Though every movement was an agony, Sula managed to get to her feet and follow them. Apparently the sight of G’han’s sword had been enough to gain Latilla a hearing, and the gold worked a miraculous cure on Rol’s lacerated pride.
“Ah well, me darlin’, this is another story—” He beamed up at her. “There’s no need to be giving back yer furniture too—”
“When two have been as ‘involved’ as we, the break should be a clean one,” Latilla said sweetly. “I’ll not keep in my house so much as a memory of you.” She motioned to Taran and G’han, who manhandled the cabinet down the steps and thrust it into the arms of the two hulking brutes Rol had brought to protect him.
They managed to get back into the house and close the door before they started laughing.
“But what happened?” wondered Sula. “Why did she give the cabinet away?”
“That’s not all she gave him! Wait till he gets the cabinet home and that sorcerer’s ghost starts popping out of the walls!” Taran replied.
Sula stopped short as she remembered that neither of them had spoken aloud. She could see her brother’s gray eyes rounding in wonder as he realized it, too. But aching muscles provided assurance that her spirit was firmly seated in her body. I never meant this to happen, she thought. Will Taran hate me?
But he looked stunned, not angry. Sula offered a tentative smile. This was going to take some getting used to, but at least she was no longer alone.
The Man from Shemhaza
Steven Brust
Pegrin wandered over and said, “Hey. How are things?”
“Splendid,” I told him. “Couldn’t be better.”
He grunted. “You about ready?”
“Almost. Just tuning.”
“Why?”
I grinned and didn’t answer. My cresca was a pretty thing, with a stained maple neck supporting a teak fretboard, a top of maple, and back and sides of reddish-brown prectawood; but there was an extraordinarily thick steel truss rod running all through the neck, so it was far, far stronger than it looked. It held a tune remarkably well. Me, too, I guess. I mean, about holding a tune remarkably well.
I touched it up a little, then gave Pegrin a small nod and a big smile. “Ready,” I said.
He gave me a half-hearted glower. “Do you have any idea how annoying it is to be around someone so perpetually cheerful?”
“Can’t help it,” I said, grinning. “That’s the beauty of the cresca; it’s a naturally happy instrument.” That wasn’t strictly true. The cresca can be mournful just by keeping the low drone going and ignoring the high drone; but I rarely play that way. Who wants mournful?
“Uh-huh.” He gestured to what passed for a stage in the ’Unicorn—a place under the rear balcony near the front of the room. “Go,” he said.
I went. I flipped my orange cloak over my shoulder (yes, orange. Shut up.) and sat down on a hard, ugly chair. My cresca snuggled into my lap. The audience eagerly awaited my first note. Heh. I made that part up. Actually, one old lady who was leaning on the bar like she needed to gave me barely a glance, and a fat little merchant flicked his eye over me with an expression of distaste. He’d either heard me before and didn’t like it, or else didn’t care. for my taste in clothing. Kadasah and Kaytin were enjoying another of their spats, Perrez was scanning the room for anyone stupid enough to fall for one of his deals (I’m not that stupid. Anymore.), and, to my delight, Rogi was nowhere in sight. Believe me, the only thing worse than no one singing along is Rogi singing along. I started the drones going, thumb and forefinger, then started in the comp for “The Man from Shemhaza,” which is a great opening tune. Two gentlemen who looked to be Rankan at the table nearest me (which meant I could have knocked one of their heads with the neck of my cresca) glanced at me, then went back to their conversation.
“In the hills of far Shemhaza lived a man both weak and strong
Who lived in a house both big and small on a road both short and long
His hair was dark and fair and red, he was both short and tall
He was skinny, fat, but more than that he was not a man at all
So sing me of Shemhaza and the man who couldn’t fail
And I’ll keep singing verses until you buy me ale.”
And then back into an instrumental that my fingers carried without me having to think about it, just as my mouth didn’t have to think about the verses. The two Rankan noblemen didn’t have to think about them either, they continued a conversation in which the rotting leg of our ruler figured prominently. And so into the second verse. No one sang along, but the ’Unicorn isn’t a singalong-on-the-chorus sort of place. And so on for about an hour and a half.
The second verse drove away the Rankan nobles, which was almost enough to hurt my feelings, but three drunken dockhands replaced them by the time the third verse started, and dockhands will occasionally tip.
I made a few padpols in tips and was bought a drink, and got a meal into the bargain—spit-roasted nyafish with pepper. I packed up my cresca, slung the case over my shoulder, and, with a grin and a wave to Pegrin, headed out into the Sanctuary night.
While I was walking through the Maze, I heard, “Tor! Wait up.” I turned and smiled, though I have to say I don’t enjoy hearing my name abbreviated. My name is Tord‘an J’ardin, or Tord’an, which is already shortened from Tordra Na Rhyan, or, “One who follows the Old Ways.” It is not Tor. But cutting names down until they are meaningless is the custom in Sanctuary, and nothing good can come of bucking custom.
“Tor! How are things?”
“Wonderful, Dinra. As always. How is your evening?”
“Good enough. Where are you going?”
“Land’s End.”
“Private party?”
I nodded.
“Oh, lucky you!”
I nodded and grinned. Private parties are one of the few chances a songster has to make any real coin. And one can lead to another, if you’re both good and lucky.
“Who are you playing for?”
I shrugged. “In the End you’re always playing for Lord Serripines, even if someone else is playing, and even if he never shows.”
He nodded. “Yep. Among the Ilsigi, you’re always playing for the princes and nabobs, even if they never walk into the room while you’re playing.”
“But in the palace you make more money.”
“Same artistic satisfaction, though,” he said. “That is to say, none.”
I grinned and nodded. We’d been over this before. He had his connections among the Ilsigi, I among the Rankans.
I smacked him lightly on the back of the head and said, “Where are you off to?”
“I’m going to pay another visit to Pel.”
“Your wrist again?”
He nodded.
“You play too fast,” I told him.
He chuckled. “I keep telling you, lessons are available.” “I haven’t forgotten. How is Mirazia?”
He smiled. “Wonderful, as always. She asks about you.” “Well, why shouldn’t she?” I punched him lightly on the shoulder and winked. “So, what else is new?”
He smiled. “You want to know?”
“Oh? Now I’m suddenly intrigued. Tell.”
He stopped walking and glanced around in order to make sure no one was watching us. Fortunately, there was no one on the street, because I can’t think of a better way to attract attention. Then he untied his belt pouch of some really ugly off-white fur, opened it up, and dug around in it. What he showed me was a flat, rectangular piece of what looked like dull gray metal, small enough to fit into his palm (and, for a musician, he had rather small hands).