At the deadly words "cut off my allowance," the heir's new-found friends vanished for other reaches. Within seconds, Tamlin, Escevar, and Vox sat alone. No one in the pub, not even dung shovelers and grave robbers and tax collectors, would sit with them.
"Drat the dark." Tamlin slurped stout and belched. " 'Scuse. I wanted to ask those fellows something, but I can't think what. Allowance-Oh, hey, has anyone seen Zarrin Foxmantle? She's blonde, about this high-Oops!" Waving an arm almost pitched Tamlin off the bench, and he forgot what he'd asked. Escevar snored, facedown on the opposite bench. Vox listened to a pair of sisterly singers who'd mounted a tiny stage. Growing morose from his friends' rejections, Tamlin guzzled stout and sulked while the two girls sang sweet and high:
I forbid you maidens all,
Who wear gold in your hair,
For to go to Stillstone Hall,
For young Tam Lin is there.
Tamlin's ears perked. The song was "Tam Lin," a tune old as the hills, and his namesake. Muzzily he followed the words, often heard but never considered. Tam Lin, the handsome knight, fallen from his horse in a hunting accident. Caught by the fairy queen, so enslaved. Forced to serve in her midnight court, which only joined this world under a full moon. Primed for sacrifice to a bloody-handed god. Until a maiden Lyndelle, pluckier than most, entered the sacred hall to meet the ethereal Tam Lin. His only hope of freedom, he told her, was if she caught him falling from a horse. And so they arranged it, Lyndelle lunging into a chaotic raid on a hellish night to catch her new-found lover. And so Tam Lin was freed, the young pair united, and the song ended.
"Still, evil omens. What if she'd missed him? Good luck and good times can't last forever…" Mumbling to himself, Tamlin shivered. Filtered through an alcoholic fog, the sinister song droned in his brain like a dirge. Fairy curses, a young lord snared by ill luck and fate, a ghostly un-life and sentence of sacrifice-and Tamlin himself a young lord banished from home. Was his only hope an innocent maiden's rescue? No one in Selgaunt was innocent "Milord Uskevren?"
Jumping at his name, Tamlin pulled his nose from a flagon to see a girl thin and pale as an elf. Under a threadbare cape, really a blanket, she wore only a cambric smock painted down the front, and battered clogs on her feet. Under her arm bulged a sheaf of parchments tied with a faded ribbon. Her big eyes were red from cold or weeping.
Rattled by his own superstition, Tamlin babbled, "Uh, yes, I'm Lord Uskevren, or I shall be some day, if my father ever dies and I don't, perhaps, unless he really carries out his threat, which he might, which I doubt, or I hope… Uh, where was I?"
"Milord." The girl licked chapped lips and launched into a speech. "I wonder, sir, if you'd like your portrait painted. My name is Symbaline-"
"Symbaline!" Tamlin burst out. "Like the girl in the song! Another omen! Oh, no, wait. Her name was Lyndelle-"
"S-sir?" The girl hadn't heard the lyrics, so she plowed on, "I'm one of the finest artists in the city. I can show you samples. The smartest nobles agree they're lovely. Every lord and lady should have their portrait painted, and since you're so dashing and handsome-"
"No, no, no. No thank you." Tamlin slugged stout to calm his nerves. "I don't need a portrait. No one wants my face hanging on the wall, though my father'd like my carcass hung from a lamppost. I can't believe he's chucked me out like garbage…"
He stopped babbling because the girl cried. She tried to stifle her grief, but tears spilled down her wan cheeks. Shuddering, sobbing, she couldn't stop. Tamlin gawped, embarrassed. Even Vox, who habitually watched elsewhere, stared.
A barkeep bustled to the table with a billy club dangling from his wrist by a thong. He snagged the girl's pipestem arm. "Here now, you snippet, don't be harryin' the patrons! I'm sorry, milord, I'll pitch the sauce out-"
"No!" Tamlin shook his head in a futile effort to clear it. "Too many people have been tossed out in the cold! We're… bargaining. Sit her there. Girl, sit."
Symbaline sat, slowly, as if she'd break. Her stomach rumbled. Tamlin squinted. "What was that?"
Glowering in disgust, Vox flicked Tamlin's flagon off the table so stout splashed on the floor. Snapping his fingers, he mimed to the barkeep for food, enough to cover the table. Soon, a barmaid set down a tray of venison pasties, pickled eggs, ducks' breasts, watermelon rind, black-and-white bread, fresh butter, green and white cheese, figs, raisins, and a cold shoulder of pork. Gruff Vox signaled the bony girl, who tore into the food.
"Oh, she's hungry." Tamlin looked at her thin, worn clothing. "She's poor, too."
Vox's hard hand cuffed Tamlin's head, though the lordling hardly felt it. Gesturing, the swordmaster crooked fingers over his eyebrows and frowned, then swiped his hand down his face, and mimicked someone painting.
"My father. His face. Painted." Tamlin struggled to think. "No, he wouldn't like that. Mother paints her face, but women like-" Dodging another biff cleared Tamlin's head. "Oh, yes, I see! Girl, what's your name? Symbaline? Let me see your samples, if you'd be so kind."
The artist gobbled with one hand and untied the ribbon with the other. Tamlin flipped through sketches of Selgaunt's lords and ladies, then watercolored landscapes. "Lovely, glowing. Full of-colors and things. Yes, I'll hire you to paint a portrait of my father. It's been a while since he had one, and he shan't live forever, if I'm lucky. I'll give it to him as a present for the new year, if he'll let me in the door. And we'll paint one of Mother for the Moon Festival. And Tazi, if we can slap that sneer off her face. And Tal too. We'll hang his picture on the gate to scare away beggars-ha!"
"Thank you, milord, thank you!" Symbaline wiped her mouth with a napkin and wept anew. "I'm sorry I cry, milord, but it's been a hard winter. I had a commission to paint Lord and Lady Soargyl, and I sketched for days to find a pose they'd like, but then Lord Soargyl changed his mind and shoved me out the gate, and I was never paid a penny for all my hard work-"
"Don't fret, dear. We are not the sorry Soargyls. The Uskevren always keep their promises. No matter what. We'll install you in the main house as our court painter. You can sleep there too: we could barrack an army in our guest rooms. And you can eat in the kitchen, if the cook's budget will sustain it, the way you eat."
"Oh, thank you, milord!" gulped the girl. "And I can paint more than just portraits! I'd really love to paint landscapes and seascapes-"
"Ah? That's admirable, I suppose. You can decorate the main hall with a mural. It needs a little color, the gloomy old dump. Or we'll send you up to the north tower to paint a picture of the harbor, then the hills to the west…"
"You're so kind, sir." Symbaline fought to still her tears. "Everyone says you're the most considerate and generous young lord in Selgaunt, and now I see it's true. That's why I approached you. You were my last chance, really. You saved my life. I had no place to spend the night nor any hope for the future-"
"Stop, dear, no need. This way I rescue an innocent maiden, not the other way around, and so banish some omeny beasties lurking about." That confused the girl, so Tamlin covered her cold hand with surprising gentleness. "Anyway, it wasn't I who thought of it, but Vox here. He looks fit to eat babies, but he's really the best companion one could want. With Vox at my side, I'm not afraid to venture anywhere in Selgaunt. He's the finest fighter along the Sea of Fallen Stars!"
Tamlin made to raise his glass, then recalled his bodyguard had cut him off. "Ah. Vox, might I have a tiny drop of something just to toast your health? I'd really appreciate-"
For answer, the swordmaster innocently offered Tamlin a pickled egg and a cold duck's breast.