Fortune's Fool (9 page)

He could
still
sing her out of the Kingdom if he had to. It was even easier, since she was a spirit, than it would have been if she was something of flesh and bone.

Or he could get a real magician to banish her….

Oh, he was thinking too hard about this. And one more day and he would be back at the Palace.

But first, he planned to spend a day or two here at the seashore. He almost never got the chance to come here, except when he was making his rounds. There was a nice little inn around the next turn of the road, where they knew him, but only as a traveler. He’d planned to be there by noon at the latest and it wasn’t even midmorning now.

Yes. He would spend a day, perhaps two here. And then—

He sighed.

Then it would be back to the foolery. This had been a nice change, but alas, it was time to get back to work.

He wondered though, as he rounded the curve in the road and saw the inn in the distance, if anyone ever realized just how much work it was….

The inn was full of people, the smells of good food, the murmur of talk. Sasha stared morosely into his mug of honey mead and toyed with the remains of his apple tart. This was not going as he had planned.

It wasn’t because the inn wasn’t warm and welcoming, because it most certainly was. And it wasn’t because he wasn’t remembered as a good customer and treated as such. No…no it was none of that.

It was that for some reason—maybe it was the season, maybe it was because the current crop of local youngsters was just old enough to begin thinking of love and lovers—the inn was full to the rafters with courting couples. What they were all doing here, he had no clue. It was the middle of the day, and surely they should all be out working. Fishing, cleaning, baking, mending nets or boats—what have you. Yet here they were, mooning at each other over their midday meal.

Maybe he had been a little too good when he’d sung all those songs at the wedding. Sometimes even he couldn’t tell what The Tradition was going to seize on and run away with.

The barmaids each had their swains, who teased them as they worked, under the indulgent eye of the innkeeper’s wife. There were couples at every table, inside and out, in every possible stage of courtship. One very young pair, who from their costumes were a couple of apprentices to a potter, was at the shy, tongue-tied stage, hardly looking at each other, yet the tension between them was palpable. Another, who could hardly be separated, and he learned from overhearing bits of conversation, were newly married; he a fisherman, she a net-maker. Two couples were awkward for another reason; dressed in their finest, these were arranged engagements and the young men were awkwardly, and dutifully, trying to win over the young ladies while their matchmakers looked on. It didn’t look to Sasha as if they were getting bad bargains either; both girls were clean, nice to look at, and seemed to be amiable and cheerful, both young men looked as if they were hardworking and not unkind. As arranged marriages went, these were certainly not going to be the worst. And—well, it looked as if the girls were beginning to think well of the boys.

That wasn’t a bad thing at all.

There was an old couple near the fire, quietly sharing a meal, but with obvious affection between them; those two he could understand being here in the middle of the day. Though he wore the garb of a fisherman, it was clear that his fishing days were long past.

And the innkeeper and his wife were clearly bound by both love and a strong partnership.

It was all a lovely atmosphere of contentment, affection, cordiality.

And the result of all of this was to make Sasha feel terribly lonely.

It was one of those moments when he realized how very
apart
he was from the rest of his family. His very nature set him apart from them; he would always be one thing to them in private and something different in public. Out here he wasn’t the Fool; he was Sasha the Singer; a bit of a mystery, but he’d made this trip often enough that people took him at face value. When he got home, though, it would be back to being Sasha the Fool, and no one was really kind to Sasha the Fool except behind closed doors.

Certainly he had never seen a young lady regard him with any kind of interest. It wasn’t going to get any better, either. By now, the Palace would be full of news, speculation, or both, about the Crown Prince’s new bride. Once the Crown Prince was settled, there was a strong likelihood—a certainty in two cases—that the rest of his brothers would bring up the brides of their own choosing for approval, Yes, it was that season. It seemed as if Sasha was the only creature in Led Belarus that wasn’t paired up, or about to be paired up.

