Robert Benjamin

robertbenjaminwrites@gmail.com        

Bard!

by Robert Benjamin

        A musician’s life had its ups and downs. As the doors of Hardfell Hall swung wide before Poller, he wagered a coin-flip’s likelihood which one this gig would be.

        “Hold your tongue here,” urged the one-eyed guard. Poller obliged. In this building, unkept tongues got skewered on spits.

        Hm. That had a ring to it. He mentally noted to write it down, lest this entire affair only amount to a satire written after the fact. Good money in satires.

        The one-eyed woman turned from her conference with the more formidable guards stationed at the drawbridge.

        “Come,” she said. Poller hefted his birchwood case and came.

        Inside, the likelihood of this being an ‘up’ began to rise. The guard whisked him through the doors and across a velvet, expensive-looking waiting hall, past a book garden dotted with expensive-looking ladies lounging on wicker couches, down a gallery occupied by expensive-looking courtiers chatting about the frescoes peeling from the walls. Finally, they hurried up a polished glass staircase. By the time the guard stopped short before the squat, banded door, Poller had to dab his brow with a handkerchief, fearful he’d sweat through his finest vest.

        “So,” Poller said, “the client… she’s… you just want me to-”

        The guard looked down. “You’re a singer, right?”

        “Yes. But, what songs exactly? Does she prefer ballads? Myths? Bawdy washerwoman ditties?” He smiled.

        The guard didn’t. “Up to you. Before she fell, she liked all kinds. You done this sort of thing before, right?”

        The truthful answer was: kind of. But ‘kind of’ didn’t get you any money.

        “Of course,” Poller said. “The wife-jarl of Rinbell Station said my reimagining of the Tragedy of Herus was the finest, eh, reimagining she’d ever heard.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure I’ll find my feet.”

        The guard grunted. “You’ll be summoned back early eve. Don’t worry about feeding her, or chamberpots. Handmaidens will take care of all that.” She placed a hand on the door rung.

        Poller stopped her. “And- sorry. The matter of the payment. You said, I believe you said, five staters, was it? When will I be, eh, when will I get that?”

        “You ask a lot of questions. Margen will pay you end of day. Now, I don’t get paid to nursemaid shrimpy little bards. Got a lot to do. Can you handle this?”

        Poller let the comment roll off his back. Five staters. He could tell Grimald to shove his pony show gig with five staters.

        “With ease and grace.” Poller bowed. The guard pushed the door open.

        Heavens knew why they’d set the poor woman before the window. Perhaps they thought she’d enjoy the view. What they hadn’t considered is that the window faced flush with a cliff, and unless the woman found cliffs very interesting, they may as well have laid her facedown on the bed.

        The guard placed her hands on the woman’s high-back chair. “Baroness. Your entertainment has arrived.”

        The guard scraped the chair around. Poller tried not to flinch.

        At one point, the baroness might have been beautiful. If so, that point had been long ago. The pale woman looked like a fig forgotten on a hot roof for about ten years. What was left of her hair hung in lank, brittle strands. Behind it, her watery eyes shone feverishly.

        Feeling awkward, Poller bowed again. “Honorable One.”

        The guard patted the woman’s chair. “I’ll leave you to it.” As she passed, the guard muttered, “And don’t cock it up.”

*

        It could have been worse. After a brief, cursory recitation of his accomplishments, Poller undid the hooks of his lyre’s case and got to singing. At first, the awkwardness of the situation distracted him, causing him to strike a few sour chords and mix up the second and fourth verses of Lie Still, Restive Heart.

        But after a half hour of sweaty palms and mumbled introductions it became clear that no matter what he did, the stricken woman would have the same impassive look to her face, the same scary shine to her eyes. He may as well be singing to a statue. Or a gravestone. That relaxed him quite a bit

        An hour in and his fingers were dancing across the frets, his voice soft as cream on the choruses of Til My Hero Calls and Turner’s Rejoinder. And he was rather happy when the handmaidens interrupted to clean and feed the woman, so someone else could appreciate how well he was doing. I need to remember this feeling onstage, he noted. His nerves were always his worst enemy.

        At midday, serving women brought him bread heels and barley soup and a fancy goblet with dark wine and bits of cherries floating in it. Last night, he had slept beneath a radish wagon. A musician’s life had its up and downs.

        By late afternoon when Margen came for him, his fingers were sore and his throat near spent, but he felt he could have kept going for hours yet. He bid the baroness good eve. The rigid woman did not respond, only stared. He bowed and took his leave, lyre tucked beneath his arm.

        The florid man counted the coins as he placed them in Poller’s palm.

        “And there’s five,” Margen sighed. “Be seeing you.”

        “So,” Poller said, “sorry. Does that mean- eh, how did I do?”

        Margen turned, weary. “She liked you. Be back at dawn tomorrow. Unless you’re busy.”

        Poller suppressed a bark of laughter. “No, I… I think I’ll make it.”

        On his way out the castle doors, Poller counted the staters in his palm for the tenth time. Definitely an ‘up.’ Definitely.

*

        “Late,” Grimald said from the doorway.

        “Sorry.” Poller sidestepped a rumbling carriage. Sweat ran down his back in rivulets. The vest was just going to be a casualty. Two more days at Hardfell Hall and he’d be able to afford one twice as fine.

        He stumbled to a stop before the Liar’s doorway, dabbing his forehead.

        “The castle kept me late.”

