The Harp of Imach Thyssel: A Lyra Novel (5 page)

“Quality takes time. But if you’re in a hurry, I suppose I could dash off a third-rate epic poem or a few scurrilous couplets.”

“What I’m in a hurry for right now is dinner,” Flindaran said. “So pick your feet up! I’m ahead of you already, and I don’t intend to do
all
the work.”

The sun was setting when they finally finished in the stable and hauled their packs to the kitchen where Ryl awaited them. She studied them briefly with the same cool appraisal she had given them when they arrived, then led them to a room on the upper floor. The room was large, with a window overlooking the lake, and to Emereck’s surprise, a tub of steaming water was waiting for them to wash off the dirt and stable smells. By the time they descended the stairs once more, Emereck was willing to admit even to Flindaran that their hostess did not seem to dislike minstrels.

When they entered the kitchen, Ryl was stirring a large pot of something dark and spicy-smelling. She gave them each a bowl of it and sent them back to the taproom to eat, pointedly ignoring Flindaran’s attempts to strike up a conversation.

The taproom smelled of beer, onions, and wood smoke. Several of the rough-hewn tables were already occupied. A tall blond girl moved among them, serving beer and stew with bored efficiency. Most of the customers were clearly locals, but a wiry, white-haired man in faded green leather caught Emereck’s attention. He nudged Flindaran and pointed him out.

“So?” Flindaran said after glancing toward the corner table where the man sat.

“So what’s a Cilhar doing in a place like this?”

“Spending the night, the same as we are.”

“I didn’t think Cilhar traveled much on the east side of the Mountains of Morravik.” Emereck studied the man speculatively. “I wonder if he knows any of the Witrian song cycle.”

“The what?”

“The Witrian song cycle. It’s a series of Cilhar songs based on the Two Century War. I heard part of it from a Cilhar woman who stopped at the Guildhall last summer, and I’ve been looking for a chance to learn the rest ever since.” Emereck set his bowl on an empty table and paused uncertainly.

“You’re not thinking of asking him about it, are you?” Flindaran demanded.

“Why not? I may not get a chance like this again.”

“Most people don’t have your passion for obscure old songs. He’s probably never heard of it.”

Emereck started to reply, then paused. “What’s worrying you? All I wanted to do was ask a few questions.”

“Bothering a Cilhar is a bad idea,” Flindaran said with an uneasy shrug. “They like privacy, and it’s not exactly healthy to argue with one of them.”

“I see.” Emereck felt a sudden perverse desire to walk over and strike up a conversation with the Cilhar for no other reason than to annoy Flindaran. He suppressed the impulse; irritating Flindaran did not seem a sufficient reason for ignoring his advice. He glanced speculatively at the Cilhar as he seated himself at the table. Perhaps he could persuade Ryl to introduce him to the man before they left. That ought to ease Flindaran’s objections. Emereck shoved the matter to the back of his mind and began eating.

The stew was excellent, and they finished it quickly. Emereck accepted a refill from the blond girl, but Flindaran, after a moment of indecision, shook his head. As the girl left, Emereck looked at him curiously. “Something wrong with your appetite?”

“Not at all,” Flindaran replied, grinning. He picked up the empty bowl and balanced it on his finger, then flipped it into the air and caught it in his other hand. “But you don’t expect me to miss an opportunity like this, do you?”

“Opportunity?”

“I’m going to get my refill in the kitchen. Didn’t you hear Ryl say we could?”

“Yes, but I got the distinct impression that she was interested mainly in getting you out of the kitchen at the time. And the stew’s the same in both places.”

“It’s not stew I’m after, idiot. I want to talk to Ryl.”

Emereck stared at him, then shook his head. “Why don’t you talk to that one instead?” he said, nodding at the blond serving girl. “She’s at least as pretty as Ryl is, and probably a lot more approachable.”

“Ryl’s a challenge.” Flindaran paused and looked from Emereck to the blond girl. “Why don’t you—”

“No.”

Flindaran shrugged. “All right, then. See you later.”

As Flindaran started to rise, Emereck shook his head and glanced toward the kitchen door. “Well, I wish you—” He checked in mid-sentence as Ryl came through the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “—had better timing, I think,” he finished, nodding in the innkeeper’s direction.

“Oh, demons!” Flindaran dropped back into his seat, looking disgusted. “Now I’ll have to think of something else. And on top of that, I have to sit here and watch you eat.”

