Vault Of Heaven 01 - The Unremembered (20 page)

“Rooms or food?” she barked. She held one fleshy fist on her waist and a dirty rag in her other hand.

“Both,” Vendanj said without looking at the woman. Tahn realized Vendanj had addressed the woman without the use of the honorific “Anais.” “And we need to speak to Ulee.”

“Ulee’s busy and we’re out of lamb.” She began wiping the table in front of Vendanj, her ample bosom barely contained in the deep, square-cut bodice.

“He will see us,” Vendanj said. His voice filled with violence at the hint of contradiction.

“Fine, I’ll tell him,” she whined. “Now what will you have?”

“Steer and root for all, and one bottle of evenwine.”

The woman raised her chin in contempt and ambled away to the kitchen.

Tahn surveyed the room. Great carpets hung upon the walls, some with symmetrical designs rendered in cobalt blue and crimson. A small dais in the far right corner held stools; instruments leaned against the wall. Near them, two men and two women dressed in bright yellow and scarlet overdresses chattered and laughed, obviously the hall’s entertainment.

At the table, little was said. Mira spoke occasionally to Vendanj, and Braethen had again taken to his book. Sutter’s neck craned at nearly impossible angles to see all that the hall had to offer. Wendra’s eyes had shut; she looked close to sleep.

A moment later, a man with deep auburn hair and wide shoulders wound his way from the kitchen toward them. He wore a loose white shirt with two thin blue stripes across the chest. His rolled-up sleeves revealed arms thick with hair. He had a day’s growth of beard and deep-set eyes. He walked casually, nodding hellos as he came. Coming at last to them, he hunkered down beside Vendanj.

“Evening, friends. What can be done for you?”

“Hello. You are Ulee?” Vendanj asked.

“Since the narrow way into the land,” he said, smiling.

As Vendanj started to speak, four men in deep russet cloaks bearing the sigil of the League of Civility appeared around the table. They carried spears and wore swords, as well.

“Gentlemen,” Vendanj said, “what can I do for you?”

“You will come with us,” the tallest replied. He wore a yellow cord draped over his left shoulder. “We have some questions for you.”

As they spoke, the four scops in the corner donned large masks and began to play out a light, folliet skit.

“I’ve not yet eaten; can this wait until tomorrow? I’m not going anywhere.”

The four leaguemen laughed. “You’ll forgive us. We’ve heard your excuse far too many times.” Then their captain’s voice drew taut. “Now.”

The entertainment rose into a grand song, all four scops linking arms and wailing into the high rafters of the common hall.

Tahn could see Mira and Braethen rising. Around them, the crowd had begun to sing with the scops, making it hard to hear. But it all felt like the precipice of madness and violence.

“Under what authority?” Vendanj challenged.

The man wearing the yellow cord brought a hard fist, wearing iron knuckles, against the Sheason’s jaw. “Have you any more questions?”

Before Mira or Braethen could do anything, Vendanj held up his hand to stay them. He shook his head and gathered his composure. Tahn recognized the restraint the Sheason had just exercised. This was not the place for confrontation.

Vendanj then took Ulee’s hand in farewell. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he said, passing the horseshoe nail to the innkeeper.

He then turned to Mira, speaking under the sound of the crowd’s adulation for its circus. “Do not leave them.” He looked squarely at Tahn. “I will not be more than a day. If I am not back, leave at nightfall tomorrow, regardless.” He gave Mira a strong, reassuring look. “You know I will be well. Do not leave them,” he reiterated.

As a chorus of cheers and cups pounding on the tables applauded the performance, serving matrons rushed into the hall with bottles, where patrons were quick to want another drink. And Vendanj was ushered out under guard of the League.

*   *   *

Later in the night, when the others had fallen asleep in their rooms after hushed talk of Vendanj, Wendra crept back to the common room.

The drinkers and revelers were mostly gone. A few late suppers were being taken in corners by people whose occupations made late their time to eat. They remained attended by one serving woman, a hot but lower fire, and the scops who she’d come to see.

Wendra took a seat against one wall and listened. The songs these musicians played were unlike any she’d heard in the Hollows. When they were bright they were boisterous; when proud, courageous; and when sad, they were piteous and plaintive. Here, it seemed, the music became more than a performance by the singer, it grew into an accusation or challenge. There was boldness in it that she hadn’t heard before. Even through the troubles and madness of this night and everything since fleeing the Hollows—and before, back as far as her rape—Wendra was entranced by this new sound and knew she must seize upon it in some way.

It made her think of where the simple, dark melodies she’d found when curled onto a cabin floor a few days ago might lead.

When the night at last found its end for the common room, the scops began to pack their instruments to leave. Wendra slid from her chair with questions she hoped they could answer.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’re very gifted. I enjoyed listening to you very much.”

The woman, still packing, looked over her shoulder at Wendra as her male counterpart turned to receive his accolades.

“You’re most welcome, my young woman. Was there a particular song you liked?” He smiled and bowed in thanks for her praise.

His companion shook her head without turning again.

Wendra decided her answers would come from this gentleman. “The songs of loss. There was something strong and comforting about them. I don’t know. It seemed—”

“They didn’t simply accept the pain, but demanded answers and retribution,” he finished for her.

“Yes,” Wendra said. “The music seemed to provide relief of a kind by not simply wallowing in grief and resentment.”

“You are an astute listener. Are you by chance a musician yourself?” The man looked Wendra over from top to bottom.

She understood then his designs, her stomach roiling at the thought. Thankfully, the woman chimed in, finally turning to join the conversation. “If you are, don’t waste any more breath on him,” she said. “You’ll want to talk to the composer, which would be me.”