Nor was he ever likely to be. Not even by an arranged marriage. Who’d marry the Fool? Who’d betroth his daughter to the Fool? The very scorn that made his magic possible also made any kind of a normal life impossible. The only chance to find a woman lay among the magical creatures of the realm…and he wasn’t at all sure that he wanted to make that kind of alliance with one of them. That could be very dangerous.

Besides, which of them would care to take up with a mere human? Mortal, short-lived, it was the kind of relationship that could only end in sorrow. Songs were sung about that very thing—which, Traditionally, made it all the more likely that any love between him and a creature of legend would end badly.

Maybe a witch…

Or maybe not. Witches were settled, and wouldn’t want to pack up and move to be near the Palace. And he couldn’t leave the Palace except to make his rounds.

He stared glumly down at his reflection in the mead, thinking with resignation that he was, in all probability, doomed to live and die as unicorn bait.

Finally he couldn’t bear all the couple-ness around him; no one had asked him for a song, in fact, they were all so engrossed in each other that he doubted they had ever noticed him. He went to his room.

It was a good room in a good inn. He had the narrow bed and the small room to himself; most travelers slept two to four to a bed, whether they knew each other or not. The feather mattress was nicely stuffed and clean, the bedding was clean, the blankets newly aired. Clean, neat—those were the touchstones to this place. And at least he wasn’t staring at courting couples. But it was not much better for his loneliness than being down in the common room had been.

After lying on the bed staring up at the wooden ceiling for a while, he finally decided that this was doing him no good either. But the afternoon was still young. He didn’t have to stay here. And out there was the reason why he favored this inn and this road over all others, including some inns that were downright up to the standards of a Prince. And he could hear its voice calling him through the little window in his room.

The sea.

He loved the sea. If he hadn’t been born into the Royal family, he thought he might have been a sailor. He loved everything about it, the ever-changing color, the scent, the sound. Really the only time he didn’t love it was in the winter…and even then, he loved the look of it, just…no one sane wanted to be on or near the sea in a Led Belarus winter, when the Kingdom lived up to its name.

His mind made up now, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, pulled his balalaika out from under it, and headed out the door and back down the narrow wooden stairs. No need to lock up here. These people were as honest as they came, and no one would touch his things while he was gone, which was another reason why he liked this inn. If ever he was able to leave the Palace, and give over being the Fool…this would be where he would want to live.

As if he ever could. As well wish for the moon.

Bah. Tell your troubles to the sea.

The odd thing about the sea was that he had always had the feeling it was listening to him, from the very first moment he’d first walked down onto a beach. Well, stranger things had happened, and he had been a part of some of them. Maybe it did listen to him.

Though if he got a wish-fulfilling flounder one day when he was singing his sorrows…he might well ask it to fulfill three of its own wishes. Wishes were dangerous things, and The Tradition was just waiting for an injudicious one.

The various couples were so engrossed in each other that they never even noticed him go through the common room, even though normally the sight of the balalaika would have elicited calls for music. He sighed heavily as he opened the bulky front door, made like the rest of the inn from salvaged ship timbers, and let himself out.

The village was situated a prudent distance back from the shore, behind a ridge of sheltering hills and dunes. Despite that most of the folk here made their living as fishermen, it was a lot wiser to have to make a long hike down to the beach than take the chance that your house would wash away in a storm. There was a well-worn path that led down to the shore, over the ridge, around one of the hills, and then wound among the dunes. But he didn’t take it. He wanted to go somewhere that he wouldn’t be running into yet more courting couples; he’d had quite enough of them already, really.

As the sun began the slow, downward slide into late afternoon, he found a stretch of beach that was just as deserted as he could have wanted. Settling himself into a little nook among the rocks, he closed his eyes and began to play. The sound of the waves near at hand set his rhythm for him; the sand was soft, the rock at his back sun-warmed. Since there was no one to hear him but himself, he gave in and indulged in the most melancholy of songs; though none of them were anything he had ever written. He just wasn’t the type to write sad songs, even when this mood was on him.