        Grimald chewed the end of his cheroot. “Late last night, too. You late to the pony show, I’ll stop working you here.”

        Poller wanted to tell him he could shove his pony show where the sun didn’t shine. But he bit his tongue. “When am I on?”

        “After the jester. Keep it light fare. Audience is mostly foreigners who won’t know what you’re on about if you do one of them smarty-pants sonnets.”

        Poller tried to squeeze by. Grimald stopped him with a hand.

        “I like my bards on-time. Don’t cock up again.”

        Poller’s neck flushed. He didn’t like to be touched. But he managed a weak smile and edged past the fat man, into the Liar’s smoky barroom.

        He slid behind a table at back of the room. The jester onstage, being gracious, looked as if something perturbing had happened to him in his mother’s womb. The diminutive man juggled two sets of leather balls, sometimes dropping them, speeding through the last of his material.

        “And have we heard about this archaeological dig?” the jester was saying. “Our fair city, Hardfell, and fair neighbors, Dziagaron, competing to see who can be first to exhume lost artifacts from the buried temple of Ancients. If only our king could exhume his member from his pants, he could produce a proper heir.”

        Dropped balls. A tepid titter from the patrons. The jester smiled.

        “But seriously, travelers, have we heard about the missing cows? Reports say ten head of cattle gone missing the last week, and the cowhands are desperate for more stock. Desperate, you say? For the right price, I’d put on an udder and moo-ve out to the country. But I’d hate to milk it. Steeriously, travelers-”

        That one got nothing. Poller fiddled with the tuning bulge of his lyre and plucked a string. Grimald waddled in, trailing smoke, and flashed the jester the red lantern.

        “Looks like I’ve got to get out of here,” said the jester, gathering his balls from the floor. “Donations welcome. You’ve been a great audience. Donations are welcome, folks. Take care!”

        Poller strode toward the stage, passing the jester on the way. “Putty in my hands,” the jester whispered as he passed, waggling his stubby fingers.

*

        Luckily, the radish wagon remained where Poller’d left it. He removed his vest and jacket, tucked them into his lyre case, and wriggled beneath the wagon, cursing himself. He’d be sleeping on a pallet right now if he weren’t such a dunderhead.

        The crowd had been awful. No applause after his numbers, even after he kowtowed to their idiocy and played the drunken barroom standard, What Color Are Lilliana’s Bloomers? After that he became angry: angry at their indifference and angry at his own lack of integrity. In his anger his voice became tight and strangled, his picking muddled, and worst, his brow even sweatier.

        So he’d trudged to the bar and bought himself a spirit with half a stater. Having change left for once, and having very much enjoyed the spirit, he’d bought another. Grimald sidled past, coughed up his three clipped staters with another warning about punctuality. Poller used the clippeds for a couple strong stouts. Those went down easy.

        Suddenly he didn’t care much about the performance. In fact, he felt bold enough to place his four remaining staters on a game of odds and evens. The bones fell against him, and he left the Liar with nothing in his coin purse but stitching and air.

        He lay his head against the wagon wheel’s spoke. Tomorrow, he wouldn’t be so stupid. He’d make his castle money and sleep in a damn inn. Maybe he’d strike up a conversation with one of those ladies from the book garden. He was technically a courtier, after all. He could do things like that. And if things went well, and she wanted to return with him back to his place, he’d have a place to take her. Poller drifted asleep sketching the list of the songs he could play for the Baroness, songs a woman her age might like.

*

        He awoke to screams.

        His first thought was Dziagaron had finally invaded.

        His next was that the second stout had been a mistake. His head throbbed like it had been kicked. Bleary, he poked out from under the wagon.

        People rushed this way and that. No soldiers, though, no horses. After a minute of somewhat blurred observation, he decided that no, no invasion was taking place, and that any prospective danger had likely passed. He wriggled back under, took up his case, and slid into the streets.

        A crowd clustered by the square. He walked over, rubbing his temples. Strong bloody stout. The woman screamed again. Poller winced.

        “A bloody curse,” a woman said.

        “It’s the Dziags,” said another. “Some sort of intimmy-dation tactic.”

        “It’s a curse,” the other insisted. “It’s as I told Rebulla. They never should have started digging in that temple. There’s a reason the gods left it buried. Heavens help us now.”

        Poller couldn’t see past the mass of people, so he pushed his way into the crowd, dodging elbows, shouldering a few gawking children aside. If he was lucky, maybe someone had knifed Grimald. Maybe he was part of some Dziagaron ploy.

        He emerged on the other side of the press and saw what the fuss was about. The bottom half of a cow had somehow become impaled upon the pointy head of a fountain. Only half. Suffice it to say, the stuff that usually hung around the inside of the lower half of a cow was now splattered outside. And as Poller reeled away, that became true for the contents of his belly: two spirits, two stouts, tasty barley soup.

*

        “Late.” The one-eyed guard leaned against the drawbridge chain, polishing a dagger on her cape. Poller waved and scampered across. He did his best to ignore the churning rush of the Eel River below.

        “Sorry,” he huffed. “There was- did you hear-”

        “There’s always something.” The guard slammed her dagger into its sheath. “You think I don’t have things? I’ve got things. A bloody lot of them. Doesn’t mean I’m late. Margen told you dawn, didn’t he?”

        “Yes, but-”

        “And what is it you’re wearing, bard? Am I taking you away from some bloody gardening?”

        He looked down. Heavens help him. Stuttering another apology, he undid his lyre case and shrugged into his vest and jacket.

