The Eagle & the Nightingales: Bardic Voices, Book III Page 15

  As it happened, it was just as well that he had not set his expectations unrealistically high, for the King did not show that the songs affected him in any way—other than his delight and admiration in T’fyrr as a pure musician. He asked for several more songs when T’fyrr was through with his planned set, all of which T’fyrr fortunately knew. One of them gave him the opportunity to display his own scholarship, for he knew three variants, and asked which one Theovere preferred. That clearly delighted the King even further, and when at last the time came for Afternoon Court, a duty even the King could not put off, Theovere sighed and dismissed the Haspur with every sign of disappointment that the performance was over.

  “You will come the same time, everyday,” the stone-faced manservant said expressionlessly as he led T’fyrr to the door. “This is the High King’s standing order.”

  T’fyrr bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and privately wondered how he was going to find his way back to his own quarters in this maze. He had no head for indoor directions, and more than a turn or two generally had him confused. It didn’t help that all these corridors looked alike—all white marble and artwork, with no way of telling even what floor you were on if you didn’t already know.

  To his relief, Nob was waiting for him just outside the door, passing the time of day with the guard posted outside the King’s suite. This was another of those dangerous-looking bodyguards, but this one seemed a bit younger than the ones actually with the King, and hadn’t lost all his humanity yet.

  “Thought you might get lost,” the boy said saucily, with a wink at the guard, whose lips twitched infinitesimally.

  T’fyrr shrugged. “It is possible,” he admitted.

  “Not likely, but possible, I suppose. This is a large building.”

  The guard actually snickered at that little understatement, and Nob took him in charge to lead him back to their quarters. “I admit I wasn’t entirely certain I knew the way,” T’fyrr told the boy quietly, once they were out of the guard’s earshot. “The hallways seem to be the same.”

  “The art’s different,” Nob told him, gesturing widely at the statues. “This one, the statues are all of High Kings, see? We turn here, and the statues are wood -nymphs.”

  Nude human females sprouting twigs and leaves in their hair. So that is a wood-nymph! No wonder the shepherds in my songs are so surprised; I don’t imagine that it is every day that a nude female prances up to the average shepherd and invites him to dance.

  “We turn again here—” Nob continued, blissfully unaware of T’fyrr’s thoughts, “and the statues are all shepherd couples.”

  Oh, indeed, if one expects shepherds to be flinging themselves after their sheep wearing a small fortune in embroidery and lace! This is as likely as nude women frolicking about among the thistles and thorns and biting insects, I suppose.

  “Then this is our corridor, and the statues are historical women.” Nob stopped in front of their door. “Here we are, between Lady Virgelis the Chaste, and the Maiden Moriah—”

  Between someone so sour and dried up no one would ever want to mate with her, and someone who probably didn’t deserve the title of “Maiden” much past her twelfth birthday, T’fyrr interpreted, looking at the grim-visaged old harridan on his left, who was muffled from head to toe in garments that did not disguise the fact she was mostly bone, and the ripely plump, sloe-eyed young wench on his right, who wasn’t wearing much more than one of the wood-nymphs. He wondered if the juxtaposition was accidental.

  Probably not. He had the feeling that very little in this palace was accidental.

  “So,” he said, as Nob opened the door and held it open for him, “to get to the King’s suite, I go—right, through the ladies to the shepherds, left, through the shepherds to the wood-nymphs, left through the nymphs to the High Kings, and right through the Kings to where the guard is.”

  “Perfect,” Nob lauded. “You have it exactly right.” The page closed the door behind them, and T’fyrr decided that he might as well ask the next question regarding directions.

  “Now,” he said, “if I wanted to go into the city, how would I get out?”

  ###

  One of the so-called “supervisors” in charge of expelling rowdy customers—who elsewhere would have been called “peace keepers”—intercepted Nightingale on her way upstairs after her performance the second night after the Deliambren Tyladen arrived to take over management from Kyran.

  “Tyladen wants to see you in his office,” the burly Mintak said shortly, and Nightingale suppressed a start and a grimace of annoyance. “Tonight. Soon as you can.”

