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‘Here first.’ They touched glasses and drained them. Devin refilled both.
‘What’s news in Quileia?’ he asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I was just there,’ Rovigo said. ‘Tregea was a stop on the way back. There are tidings, actually. Marius won his combat in the Grove of Oaks again this summer.’
‘I did hear about that,’ Devin said, shaking his head in rueful admiration. ‘A crippled man, and he must be fifty years old by now. What does that make it—six times in a row?’
‘Seven,’ Rovigo said soberly. He paused, as if expecting a reaction.
‘I’m sorry,’ Devin said. ‘Is there a meaning to that?’
‘Marius decided there was. He’s just announced that there will be no more challenges in the Oak Grove. Seven is sacred, he’s proclaimed. By allowing him this latest triumph the Mother Goddess has made known her will. Marius has just declared himself King in Quileia, no longer only the consort of the High Priestess.’
‘What?’ Devin exclaimed, loudly enough to cause some heads to turn. He lowered his voice. ‘He’s declared . . . a man . . . I thought they had a matriarchy there.’
‘So,’ said Rovigo, ‘did the late High Priestess.’
Travelling across the Peninsula of the Palm, from mountain village to remote castle or manor, to the cities that were the centres of affairs, musicians could not help but hear news and gossip of great events. Always, in Devin’s brief experience, the talk had been only that: a way to ease the passing of a cold winter’s night around an inn fire in Certando, or to try to impress a traveller in a tavern in Cone with a murmured confiding that a proBarbadior party was rumoured to be forming in that Ygrathen province.
It was only talk, Devin had long since concluded. The two ruling sorcerers from east and west across the seas had sliced the Palm neatly in half between them, with only hapless, decadent Senzio not formally occupied by either, looking nervously across the water both ways. Its Governor remained paralytically unable to decide which wolf to be devoured by, while the two wolves still warily circled each other after almost twenty years, each unwilling to expose itself by moving first.
The balance of power in the peninsula seemed to Devin to have been etched in stone from the time of his first awareness. Until one of the sorcerers died—and sorcerers were rumoured to live a very long time—nothing much would or could come of khav room or great hall chatter.
Quileia, though, was another matter. One far beyond Devin’s limited experience to sort out or define. He couldn’t even guess what might be the implications of what Marius had now done in that strange country south of the mountains. What might flow from Quileia’s having a more than transitory King, one who did not have to go into the Oak Grove every two years and there, naked, ritually maimed, and unarmed, meet the sword-wielding foe who had been chosen to slay him and take his place. Marius had not been slain, though. Seven times he had not been slain.
And now the High Priestess was dead. Nor was it possible to miss the meaning in the way Rovigo had said that. A little overawed, Devin shook his head.
He glanced up and saw that his new acquaintance was staring at him with an odd expression.
‘You’re a thoughtful young man, aren’t you?’ the merchant said.
Devin shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. ‘Not unduly. I don’t know. Certainly not with any insight. I don’t hear news like yours every afternoon. What do you think it will mean?’
One answer he was not to receive.
The tavern-keeper, who had quite efficiently succeeded in ignoring Rovigo’s intermittent signalling for another bottle of wine, now strode to their end of the bar, black anger visible on his features even in the darkened room.
‘You!’ he hissed. ‘Your name Devin?’
Taken aback, Devin nodded reflexive agreement. The tavern-keeper’s expression grew even more malevolent.
‘Get out of here!’ he rasped. ‘Your Triad-cursed sister’s outside. Says your father’s ordered you home and—Morian blast you both!—that he’s minded to turn me in for serving an underage. You gutter-spawned maggot, I’ll teach you to put me at risk of being shut down on the eve of the Festival!’
Before Devin could move, a full pitcher of soured black wine was flung into his face, stinging like fire. He scrambled back, wiping at his streaming eyes, swearing furiously.
When he could see again it was to observe an extraordinary sight.
Rovigo—not a big man—had moved along the bar and had grabbed the ’keeper by the collar of his greasy tunic. Without apparent effort he had the man pulled halfway over the bar top, feet kicking ineffectually in mid-air. The collar was twisted to a degree sufficient to cause the helpless tavern-owner’s face to begin turning a mottled shade of crimson.
‘Goro, I do not like my friends being abused,’ Rovigo said calmly. ‘The lad has no father here and I doubt he has a sister.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Devin who shook his dripping head vehemently.
‘As I say,’ Rovigo continued, not even breathing hard, ‘he has no sister here. He is also patently not underage— as should be obvious to any tavern-owner not blinded by swilling buckets of his own slop after hours. Now, Goro, will you placate me a little by apologizing to Devin d’Asoli, my new friend, and offering him two bottles of corked vintage Certando red, by way of showing your sincere contrition? In return I may be persuaded to let you have a cask of the Quileian buinath that’s sitting on the Sea Maid even now. At an appropriate price of course, given what you can extort for that stuff at Festival-time.’