        The guard sighed. “Artistic types. Come along. She’s been up an hour.”

        Still fumbling with the buttons, Poller bobbed his head obediently and followed.

        But as they approached, the castle’s doors swung wide. A Dziagoran woman, tall and ashen, strode out onto the drawbridge. Margen trailed behind the woman, wringing his plump hands.

        “-cannot stop me,” the Dziagoran was saying. Her gold and ruby priestess’s chain caught the morning light, as did the strange golden winged thingy she clutched in her gloved hand.

        “Your forbearance,” Margen said, “I did not know he would react in such a way. Please, return to my quarters. We should not speak of such in open air-”

        The priestess wheeled, leveled a finger at the fat man. “Your king spells your doom, burgess. Your doom. My demands must be met.”

        “Your forbearance-”

        Poller realized he was staring. The guard yanked him by the collar.

        “Move,” she urged. And they did.

        Nothing could make one forget the horror and mystery of a morning like women in low-cut dresses entering your proximity.

        The guard hauled Poller along, through all the expensive-looking rooms and past the expensive-looking people. He tried to maintain his dignity, attempting to smile and catch the women’s eyes as he passed. I’m a courtier, too, he told himself. But none showed much interest. Or if they did, it was a brief affair. By time he reached the baroness’s door, he wagered the most physical contact he’d be earning was from this surly guard. It was no matter. He’d have a room soon. His own room.

        The day passed much as the last. Poller played. The baroness watched. At times, he’d probe her with a mumbled question. She wouldn’t answer. He wondered if she understood at all. Her eyes would alight on him at times. At others, they’d focus on the unlit fireplace. If not for that shine in her eyes, he could have mistaken her for dead.

        That, and the slight rise and fall of her chest. During one song, a sweet, sad tune called Gloves of Orman Silk, he could have sworn he saw that slight breath quicken. But he could not be sure, and he had a hard time not getting lost in that song, himself.

        When the handmaidens came, he guzzled the wine. That eased his headache. Some. By late afternoon, Margen knocked and politely began the process of ushering him from the room.

        Poller made a bow to the baroness and told her he hoped to see her again on the morrow. He thought he saw something. A dance, perhaps, in the light of her eyes. A good-bye of her own. But he could not be sure.

*

        “The Hardfell Hall?” the purser asked.

        Poller examined his cuticles. “Unless there’s another I’m unaware of.’”

        She smirked and took a sip of her iced beer. His show at the Forlorn Friar had gone well, and he’d been able to talk his way into a private drink with tavern’s purser. She was younger than he’d expected, powdered with freckles and blessed with golden eyes. ‘Golden-eyed, but charging silver.’ Something there. He’d write it down.

        “But you don’t live at the castle, do you?”

        “I’m afraid not.”

        “Oh. Where do you stay?”

        “The Inn at the Circle Stair. For now, anyway. My quarters are always changing. It’s a peripatetic line of work, you see. Most between here and Rinbell Station. The wife-jarl there has been known to call upon my services for feasts and weddings and, at times, simply to lull her to sleep. Dreadful nightmares, you know.”

        He nipped at his half-stout. It was all he could afford after the inn had taken all five of his staters. The money the purser’d given him had gone right back in her pockets. Still, Poller wondered at her motives. A ‘private word,’ she’d said. But what did that mean? A professional-type word? Or…

        “Well, it’s all very impressive,” the purser said, leaning in. The candlelight caught her eyes in the most magnificent way. “Look. I like your stuff. Enough classics for the purists, enough fun to keep the patrons buying drinks. It’s good.”

        “Oh. Why, thank you.”

        “And, truth be told, we’ve had a recurring slot open up.”

        “Oh?”

        She nodded, grimaced. “Yeah. Don’t go spreading this around. But the previous bard caught a bad case of flush sickness. Didn’t get it here, mind you. But he got it. He’s taken an indefinite sabbatical.”

        “Oh,” Poller said, “that’s too bad.”

        “Sure. The slot’s for every threshing night. One hour. One stater. To start. Hypothetically, I could see that price getting knocked up by one half, assuming the musician in question did their time and felt a right fit for our place.”

        Poller drummed at the table. “Ah. Yes. Seems fair. A good deal.” She looked at him expectantly. “So, eh, what does this have to do…”

        The purser snorted. “Not quick on the uptake, are you, bard? I want you to fill the slot. If you’re interested.”

        Poller resisted the urge to leap out of his chair and shout yes. Thirty-six years of cock-ups had taught him that eagerness was the ultimate money-repellent.

        “No, no, I do find it interesting. I’ll have to check with my management over at the Liar. I have a standing thing there. And of course with Margen, the overseer at the castle.”

        The purser frowned. “Of course.”

        Maybe that had been too much. “But I am interested. I am interested. Very. Eh. You’ll let me discuss it with my council, how does that sound? And I’ll have an answer for you soon. Let’s say, tomorrow?”

        She shrugged. Such magnificent eyes. “Sure. But tomorrow by the latest. I’ll have to have it filled soon, whether it’s you or someone else.”

        “Yes.” Poller took a sip of his stout. As good a moment as any. You’re confident. You’re a damn courtier. “Let me ask you this….  Would you… want to take a walk?”

        The purser knit her brow, leaned back in her seat. “A walk?”

        “Back to, eh… back to the inn. Where I’m staying. The Inn at the Circle Stair. It’s a lovely night. Or perhaps I could, maybe, walk with you back to yours?”

