I agreed, and soon we were enjoying a moment of privacy, decorously searching the floorboards with our heads close together. Luckily, Denna’s dress was in the Modegan style, flowing and loose around the legs. If it had been slit up the side according to the current fashion of the Commonwealth, the sight of her crouching on the floor would have been scandalous.
“God’s body,” I muttered. “Where did you find him?”
Denna chuckled low in her throat. “Hush. You’re the one who suggested I learn my way around a harp. Kellin is quite a good teacher.”
“The Modegan pedal harp weighs five times as much as you do,” I said. “It’s a parlor instrument. You’d never be able to take one on the road.”
She stopped pretending to look for her earring and gave me a pointed look. “And who’s to say I won’t ever have a parlor to harp in?”
I looked back to the floor and gave as much of a shrug as I could manage. “It’s good enough for learning, I suppose. How are you liking it so far?”
“It’s better than the lyre,” she said. “I can already see that. I can barely play ‘Squirrel in the Thatch,’ though.”
“Is he any good?” I gave her a sly smile. “With his hands, I mean.”
Denna flushed a bit and looked for a second as if she would swat at me. But she remembered her decorum in time and settled for narrowing her eyes instead. “You’re awful,” she said, “Kellin has been a perfect gentleman.”
“Tehlu save us all from perfect gentlemen,” I said.
She shook her head. “I meant it in the literal sense,” she said. “He’s never been out of Modeg before. He’s like a kitten in a coop.”
“So you’re Dinael now?” I asked.
“For now. And for him,” she said, looking at me sideways with a small quirk of a smile. “From you I still like Denna best.”
“That’s good to know,” I said, then lifted my hand off the floor, revealing the smooth emerald teardrop of an earring. Denna made a show of discovering it, holding it up to catch the light. “Ah! Here we are!”
I stood and helped her to her feet. She brushed her hair back from her shoulder and leaned toward me. “I’m all thumbs with these things,” she said. “Would you mind?”
I stepped toward her and stood close as she handed me the earring. She smelled faintly of wildflowers. But beneath that she smelled like autumn leaves. Like the dark smell of her own hair, like road dust and the air before a summer storm.
“So what is he?” I said softly. “Someone’s second son?”
She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, and a strand of her hair fell down to brush the back of my hand. “He’s a lord in his own right.”
“Skethe te retaa van,” I swore. “Lock up your sons and daughters.”
Denna laughed again, quietly. Her body shook as she fought to hold it in.
“Hold still,” I said as I gently took hold of her ear.
Denna drew a deep breath and let it out again, composing herself. I threaded the earring through the lobe of her ear and stepped away. She lifted one hand to check it, then stepped back and gave a curtsey. “Thank you kindly for all your help.”
I bowed to her again. It wasn’t as polished as the bow I’d given her before, but it was more honest. “I am at your service, my lady.”
Denna smiled warmly as she turned to go, her eyes laughing again.
I finished exploring the second tier for the sake of form, but Threpe didn’t seem to be around. Not wanting to risk the awkwardness of a second encounter with Denna and her lordling, I decided to skip the third tier entirely.
Sim had the lively look he gets around his fifth drink. Manet was slouched low in his chair, eyes half-lidded, his mug resting comfortably on the swell of his belly. Wil looked the same as ever, his dark eyes unreadable.
“Threpe’s nowhere to be found,” I said as I took my seat. “Sorry.”
“That’s too bad,” Sim said. “Has he had any luck finding you a patron yet?”
I shook my head bitterly. “Ambrose has threatened or bribed every noble within a hundred miles of here. They’ll have nothing to do with me.”
“Why doesn’t Threpe take you on himself?” Wilem asked. “He likes you well enough.”
I shook my head. “Threpe’s already supporting three other musicians. Four really, but two of them are a married couple.”
“Four?” Sim said, horrified. “It’s a wonder he can still afford to eat.”
Wil cocked his head curiously, and Sim leaned forward to explain. “Threpe’s a count. But his holdings aren’t really that extensive. Supporting four players on his income is a little . . . extravagant.”
Wil frowned. “Drinks and strings can’t amount to much.”
“A patron’s responsible for more than that.” Sim began to count items off on his fingers. “There’s the writ of patronage itself. Then he provides room and board for his players, a yearly wage, a suit of clothes in his family’s colors—”
“Two suits of clothing, traditionally,” I interjected. “Every year.” Growing up in the troupe, I never appreciated the livery Lord Greyfallow had given us. But these days I couldn’t help but imagine how much my wardrobe would be improved by two new sets of clothing.
Simmon grinned as a serving boy arrived, leaving no doubt as to who was responsible for the glasses of blackberry brand set in front of each of us. Sim raised his glass in a silent toast and drank a solid swallow. I raised my glass in return, as did Wilem, though it obviously pained him. Manet remained motionless, and I began to suspect he had dozed off.
“It still doesn’t add square,” Wilem said, setting down his brand. “All the patron gets is lighter pockets.”
“The patron gets a reputation,” I explained. “That’s why the players wear the livery. Plus he has entertainers at his beck and calclass="underline" parties, dances, pageants. Sometimes they’ll write songs or plays at his request.”
Wil still seemed skeptical. “Still seems like the patron is getting the short side of it.”
“That’s because you only have half the picture,” Manet said, pulling himself upright in his chair. “You’re a city boy. You don’t know what it’s like growing up in a little town built on one man’s land.
“Here’s Lord Poncington’s lands,” Manet said, using a bit of spilled beer to draw a circle in the center of the table. “Where you live like the good little commoner you are.” Manet picked up Simmon’s empty glass and put it inside the circle.
“One day, a fellow strolls through town wearing Lord Poncington’s colors.” Manet picked up his full glass of brand and jigged it across the table until it stood next to Sim’s empty one inside the circle. “And this fellow plays songs for everyone at the local inn.” Manet splashed some of the brand into Sim’s glass.
Not needing any prompting, Sim grinned and drank it.
Manet trotted his glass around the table and entered the circle again. “Next month a couple more folk come through wearing his colors and put on a puppet show.” He poured more brand and Simmon tossed it back. “The next month there’s a play.” Again.
Now Manet picked up his wooden mug and clomped it across the table into the circle. “Then the tax man shows up, wearing the same colors.” Manet knocked his empty mug impatiently on the table.
Sim sat confused for a second, then he picked up his own mug and sloshed some beer into it.
Manet eyed him and tapped the mug again, sternly.
Sim poured the rest of his beer into Manet’s mug, laughing. “I like blackberry brand better anyway.”
“Lord Poncington likes his taxes better,” Manet said. “And people like to be entertained. And the tax man likes not being poisoned and buried in a shallow grave behind the old mill.” He took a drink of beer. “So it works out nicely for everyone.”
Wil watched the exchange with his serious, dark eyes. “That makes better sense.”
“It’s not always as mercenary as that,” I said. “Threpe genuinely wants to help musicians improve their craft. Some nobles treat their performers like horses in a stable,” I sighed. “Even that would be better than what I have now, which is nothing.”