  “Right,” she said shortly, and continued on up to her room to place her harp in safekeeping. So, he recognized me after all, or someone warned him, or he got a message back to the Fortress-City with my description or even my image and they’ve told him I’m supposed to be doing some investigation for them—She clenched her jaw tightly and closed the door of her room carefully behind her, making certain she heard the lock click shut. I could deny it all, of course, and there is no way that he can know that I am Nightingale unless I admit it. Still, even if I deny it he’ll be watching me, trying to see if I’m doing anything, likely getting underfoot or sending someone to follow me. Oh, bother! Why did I ever even consider this in the first place? I must have been mad. Every time I get involved with Deliambrens there’s trouble.

  She fumed to herself all the way down the stairs, and even more as she wormed her way through the crowds on and surrounding the dance floor. That was no easy task; at this time of the night, the dance floor was a very popular place. Special lights suspended from the ceiling actually sent round, focused circles of light down on the dancers; the circles were of different colors and moved around to follow the better dancers, or pulsed in time to the music. Some folk came here just to watch the lights move in utter, bemused fascination. Many spectators watched from the balconies of the floors above. Nightingale was used to such things, but for most people, this was purest magic, and they could not for a moment imagine what was creating these “fairy lights.” It was easy to see why Freehold was such a popular place; there wasn’t its like outside the Fortress-City, and not one person in ten thousand of those here would ever see the fabulous Deliambren stronghold.

  The lights made Nightingale’s head ache, especially after a long, hard day, and she was less than amused at being summoned now. She wanted food, a bath, and bed in that order. She did not want to have to go through a long session of deception and counter-deception with some fool of a Deliambren.

  Fortunately, she was tall for a woman, and hard to ignore. One or two human customers, more inebriated than most, attempted to stop her. All it took, usually, was a single long, cold stare directly into the eyes of even the most intoxicated, and they generally left her alone quickly. A touch of Bardic Magic, a hint of Elven coldness, delivered with an uncompromising glare—that was the recipe that said leave me alone in a way that transcended language.

  She finally reached the other side of the dance floor with no sense of relief. The offices were down a short corridor between one of the eateries that catered to strict herbivores and a bar that specialized in exotic beers made from all manner of grains, from corn to rice. The corridor was brightly lit, which was the best way of ensuring that people who didn’t belong there weren’t tempted to investigate it. Somehow the adventurous never wanted to explore anything that was lit up like a village square at noon on midsummer day. It wasn’t very inviting, anyway; just a plain, white-walled, white-tiled corridor with a couple of doors in it.

  There were two doors on the corridor to be precise; the nearest was Kyran’s office. She tapped once on the farthest and entered.

  There wasn’t much there except for a desk and a couple of chairs, although the Deliambren sitting at the desk quickly put something small, flat and dark into a desk drawer as she closed the door behind her. She guessed that whatever it was, she wasn’t supposed to see it or know it existed. More Deliambren devices,
I suppose, she thought sourly. More Deliambren secrets. As if any of them would be useful to me! But she schooled her face into a carefully neutral expression, and said shortly, “You wanted to see me, Tyladen?”

  No “sir”; she was quite annoyed enough with him to omit any honorifics. But he didn’t seem to notice the omission, or if he did, he didn’t care. He smiled, nodded at the nearest chair, and put his hands back up on the empty wooden desktop.

  “I did. Lyrebird, is it?” At her nod, he smiled again. “Good name. Appropriate for a musician. Quite. Well.” He laughed, and she had to wonder if he was as foolish as he seemed at this moment. Probably not. “Seems you’re very popular here at Freehold.”

  He waited for an answer, and again she nodded, cautiously, as she dropped gracefully into the chair. It didn’t look comfortable, but to her surprise it was. “I’d like to think so,” she added, making a bid for an appearance of modesty.