“I didn’t think it was food you were interested in.”

“You have a low mind.”

Emereck grinned and went on eating. A moment later, he heard Flindaran mutter, “Demons take it!”

Emereck looked up in time to see Ryl seat herself across the table from the Cilhar man. “Try to be a little patient; she’ll have to get up eventually.”

“So? You don’t think I’d cross a Cilhar, do you?”

For a moment, Emereck could not believe Flindaran was serious. “He’s old enough to be her father! Maybe even her grandfather.”

“What does that have to do with anything? Besides, he might
be
her father, and then where would I be?

“You’ve managed before.”

“Not when a Cilhar was involved.” Flindaran stared pensively at his empty bowl. “You know, I think I’d better ask that blond for some more stew after all. No reason to starve myself.”

Emereck looked at him suspiciously. Flindaran grinned, then turned and began signaling the serving girl. With a resigned sigh, Emereck went back to eating.

T
WO BEERS AND ANOTHER
helping of stew later, Flindaran and the serving girl were well on their way to a mutual understanding. About the middle of the evening, Emereck left them and went upstairs. The flirtation would keep Flindaran occupied for several hours at least, and Emereck wanted to practice.

He unpacked his harp and tuned it, then began with half an hour of the exercises Flindaran most hated listening to. He worked for a while on the complex runs in the middle of “The Lay of Long Tormoran.” When he was satisfied with his progress, he stopped and stretched.

He paced the room, then paused at the window, unable to decide what to do next. A glint of moonlight on the lake caught his eye, and he remembered the song he had started on the ride into Tinbri. With renewed enthusiasm, he went back to the harp and began picking out chords, pausing frequently to try different variations of words or music.

Flindaran did not return until nearly midnight. When he arrived, he was clearly well pleased with his evening. As the door closed behind him, Emereck looked up from the small harp. “Flindaran! Listen to this and tell me what you think.”

“Dark water, still water, darker yet the sky;

Shadowed was the path beyond and cold the wind on high.

Black forest, clouded road, where still the bloodstains lie:

Dark the day and dark the way, when Corryn went to die.”

“I like the tune,” Flindaran said.

“I think there’s something wrong with the third line.”

Flindaran shrugged. “It sounded fine to me. But don’t you ever write any cheerful songs?”

“I should know better than to ask you for criticism.” Emereck set the harp down. “What are you doing back already, anyway?”

“There are still two customers downstairs, and Sira won’t be available until they’re gone. So I left, to provide them a good example.”

Emereck shook his head, half in envy, half in admiration. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Talent, hard work, clean living…”

“Luck, more likely. Much more likely. Though, knowing you, I’d be willing to believe you stacked the odds in your favor somehow.”

“Certainly not,” Flindaran protested. “I come by it honestly, whatever it is.”

“How can you come by something like that honestly?”

Flindaran shrugged. “It runs in the family. Father has seven or eight half-bloods at home, and Gendron has been flipping skirts for years.”

“You mean your whole family is as bad as you are?”

“Oh, no. Gendron’s the heir; he has to keep up family traditions. Oraven isn’t nearly as bad, and the girls are too young.”

“I can see it’s going to be an interesting visit,” Emereck said dryly.

“You’re too stiff in the backbone. Now, if you’d just—”

A loud shout from just below their window interrupted Flindaran. Emereck glanced over, but Flindaran shook his head. “Drunks,” he explained, “only get noisier if you shout back.”

“Who’s shouting? And speaking of drinking, I think you’ve—”

This time, the interruption was a scream, ending in a choked, gurgling sound. As one, Flindaran and Emereck lunged for the window.

Two armored men stood in the courtyard below. One held a drawn sword that glistened wetly. A body sprawled in front of him, half in, half out of the pool of light that spilled down from the windows of the inn. As the swordsman bent to wipe his blade clean, Flindaran stiffened and sucked in his breath. “Syaski!”

“What? They can’t be!”

“Look at the shape of their breastplates. No one but Syaski wears armor like that.”

“Maybe they’re just a couple of stragglers,” Emereck said, but even as he spoke, four men rode out of the darkness to join the first two.

“So much for that theory. That means there are at least eight of them; they’ve probably left two in back of the inn.”

