He did another four songs for them. Harvest Sunday, Jessie on the Mountain, Remember the Time and The Runaway Mare, a hard-driving song with a galloping rhythm that had fists pounding and feet tapping throughout the room. As he finished the last, he glanced down at the dog, lying with her eyes glued to him, and mouthed the word "Dragon" at her.
Instantly, the dog came to her haunches, threw back her head and barked long and loud-just as he'd taught her to do in the weeks they had been on the road. Dragon was their alarm word, the signal for her to bark until he told her to stop. He did so now.
"What's that, Harley?" he asked her. Harley was another codeword. It told her that she had done well and now she could stop her barking. Instantly, she fell silent, her tail thumping the boards of the floor twice in recognition that she had played the game properly Will looked up at the expectant crowd and spread his hands in apology, grinning at them.
"Sorry, my friends. My manager here says it's time for me to eat. We've had a long day in the cold and she gets a tenth of my earnings-and my dinner."
A gust of laughter rang around the room. They were country folk and they knew a well-trained dog when they saw one. They also appreciated Will's gentle way of reminding the tavern keeper that he was owed a dinner.
It wasn't long in coming. One of the serving girls hurried a steaming plate of the lamb casserole to his table. Without his mentioning it further, she also set down a bowl of meat scraps, bones and gravy on the floor. Will smiled his thanks to her and nodded to the man behind the bar. The tavern keeper, busy refilling tankards for people whose throats were dry from singing, smiled widely at him.
"Does your horse need tending, young man?" he called, and Will replied, through a mouthful of stew.
"I took the liberty of putting my horses in your barn, tavern keeper. It's too bitter a night for them to be left outside." The tavern keeper nodded his agreement and Will dug in once more. The lamb casserole was delicious.
The wagoner who had seemed so ill-tempered when he first arrived now made his way to the table where Will sat eating. Will noted with interest that he didn't presume to sit down and intrude on his personal space. He'd already learned that in taverns like this, people afforded jongleurs a certain respect. The big wagoner dropped a silver coin in front of Will.
"Good music, lad," he said. "That's for you there."
Will, his mouth full again, nodded his thanks. Several of the other customers now moved closer, each one dropping a few coins into the open mandola case on the table. He noticed that there were quite a few silver coins among the coppers and felt a flush of satisfaction once more.
"You've a deft hand on that lute of yours, young feller," one of them said.
"It's a mandola," Will replied automatically. "It has eight strings, while a lute…" He stopped himself. "Thank you," he said, and they smiled at him.
When he had finished eating, he surreptitiously signaled the dog again, setting her barking.
"Harley? What's that you say?" he said, and the dog instantly fell silent once more. "It's time for me to entertain these folk?" He glanced up at the smiling faces around him, shrugged and grinned at them. "She's a hard taskmaster," he declared, reaching for the mandola.
He played for another hour. Love songs, lively songs. Silly songs. And one in particular that had always been his favorite, The Green Eyes of Love. It was a haunting, sad ballad and he sang it well, although to his annoyance, he stumbled slightly on the instrumental line in the middle eight bars. As he finished it, he noticed one or two people wiping their eyes and again felt the pleasure known only to performers when they reach into the hearts of their audience. As he had played, the coins had continued to find their way into the mandola case. With some surprise, he realized that he would not need to delve into the traveling money that Crowley had advanced him. He was more than paying his own way.
The tavern keeper, who had left the bar to one of his serving girls and come to sit close by Will, glanced at the water clock that dripped slowly on a mantle.
"Perhaps one more," he said, and Will nodded easily. Inside, he felt a tightening of his chest. This was the moment he had built to over the night-a chance to get the locals talking about the strange events in Norgate Fief. It was one of the advantages of taking the guise of a jongleur. As Berrigan had told him: "Country people are suspicious of strangers. But sing to them for an hour or so and they'll think they've known you all their lives."
Now he strummed a minor chord sequence and began singing a well-known nonsense song:
"By a muddy ditch a drunken witch in a voice that was coarser and coarserer sang like a crow so that people would know of her love for the cross-eyed sorcerer."
He sensed the change in the room the moment he began singing. People exchanged fearful glances. Eyes were cast down and several actually moved away from him. He began the chorus:
"Oh, the cross-eyed sorcerer was called Wollygelly, he had breath like a goat and a big fat belly and a nose that…"
He let the song tail away, as if noticing the discomfort among his listeners for the first time.
"I'm sorry," he said, smiling at the room. "Is something wrong?"
Again, glances were exchanged and the people who just a few moments ago were laughing and applauding him were now unwilling to meet his gaze. The big wagoner, obviously troubled, said in an apologetic tone, "It's not the place or time to be making fun of sorcerers, lad."
"You weren't to know, of course," the tavern keeper put in, and there was a chorus of assent. Will allowed the smile to widen, keeping his expression as artless as possible.
"I wasn't to know what?" he said. There was a pause, then the wagoner took the plunge.
"There's strange things happening in this fief these days, is all."
"And these nights," added a woman, and again a chorus of agreement sounded. Behind his innocent, inquiring expression, Will marveled at Berrigan's insight.
"You mean… something to do with sorcerers?" he asked in a hushed voice. The room went silent for a moment, people looking fearfully over their shoulders and toward the door, as if expecting to see a sorcerer burst in at any moment. Then the tavern keeper answered.
"It's not for us to say what it is. But there are strange goings-on Strange sights."
"Particularly in Grimsdell Wood," said a tall farmer and, once more, others agreed. "Strange sights, and sounds-unearthly sounds they are. They'd chill your blood. I've heard them once and that's enough for me."
It seemed that once their initial reluctance was overcome, people wanted to discuss the subject, as if it held a fascination for them that they wanted to share.
"What sort of things do you see?" Will asked.
"Lights, mainly-little balls of colored light that move through the trees. And dark shapes. Shapes that move just outside your vision's range."
A log fell in the fire and Will felt the hairs on his neck prickle. This talk of sounds and shapes was beginning to affect him, he thought. Two hundred kilometers to the south, he could joke about it with Halt and Crowley. But here, on a dark night in the cold, snow-driven land of the north, with these people, it seemed very real and very believable.
"And the Night Warrior," said the wagoner. This time, silence fell over the room. Several people made the sign to ward off evil-The wagoner regarded them all, his face flushed.