Redwing (11 page)

“ROWAN! Oi, wait up, man!” The voice was loud as a town crier's and rumbled like a troll's. Not a second later, a heavy arm clapped across Rowan's back, making his sore shoulder flare in protest.

Timber. Rowan knew who it was without looking—there was no mistaking that booming voice. He felt his heart lift and sink at the same time, a sensation so odd that he actually clutched a hand to his chest as though to hold it together. The traitor tears burned behind his eyes as he turned. He blinked furiously, but there was no need. Timber's bear hug swallowed him whole, tears and all.

Timber had been his parents' best friend and musical rival for as long as Rowan could remember, and in some ways more of an uncle than his real one. Named “Timbre” in hopes that he would be blessed with a rich singing voice, he earned the nickname “Timber” in his teens by growing into a great slab of a man. “Tall as a tree and solid as a stump,” he used to tell the kids with a wink when they were small, “and in my old age I'll be gnarled as a weepy willow.”

Now as he unwrapped his big arms and held Rowan at arm's length—a ritual at every meeting, accompanied by the phrase, “Let's take a look at ye, see if you've matched my height yet”—his genial face fell into concern. “Oh now, lad, what is it?”

“Bad news, Timber,” Rowan managed. “Can we go somewhere?” He desperately did not want to have this conversation on the street.

The older man didn't say another word, just draped his arm around Rowan's shoulders and steered him down the street. Though he must have been in an agony of impatience, he didn't mention the matter until they were ensconced in the empty back corner of a taproom with mugs of ale in front of them.

“I've never drunk ale right after breakfast,” Rowan said. He wasn't sure he was going to like it either, not with his stomach already doing nervous flip-flops. But Timber took a long, sucking swallow of his and then set his mug down firmly.

“Now tell me.”

It was the first time he had told someone who actually shared his loss. Timber's eyes screwed shut at the news, then his big freckled hand covered his face as his shoulders hunched in grief. There would be more conversations like this to come, Rowan thought bleakly. Worst of all would be telling his Aunt Cardinal and Uncle Ward. Yet there was comfort, too, in Timber's sorrow. That somebody else cared seemed to lift some of the burden of death from Rowan's shoulders.

Finally Timber straightened himself and took a deep, shaky breath.

“Ah, lad. I can't say how sorry…” He shrugged helplessly. “We heard there was plague at Five Oaks, of course, but everyone seemed to think you'd escaped it.”

“Was it bad there?” It had been a long time since Rowan had had news of anyone, or anywhere. A long time since he'd cared to find out.

“Bad enough. The son died, and the earl's wife, and a fair number of servants. A handful of cases cropped up beyond the estate, and people were saying it would be the Death Years all over again. But it didn't keep spreading this time—it looks like it's died out. Now if it had been in a city like this one…” Timber shook his head in dread at the prospect. “Your dad did right to keep away from the settlements. Saved a lot of lives.”

Rowan nodded numbly. A thought was trying to rise to the surface, and he was trying to keep it under the waves. It bubbled up anyway: Cashel hadn't done his family any good, cramming them together into a little caravan. Maybe their chances would have been better if they had stayed at Five Oaks.

He wondered if Pansy, the earl's daughter, had survived. He'd been giving her lessons for few months before they left. She was a beautiful girl, eyes as violet as her namesake, with a flirty way of teasing him that he was just starting to enjoy. “Mind you don't let her go beyond,” his father had warned, and when Rowan grinned in reply, Cashel had become very serious. “I mean it, Rowan. It's a position of trust you've been given, and the earl will not tolerate a hired hand making free with his daughter. Not even if said hired hand is one of the blessed bards!”

“Rowan?” Timber's deep rumble brought his thoughts back to the present.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Timber's mug was already empty, and Rowan pushed his own across the table, glad of an excuse to be rid of it.

“I mean it. You're more'n welcome to stay with me, for as long as you'd like to.”

“You wouldn't happen to need a box player?” A little flame of hope ignited in Rowan's chest. But Timber's face was already screwed into an apologetic grimace.

