4: Interlude

 

The minstrel’s tale was followed by a thin and bewildered silence within the taproom. The wind howled mockingly in the eaves and the forest beyond. Smoke puffed from the fireplace.

The dowager was nodding in her chair. On the other side the hearth, the actress had her head on the merchant’s shoulder. She was probably very uncomfortable, but that was her business. Of course it was.

Nearer to hand, Frieda’s head rested on Fritz’s shoulder. It was a larger shoulder, although doubtless much firmer, and regrettably she seemed quite content, with her eyes closed. He caught me looking at her and scowled dangerously.

The note I had discovered in the rye bread was now in my doublet pocket. I had not yet had a chance to read it.

The red-eyed, red-nosed minstrel tilted his stein in the hope that there might be a drop left in it, or that someone would notice that there wasn’t. His voice had failed almost completely by the end. He looked ready for early burial. If a fever cart happened by, it would accept him as he was, without argument.

I gave him a smile of thanks, although it was an effort for me. Had he really thought I needed help like that? I noted a cynical glint in the soldier’s eye and knew he was thinking the same.

“If you believe you can better that tale, Master Omar, then I suppose you may begin,” he said cheerfully. The company stirred.

“It was certainly a curious choice,” the notary murmured at my side. “Interminable exposition with a regrettable absence of uplifting moral.”

The dowager’s old eyes opened in a flurry of wrinkles. “We should not prejudge!” she snapped. “Refrain from comment until we have heard the response. You may proceed, Master Omar.”

“The fire needs stoking, my lady. Innkeeper, give the minstrel a stein of spiced ale and put it on my bill.”

Fritz glared at me and his knuckles whitened. Then he rose to attend to the hearth.

“Put it on mine,” the merchant said. “The poor devil surely needs it.”

Good for old Moneybags-Under-the-Eyes! The minstrel croaked his gratitude.

“Perhaps a cup of your herbal tea, hostess?” the dowager said. “You, child?”

“Oh, yes, thank you, my lady.” Had the maid no name of her own, or had her mistress never bothered to learn it? Her coat was thin and coarse-woven. I had not heard her speak before, and had rarely glimpsed her face, for the brim of her bonnet concealed it. I suspected she was cold. Perhaps she just did not get enough to eat.

The merchant ordered ale for himself and his wife, or supposed wife. The notary fumbled unobtrusively in his pouch and then said perhaps half a flagon of the small beer—a thought to make me shudder.

Frieda had gone to make the tea, her hand brushing my shoulder as she went by. Fritz was keeping careful watch on us, even as he tended to his duties. I fingered the note in my pocket—his pocket, actually, as it was his doublet I wore. What message had his sister passed to me? The gaiety and humor she had displayed on my last visit were sadly absent. Could a few more months of living with the boor have depressed her spirits so, or was she merely worried about my chances of surviving the night?

I wished I could do something to brighten her life. As my old friend the Blessed Osmosis of Sooth used to teach the Faithful, the devil you know may be a lot less fun than some of the others. There was more to it than that, I think, but I forget what.

“Hannail the Terrible begat Nonnil,” I remarked. “Nonnil begat Grosail the Gruesome. Grosail—”

“We are not ready!” the dowager snapped. She was obviously in a very snappish mood, and understandably so after the minstrel’s performance.

“I wasn’t actually starting,” I said. “Just laying a base. The Land Between the Seas made a sort of recovery. The cities were sad wraiths of their former glory, of course.”

“Cannot we have a tale set in a more salubrious environment?” the notary whined.

I beamed at him. “A tragedy must be met with a tragedy, or how will you judge between them? Kylam, fifty years later … Can you imagine fifty years of rule by the Horsefolk barbarians? Horrible, pale-haired monsters!”

Fritz happened to be going by at that moment with the big copper jug. For a moment I thought he was going to stun me with it. Frieda shot me a warning glance, as if to tell me that he was serious in his threats to kill me—but I knew that already.

When all was settled again, with wood on the fire and my audience waiting, I began.

“I am Omar the Trader of Tales, but you know that. What was the Gwill’s formula?—‘Gentle lords, fair ladies, may my tale please you’? Hear, then, the Tale of White-thorn of Verl.”