Goro’s face had accomplished a truly dangerous hue. Just as Devin felt obliged to caution Rovigo, the tavern-owner gave a jerky, convulsive nod and the merchant untwisted the collar a little. Goro dragged foetid tavern air into his lungs as if it were scented with Chiaran mountain tainflowers and spluttered a three-word apology to Devin.
‘And the wine?’ Rovigo reminded him kindly.
He lowered the other man—still without any evident exertion—enough for Goro to fumble below the bar and resurface with two bottles of what certainly appeared to be Certandan red.
Rovigo let slip another notch of the tightened collar.
‘Vintage?’ he inquired patiently.
Goro twitched his head up and down.
‘Well then,’ Rovigo declared, releasing Goro completely, ‘it appears we are quits. I suppose,’ he said, turning to Devin, ‘that you should go see who is pretending to be your sister outside.’
‘I know who it is,’ Devin said grimly. ‘Thank you, by the way. I’m used to fighting my own battles, but it’s pleasant to have an ally now and again.’
‘It is always pleasant to have an ally,’ Rovigo amended. ‘But it seems obvious to me that you aren’t keen on dealing with this “sister”, so I’ll leave you to do it in private. Do let me once more commend my own daughters to your kind remembrance. They’ve been quite well brought up, all things considered.’
‘I have no doubt of that at all,’ Devin said. ‘If I can do you a service in return I will. I’m with the company of Menico di Ferraut and we’re here through the Festival. Your wife might enjoy hearing us perform. If you let me know you’ve come I’ll make sure you have good places at either of our public performances, free of charge.’
‘I thank you. And if your path or your curiosity leads you south-east of town, now or later in the year, our land is about five miles along the road on the right-hand side. There’s a small temple of Adaon just before and my gate has a crest with a ship on it. One of the girls designed it. They are all,’ he grinned, ‘very talented.’
Devin laughed and the two men touched palms formally. Rovigo turned back to reclaim their corner of the bar. Devin, dismally aware that he was soaked with evil-smelling wine from light-brown hair to waist, with stains splotching his hose as well, walked outside clutching his two bottles of Certandan red. He squinted owlishly in the sunshine for a few seconds before spotting Catriana d’Astibar on the other side of the lane, scarlet hair blazing in the light, a handkerchief pressed firmly beneath her nose.
Devin strode briskly into the road and almost collided with a tanner’s cart. A brief and satisfying exchange of opinions ensued. The tanner rumbled on and Devin, vowing inwardly not to be put on the defensive this time, crossed the lane to where Catriana had been expressionlessly observing the altercation.
‘Well,’ he said caustically, ‘I do appreciate your coming all this way to apologize, but you might have chosen a different way of finding me if you were sincere. I rather prefer my clothes unsaturated with spoiled wine. You will offer to wash them for me, of course.’
Catriana simply ignored all of this, looking him up and down coldly. ‘You are going to need a wash and a change,’ she said, from behind the scented handkerchief. ‘I hadn’t counted on that much of a reaction inside. But not having a surplus of astins to spend on bribes I couldn’t think of a better way to get tavern-owners to bother looking for you.’
It was an explanation, Devin noted, but not an apology.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, with exaggerated contrition. ‘I must talk with Menico—it seems we aren’t paying you enough, in addition to all our other transgressions. You must be used to better things.’
She hesitated for the first time. ‘Must we discuss this in the middle of Tannery Lane?’ she said.
Without a word Devin sketched a performance bow and gestured for her to lead the way. She started walking away from the harbour and he fell in stride beside her. They were silent for several minutes, until out of the range of the tannery smells. With a faint sigh Catriana put away her handkerchief.
‘Where are you taking me?’ Devin asked.
Another transgression, it seemed. The blue eyes flashed with anger.
‘In the name of the Triad where would I be taking you?’ Catriana’s voice dripped with sarcasm. ‘We are going to my room at the inn for a session of love-making like Eanna and Adaon at the dawn of days.’
‘Oh, good,’ Devin snapped, his own anger rekindling. ‘Why don’t we pool our funds and buy another woman to come play Morian—just so I don’t get bored, you understand.’
Catriana paled, but before she could open her mouth Devin grabbed her arm with his free hand and swung her around to face him in the street. Looking up into those blue eyes (and cursing the fact that he had to do that) he snapped:
‘Catriana, what exactly have I done to you? Why do I deserve that sort of answer? Or what you did this morning? I’ve been pleasant to you from the day we signed you on—and if you’re a professional you know that isn’t always the case in troupes on the road. If you must know, Marra, the woman you replaced, was my closest friend in the company. She died of the plague in Certando. I could have made life very hard for you. I didn’t and I’m not. I did let you know from the first that I found you attractive. I’m not aware that there is a sin in that if it is done with courtesy.’