        She arched an eyebrow. Then, horribly, terribly, she laughed, sudden and forceful as a punch to the stomach.

        “Oh. Uh, ha-ha. No. No. I’m, I’m not- no.”

        Sweat stung Poller’s eyes. “I-I didn’t mean-”

        She wiped a tear away from hers. “You bards. Bold, bold creatures. I partly respect it. But no.” She stood from the table. “Let me know by tomorrow if you’ll take the offer.” She reached into her purse and flicked a clipped back at him. He palmed it in midair. “Stout’s on the house.”

        So Poller downed the rest of his stout, shuffled out into street as quickly as he could, and began his walk back to the inn, alone.

        Stupid idiot. Too desperate to see she only had an interest in his songs. And why in hell would she want to walk with him? She had money. She was tall. And he certainly didn’t help the situation, did he, tripping over his words like a schoolboy? Poller stared up at the fat full moon, wondering if he was meant to be alone, wondering if the gods gave him the gift of song that he might sing with sorrow, and was not meant to know happiness. ‘Golden eyes, charging silver, crushing hearts like tin.’ Not quite, but something to it. He stopped, pulled a leaf of parchment and his steel quill from his belt. Plopping down against a barrel, Poller started to scribble something down.

        A shadow passed over him.

        He looked up. The street was empty. He shrugged and bent back to his paper.

        But wait. If the street was empty, then… what had made the shadow?

        He looked up again. Closed storefronts. A smelly stable about a block away. Goats and sows folded down for sleep. The sound of a lively inn, perhaps the Friar, echoing from a less residential street. But nothing more.

        Then he saw it.

        A large, winged shadow passed over the face of the moon and slipped behind a steeple. Poller dropped his pen and scrambled to his feet.

        What in hell had that been? The wings had looked like a bat’s, but the body too large. A bird? What fucking bird? The stout was laced, he reasoned. Maybe some trick they play on new musicians.

        Quick as a snapped string, the shadow swooped down from the steeple and landed lightly on the road. Poller’s belly went to ice.

        The creature looked like an ox. If an ox were scaled. And twice an ox’s size. And had wings the span of a wagon.

        Silent, the creature stalked toward the stable, smoke pouring from its nostrils. As it drew nearer, and the moonbeams illustrated its size, it became clear that, no, this creature was not a creation of laced stout. It was real. Poller whimpered.

        The beast swiveled its head toward him, snapping its wings shut. The rush of air hit Poller a moment later. A wet warmth crept down his pant leg.

        It sniffed, curious. Poller held his breath.

        And the creature turned away. Still soundless, it reared up and clamped its talons down on the stable’s fence. The wood groaned. It dipped its horned head amongst the startled livestock and drew back with a full-size sow squealing in its jaw.

        Its massive wings unfolded. Moonlight shone through the stretched membrane. With three dust-raising flaps, the creature was up and sailing overhead. It swung behind the steeple and disappeared.

        Moments later, an aged farmer emerged from the stable-house.

        “What in hell?” The farmer shone his lantern into the stable. Then at Poller.

        “You!” he called. “What you doing in the dark? And what was that caterwauling about?”

        Poller tried to answer. But his throat wasn’t working at the moment. The farmer strode toward him, angry.

        “You some sorta rustler? That it? You seen how nice my pigs is, and you come to lift one? Huh?” The farmer stopped short, sniffed. “What’s that smell?”

        Luckily, Poller’s faculties returned to him in that moment. He pointed at the sky, and screamed as loud as he could.

*

        “Your king spells your doom!” the priestess cried, wheeling her horse in the center of the crowd. “We demand audience, lest you damn us all!”

        An approving cry rose from the cordon of Dziags massed before the drawbridge. Poller stood on the road behind them, unsure how to proceed.

        His guard emerged from the press.

        “There you are,” she said, beckoning. “Stand by me, bard.”

        Poller scrambled to her like a kept dog. She snatched his collar, dragging him, muscling a path through the crowd. “Clear for me!” she barked. “Clear for an agent of the king!”

        No one listened. Poller stumbled along in the guard’s wake, elbows jabbing him, shoulders jostling. He hardly felt it. He’d hardly felt anything since last night.

        “I tell it plain,” cried the priestess above them. “I hold in my hands the means to our survival.” The winged relic thingy caught the dawn light. “Give us audience, Hardfallen. Let us put aside old grievances in the name of life and prosper.”

        They emerged from the crowd at the drawbridge’s edge. A line of Hardfell guards stood solemn, spears crossed.

        “He’s with me,” said Poller’s guard. With a nod, two guardsmen raised their spears to allow them through.

        “Gonna draw the bridge once you’re across,” another rasped. Poller’s guard waved him off and shoved Poller ahead.

        “Move.” And he did.

        “Damn it all to to dirty hell,” the guard spat, when the doors of the fortress were shut. “I warned them all, didn’t I? ‘Why you gonna go digging around a temple that was buried on purpose? Don’t you think you’re like to kick up trouble?’ But do they listen to me? Nobody listens to the guards. Don’t pay me enough, I’ll tell you that much. Not near enough to keep them ashen mongrels at bay, and nursemaid the bard, and steam out them guest rooms infested with fleas. Not in the bloody job description, I can promise you that.” Her face twisted. “What’s wrong with you, bard?”

        Poller blinked. “Eh. Eh. No. Let’s just, let’s…. the Baroness.”