The woman hefted an instrument case over her shoulder and came to stand beside her companion. “He’s quick to accept the credit, however he can get it.” She gave him a look of amused disgust. “But he’s never around to help create the music we earn that credit by. What’s your name, my young lady?”

“Wendra. And yours?”

“I am Solaena. This is Chrastof. He’s got packing to do. Why don’t you and I sit so I can rest my feet, wet my lips, and I can give you the advice my father never gave me.” She waved a hand at the serving woman, who showed attentive but weary eyes and went to get something from the kitchen.

Solaena and Wendra sat together, and shortly a tall glass of steaming tea was set before Solaena. She sipped, the warmth seeming to ease her features, and relaxed into her chair.

“You find some fascination with playing songs to a crowd like this,” Solaena said. “Well, let me tell you. If you can find another way to earn a coin, do it. Most times we aren’t paid, and patrons of a common room like this often think we’re paid to do more than entertain them, if you understand me. Keep your music, my girl, but don’t make it your life’s path.”

Wendra nodded appreciatively. But her questions were not professional. “How do you make them? The songs. How do you make them feel like anguish, not for its own sake but to justify revenge.”

The scop smiled. “I see. Well, that’s just writing from my own heart’s desire. I guess so late in the night it’s tolerable to admit that I don’t believe in the same things I did when I was your age. And maybe because I don’t, I write about them in my songs to remind me of a time when I did. What I mean is, the songs are a place where I can give voice to my inmost wishes, even if the world around me doesn’t hearken to my words. Do you understand?”

“I believe so. But the world does hear you. The people in the room. Me.”

A grateful smile touched Solaena’s lips. “You’re a dear heart, my girl. Thank you. And because of your gracious praise, I’ll tell you the trick of it—as I think that’s what you’d like to know.” She leaned over her tea, and spoke in a sincere tone. “When you make your sad song, you mustn’t be afraid to go to the bottom of your own pain. Any power in those tunes comes from the well of your own torment, and it’s from there that the demand for relief will come. Anything else is simply a lament, and personally, I don’t see a lot of point to that.”

Wendra had an epiphany at the scop’s words, there in the dark hours of night in an empty common room that reeked of bitter.

“And one more thing besides,” Solaena added. “Those songs don’t always need to be brayed out. We do it because these are noisy places.” She looked around the room. “But what I’m sharing with you here can come with the same power and meaning in a lullaby. If you doubt it, listen to a mother singing the hope of her heart for a child born into a dangerous world.”

Wendra stared back at the woman, loss and revelations warring in her soul. The late-night instruction on songs to be sung with sadness and authority would steal her sleep that night and for many nights to come, because the woman’s words struck Wendra’s deepest fear and regret. Her own recent melodies she now realized were, at least in part, lullabies for a child who would never hear them.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Subtleties

Tahn awoke to the smell of fried pig steak and root. A narrow shaft of light streamed through the window. Beside it, Braethen sat reading, looking like he’d been awake all night. Sutter already had his trousers on and a wild look in his eye.

“Any word on Vendanj?” Tahn asked.

Braethen looked up. “Not yet.” Then he returned to his reading.

Tahn regarded the sodalist, still getting used to thinking of him that way for real. “What are you reading?”

“History,” he mumbled without looking up this time.

“Are you coming to endfast or not?” Sutter asked, dressing.

The sodalist put down his book and pressed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “I could use a break.” He looked gaunt and pale from lack of sleep. “Mira said not to leave the inn.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sutter said.

They left the room and found a serving matron in the hall near the kitchen. The common room stood vacant by comparison to the prior evening, though a few dozen men and women sat eating endfast. The serving matron led them to the kitchen where the sweet smell of honey frakes—a delicious potato cake—joined the bouquet of appetizing aromas. Tahn guessed Mira had arranged the location of this meal, where there were fewer eyes to notice them.

Pushing through the door, they found Wendra lending a hand in the kitchen.

“Come and eat.” She dished out four plates and set them at a table to one side of the oven.

Sutter had seated himself and taken half a honey frake before Tahn even found a seat.

“Thank you, Wendra,” Braethen said, and took a seat beside Sutter.

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “You are to eat and then wait in your room.”

“We got the command,” Sutter mumbled around his food. He nudged Tahn under the table, signaling him to hurry. If they finished their morning meal before Braethen, they might escape into the city without any further admonitions.

Tahn poured fresh grape mash from a carafe and drank deeply. He wasn’t sure he wanted to venture any further into Myrr, even during the day. He remembered Balatin talking about the larger cities, and how he had moved to the Hollows to escape the constant intrigues and politics. Still, something stirred his heart at the prospect of seeing the sights, perhaps even the palace. Tahn began shoveling his food into his mouth. He wasn’t a Sheason, or even a sodalist. He was a hunter of no repute—safely anonymous.

Shortly, Sutter stood. “I’m done. I guess I’ll head back to the room,” he said.

Tahn rose as well. “I’ll join you. I need to fletch a few arrows.”

Braethen looked at his plate, still half full, and appeared conflicted.

“We’ll be fine, Braethen,” Sutter assured. “You keep Wendra company while she finishes morning endfast, and we’ll see you in the room.”

Without waiting for a reply, Sutter turned toward the hall, where the stairs ascended into the Stone’s upper levels.

“Delicious, Wendra. Thank you,” Tahn said.

“A meal fit for the First Ones,” Sutter called from down the hall.

Tahn hastened to catch his friend, who was already exiting the front door of the Granite Stone toward the streets of Myrr.

They’d just broken into the sunlight when a soft voice called, “I think you two are lost.”

Tahn and Sutter turned simultaneously to see Mira standing beside a large cart to the right of the door.