He released her arm, abruptly conscious that he had been gripping it very hard and that they were in an extremely public place, even with the early-afternoon lull. Instinctively he looked around; thankfully there were no Barbadians passing just then. There was a familiar tight feeling in his chest, as of the apprehended return of pain, that always came with the thought of Marra. The first true friend of his life. Two neglected children, with voices that were gifts of Eanna, telling each other fears and dreams for three years in changing beds across the Palm at night. His first lover. First death.
Catriana, released, remained where she was, and there was a look in her own eyes—perhaps at the naming of death—that made him abruptly revise his estimate of her age downwards. He’d thought she was older than him; now he wasn’t sure.
He waited, breathing quickly after his outburst, and at length he heard her say very softly, ‘You sing too well.’
Devin blinked. It was not at all what he’d expected.
‘I have to work very hard at performing,’ she went on, her face flushing for the first time. ‘Rauder is hard for me—all of his music. And this morning you were doing the “Song of Love” without even thinking about it, amusing the others, trying to charm me . . . Devin, I have to concentrate when I sing! You were making me nervous and I snap at people when I’m nervous.’
Devin drew a careful breath and looked around the empty sunlit street for a moment, thinking. He said, ‘Do you know . . . has anyone ever told you . . . that it is possible and even useful to tell things like this to people— especially the people who have to work with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Not for me. I’ve never been able to talk like that. Not ever.’
‘Why do it now, then?’ he risked. ‘Why did you come after me?’
A longer pause than before. A cluster of artisans’ apprentices swept around the corner, hooting with reflexive ribaldry at the sight of the two of them standing together. There was no malice in it though, and they went by without causing any trouble. A few red and golden leaves skipped over the cobbles in the breeze.
‘Something’s happened,’ Catriana d’Astibar said, ‘and Menico told us all that you are the key to our chances.’
‘Menico sent you after me?’ It was almost completely improbable, after nearly six years together.
‘No,’ Catriana said, quickly shaking her head. ‘No, he said you’d be back in time, that you always were. I was nervous though, with so much at stake. I couldn’t just wait around. You’d left a little, um, upset, after all.’
‘A little,’ Devin agreed gravely, noting that she finally had the grace to look apologetic. He would have felt even more secure if he hadn’t continued to find her so attractive. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering—even now— what her breasts would look like, freed from the stiffness of her high-cut bodice. Marra would have told him, he knew, and even helped him with a conquest. They had done that for each other, and shared the tales after, travelling through that last year on the road before Certando where she died.
‘You had better tell me what’s happened,’ he said, forcing his thoughts back to the present. There was danger in fantasies and in memories, both.
‘The exiled Duke, Sandre, died last night,’ Catriana said. She looked around but the street was empty again. ‘For some reason—no one is sure why—Alberico is allowing his body to lie in state at the Sandreni Palace tonight and tomorrow morning, and then . . .’
She paused, the blue eyes bright. Devin, his pulse suddenly leaping, finished it for her:
‘A funeral? Full rites? Don’t tell me!’
‘Full rites! And Devin, Menico’s been asked to audition this afternoon! We have a chance to do the most talked-about performance in the whole of the Palm this year!’ She looked very young now. And quite unsettlingly beautiful. Her eyes were shining like a child’s.
‘So you came to get me,’ he murmured, nodding his head slowly, ‘before I drank myself into a useless stupor of frustrated desire.’ He had the edge now, for the first time. It was a pleasant turnabout, especially coupled with the real excitement of her news. He began walking, forcing her to fall in stride with him. For a change.
‘It isn’t like that,’ she protested. ‘It’s just that this is so important. Menico said your voice would be the key to our hopes . . . that you were at your best in the mourning rites.’
‘I don’t know whether to be flattered by that, or insulted that you actually thought I’d be so unprofessional as to miss a rehearsal on the eve of the Festival.’
‘Don’t be either,’ Catriana d’Astibar said, with a hint of returning asperity. ‘We don’t have time for either. Just be good this afternoon. Be the best you’ve ever been.’
He ought to resist it, Devin knew, but his spirits were suddenly much too high.
‘In that case, are you sure we’re not going to your room?’ he asked blandly.
More than he could know hung in the balance for the moment that followed. Then Catriana d’Astibar laughed aloud and freely for the first time.
‘Now that,’ said Devin, grinning, ‘is much better. I honestly wasn’t sure if you had a sense of humour.’