  “Oh, you are, you are—one of our most popular musicians among the nonhumans, that’s a fact.” He continued to smile, and she waited with growing impatience for him to get to the point. What was he after? Did he want to know why she, a human musician, should be so popular among those who were not of her race? Was he going to challenge her and demand that she reveal her true identity?

  He just waited, and finally she came up with another short answer for him. “That’s what they tell me.” She shrugged again, trying to appear modest.

  “Well, they tell you true.” He nodded like the child’s toy they called a “head-bobber,” still giving her that silly smile.

  I know that Deliambrens have a hard time relating to humans and their emotions, but this is ridiculous. I can see why he has Kyran acting as manager here most of the time. He doesn’t know the first thing about interacting with us. I know he can’t be stupid, but he certainly projects himself as a prime silly ass.

  Of course, he could be trying to soften her up for the confrontation. He could be hoping to make her think he was an idiot so that she would underestimate him and let something slip.

  Well, if that was what he was waiting for, he’d be here until the building fell to pieces around him.

  “Yes, they tell you true,” he said, head still bobbing vigorously. “So I’m going to have to move you. Oak Grove isn’t big enough, and some of the customers can’t get up all those stairs, anyway. I want you down here, on the ground floor. Silas wants to join the dinner-to-midnight dance group, they want to have him, and that frees up the Rainbow, and that’s where I want you.”

  The Rainbow? her mind babbled. The biggest performance room in Freehold? Me? Take over from Silas? Me?

  As she sat there in stunned silence, he added, as if in afterthought, “Oh—and you’ll be getting what Silas was, if that’s all right. Two Royals a night?”

  Two—two Royals? Me? Nightingale? Has he got the right person?

  “Oh, that’s quite fine,” she replied in a daze, and he reached his hand across the desk. “Thank you. Thank you very much!” Without thinking, she leaned forward to take it as a token of her acceptance.

  “Done then. We’ll see you down here tomorrow night, then, Lyrebird.” He took her hand, shook it once, awkwardly, and let it go. Then he waved his hands at her as she continued to sit there blinking, shooing her playfully out the door. “You need sleep, if you’re going to open in the Rainbow tomorrow, my lady. Off with you.”

  She rose, opened the door in a daze, and walked back out into the noise and the music.

  The Rainbow? It was the biggest performance room in Freehold! The only other venue larger was the dance floor itself. Silas was another human—or so he claimed—with an inhumanly beautiful face and body, a waist-length mane of golden curls, and a voice like strong bronze, powerful and compelling. Silas liked to display that body in clothing much like Tyladen had worn that first day, except that Silas’ skintight garments were real leather. He was extremely popular with both male and female customers, and by reputation, distributed his favors equally between both sexes. She had heard rumors that he wanted to join the dance group, and she could certainly see why; he would be able to concentrate on singing, and choose the powerful and rhythmic music he preferred instead of the ballads that a performance room demanded. His guitar playing was the weakest part of his act; now he wouldn’t need to worry about it, with an entire ensemble to back him.

  And the dance floor will be more crowded than ever—Silas is bound to sing fast music, which will make people thirsty, which will sell a great many drinks. It is a good bargain all around, even at continuing to pay him his current salary or above. But—me? The Rainbow? Who am I? I’m not gorgeous, like Silas. I know I’m good, but I don’t have a fraction of his charisma. I’m just a Gypsy street-player, a good one, but nothing more than that. How can I ever fill the Rainbow?

  She found herself on the staircase, with no clear memory of how she had crossed the intervening floor. The Rainbow Room was easily three times the size of the Oak Grove. How could she ever justify being put there? Who would come?

  All those people who wait for seats now, whispered an elated little voice in the back of her mind. All those people who stand crowded into the back wall. And all those who want to hear you, but can’t climb three flights of stairs. You know there are plenty of those. Derfan’s said as much. Lady of the Night, now Derfan can even come listen to you!

