Саймон Хоук - The Broken Blade

“Curious,” said Grak. “I cannot imagine why they would have wanted you for such a post except for bragging rights. And Lord Jhamri scarcely needs to brag. His recent partnership agreement with the House of Ankhor, bringing that house into subservience to his, makes his the most powerful merchant house in Altaruk, and one of the largest on the Tablelands.”

“Lord Ankhor is now a partner with the House of Jhamri?” Sorak said.

“A junior partner, yes.”

“I see,” said Sorak.

“What is it?” Kieran asked, noting the expression on his face.

Sorak cleared his throat. “I think it would be wise if you found yourself another second-in-command.”

Kieran frowned. “Why? You have some grievance against Lord Ankhor?”

“More likely, he has a grievance against me,” Sorak replied. “We had occasion to meet several times before. The first time, I saved him from being cheated by a cardsharp in a Tyrian gaming house. But the last time we met, I stole a princess from his caravan.”

“Hah! A daughter of the Royal House of Nibenay!” said Grak, slamming his fist down onto the table. “That story is true, then!”

“You did what?” asked Kieran. He glanced from Sorak to Grak and back again.

“Have you never heard the Ballad of the Nomad?” Grak asked him. “Where have you been? It is being sung by every elven bard across the Tablelands!”

“I’d like to find the one who sang it first,” said Sorak with a grimace.

“How goes this ballad?” Kieran asked.

“I would be glad to sing it for you,” Edric said, coming up to their table with Cricket on his arm. “Assuming I would be allowed to pass my hat, of course.”

“Whatever they may offer you, I will pay you double not to sing it,” Sorak said.

“Well, now I am intrigued,” said Kieran.

“I must admit, that is the first time anyone has ever offered to pay me not to sing,” said Edric with amusement. “I think I should feel insulted.”

“Grak, allow me to present one of our passengers, Edric the Bard, late of South Ledopolus, and Cricket, whose beauty is surpassed only by her skill at dancing.”

Edric bowed, and Cricket curtsied gracefully.

“Well now, I would much rather see her dance than hear him sing,” said Grak.

“Now that is one sentiment I can wholly understand,” said Edric. “Allow me, then, to make the choice a simpler one. I shall briefly summarize the story of the ballad, for the benefit of our friend Kieran, and then perhaps Cricket will honor us with a performance.”

“Done!” said Grak. “But make the tale short, good bard, so that we may get on with the dancing.”

Edric sighed and glanced at Cricket. “A warm-up act again,” he said with resignation. “Well, if I could trouble you for some libation with which to lubricate my throat…”

Grak bellowed for a tankard of ale, which arrived promptly, and Edric began to tell the story of the ballad, glancing around at all of them, but paying particular attention to Sorak.

“The first few verses of the ballad retell the tale of the fall of Alaron and the dissolution of the elven kingdom,” he began. “Alaron, the last king of all the elves, was said to bear a magic sword of elven steel. Its name was Galdra, and no other weapon could withstand it. In the hands of the true king, it would cause even steel to shatter. Upon his death, Alaron gave the sword to a shapechanger for safekeeping, to keep it from the hands of the defilers, whose touch would cause the magic blade to break and shatter its enchantment.

“‘One day,’ said Akron with his dying breath, ‘a future king will come to reunite the elves, and when that hero appears, then he will bear the sword.’

“Many years then passed,” Edric continued, “and the elves fell into decadence. The story of Alaron and his enchanted blade became remembered only as a myth. Until, one day, a wanderer appeared, a nomad from the Ringing Mountains, a pilgrim who bore a sword the like of which no one had ever seen. It was made of elven steel, the crafting of which had been lost for centuries, and it had a curved hilt wrapped with silver wire. The blade itself was curved, as well, forged in a shape that combined the forms of a cutlass and a falchion, and on that blade, engraved in elven runes, was the legend, ‘Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith.’

“The ballad then goes on to tell some of the exploits of this wanderer,” Edric continued, watching Sorak as he spoke. “It tells of how he foiled a defiler plot to seize the government in Tyr, and how he saved the city from a plague of undead. Then it tells of how he set off across the Tablelands, in company with a beautiful villichi priestess, and of how he stole a princess of the Royal House of Nibenay from a nobleman who was holding her against her will. Having taken the vows of a preserver, this daughter of Nibenay had been exiled by her father and had appealed to our hero to rescue her and return her to her home. This the Nomad did, taking her across the dreaded Stony Barrens, which no man had ever crossed before. The nobleman pursued him and the Nomad slew him in fair combat, then brought the princess back to Nibenay, where she joined the Veiled Alliance to help them carry on their war against her father’s templars.

“In retaliation, the Shadow King sent an army of half-giants to destroy the Nomad, but he fought them valiantly and made good his escape, disappearing from the city and mysteriously vanishing into the desert with his beautiful villichi priestess by his side.

“What has become of him? Is he, indeed, the Crown of Elves, which the legend has foretold? Will he be the one to reunite the tribes and return them to their former glory? Has the age-old prophecy come true at last? Throughout the world, defilers tremble. And among all the elves of Athas, spirits rise in hope. They all look for the wanderer who calls himself the Nomad, and wonder where he will next appear. And so the ballad ends, on a tantalizing note of mystery and questions unresolved. But it really does play rather better when sung.”

“Well, well,” said Kieran, gazing at Sorak with look of both interest and amusement. “I had no idea I had recruited such a celebrated figure. At the price, it seems I got a bargain.”

Sorak sighed and shook his head. “Bards have to sing of something, I suppose. And imagination is their stock in trade. They seize upon some small thing and exaggerate it out of all proportion.”

“Mmm,” said Kieran with a look of mock disappointment. “Pity. I have never had a king for a subordinate.”

“So then the story is untrue?” asked Cricket, staring at him intently. “As we approached I thought I overheard something about your stealing a princess from a caravan.”

“Yes, I’d like to hear more about that,” said Kieran.

“I’d like to see the lady dance!” said Grak, smashing his fist down on the tabletop.

“There is no music,” Cricket said.

“It just so happens I have brought my harp,” said Edric, producing it from beneath his cloak. “For a small sum, I could be induced to play.”

Grak threw a handful of copper coins onto the table. “For your music, bard,” he said, “and for the song we cheated you of singing. And now, my lady, we shall see you dance.” He stood up and bellowed for silence. “My friends! My friends! We have a lovely lady who will dance for us! Make room!”

Tables and benches were quickly cleared from the center of the room, and as Cricket took her place inside the circle they created, everyone in the tavern crowded around. As Edric plucked out chords on his harp, she began a slow, sinuous dance. Sorak took the opportunity to slip away.

He cursed Edric as he left the building and headed back for camp. It had seemed as if the bard had been purposely taunting him by telling the story of the ballad. He hadn’t cared about singing Sorak realized. He had just wanted to recite the story so that he could see his reaction.