Which wasn’t to say it didn’t get lively at Rafters. Divad took great pleasure in watching the musicians’ skill whip the crowds here into a frenzy. It reminded him that music had a power all its own, well before the gifts of a Lieholan’s intention gave it influence.
He arrived ahead of the evening crowd. Regulars had already staked out their places—Chom, who’d been a promising violinist before a mill accident took his hand; Jaela, who cared mostly for the vocalists, having abandoned her own musical ambitions years ago when Divad let her know she was tone-deaf; Riddol and Mack, a pair of genial-enough fellows, as long as the music proved truly satisfying—they were fair but harsh critics. Divad nodded to them all, receiving enthusiastic acknowledgments—Maesteri in the house meant players would push themselves tonight.
He climbed onto his stool at the far end of the bar near the stage, and rubbed a bit of weariness from his face. Much as the prospect of rebuilding the viola excited him, another part of him felt the constant pull of worry and regret over Belamae’s departure. Odds were the lad would not survive his country’s war. A damn shame, that.
Before he could spend too much energy on the dismal thought, Ollie stood before him, a damp towel slung over his shoulder, ready to mop up a spill.
“Wheat bitter tonight?” Ollie gave him a close look. “Or are you here to drink heavy. Push out some of what’s botherin’ ya?”
“What makes you think something’s bothering me?” Divad replied.
Ollie just gave him an are-you-serious look.
“Wheat bitter’ll do.” Divad glanced up at the stage-side slate. “Who you got tonight?”
“Madalin is back in the city. She wants to sing something she wrote herself while down in Dimn. She won’t preview it for me. Told her she can live or die by it then. She’ll probably bring the house down. Woman’s got lungs.”
Divad nodded. “That she does. I see Colas. Is he playing alone?”
Ollie gave a wry smile. “Oh that. Yeah, Senchia took a lover. Her lines have gravitated to droning chordal roots. Colas is better off without her. He’s striking too hard though. I think he’s trying to fill up the same amount of sound without her. He’ll figure it out. He’s slinging new wood, too.”
The reference reminded Divad of his reason for coming to Rafters: to think, ponder how to tackle the viola soundboard. While he got himself refocused, Ollie slid a glass of So-Dell light grain in front of him.
“Tell me how that does ya.” Ollie smiled with bartender satisfaction. “Came in about a cycle back, but it’s a full nine years aged. Wheat was threshed late that season, full ripe kind of taste, if you follow.”
Divad took a sip, and his brows rose in pleasant surprise. “Enough of those and I might sing tonight.”
“You’re not on the slate,” Ollie said, half kidding. The man liked things planned and proper, but he’d put his towel to a name and write Divad in if he got serious about it.
“I see Alosol is singing last,” Divad said, taking a healthier draught off his glass.
“Still the best voice not to be taken into Descant,” Ollie observed, giving him a mock judgmental glare.
Alosol had an immense following, and for good reason. He had more control and range in his tenor voice than almost any vocalist in Recityv. Problem was, he knew it. There was a smidge too much conceit in the man. Maybe more than a smidge. But that took nothing from his sheer ability. He could sustain a note three octaves above speech-tone, and do it as softly or with as much volume as another singer would his first octave. Divad didn’t have a student that wasn’t envious of Alosol’s gift, save maybe Belamae.
“Put in with the Reconciliationists,” Ollie added, conversationally. “Best acquisition those religionists have had in some time. I imagine they weep when he sings the Petitioner’s Cycle over at Bastulen Cathedral. Shame.”
Divad said nothing. He’d denied Alosol’s several requests for admission to Descant. The man had Lieholan in him, all right. And Divad would have liked to take him in. But as important as talent was, being teachable mattered more. Alosol carried himself with a callow arrogance, the kind that smacked of someone who thinks he’s got the world figured out.
“Speaking of religionists,” Ollie said, running the towel over the bartop by habit, “listen to this. I was laying up some of that there wheat bitter in the cellar, keeps the temperature right, you see. But I’m running out of room down there. So I’m moving shelves, and I find a cellar door I hadn’t noticed before. A closet. Inside, there are maybe eight crates sealed tight. Dust on ’em as thick as carpet. And what do I find inside?”
He waited on Divad to guess.
“More bitter?”
“You lack imagination,” Ollie quipped, proceeding with his discovery. “No, hymnals. And some other papers, besides. Turns out, before this place was Rafters, it was a chantry. Don’t you just love that?”
Divad smiled over the top of his glass. He did, in fact, love that. The idea that these walls had been a devotional songhouse of sorts, even before becoming a tavern, tickled him for no good reason.
“To a new kind of sacrament, then,” Divad said, hoisting his bitter. And part of him meant it. Songs sung in memoriam were damn important. Suffering itself took that theme more than once.
Ollie didn’t drink. He tasted all his stock, but he never finished anything. ‘I’ll keep my wits, thanks,’ he was fond of saying. But he took his bar rag and pretended to clink glasses with Divad.
“That’s not the half of it,” he went on, gleefully. “That stage, the balcony balustrade . . . my dear absent gods,