“I'm afraid not, lad. You know we have Bruin—he's twice your age and half the player, but Bryony would never sack him.” Timber's ensemble wouldn't have been Rowan's first choice musically. They were known for their dance music, which meant lots of traveling in order to play repetitive figures for noisy, drunken, largely unappreciative crowds. But a year or two under Timber's protective wing would have made everything easier.

Instead, he shook his head quickly. “Then thanks, but no. I'm too old to mooch off you.” He raised a hand against Timber's protests. “I know you don't see it that way. It's just that I need to be playing and earning my own way now.”

Timber nodded his understanding. “You're scheduled for the showcase, I hope?” Rowan nodded. “Tell me what times, and I'll get the word out. I'll do what I can for you.”

Rowan thanked him awkwardly and made to get up. “I should get going. I need to find a good busking spot, and you know how they fill up.”

Timber stood with him and laid a restraining arm on Rowan's shoulder. “Are you all right for money, Rowan? Will the guild payment see you through?”

“The guild payment?”

“Aye, lad. For your parents…” Timber took in the confusion on Rowan's face and pulled him back down to the table. “Have you not reported their deaths yet?”

Rowan, not trusting himself to speak, just shook his head.

“I'll go with you now,” declared Timber. “Your parents were guild members in good standing for many years. There's a death payment owing to you. It won't be much, but it will help.” His full lips pressed together into a grim line. “As much as anything
can
help.”

FOURTEEN

N
ow that he was about to step onto the stage, Rowan wished he had asked Aydin to back him up after all. Playing solo, with the stakes so high and before an audience that would neither stomp their feet and cheer in approval of your performance, nor hiss in displeasure, but rather silently appraise every ornament and error, was more nerve-racking than he had imagined.

The conversation with Aydin about the showcase had been an awkward dance of polite vagaries. Rowan, fairly sure but not certain that Aydin had no interest in seeking work as a player, and not wanting to insult or abandon him, had tried to suggest he was welcome to join in without making him feel obligated. Aydin, in turn, had acted like he didn't know what Rowan was getting at—or maybe, thought Rowan, he really didn't. It was easy to forget that Prosperian was not Aydin's—Samik's—first language. Finally, Aydin had asked, “What time is your showcase?” and when Rowan told him, said, “Then if you don't need me, I won't come. I have an appointment to keep.”

So instead of being relieved that Aydin was not expecting to partner with him—honestly, he was more of a liability than an asset—Rowan felt absurdly disappointed that he would not be in the audience and hurt that he had not deigned to reveal what his “appointment” was about.

Now he took a deep breath and tried to let all that go. It was time to let go, too, of his doubts about his program. Most up-and-coming young players would lead off with something flashy played at breakneck speed—an attention grabber. Rowan, wanting to distinguish himself from the others, had decided instead on a sweet, lilting waltz. He had hoped it would suggest confidence and a more mature musical taste. The risk was it would, instead, suggest he couldn't play anything harder. He hoped he wouldn't lose his audience before the second selection, which would prove them wrong.

Let it go.
It was all beyond his control now, all except one thing: playing the pieces as well as he could. He walked on stage, bowed to the unsmiling men sitting in the stuffy hall, and sat on the stool provided. As he arranged his box, he let his knee set the rhythm of the piece:
one,
two, three,
one,
two three,
dum
deedle deedle…

Heska save him, he'd been a fool. In his small caravan, beginning the piece with a single melody line and then building it gradually had seemed bold and lovely. But in the hall, the air seemed to swallow the thin notes before they even left the stage.
Just play, don't think.
The feeble single notes unreeled one after the other, agonizingly slowly, and finally Rowan found the music in them. The beauty of the melody came to him with an image—a memory—of Ettie, dancing with an imaginary partner as she hummed this lovely waltz. “Play it for me, Rowan,” she had begged, and he had gone out to the green with her and played, and she had danced through the morning dew, barefoot in her nightie, the white fabric floating around her ankles…

When he was done, Rowan looked up, a little dazed, with really no idea if he had played well or not. His audience was still there, at least. He gave himself a mental shake and put his mind to his final selection, a tricky set of reels. There could be no wool-gathering on this one—it took every ounce of his skill and attention.
Not too fast
, he reminded himself.
Steady is more important than fast
. Still, he meant to take it both fast
and
steady.