        The guard snapped her fingers. “Oh, I meant to say. The Baroness ain’t feeling well today, bard. Something she ate. You’ve been requested elsewhere.”

        Poller reminded himself that these were his only other pair of pants, and he could not soil them. “I’ve been… What? Where?”

        “The king’s court. Fancy that, eh? You’re moving up in the world.”

        *

        “Light ambience.” Margen wrung his hands and glanced over a shoulder. The courtiers were already taking their seats in the gallery. “That’s all. Nothing flashy, unless called upon. Sometimes the other guy goes into a crowd-pleaser if requested, or if there’s an inordinately long lull.” He patted Poller’s shoulder, damply. “You’ll find your feet.”

        Poller nodded. Everything in him wanted to cry. He rather would have liked to cry, actually. Maybe it would have done him some good. But as his head was only a few feet away from the king’s bare, dangling foot, he thought that wouldn’t be the best idea. So he settled into the cushion at the base of the throne and told himself this would all be over soon.

        Perhaps at one point the Ancient Throne of Gods had been impressive. Undeniable that it was massive: a cracked, stone monolith draped with hanging moss, with a high carved back that reached all the way to the chamber’s yawning ceiling. Sat in its center, the king looked quite a child, with room enough in the seat for him to lie down across it.

        The main problem, though, was the throne’s ancientness. The back had developed a definite lean, so carpenters had it propped up with about twelve unseemly wooden beams. Worse, the entire left arm of the throne had crumbled and fallen off. The carpenters addressed this by replacing it with a disappointing wooden arm, painted a shade of gray that nearly matched the original. Poller wondered at why they hadn’t just taken mallets to the whole thing and gotten a proper chair. Perhaps a recliner. Or one of those wicker numbers from the book garden.

        “Introducing,” cried the high chamberlain into his buisine, “the Earl and Countess of Gladewall Hold: the prestigious Farn de Bella Grazzo and his wife, Yanela.”

        A smattering clap rose from the gallery as the red doors swung open and two very fat, very powdered royals waddled toward the throne, waving. From the crowd, Margen gestured urgently at Poller. Startled, Poller fumbled at his lyre and plucked a few agreeable chords, pausing every now and then to wipe his palms on the cushion.

        It kept on like this for the better part of the day. A baker, an atlas maker, a gaggle of mercenaries, a cowhand, a lord. All came and groveled, and Poller hardly heard a word, for the strumming of the lyre and the pounding of his heart.

        And in the quiet moments, he saw wings unfolding, and the terrible eye shine in a shadowy form…

        “Introducing,” cried the chamberlain, “representative of the city of Dziagaron, Her Forbearance, the Marked Priestess of the Holy House of Krim.”

        A long shadow stretched across the chamber’s court. At its base, a tall figure followed, flanked by two cowled acolytes.

        Small gasps and murmurs crackled through the gallery. The king’s foot stirred; Poller watched the man’s toes clench decidedly. He kept the music going, a light tune rising and falling, nothing too distracting, faint enough as to not even be there.

        Two Sentinel guards stepped before the throne and crossed their swords. The priestess snorted.

        A silence stretched. Poller wondered if this was one of the moments he was meant to break out into a crowd-pleaser. He looked to Margen, but the fat overseer had his eyes on the Dziags.

        “Fair king,” said the priestess, “you honor the dark wonders by allowing me passage.”

        The king’s toes waggled. “Gave me little choice, priest. It was either that or have you slaughtered in the street.”

        Poller’s hand slipped and struck a sour chord. A few heads in the gallery turn his way, then back. He winced. Focus on your playing, dunderhead.

        The priestess arched a brow. “And my choices no less fraught. Either enter the maw of the beast, or risk my people falling prey to another kind of beast entirely.” She raised the winged thingy. “You know what this is?”

        A pause. Then, “Know it well. We have one of our own. Claimed by Hardfallen excavators first, mind you, from the bowels of the temple.”

        “Yes,” the priestess said. “And thank the Marked One for that. The folly of the elder brother is the caution of the younger.”

        The king did not answer.

        “They are twins, fair king,” the priestess continued. “What one does, only the other can undo. As I am sure you well know.”

        “What are you here for, priest? Speak quickly.”

        The priestess smiled. “If I would make it plain, you would have my tongue cut from my head and skewered upon a spit.”

        Poller’s hand slipped again. The discordant note rang loudly. More heads in the gallery turned toward him.

        “Sorry,” he whispered, and bowed his head to his playing.

        The king paused. His toes clenched and unclenched. Then, “I am not entertaining Dziagaron riddles today. Speak, or begone to your sour land of ash and shade.”

        “I will speak as plain as I may, that my tongue remain in my head.” She raised a gloved hand high. “Our linguists have uncovered, hidden in the buried archives, the written rules of the scepters. The most important of which being: bare flesh must not brush the gold of the relics, lest it become afflicted. Once afflicted, only the scepter’s twin may reverse the effect.” Another pause. “Save your people, fair king. Save my people. Let the Marked One’s will be done, and let me use this scepter to do it.”

        “That all you got to say?” asked the king. “Well, hear this, priest. The proud house of Hardfell Hall will accept nothing from you. Nothing. No scepters, no riddles, no heathen practice. We have a perfectly good scepter of our own. Claimed first from the temple, mind you.”

        “Fair king-”

        “Another word,” said the king, “and I shall have your tongue out. Return, priest. Return to your hovels, and take your bloody second scepter with you.”

