Song of the Beast (9 page)

Only once, as I stood on a rocky overlook and watched the sun set over the Carag Huim with the color of dragons' fire, did I attempt to turn my speech into a song, that same “Morgave's Lament” I had known since I was five. But the first three notes fell dead in the quiet air. I could not hear the next one in my head, could not feel the words blossom from the unfolding melody, could not summon the passion that would weave together the notes and the words and grow them into so much more together than they were apart. And so I faltered and broke off ... and cursed myself for a fool to think it even possible that I could make music where none lived any longer.

On the next day I passed a roadside shrine dedicated to Roelan. The graven visage of the hunchbacked god was nestled in a grove of willows next to a well-tended pool. I stopped there awhile, gazing at the god with the falcon on his crooked shoulder. In the hot stillness of the afternoon I forced myself to look inward, to lay myself open, to listen and feel as I had not permitted myself for half an eternity. But though my ears came near bleeding with the effort, the world was silent. I left the shrine without an offering for the god. I had nothing to give him.

 

At the end of my second week on the road, I arrived at the city of Camarthan, a fair-sized market town of graceful domes and arches built of warm yellow granite and white marble. It was nestled in the green foothills of the Carag Huim, the Mountains of the Moon, that bounded Elyria on the west. No major trade routes passed through the city, but myriad minor ones, ensuring that its marketplace provided the most interesting and exotic fare of any in the kingdom. The people were friendly and open, and perhaps because of their constant exposure to new things, their city had always been the best place to try out new music. The region lay under the protection of the Duke of Catania. In the past when I had visited Camarthan, the duke had been a cultured, well-educated man. When I had come there to sing in his marble-columned festival pavilion, the duke's wife had tried her best to entice me to settle in Camarthan as a member of the court and a mentor for their son, who at fifteen was a more than passable harpist. I had refused her, explaining that I was pledged in service to Roelan and must go where the god called me. The duke had graciously offered me a home for whenever the god permitted me to settle. It was perhaps foolish to go back to a place where I had been well known, but it was a convenient destination when I had no other in mind. The old duke's son now ruled Catania. Assuredly our paths were unlikely to cross.

I left my horse in a clean public stable, asking the owner to find me a decent saddle with large buckles that an “aged servant with poor eyesight” could manage. Then I spent a nervous hour in the local shops, finding new clothes that were less fine and less memorable than those my cousin had supplied, and a better knife than the one I'd gotten from a barmaid at the Whistling Pig. I sought out a glover's shop deep in a deserted street and bought some loose-fitting doeskin gloves that I could manage to pull on over my wretched hands so that perhaps their appearance would not be so noticeable. The gloves served dual purpose: except on the very hottest days every joint I had ached miserably, and my hands and feet were cold all the time.

By the time I'd taken care of these matters, I was shaking with exhaustion from three weeks' traveling in constant fear and the terrifying exposure of the city streets. Along with my pride and my defiance, I had used up the last of my courage in Goryx's chamber. Once mortal necessity was satisfied, I could think of nothing but to find somewhere to hide. So I sought out lodgings in a modest quarter of the city, the streets frequented by clerks and laborers, drovers and journeymen. To remain anonymous in the poorest streets of any town is always difficult, for many residents are looking for information to sell, and no one has enough occupation to keep them from watching each other. But in the streets where people are hurrying about on their own business, no one has time to look too closely.

I, of course, had no business, a matter I was going to have to rectify before too many weeks passed. My cousin's purse would not refill itself. But I constantly put off taking action. I couldn't force myself out of my room except to find something to eat, and even then I would make my purchases and scurry back to my lodging like a rat to a hole. A glance from a passing stranger would make me break out in a sweat; a casual word would force my stomach into spasms of terror. I imagined Dragon Riders awaiting me around every corner with manacles and whips. Life became a shriveled mockery, more dismal, I think, than the refuse heaps of Lepan ... until I spent the next-to-last silver coin from my repugnant hoard. Left with no choices, I had to take up life again.