  Well, that was true. Many of the folk who crowded into Freehold of a night were the human misfits of the city; those who, like Derfan, were not sound of body by everyday measure. Out there, they were cripples. In any other tavern in the city, they would still be cripples. Here, they were no stranger than anyone else, and their only limitations were how far up the staircases they could get—and there were plenty of nonhumans who couldn’t manage that. Kyran and Tyladen spoke vaguely of putting in some sort of lifting system to accommodate them, but apparently there was some problem with getting it to work reliably. There were hoists for food and drink for the various tiny kitchens, but they were all powered by the muscles of Mintaks and other strong creatures and not really practical for hauling people up and down.

  Besides, the worst that happened if a hoist failed was the loss of a little food and profit. The worst that could happen if a lift full of customers failed was not to be contemplated.

  That was why the most popular acts were all on the first floor, where everyone could see them that wanted to.

  Can I do it? she asked herself, and forced herself to think about it dispassionately. Yes, she decided, on sober contemplation. I think that I can.

  But she had to stop on the way up and bespeak a pot of very hot water from one of the tea vendors. Mingled excitement, anticipation, and stage fright were beginning to build inside her at the prospect of facing the largest audience at the greatest rate of pay she had ever, in her life, warranted. If she was going to be able to do anything tomorrow, she was going to need to get some sleep tonight, as Tyladen had pointed out. Fortunately, she had packed a number of herbal remedies in her panniers, and one of them was for sleeplessness.

  And tonight she was going to need it. The excitement was almost enough to drive her real reason for being here out of her mind.

  Almost.

  As she reached her room again, shut and locked the door behind her, and began to prepare for bed, her mind went back to what Tanager had heard at the Palace today. The Haspur—and if the mysterious new Court Musician wasn’t a Haspur, he was of some race so like them that it made no difference—was the sensation of the Court and had inspired some of the most envious hatred in the King’s musicians she had ever heard of. Some of them were threatening to pack up and leave the King’s service; others swore they would “get rid of the interloper.” Nightingale was not particularly worried about the ability of the Court Musicians as individuals to “get rid of their rival”; they were Guild Bards after all, and as a group, Guild Bards were singularly ineffectual at doing anything of a practical nature. The trouble was that they all had been placed where th
ey were by someone; they must have powerful allies, and those allies might decide to take an interest. Allies and patrons of that sort had access to all manner of unpleasant things, from simple thugs to sophisticated poisons. They might consider the new Court Musician to be too trivial a problem to bother with—but in a Court ruled by a High King with an obsession for musicians, that was not as likely as it would otherwise have been. In fact, the new musician might be considered as deadly a potential rival as any of the Grand Dukes and Court Barons—and one with fewer protections.

  Did the Haspur know this?

  I hope so, she thought, slipping into her nightshirt and preparing her pot of soporific tea. Oh, I hope so. I hope he is finding himself some equally powerful allies. Because if he doesn’t—he’s going to find himself wing-clipped and surrounded, and that lovely position he has earned himself will be no more than a beautifully gilded trap . . .

  ###

  Like most of the other performance rooms in Freehold, the Rainbow Room lived up to its name, but not in the way that anyone who had not seen it would have expected. It was not decorated in many colors, nor worse, festooned with painted rainbows like a child’s nursery. The Rainbow Room was the plainest, simplest performance room in the building, its walls and ceiling painted a soft white, the floor and tables some seamless substance of a textured, matte black, the booths and chairs upholstered in black as well, something as soft and supple as black suede leather, although Nightingale was fairly certain that was not what it was. It would have cost a fortune to cover that much furniture in black leather, and not even a Deliambren had that much to spare on furnishings in a performance room.

  No, it was when the lights were dimmed and the special performance lighting lit that the Rainbow Room lived up to its name.

  For there were crystal prisms hidden everywhere: in the ceiling fixtures, in the pillars supporting the ceiling, set into the leaded glass windows that divided the room itself from the dance floor. When the performance lighting was illuminated, those prisms caught and refracted it into a hundred thousand tiny rainbows that flung themselves everywhere, and since many of the prisms were free to move with air currents, the rainbows moved as well in a gentle dance of color. With that as a backdrop, no performer needed anything else.