At the end of the set, it was his mother's voice that guided him through. “Smile, dearie. It's a performance. Bow, don't bounce. Say ‘Rowan Redwing' slowly in your head as you hold it. Don't bolt off the stage.”

“Pretty waltz. What's it called?” asked the attendant who escorted him to an alcove just outside the hall.

“That's ‘The Sun's Desire,'” said Rowan. He must have played it decently then, he told himself. Or maybe the fellow was just trying to put him at ease. He appreciated the comment, either way.

“Now don't feel badly if nobody comes to speak to you,” continued the attendant. “No one gets job offers on the spot. If they're interested, they'll come to your second showcase, ask around…” He stopped in confusion. A half-dozen men and women, some of whom Rowan recognized, were lined up at the alcove, with more approaching.

“Huh. Unless, I guess, you're a brilliant young box player. Get in there now, and meet your adoring fans!” With a friendly push, the attendant left him to it.

But they weren't prospective employers. Timber had got the word out, and friends and colleagues of Rowan's parents were dropping by to give their condolences. As Rowan stood and endured the painful repetition of sympathy, he was genuinely moved that people had come. Up to now, his family's death had been so anonymous—as though they had never existed, except to him. But what if someone
did
want to speak to him about work and found him instead in the midst of—well—this?

A large woman Rowan had never met flung her arms around him and pressed his face into her impressive bosom. “You poor thing.” Her loud, throaty voice resonated in his ears. “All alone in the world.” A last clench, and she released him. “If you need someone to sing at the funeral rites, I'd be honored,” she said. “When will you hold them?”

“I don't know,” Rowan admitted. Funeral rites. Wasn't it too late for that? “I haven't really had a chance to think about it.”

The woman shot him a strange look—not much wonder, given that he'd had nearly three months to think about it—and made way for the next person. “I'm Iris,” she called over her shoulder. “Just ask around—you'll find me.”

She looks like an Iris
, thought Rowan.
Purple and
overblown
.

SAMIK SAT ON THE FRONT STEP of the caravan, stretched his long legs out before him and tipped his head back into the sun. It was important to take full advantage of these rare interludes of sunshine; the constant damp was making him feel soggy, as though mushrooms might sprout up between his toes. He was pleasantly close to dozing off when Rowan returned, looking serious and preoccupied—as usual.

“So no work yet?”

Rowan shook his head. “Not even an inn or taproom—I think they were nearly all booked before we even arrived.” He shrugged. “Hopefully my second showcase will help.”

“You look like you could use some fortification,” said Samik. “Come inside—you're just in time for tea.” He pulled himself to his feet, pulled open the door and bowed grandly. He hadn't known if Rowan would return or not and had been about to enjoy his little feast alone, but this was better. He couldn't wait to see Rowan's reaction.

He wasn't disappointed. Rowan's eyes went round with surprise when he stepped into the caravan.

“What's all this?”

“This,” said Samik, still with the grand manner, “is
real
food.” He turned to the stove, where the water was boiling, and busied himself making proper tea. “I thought the pastries would do well for our tea. They're filled with berries and cream. But, as you can see, that's not all I have.” He gestured toward the galley table, where meat pies, a wheel of cheese, fresh-baked bread and a dish Samik had never tried, made from eggs and new spinach wafted tantalizing smells into the air.

Rowan demolished one pastry and started on another before coming up for air.

“How did you buy all this?” he demanded.

“I went busking today, as you suggested.” Samik flashed him a sly grin.

“You made enough in one afternoon for this?” Rowan was incredulous.

Samik shrugged. “You were right; the people here have good taste. One man called me ‘The Street-Corner Sensation of Clifton.'” He swallowed and pointed. “But let's talk about you.”