Chapter 7

My first ventures out in search of a new start were into Camarthan's marketplace. The tree-shaded market was crowded and busy, with a good number of escape routes should I draw unwanted notice. The first day I forced myself out for an hour, the next for two. I drifted from one display to the next, never speaking to anyone until I chided myself that all the work I'd done while on the road was gone for naught if I let my voice rust away again. So I asked a few questions about the origins of the exotic art-works, fabrics, and furnishings one could see in the market, satisfied when the words came out without the harshness of my first days of speech. For a week I would fly trembling back to my hiding place as soon as my allotted time was done. But as the days passed uneventfully, I gained confidence. After two weeks I would spend the whole day in the market, listening to the babble of commerce, watching the ebb and flow of sellers and buyers, and actually beginning to see some of the things at which I looked.

Inevitably, I was drawn to a harpmaker's stall. I had passed by it ten times before without stopping, but on one beautiful summer afternoon, an elegantly dressed young woman sat tuning a small rosewood harp with ivory keys under the hovering eye of the old craftsman. Her shining dark ringlets shook with her frustration.

“It won't tune,” she said. “Why would I buy it? It doesn't matter that it's lovely to look at.”

The white-haired man crinkled his brow and answered her, but in the language of Florin, not Elyria.

“I don't understand your gibberish,” she said when he was done. “I won't buy the harp if it won't tune properly.”

The man tried to explain again, but the frowning young woman shook her head in annoyance.

“He's telling you to tighten the nut three times, then let it back to the right tuning, rather than coming up from under,” I said. “It's often better that way with a fine instrument.” Precision and loving care had gone into making the three beautiful harps displayed in the old man's stall.

“You understand this nonsense he speaks?” asked the woman.

“Well enough.”

She did what I told her and was soon playing the richly toned instrument and singing in a sweet but thin voice. “Ask him if his price is firm,” she said after a few moments.

“What did he tell you?”

She told me, and I had no need to query the man. The price was eminently fair. But I did as she bade me, though at the same time I complimented the harpmaker on creating such a fine piece.

“Do you play?” he asked, smiling with relief.

“Not anymore. But anyone would be proud to play an instrument so well crafted.” Then I told the woman, “He says his price is firm. And I'll advise you it's a bargain.”

“Well, then. It does sound nice.”

With slender, agile fingers she counted out her gold and silver coins. As she walked away, I also turned to go, but the old Florin called to me. “Sir!” And when I looked back, he bowed politely as Florins do.
“Vando zi. Estendu zi na.”

I returned the politeness. “Thank you, and may your gods walk with you also.”

The stall next to the harpmaker was occupied by a leather merchant who displayed a wide variety of wares, from bags and wallets to lightweight leather armor and saddlery. The florid, balding merchant had watched the interchange with the harpmaker intently. As I hurried past, he called out, “Senai! A word with you, if I might.”

Very tempting to pretend I hadn't heard; I wanted desperately to run away. But I paused and clasped my gloved hands behind my back as if I had all day to answer.

He was a prosperous man by the look of his beige silk shirt and well-cut leather breeches and vest. A Udema—short, stocky, sturdy, and fair-haired like all his people. Jaw like an anvil. “You speak the language of the Florins?”

“Yes.”

“And know their customs? When to bow and all?”

“Yes.” I had absorbed languages and customs just as I had devoured the sounds of cities and countryside and wild lands. All of it was music.

“And for others besides Florins. Is it possible you know them too—like the tongue of the Breen?”

“Why do you ask?”

“There's a beltmaker, a Breen, who sits on the far side of the market. She does fine work, but her designs are too odd for Elyrians. Looks as if she's not had a fair meal in a twelvemonth. I'd hire her to do some of my tooling, but she doesn't understand when I ask her. I was going to propose—if it wouldn't be taken as an insult to so worthy a gentleman as yourself—to offer you a consideration if you would speak to her on my behalf. It would be to her benefit as well as mine.”