She grew quiet. ‘Sometimes I’m not sure either,’ she said, almost absently. Then, in a rather different voice: ‘Devin, I want this contract more than I can tell you.’
‘Well of course,’ he replied. ‘It could make our careers.’
‘That’s right,’ Catriana said. She touched his shoulder and repeated, ‘I want this more than I can say.’
He might have sought a promise in that touch had he been a little less perceptive, and had it not been for the way she spoke the words. There was, in fact, nothing at all of ambition in that tone, nor of desire in the way that Devin had come to know desire.
What he heard was longing, and it reached towards a space inside him that he hadn’t known was there.
‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said after a moment, thinking, for no good reason, of Marra and the tears he’d shed.
ON THE FARM in Asoli they had known he was gifted with music quite early, but it was an isolated place and none of them had a frame of reference whereby to properly judge or measure such things.
One of Devin’s first memories of his father—one that he summoned often because it was a soft image of a hard man—was of Garin humming the tune of some old cradle song to help Devin fall asleep one night when he was feverish.
The boy—four perhaps—had woken in the morning with his fever broken, humming the tune to himself with perfect pitch. Garin’s face had taken on the complex expression that Devin would later learn to associate with his father’s memories of his wife. That morning though, Garin had kissed his youngest child. The only time Devin could remember that happening.
The tune became a thing they shared. An access to a limited intimacy. They would hum it together in rough, untutored attempts at harmony. Later Garin bought a scaled-down three-string syrenya for his youngest child on one of his twice-yearly trips to the market in Asoli town. After that there were actually a few evenings Devin did like to remember, when he and his father and the twins would sing ballads of the sea and hills by the fire at night before bed. Escapes from the drear, wet flatness of Asoli.
When he grew older he began to sing for some of the other farmers. At weddings or naming days, and once with a travelling priest of Morian he sang counterpoint during the autumn Ember Days on the ‘Hymn to Morian of Portals’. The priest wanted to bed him, after, but by then Devin was learning how to avoid such requests without giving offence.
Later yet, he began to be called upon in the taverns. There were no age laws for drinking in northern Asoli, where a boy was a man when he could do a day in the fields, and a girl was a woman when she first bled.
And it had been in a tavern called The River in Asoli town itself on a market day that Devin, just turned fourteen, had been singing ‘The Ride from Corso to Corte’ and had been overheard by a portly, bearded man who turned out to be a troupe-leader named Menico di Ferraut and who had taken him away from the farm that week and changed his life.
‘WE’RE NEXT,’ Menico said, nervously smoothing his best satin doublet over his paunch. Devin, idly picking out his earliest cradle song on one of the spare syrenyae, smiled reassuringly up at his employer. His partner now, actually.
Devin hadn’t been an apprentice since he was seventeen. Menico, tired of refusing offers to buy the contract of his young tenor, had finally offered Devin journeyman status in the Guild and a regular salary—after first making clear how very much the young man owed him, and how loyalty was the only marginally adequate way to repay such a large debt of gratitude. Devin knew that, in fact, and he liked Menico anyway.
A year later, after another sequence of offers from rival troupe-leaders during the summer wedding season in Corte, Menico had made Devin a ten-per-cent partner in the company. After making the same speech, almost word for word, as the last time.
The honour, Devin knew, was considerable; only old Eghano who played drums and the Certandan deep strings, and who had been with Menico since the company was formed, had another partnership share. Everyone else was an apprentice or a journeyman on short-term contract. Especially now, when the aftermath of a plague spring in the south had every troupe in the Palm short of bodies and scrambling to fill with temporary musicians, dancers, or singers.
A haunting thread of sound, barely audible, plucked Devin’s attention away from his syrenya. He looked over and smiled. Alessan, one of the three new people, was lightly tracing the melody of the cradle song Devin had been playing. On the shepherd pipes of Tregea it sounded unearthly and strange.
Alessan, black-haired, though greying at the temples, winked at him over the busyness of his fingers on the pipes. They finished the piece together, pipes and syrenya, and humming tenor voice.
‘I wish I knew the words,’ Devin said regretfully as they ended. ‘My father taught me that tune as a child, but he could never remember how the words went.’
Alessan’s lean, mobile face was reflective. Devin knew little about the Tregean after two weeks of rehearsal other than that the man was extraordinarily good on the pipes and quite reliable. As Menico’s partner, that was all that should matter to him. Alessan was seldom around the inn outside of practice-time, but he was always there and punctual for the rehearsals slated.
‘I might be able to dredge them up for you if I thought about it,’ he said, pushing a hand through his hair in a characteristic gesture. ‘It’s been a long time but I knew the words once.’ He smiled.
