Lynn Flewelling - Luck in the Shadows

"Begging your pardon," Alec chose his words with care, "but I think my master, Aren Windover, and I could bring you in ten times that each night we're here."

Satisfied with the set of the tap, the taverner shoved his hands into his belt and glowered down at Alec.

"Well! Begging your pardon, my young whelp, but just how do you think you could do that?"

Alec held his ground stubbornly; his father'd had a knack for dickering. Thinking back, he asked, "Do you make more profit from your rooms or your ale?"

"From the ale, I suppose."

"And how much do you charge for that?"

"Five coppers for a flagon, a half silver for a jug. What of it?"

Sensing the man's growing impatience, Alec quickly came to the point. "What you need, then, is something to attract men to drink. And what attracts drinking men more than a good bard? You may not know Aren Windover, but a good many in town do. You put it about that he's playing at your tavern and I think you'll have to send out for more ale. I can probably coax a few soldiers in here, and they'll bring their friends the next night. You know how fighting men can drink!"

"Aye, used to be one more'self," the tavern keeper nodded, looked Alec up and down. "Come to think of it, I believe I have heard of this Windover chap. He's the one drew such a crowd over at the Stag and Branch last year. Perhaps I could let you have the room for two and a half."

"I can pay in advance," Alec assured him. Then carried away with the success of his own invention, he added for good measure, "Master Windover is to play for the mayor, you see."

"The mayor, eh?" the tavern keeper grunted in surprise. "Why didn't you say so! Playing at the mayor's, and the Fishes as well? All right, then. Go and tell your master that the room is his for two marks."

"Well—" Alec mused stubbornly.

"Damn you, do you want my blood? One and a half, then, but I've got to make a profit, don't you see?"

"Done," Alec conceded. "But that does include candles and supper, right? And the bed linens had better be fresh! Master Windover is very particular about his bed linens."

"You do want my blood," the landlord growled. "Yes, yes, he'll get his dinner and he'll get his cursed bed linens. But by the Old Sailor, he better be all you say or the fishermen will have the pair of you for bait."

Alec paid out two nights in advance for good faith, then toiled upstairs balancing their gear and a candlestick.

Passing the common sleeping room on the second floor, he climbed a steeper stairway to the attic. A short, windowless corridor led to a door at the far end.

Tucked in the peak of a gable, the room Seregil had specified was small, with sloping walls on either side. The narrow bed and washstand nearly filled the cramped space. Alec found a cheap tallow candle in a cracked dish on the stand and lit it from his own, then pushed back the shutters of the window over the bed.

The back of the tavern stood out over the water on pilings. Looking out, Alec found a sheer drop down

to the water below.

A thick crescent moon cast a glittering trail across the lake's black surface. It was pleasant up here at the top of the house, quiet and warm. It occurred to Alec that he could probably count on one hand the times he had ever been alone inside a proper house, and never in a room so high. After pausing a moment to savor the new sensation, he sighed and headed back down the stairs.

Looking out over the noisy commotion of the tavern, he spotted Seregil talking with the host and was struck once more by the difference between «Aren» and Seregil; their movements, their stance, the set of their mouth, all as distinct as if they really were two separate men.

Seregil glanced up just then and motioned impatiently for him to come. Dodging past servers with flagons and wooden trenchers, Alec made his way through the crowd.

"Of course, we have only just arrived in town," Seregil was saying, "but I shall present myself to your most honored mayor tomorrow." Coughing delicately into his fist, he added, "I seem to have taken sore in the throat today, but I'm certain a night's rest will repair my voice. In the meantime, I am certain that you will be pleased with my apprentice's abilities."

The landlord darkened noticeably at this, and Alec gave Seregil a startled glance, which he pointedly ignored.

"You mustn't fear," Seregil went on airily. "This lad is constantly surprising me with his rapid progress. Tonight you shall have a demonstration of his talents."

"We shall see, Master Windover," the taverner growled doubtfully. "Your boy claims he'll be good for business, so the sooner you start, the better."

Though he made a sort of bow to Seregil, Alec was certain he caught a glint of malevolent humor in the man's eye as he left.

"You've been busy," Seregil remarked dryly as he checked the tuning of his harp. The crowd shifted restlessly around them, anticipating entertainment.

"There's nothing wrong with your voice!" Alec whispered in alarm.

"There are a few things I need to do tonight that don't allow me to be the center of attention for the whole evening. You'll be fine, don't worry. I understand you beat our landlord down to one and a half for the room. I didn't think you'd bring the old robber down below two. I am curious, however, as to how you propose to bring in Plenimarans."

"I don't know," Alec admitted, "it just seemed like a good thing to tell him at the time."

"Well, hopefully we'll be on our way before we have to keep too many of your promises. But in case we're not, a word of caution—stay clear of the soldiers, especially if you're out alone. These are Plenimaran marines, and there's not much most of them aren't capable of, if you take my meaning."

"I don't think I do," said Alec, puzzled by Seregil's tone.

"Then try this. They have a saying among them: 'When whores are few, a boy will do. Got that?"

"Oh." Alec felt his face go hot.

"Anyway, consider yourself warned. Now I think it's time for you to prove yourself, my bardling."

Seregil rose and cleared his throat before Alec could make further objections.

"Good people," he announced, gesturing for their attention. "I am Aren Windover, a humble bard, and this lad is my apprentice. While journeying to reach your fair town, I fear I have contracted a temporary inflammation of the throat. Nonetheless, I pray you will allow us to offer you entertainment."

He resumed his seat amid enthusiastic cheering and pounding of mugs. Favorite ballads were called for, and more ale.

Alec's mouth went dry as a roomful of expectant faces turned his way. He'd sometimes been a member of such gatherings, but never the focus of one.

Seregil passed him a mug of ale with a mischievous wink.

"Don't worry about this lot," he whispered, "they've got full bellies and half-empty jugs."

Alec took a long swallow and managed a weak grin in return.

Seregil knew the extent of Alec's repertoire and chose requests accordingly, striking up first with "Far Across the Water Lies My Love."

Alec's voice, though hardly of bardic quality, was good enough for this audience. He sang all the fishermen's songs he knew, and made a passable job of several of the story ballads Seregil had taught him on the Downs. This, together with Seregil's excellent playing, soon endeared them to the crowd.

When his voice began to weaken Seregil pulled out a tin whistle and struck up a dance tune for variety.

More customers appeared as word spread, pushing in and calling for ale and songs. Among the newcomers were half a dozen men in brigandine leather armor and brimmed helmets. Heavy swords were slung from their belts. Alec didn't need Seregil to point these out as the marines he'd been warned against. They looked like rough customers.