"Always been a favorite," Crowley said. "I used to dance a fine jig to Old Joe Smoke when I was a youngster." He made the same go-ahead gesture. Will, unable to think of an alternative, began the introduction on the mandola, his speed and fluency gradually increasing as he became more confident. All he had to do, he told himself, was remember to sing the original words, not the parody version. Throwing caution to the wind, he began to sing:
"Old Joe Smoke's a friend of mine. He lives on Bleaker's Hill. Old Joe Smoke never took a bath and they say he never will. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, fare thee well I say. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, I'll see you on your way."
Crowley was slapping his hand on his knee, keeping time, nodding his head and grinning.
"The boy's good!" he said to Halt, and Will continued, emboldened by the praise. He played the intricate pattern of sixteenth notes that made up the interlude, then sang the next verse.
"Old Joe Smoke be lost a bet. He lost his winter coat. When winter comes Old Joe stays warm by sleeping 'mongst the goats. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, fare thee well I say. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, I'll see you on your way."
He was well into the song now and he played the interlude again, this time trying a more ambitious pattern than before. He fumbled it once on the third bar but covered the mistake artfully, he thought, and launched into the third verse.
"Graybeard Halt he lives with the goats, that's what I've heard tell. He hasn't changed his socks for years, but the goats don't mind the smell. Fare thee well, Graybeard Halt, fare thee well I…"
And stopped, suddenly, realizing what he had sung.
From sheer force of habit, distracted by his own astonishing skill on the mandola, he had reverted to the parody version. Crowley cocked his head to one side, frowning in mock interest.
"Fascinating lyrics," he said. "Not sure that I've heard that version before."
He covered his mouth with his hand and his shoulders began to shake.
"Very funny, Crowley," Halt said in an exasperated tone of voice as the Ranger Commandant made strange choking sounds behind his hand, his face lowered and his shoulders shaking even harder Will looked at Halt in horror.
"Halt… I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"
Crowley finally gave up the struggle and burst into peals of uncontrolled laughter. Will made a helpless gesture at Halt. The older Ranger shrugged resignedly, then glared at Crowley. He leaned sideways and dug the Ranger Commandant painfully in the ribs with his elbow.
"It's not that funny!" he snarled. Crowley held his bruised rib and pointed at Halt.
"It is! It is! You should have seen your face!" he gasped. Then, to Will, he said: "Go on! Are there more verses?"
Will hesitated. Halt was glaring at Crowley, and Will-even though he was a fully fledged Ranger, a wearer of the Silver Oakleaf and, technically, Halt's equal in rank-knew it would be unwise to continue. Very unwise.
"I think we've heard enough to judge," Halt said. He turned to the three small tents that they had pitched, now just at the edge of the fire's glow, and called in a louder voice, "What do you say, Berrigan?"
There was a rustle of movement behind the tents as a tall figure stood slowly and limped into the firelight. Even before he noticed the six-string gitarra that the man was holding in one hand, Will recognized the limping gait. He had seen Berrigan several times before, usually at the Rangers' annual Gathering, when he entertained the assembled Corps. A former wearer of the Oakleaf himself Berrigan had been forced to resign from active service when he lost his left leg in a pitched battle with raiding Skandians. Since then, he had earned his living as a jongleur, showing a high degree of skill as a musician and singer. Will also suspected that he had from time to time been used to gather intelligence for the Corps.
He realized now that the former Ranger had been listening in for the purpose of judging him. Berrigan smiled at Will as he eased himself down beside the fire, the peg leg he wore making the movement a little difficult as it stuck stiffly out before him.
"Evening, Will," he said. He nodded at the mandola, now laid across the younger man's lap. "Not bad. Not bad at all."
He had a lean face, with high cheekbones and a large, hawk-like nose. But the outstanding features were the bright blue eyes and the wide, friendly smile. He wore his brown hair long, as befitted his calling, and his clothes were those of a typical jongleur-marked in haphazard patterns of bright colors that seemed to shimmer as he moved. Each jongleur, Will knew, had his own distinctive set of colors and patterns. He noticed now that the pattern on Berrigan's cloak was markedly similar to that of the cloaks that all Rangers wore-although more brightly colored than the drab browns, grays and greens of the standard Ranger cloak.
"Berrigan. Good to see you," he said. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned to Crowley. "Crowley, wouldn't it make more sense if Berrigan took this mission? After all, he is a professional jongleur and we all know he still works for the Corps from time to time."
The other three exchanged glances. "Oh, we all know that, do we?" Crowley asked.
Will shrugged diffidently. "Well, we don't know it exactly. But he does, doesn't he?"
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds. Then Berrigan broke the tension around the campfire, saying with a lazy grin, "You're right, Will. I still do some work for the Corps when asked. But for this job, I'm a bit short. About a foot or so."
"But you're way taller than me…" Will began and then realized at Berrigan was looking meaningfully at the peg leg that stood straight out in front of him. He stopped in embarrassment. "On you mean your…" He couldn't say the word. It seemed so crass somehow. But Berrigan's smile widened even further.
"My peg leg, Will. It's perfectly all right. I'm used to the fact by now. No need to pretend it's not there. From what Crowley has told me about this job, it needs someone who's fast on his feet, and I'm afraid that isn't me anymore."
Crowley cleared his throat, glad the awkward moment had passed. "What Berrigan can do is tell us if you'll pass muster as a jongleur. What do you say, Berrigan?"
Berrigan cocked his head to one side, thought for a moment, then replied. "He's good enough. It's a pleasant voice and he plays well. Certainly well enough for the sort of remote places and country inns he'll be performing in. I don't know if he's ready for the court at Castle Araluen yet." He smiled at Will to take any sting out of the words. Will grinned in return. He was pleased with the assessment. Then Berrigan went on.
"But the giveaway is his unpreparedness. It always shows up a non-professional."
Crowley frowned. "How do you mean? You say he's good enough singing and playing. What other preparation does he need?"
Berrigan didn't answer directly but turned to Will.
"Let's hear another tune, Will. Any one you like. Quickly now," he said. Will picked up the mandola and…
And again his mind went blank.
"There you have it," Berrigan said. "The amateur always dries up when he's asked to perform." He turned back to Will. "Do you know Lowland Jenny? Spinner's Reel? Cobbington Mill or By the Southland Streams?"
He shot the song titles out in rapid succession and Will nodded glumly to each of them. Berrigan smiled and shrugged.
"Any one of them would have done then," he said. "The trick is not just to know them. It's to remember you know them. But we can work on that."