        The priestess hesitated. For a moment, it seemed she would go. Then, in a voice that filled the hall, she cried out:

        “You spell your people’s doom!”

        The king’s heel hammered the throne. “Apprehend her!”

        The Sentinels started forward. The priestess flashed back, reaching beneath her robes, dashing something against the ground. A light swelled, blinding bright.

        Poller winced back. When he opened his eyes, the priestess and her acolytes were gone. The guards blinked and looked around, dumbfounded.

        “Find her,” said the king. “Find her and bring me her tongue.”

        Twang!

        Poller looked down in surprise. The second string of his lyre had snapped. He hadn’t even realized he’d been tugging on it.

        Every head in the gallery looked at him. Even the Sentinels looked at him. Margen had gone white.

        “And someone get this idiot bard out of my audience chamber,” said the king. “Find me someone who can play his instrument. What happened to the regular guy?”

        Margen shuffled from the crowd, bowing and apologizing. Hands seized Poller’s shoulders and lifted him bodily from the cushion. He tried to apologize himself, but he could not find any words.

        The guards carried him to the doors of Hardfell Hall, dragged him across the drawbridge, and chucked him into the street. He hit the ground hard.

        “Wait!” Poller cried, lurching onto his seat. “Do I come back tomorrow? For my regular gig?”

        They didn’t answer. Poller watched the drawbridge rise, and sat awhile in the road, listening to the rush of the river.

*

        “It’s been filled,” said the purser.

        The words didn’t register. Poller wrinkled his nose. “Filled. What- I’m saying yes.”

        “I hear you. But the slot’s been filled.”

        Poller blinked. “You said I had until tomorrow. That’s today.”

        “I had another offer.”

        “Who? What offer?”

        The purser leaned against the Friar’s doorframe. “I don’t have to tell you that. But- if you must know, he’s a jester. Funny jokes. Agreeable.”

        Poller scoffed. “That guy? You’re hiring that guy over me?”

        The purser shrugged. “I am.”

        Golden eyes, stealing silver, crushing hearts like tin. “I- I just- I was counting on this gig.”

        “Well, I’m sorry. You sing for the king, don’t you?” She half-shut the door, paused. “And if I may be honest, you stare. It’s unpleasant. Now, I’ve got to get back to work. Best of luck.”

        The door slammed shut.

*

        “I don’t do lyres.”

        Poller dabbed at his forehead. “I mean, how hard can it be? You can fix a lute, you can fix a lyre, right?”

        The luthier turned the lyre over in his hands, pipe bobbing on his lips. He set it down on the counter.

        “No. It’s all funny. I wouldn’t feel right charging you.”

        Poller giggled. “Then do it for free, right?”

        The old man looked at him, like he was just now smelling an unpleasant odor. “You all right, mister? You don’t look well.”

        In fact, Poller didn’t feel well. He felt quite like his lyre string, tensed and ready to snap.

        He took a deep breath and placed his hands on the counter. “Look. I am that lyre. Without it, I have nothing. You hear me? I already have nothing. So really I’d have more nothing. I can’t take any more nothing. I’m begging you.” He dropped to his knees. “I am actually begging you. Fix it. Please. How hard can it be to replace a string?”

        The old man took a long drag of his pipe. He appraised the instrument again. “Oh… well, all right. I can try. However, I can’t guarantee it’ll ever sound the same quality.”

        Poller let out a sigh. “Oh, Heavens,” he said, clambering up, “thank you. You’re a good man, sir. A damn good man.”

        The old man nodded. “Don’t mention it. I’ll charge you discount, since you seem unwell. Five staters and I can have it ready by next week.”

        Poller’s knees went to jelly. He tried a smile, but judging from the old man’s reaction, it came off rather sickly.

        “Of course. Of course. You wouldn’t happen to take credit, would you?”

        *

        “Light ambience,” Grimald said. The pony show had a face painter, and Grimald had elected tiger stripes. “When they take ‘em out for a canter, pick it up. They change handlers, you go into a verse. Nothing fancy-pants. Make it agreeable.”

        Poller nodded, dimly aware Grimald was speaking. His mind felt it had fallen down a well.

        Grimald ashed his cheroot into the bobbing-for-apples trough. “You all right, bard? You look like you’ve seen a specter.”

        Poller nodded again.

        “And what happened to your harp? It’s missing a string.”

        “It’s a lyre,” Poller mumbled.

        “No I ain’t. It’s busted.” Grimald leaned close enough to smell his stale breath. “You and me’s gotta have a talk soon. You’re falling apart. You got no initiative. Take Jared.” Grimald pointed to the jester, who was currently jouncing across the paddock on a swayback donkey, backwards. He’d painted his face like a kitten. “The man’s on-time. Works extra hours for nothing. And he’s just been hired at the Forlorn Friar. In addition to his standing spot at my club. You know why he’s gaining ground?”

        You’re all idiots without taste. “No.”

        “Initiative. That’s what makes the difference in a career.” He clapped Poller on the back. “Now, get in position. Show’s about to start.”

        By mid-afternoon the pony show was in full swing. Poller plucked away, striking at his missing string and stumbling at first, but falling into a rhythm past his initial frustrations. Around him, jugglers juggled, Jared joked, horses champed, children played.

        The children took an especial liking to him. Initially their attention grated; he’d imagined he’d maintain a level of anonymity there. But after playing a couple childhood favorites, like Lilliana’s Bloomers and The Hundred Hands of Chemist Kaye, he grew fond of his audience. They clapped after every number. They begged for more.

