”
“Thirteenth,” Simmon said sullenly. “The entire Surthen family was lost at sea two months ago. Ambrose
