Кейт Новак - Song of the Saurials

Everyone joined in singing the repeat of the chorus. Han played softly, not wanting to spoil anything should he guess a note wrong, as Alias began the second verse:

Han fumbled with his fingering. The songhorn player had never heard the last two lines before. The version he knew told of preparation for midwinter revels. But something disturbed Han even more than the unfamiliar words Alias sang. The young singer had suddenly switched to a new, eerie-sounding key. Then, without a repeat of the chorus, the swordswoman launched into a third verse with still more lyrics Han did not recognize.

At the first four lines, the farmers began scowling and muttering among themselves. This certainly wasn’t farming as they practiced it. It might be the way of those in lands under the sway of evil, like those to the north, controlled by the Zhentarim, but here in the dales they tried their best to live in harmony with the land. At the last four lines, the farmers shifted nervously in their chairs and peered into their ale, confused by the direction the song had taken.

Although Alias had failed to note that Han had ceased accompanying her, she recognized now that she no longer held her audience’s attention. She knew all too well what was wrong, and her voice failed. Oh, gods, she thought, shaking with fear. I’ve twisted this song the same way I twisted the others.

She felt Han’s hand on her shoulder. “Alias, are you feeling well?” the songhorn player asked quietly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so tired. I’ve forgotten the words,” she lied. “I think I’d better go sit down.”

Han squeezed her shoulder reassuringly and patted her on the back as she walked away. Anxious to spare her from the stares that followed her, Han raised his horn back to his lips and began playing a reel to distract the audience.

Equally protective of the singer’s feelings and eager to break up the unpleasant atmosphere the song had created in the common room, Jhaele nudged her son Durgo and whispered for him to get up and dance with his sister Nelil. Durgo, a middle-aged farmer with little sense of rhythm, had as much love of dancing as he had of crows and weevils, but he was a dutiful son. He grabbed Nelil’s hand and tugged her to her feet. The other farmers shook off their uneasiness and began clapping to the beat. A few joined Durgo and Nelil in the energetic dance.

As Alias threaded her way through the tables to the back of the common room, she kept her eyes on the floor, too embarrassed to look at anyone. She wanted to rush up the stairs to her room and lock herself inside, but before she could get past the table where Dragonbait sat, the saurial paladin grabbed her wrist. He pulled her toward him, slowly but firmly. Alias yielded to his strength and sat down heavily beside him.

“That’s the fifth time this has happened,” she growled through her clenched teeth, made angry by her own fear. “I’m not singing again. You shouldn’t have encouraged me.”

Ordinarily the pair communicated with a sign language that Alias had taught Dragonbait. It was a variant of the thieves’ hand cant, which the swordswoman had learned magically from the assassins who had helped create her. The visual language was capable of conveying quite complex ideas, but it still was inadequate when the paladin needed to comfort the swordswoman. Dragonbait reached out and stroked the inside of Alias’s sword arm with his scaly fingers. It was far easier to remind her how much he cared for her by touching the magical blue brand on her forearm—the brand which had bound his life to hers.

Alias felt her brand tingle at the paladin’s touch, and her irritation subsided somewhat. His touch there always filled her with the paladin’s own inner calm. Alias laid her fingertips on the front of Dragonbait’s tunic, where a similar brand scarred his chest scales beneath it. Alias knew that, despite the layer of fabric, he would experience the same tingling sensation she felt. Considering the misery she still felt, though, she couldn’t help but worry that her touch would only disquiet him.

“What’s wrong with me, Dragonbait?” she whispered, struggling to keep from crying. “Why can’t I sing a simple song without ruining it?”

The saurial paladin shook his head. He didn’t know.

Alias sniffed and caught a whiff of the odors the saurial emitted in response. The sell-sword smiled ruefully. She knew the scent of honeysuckle was Dragonbait’s expression of tender concern. The honeysuckle scent, however, was intermingled with the tang of baked ham, an odor that indicated the saurial was worried. Like a human’s body language, the saurial’s odors often gave away more of his true feelings than he would have chosen to reveal.

Someone nearby coughed politely, and the sell-sword and her companion looked up. Lord Mourngrym stood before their table with his son squirming under one arm. His lordship looked down at Alias quizzically and asked, “Is something wrong, Alias?”

“Nothing important, your lordship,” Alias said hastily. “I’m sorry I spoiled the song. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

Mourngrym would not be put off so easily, however. Alias looked pale and frightened. With Nameless in jail and no one to care for her but the peculiar lizard-man, his lordship felt protective of the sell-sword. He sat down beside her, balancing Scotty on the table before him. “I’m the one who insisted you sing,” Mourngrym reminded her. “I’m the one who should apologize. Now, show that you forgive me and tell me what’s wrong,” he said, patting her hand.

“I don’t know,” Alias said, trying to hide her fear with a shrug of her shoulders. “Sometime this spring I just started to sing strangely. I can sing a few songs just fine, and then one song suddenly turns into something about death and decay and darkness. I don’t even know I’m doing it until … until people start to stare at me as if I’m a monster. I thought I might be cursed or possessed, but three different priests told me there was nothing wrong with me—except that I was arrogant, headstrong, and disrespectful.”

Mourngrym smiled. “Well, they got that part right,” he teased.

Scotty reached out and grabbed a lock of Alias’s shiny red hair. The swordswoman picked the child up off the table and helped him stand on her thighs. Scotty bounced up and down, chortling with delight.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Alias said quietly. “What will Nameless think?”

“Alias, it wasn’t a bad song,” Mourngrym argued. “Just, um … different.”

Alias lowered her eyes guiltily. “I was upset that the Harpers wouldn’t let me see Nameless, but to tell the truth, I was a little relieved, too. I’m afraid the next time he asks me to sing for him, I’ll change the song, and he’ll be upset. He doesn’t like the least little change in his songs.”