        Enthusiasm grew so high that they dragged him to the face paint booth, imploring him submit to the wizened painter’s brush strokes. He did. He chose a knight’s helm. Afterward the painter afforded him a glance in his looking glass. Poller thought it resembled a bunch of gray and black smudge. It was well. He had an audience, and when he played, he had their attention.

        By time night had fallen, they asked even more.

        “Go on,” said Gabel, the gap-tooth boy.

        Poller looked skeptically at the swayback donkey. “I don’t know. I ought to be heading home-”

        “Please,” begged Cecil. “Jared did it. You should too.”

        “I don’t know if I can play while riding. And it’s getting late-”

        “Aw come on,” said Gabel. “You can do it. We believe in you.”

        A chorus of agreement from the others. Poller checked over his shoulders. Grimald stood with the organizers, loading folded stands and troughs and chairs into wagons. Why not? They’ll be adults one day. Adults with money. This is how you cultivate a fanbase, Poller.

        The bard smiled brightly. “Ah, well. If you insist, little ones. I’ll give a try.”

        A ragged cheer rose as Poller clambered on the donkey, who stood stock-still with total indifference, and swung his legs around the beast. He gave her a pat, put his lyre to his breast, and plucked a few chords.

        “What shall I play?”

        “You have to be moving while you do it,” said Cecil. “It’s no fun unless you’re moving.”

        Poller sighed. “As you say, cherry blossom.”

        He gave the donkey a small jab with a heel. The donkey grunted and began a mindless plod around the paddock. Poller started in on the eighty-seventh round of Chemist Kaye, singing lightly so as not to attract attention.

        “What’s that?” asked Gabel.

        “The Hundred Hands of Chemist Kaye, silly child,” Poller called.

        “No,” said Cecil. “Up there.”

        “Up where?”

        CRASH!

        For a moment Poller thought a tree had landed on him. A massive weight pinned his back, smushed his face into the donkey’s neck. Children screamed. The donkey brayed.

        SWOOSH!

        Wind ripped through his hair. The ground fell away. He hadn’t known it could do that. He noticed the black talons sunk into the donkey’s flesh.

        He looked up and saw a scaled belly. Beyond that, massive wings churning. Below them, the twinkling torches of the pony show, growing distant.

        “Ahhhhhh!”

        Poller tightened his grip about the braying, thrashing donkey. Buildings streamed below. His stomach lurched as the beast swung up, spiraling madly into a cloud. Droplets of water pattered his face.

        They emerged wet and weaving through the sharp spires of Hardfell Hall, rising to the cliffs behind the castle. The beast glided into a cave. Poller fell to the bone-strewn floor in a tangle of hooves and fur and screams.

        He scrambled until his back hit a wall, his lyre stretched before him like a shield. The beast dove onto the confused, kicking donkey and sank its teeth in. Poller wrenched away. Beyond the mouth of the cave was only night sky. He crawled toward it and looked down.

        That was a mistake. At least a hundred feet of open air stretched between him and the tip of the tallest fortress tower.

        Trapped.

        This is what he got for doing the damn pony show. He’d lost his integrity. He’d lost his damn spine.

        Bone crunched behind him. He weighed his options. He could die by falling, which didn’t seem so bad except for the last, unpleasant moment when he would smash into the ground. But it was either that or die by mastication in a scaled monster’s mouth, which just had to be unpleasant the entire time.

        He peered over the edge of the cliff. Would anyone remember him? Would anyone mourn for the poor bard broken on the rocks below? Would anyone write his mother? He should have written her more. He shouldn’t have lied so much about his life when he did.

        His boot brushed a scatter of pebbles over the edge. The pebbles fell freely. He did not hear them land. This was it, then. One last brave step. He wished he could have told Grimald to shove it before it was all over. Ah, well.

        A low grumble behind him made him turn. The beast stood over the remains of the donkey, facing him, jowls dripping. It grumbled again, tossing its horns.

        “I’m sorry,” Poller said. It was the only thing that seemed right to say. If it came for him, he would jump.

        “Song.”

        A moment passed. Poller tried to speak and only produced a thin, reedy sound.

        The beast repeated itself “Song.”

        Poller gathered his wits. “What?”

        “Song,” the beast said a third time, folding in its wings and stalking toward him. Poller tried to edge back. His heel stretched over open air.

        “I. Eh. I. What- what song?”

        The beast snorted smoke. It stopped short, curled its tail about itself, and settled onto the cave floor.

        “Gloves,” it said.

        Poller blinked. The beast stared expectantly, eyes shining.

        “I- eh. Okay. I know that one. I can- eh…”

        Hands trembling, Poller fiddled with the tuning bulge, plucked a couple experimental notes. It was madness. No. No, it couldn’t be. But then, but then…

        But then a shadow melted from the cave wall.

        The priestess raised the glowing relic from her robes. Its golden light filled the cave. The beast roared and reared back, wings snapping open.

        “Stand back, little one,” the priestess called.

        The light illustrated every horrifying inch of the beast. It flapped its wings and dashed backward in a spray of old bones. The priestess advanced, reciting an incantation.

        The beast hit the back wall of the cave and whirled, roaring again. Hundreds of teeth glittered in its smoking mouth. Enraged, it barreled back toward the priestess. She flashed away, a claw missing her by inches. The beast scrabbled. Dove back. The priestess swung with the scepter. But the beast caught the Dziagaron’s wrist in a talon, pinned it down.