“I don’t believe it,” Emereck muttered as the six men in sight spread out around the front of the inn. “Syaskor is a week’s ride north of here! A raid here risks provoking Kith Alunel; they wouldn’t dare.”

“Tell it to them,” Flindaran said grimly, nodding at the men on the ground. “But keep a dagger handy while you do. They don’t look much like figments of your imagination to me.”

“What are they after, in a town this small?”

As if in answer to Emereck’s question, one of the men outside shouted, “Ho, Narryn! Come down and play!”

“Come fight, Cilhar scum,” added another in a heavily accented voice. “Or we burn you out.”

“Now you know.” Flindaran stepped back from the window and began scooping their belonging into their packs. Emereck stayed where he was, frowning down at the soldiers and listening intently to their continued taunts. Something was wrong; those weren’t true Syaski accents, though Emereck couldn’t quite place them. Then the light outside changed, and he tensed. “Hurry up,” he said over his shoulder. “They’ve set the inn on fire.”

“Bloodthirsty half-wits.” Flindaran buckled his sword belt in place, then shoved the packs and the harp case at Emereck. “Here, take these. I’ll go first.”

Flindaran pushed the door open. The hallway was dark and already filling with smoke. Muttering curses, he stepped out of the room. Emereck followed as closely as he dared. He could hear shouts and screams from the lower floor, and the sounds of fighting outside. He ignored them as best he could, and concentrated instead on the steady, muffled cursing ahead of him. If he lost Flindaran now, they might never— The cursing stopped. Emereck hurried forward and almost immediately ran into his friend from behind.

“Ouch! Demons take it, can’t you watch where you’re going?” came a furious whisper.

“In the dark? Anyway, why’d you stop?”

Flindaran hesitated. “I think we’ve missed the stairs.”

“Keep going. There ought to be a service stairway at the end of the hall, and we still have a little time before the fire gets here.”

Together they blundered on. When they reached the end of the hall, there was a moment of confusion; then Flindaran found the right door and they half fell into the narrow stairwell. Emereck shoved the door closed, shutting out most of the smoke, and they groped their way to the foot of the stairs. The door at the bottom was closed, but sounds of fighting came clearly through it. Cautiously, Flindaran eased it open far enough for them to see what was happening.

The door opened onto the rear of the kitchen, close to the back door of the inn. Ryl and the white-haired Cilhar stood on the far side of the room. Three Syaski faced them, their backs to Flindaran and Emereck. Wisps of smoke curled up from the edges of the far wall, and the door leading to the main taproom was already ablaze. Ryl fended off one of the Syaski with a long chopping knife, while the Cilhar’s sword danced back and forth between the blades of the other two. A fourth Syask lay motionless on the floor beside the Cilhar.

Emereck had only an instant to absorb the scene; then Flindaran flung the door open with a crash and leaped forward. Emereck followed, wishing momentarily that he had some weapon. Flindaran pounced on the Syaski in front of Ryl. One of the others was distracted by their sudden entrance, and before he recovered from his surprise, the Cilhar ran him through. The third Syask stepped back and glanced quickly around.

Automatically, Emereck shifted his weight and swung one of the packs in a slow arc. It hit the man’s head with a satisfying thud just as he opened his mouth to give the alarm. He collapsed with only a huff of air. Feeling a little surprised and rather pleased with himself, Emereck hefted the pack and looked for another opponent.

There were none. Flindaran was just dispatching the last of the three. The Cilhar wiped his sword on the cloak of the nearest corpse, then glanced at the burning wall behind him. He looked at Ryl. “I don’t suppose—”

“It would take too much concentration,” Ryl said.

“Then we’d best get out of here. Quickly.”

Emereck did not wait for the suggestion to be made twice. He took a firmer grip on the two packs and the harp case, and kicked the outer door open. A moment later he stood in the courtyard behind the inn, waiting for his eyes to readjust to darkness and hoping fervently that none of the Syaski would spot him in the interim. He heard the others behind him and turned.

Flindaran and the Cilhar came out of the doorway first, their swords held ready. The Cilhar seemed to have no trouble adjusting to the relative darkness of the courtyard. He scanned the shadows thoroughly, then sheathed his sword with an absentminded flourish. An instant later, Ryl appeared, dragging the body of the Syask Emereck had knocked down. Emereck looked at her in surprise as she dropped the man in the shadows a short distance from the doorway.