He had moved on to his third song when, eyes still closed, he had the distinct feeling that someone was watching him. Irritated, because, after all, he had come down here to be alone, he opened his eyes.

His irritation vanished without a trace.

He was being watched and listened to, quite attentively in fact, by someone who had perched atop a nearby rock herself. But she was possibly the most adorable little creature he had ever seen in his life.

She was blond, with silky hair the color of silver-gilded thistledown, done in a single thick braid down her back with a red bow at the end, and a much bigger one at the back of her neck that framed her face like a pair of wings. The top of her head was probably just below his collarbone, and he wasn’t a tall man. Her bright green eyes were slightly slanted, and her mouth looked as if it smiled a lot.

One thing was certain though; this was no peasant girl.

Her clothing was a little odd for sitting on the beach; a bright red skirt, a white blouse embroidered heavily in red, and unless he was terribly mistaken, both were silk. She had a bright red leather belt and boots to match, and looked like a little czarina about to go for a ride.

There wasn’t a horse to be seen, however. He hadn’t heard a horse anywhere near here. There were no boyars at all close to this village, and no one’s summer house either. No one in this village was prosperous enough to dress their daughter in silk. There was certainly something odd going on here.

Something magical? Probably. He should be wary, perhaps. On the other hand—

On the other hand,
he thought wryly,
if there was any danger, or any danger develops, I suspect my unicorn brigade would come charging down to the beach to save me.
Very embarrassing, but he could probably live with embarrassment if it got him out of a tight spot.

And she was very, very pretty.

Where was the harm? How often did he get pretty girls smiling at him and wanting to spend time with him?

“You play very well,” said the girl, with a smile. “But whatever are you doing, sitting in the sand?”

“I’m staying at the inn and at the moment it is rather overfull of courting couples,” he replied. “They wouldn’t pay any attention to my music anyway—they’re too busy looking deeply into each others’ eyes, and listening to each others’ voices. I’m Sasha.”

“My name is Katya—Ekaterina,” she replied. “Would you rather be alone? I can go. The last thing I would want to do is to disturb a musician. I expect you get little enough peace.”

He noticed that she made no immediate move to get up. In fact, she looked very much at ease on her rock. Definitely magical. Who or what else could find a rock comfortable to sit on?

He grinned at her. “Well, I would be very pleased if you would stay. A musician always likes an audience.” True on both counts. His dissatisfaction and loneliness at the inn had everything to do with being the only person there who was not with someone. He felt immensely cheered now.

“I’m not a musician by trade,” he added. “I just travel about on business for my father.” Also true. It was not wise to tell falsehoods in the presence of a magic creature. They could take those falsehoods and make them true. “I play what I can remember, and some music of my own, but I can’t claim to have a large number of songs in my head. Is there anything you would like to hear?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Anything at all. I don’t know enough of your music to give you names of songs. I only know that I very much like what I have heard you play so far.”

Well the last thing he was going to do was lapse into melancholy again. So what would be cheerful? He thought about all the couples in the inn, and smiled slightly. Well, why not? He sang one of the songs of his own making, about weddings and the contentment of a couple who were happily suited to one another. He preferred that to a love song, because not every contented couple was madly in love. In fact, being madly in love wasn’t always a good thing. Being madly in love could lead to jealousy, suspicion, any manner of negative things. The Tradition had a way of twisting what you did to its own purposes, and
his
purpose
was
to keep his land from having too many bad things happen in it.

From there, he moved on to other songs, some with a purpose, some without. It did no harm to sing the songs of peace and prosperity here…and in fact, now that he came to think of it, he modified a couple of them on the fly to include the sorts of things that fisherfolk would need. Fair winds. Good catches. Safely out and safely back again. And—always, always remembering to honor the Sea King. Many a Traditional tragedy had begun by angering the Sea King. Katya nodded her head and tapped her feet in time to the music, and once or twice even got up and danced to one of his dancing tunes.