        “Child!” cried the priestess. “Do something!”

`        It took a moment for Poller to realize he was the child.

        “Okay!” he said. “Eh. What should I do?”

        The priestess’ free hand glowed purple. She clamped it about the lunging beast’s throat. Its jaw snapped inches away from her face.

        “Something! My strength… wanes…”

        Poller’s mind reeled. Initiative. That’s what he needed. Bloody initiative. So he did the only thing he’d ever been good at.

        He played the first notes of Gloves of Orman Silk.

        The effect was immediate. The monster’s head whipped round, tossing the priestess skidding into the cave’s recesses. Her wings retracted and she crept toward him, suddenly curious, low fire guttering between her teeth.

        Somehow, he played well. Maybe the best he’d ever done it. Missing string and all. The beast stilled close enough to smell the acrid smoke on her breath. He lilted into the first verse.

        The words landed true on his voice. And the broken chords sounded right, the way melancholy should. He sang on, rolling into the chorus, and instead of using his emotion to give it fire, he backed away, touched it lightly. It was right. The beast listened. For about a minute, his was the only voice in the world, lifting sweet and true from the cave on the cliffs.

        Then the priestess sprang howling from the dark. Sparks flew as the golden scepter struck sizzling against the monster’s scales. It screamed. But the extending wings flapped and faded to black mist, as did the scales, and the horns, and the tail. And when the swirl was done all that remained in the center was the pale body of the Baroness, curled among the bones of the cave floor.

        “Let me go!” the old woman cried. She looked about, bewildered. “Oh heavens. Oh, no.”

        Poller fell to his knees. The priestess stood above the woman, panting.

        “It is finished. Stay still, honorable one. We’ll return you home.”

        The naked old woman shivered. “Oh, heavens. What have I done? I didn’t- such hunger. I didn’t mean to have such hunger.”

        The priestess wrapped the woman in her robe. She flinched, eyes wild.

        “I didn’t know I couldn’t touch it. You must believe me. I thought I might make a gift of it, for my nephew. The throne has made him so dour. I didn’t know…”

        “Save your strength,” the priestess murmured.

        Poller set his lyre carefully to the floor. His hands trembled. He held them to his face. His cheeks were wet. Was he crying? He hadn’t realized he was crying. He drew his palms away, saw they were covered in gray paint.

        A giggle fluttered from his lips, unbidden. The Painted Knight. Something like that. Could be good, with a bit of work.

        The old woman looked to Poller.

        “That was my Gorman’s favorite, you know. You sing it so well, young man. So well.”

*

        Jared caught him at the Liar’s door. “Didn’t know you was playing tonight, bard.”

        Poller sighed. “I’m not. Just collecting my payment for the pony show.”

        Jared's offset eyes slipped down to Poller’s luggage case. Poller gave him a thin smile and walked out the door.

        Jared followed, down the steps and into the street. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving?”

        “I am.”

        “Why in hell… you that stupid, bard? You musta been able to get at least fifty songs outta what happened to you.”

        In truth, Poller hadn’t. He’d assumed he would. But when he set quill to paper, nothing came up.

        “A few, certainly.”

        “And a standing spot at the castle, I should think.”

        “Eh.” They’d offered. Part-time, but certainly standing. Good money. Better money than he’d made since he was young and promising.

        But a word from the mounted priestess on the drawbridge had changed that.        

        “My advice is,” she said, drawing the hood of her cloak up, “don’t believe a word they say. They’d be fool to trust such a large secret with a such a small man. Easier for you to end up in the Eel than in a featherbed.” With that, she’d shook his hand and galloped into the night.

        It rang true, sadly. The baroness’s encomium would only protect him so much. And besides. He couldn’t forget the cave. The shadows.

        “Greener pastures, Jared.”

        The jester scoffed. “Where in hell you going, then?”

        “Rinbell Station.”

        Poller noted the flash of mockery in the jester’s eyes. “Ah. I see. Back to your wife-jarl, huh?”

        “No. Just back to the inn circuit. Try my luck, you know?” Though he did have one hell of a letter of commendation. If it didn’t open doors, it’d at least grease the hinges.

        Jared shook his head. “You bards. No instincts. Stay where the money is, friend. I’d bet you could squeeze them royals for ten staters a performance after what happened to you.”

        Poller shrugged. “Good luck, Jared.”

        The jester tipped his hat. It jingled. “Don’t need luck with talent. Fare travels.”

        Poller hefted his baggage and made his way down the street.

        Hardfell roared around him. He chose the main road, the one lined with ash and maple, with all the tall, important businesses looming above it. It seemed appropriate for a good-bye. He spied an ale burrow he used to frequent. A bookseller he’d tried, and failed, to haggle with over a binding of lead sheets. A chemist who’d sold him a comb for half-price.

        But they didn’t seem to notice he was leaving. Huh. Funny, that.

        He supposed he hadn’t told them. And even if he had, would they remember him? Likely not. Likely they’d carry on as they did before he ever set foot in this city, this place that had raised him and dashed him again and again. Maybe he’d show up one day, years from now, and say, “Remember me? You sold me the comb? I’m doing all right now, thanks.” Maybe.

        He shirked the main road and took a shortcut to the city gate.

        A musician’s life had its ups and downs. And as Poller walked on from Hardfell’s gates, he felt for the first time in years that he was taking some steps forward.