The perfect answer to my dilemma. For days I had scoured my head for ideas of how I might earn a living. I had examined every stall in the market, tried to judge every passerby as to what he did and whether I could do it too. Though involvement in music would be risky and painful, I had resigned myself to hiring out as a singing master or as a harp or flute teacher—cheaply, of course, as I could not demonstrate the lessons. But everything else I knew, every skill I might possess or learn in a reasonable time, seemed to require hands that worked. I could write only with difficulty and none too legibly. My stiff fingers could not build instruments or transcribe music or keep accounts. My ruined back muscles were so weak that I could not do anything that required strength, even if I could get past the inevitable questions asked of a Senai hiring out to do ordinary labor. But I had not even considered my experience with languages.

“I could speak to the beltmaker,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “No consideration necessary. But perhaps you have further needs in the area of translation and interpretation ...?”

He narrowed his eyes, drawing his broad brow into a knot. “You wouldn't know how to approach a Raggai chieftain about selling some of his goldwork, now, would you?”

“I once lived for a month in a Raggai village. Raggai are very protective of their goldwork, unless the buyer becomes a member of their family—a matter of a few pigs and a cask of brandy. And, of course, a family member can do as he likes with his brothers' or sisters' work, as long as it brings honor or profit to the family.”

A beneficent smile blossomed on the Udema merchant's face. “My name is Alfrigg. ...”

After a bit more dancing about, Alfrigg agreed that he could well use a permanent translator, especially since he was on the verge of expanding his business. “And your name, sir?”

“Aidan ... MacTarsuin.”

“Ah, I see.”

I had named myself “no man's son.” Alfrigg would assume that I was a younger son, dispossessed by some family dispute. Such was often the case among Senai families. The situation produced a class of well-educated but impoverished clerks and priests, artists and actors who never quite fit into any society. I did not contradict his belief. Dispossessed was quite accurate.

Further discussion revealed that Alfrigg hailed from the town of Dungarven in eastern Elyria. He had apprenticed to a butcher, but discovered he had more luck with hides than meat. He had bought out his apprenticeship early, and now ruled a flourishing business and a family of seven children with a despotic hand. He liked Camarthan for its location and friendly atmosphere, but as he saw the caravans pass through, visions of a leathery empire floated behind his blue eyes.

When I suggested that I could perhaps give him a preview of what customers in other regions might look for—that Eskonians wore small leather pouches with the dust of their ancestors in them, for example, or that the Breen felt it important to have the name of their household gods on everything they used—he slapped me on the back and crowed in delight. “Vanir bless me, but I always thought Senai the most useless of all Earth's creatures. All their reading and writing and dabbling, politics and playacting ... pshaw! Even Elhim and donkeys have better purpose. But you, good sir, will make me a rich man, a very useful endeavor indeed.” After a quarter of an hour of negotiation, Alfrigg brought out a red enameled flask of uziat—the fiery brandy Udema used to seal every contract—and two tiny cups. “May our association be long and profitable, Aidan MacTarsuin!”

 

I worked mostly as an interpreter at first, helping Alfrigg negotiate with traders whose caravans passed through Camarthan. Occasionally I advised him on the cultural aspects of his stock. In addition, I translated letters and documents, though I hinted that I had always hired scribes to write for me and was thus uncomfortable penning documents for myself. Fortunately, Alfrigg's Elhim clerk was quite capable.

Though merchant trading was nothing I had ever felt an interest in pursuing, the days were busy and interesting, leaving me little time for fear or regret. Nights were more than sufficient for that. Someday I would have to take up the search for the truth of my life. But first I needed to get a few things in order with myself. If I flinched at every sound, I could not hear the subtleties I needed to hear. If I shied away from people, I could not ask questions unremarked. My employment seemed a good first remedy.