As she finished the second verse and began the third, the young woman glanced quickly from face to face. Her audience was leaning forward, all conversation forgotten. Tension eased from her as she realized that the people here in the Port of Eslee were equally susceptible to the “spell” cast by flying fingers and trained voice as were the folk overseas in High Hallack or her home in spell-shrouded Arvon. She hoped they’d be as generous with their coin offerings; it had taken nearly everything she’d earned on her travels through the Dales to pay for the long voyage aboard the Osprey.
Both fourth and fifth verses went even better. By now the men were nodding in rhythm to her song. Eydryth finished the ballad with a last triumphant, clarion strum, and they thumped their tankards on the board appreciatively. “Another, minstrel! Another!” One of the Sulcar sailors, massive and fair as were all his race, shouted bull-voiced over the others, “A Sulcar tune, songsmith! Give us a song for the Sons of Sul!”
Fortunately, the Sulcar sailors aboard the Osprey had taught her a multitude of songs, since they sang constantly at their work, and their music was easy for trained ears and fingers to master. Eydryth closed her eyes as she strummed, searching for the proper key… There, she had it now.
“Very well, kind sirs. I give you ‘The Fall of Sulcarkeep,’ which tells the tale of the great hero Magnus Osberic and how he destroyed his own stronghold rather than let it fall into Kolder hands.”
The tune this time was in a somber, minor key, as befitted a tragic tale. Eydryth began:
She continued, losing herself in the music. Her tawdry surroundings faded as the song bore her back into that ancient stronghold, transporting her to the fateful night. Eydryth’s voice rose into an eerie wail as she described the desperate battle throughout the doomed fortress:
The big sailor’s face was saddened and grim now, and Eydryth wondered whether he had lost a father or uncle during that terror-ridden night. It was almost as though she could see the mighty Osberic in his bear’s-head helm, his stained sword dripping red onto the blood-slicked flags of the ancient stronghold. Her voice soared up into the final sad yet strangely triumphant verses:
When she let the last, ebbing chord die away, there was silence for a long moment; then, as though just waking from sleep, the men stirred. The Sulcarman cleared his throat. “Well done, minstrel. Never have I heard it sung better.” A flash of bright silver spun through the air, landing in the harp case. As though the sailor’s gesture were a floodgate opening, coins spattered to join the first.
Eydryth nodded graciously, acknowledging their offerings, then gave them “The Mosswife’s Bargain.” A lighter mood prevailed as she spun out the skipping, skirling notes of “The One-Spell Wizard.” After a refreshing swallow of ale from a tankard ordered by the Sulcarman (even though she was thirsty, Eydryth dared not drink more—her belly was rumbling with hunger, and she needed a clear head to ferret out answers to questions she dared not pose too directly), she sang “Don’t Call My Name in Battle.” The song was one her father had taught her, years ago—
Don’t think of him, Eydryth told herself firmly, feeling a catch in the back of her throat threatening to ruin the last verse. After the singing’s done, when you’ve money to journey on, then you can call up Jervon’s face to mind. Then you can think of your foster-parents, the Lady Joisan and her lord, Kerovan. Then you can think of Obred, and your chestnut mare Vyar, Hyana and Fir dun and Kar Garudwyn itself, may Neave protect those within its walls! But until then, you must sing, and give no hint of what you seek, why you have traveled so far from home…
Mastering her sorrow, she strummed the opening chords to “Keylor’s Rage,” feeling weariness threaten to overwhelm and net her like a cloak thrown in battle, muffling, blinding. Two more songs, she promised herself. Only two more, then I can stop and pick up my coins, knowing I’ve given full measure for what’s been paid.
“And now, kind sirs,” she said, a few minutes later, muting the last chord of “Keylor’s Rage”with her palm, “a new song, one inspired by the story told me about the Kolder-cursed city of Sippar, on the Island of Gorm. Pay heed an’ you will to ‘The Haunted City.’ ”
Eydryth hushed her voice into eerie, thrumming tones, thinking as she did that Sippar—or what was left of it—lay just across the bay, barely a day’s sail away. “No children sleep in Sippar now,” she began:
Even as the final words whispered into the silence of The Dancing Dolphin, Eydryth saw her listeners shiver, then sit upright too quickly. The fellow who had accosted her when she’d first entered the tavern actually looked over his shoulder, as though a spectral hand might be descending to rest there.
Can’t have them loath to walk into the night, she thought. Something a bit bawdy will leave them laughing and free with their silver, and I need have no fears about playing something from High Hallack and them not understanding it… A bawdy is a bawdy anywhere… “Now sirs,” she called out, “for the evening’s last song, I give you ‘The Chambermaid’s Dowry.’ ”