The Charnel Prince by Greg Keyes

you, I’m not a minstrel. I’m a composer. You asked what the difference was. A minstrel—he goes from place to place, selling songs, playing for country dances, that sort of thing.”
    “And you do it for kings.”
    “There’s more. You’re from hereabouts? You’ve been [missing].”
    “Auy.”
    “Minstrels might travel in a group as large as four. Two on the croth, one on a pipe, and another to play the hand-drum and sing.”
    “I’m with you so far.”
    “There’s a tune—‘The Fine Maid of Dalwis.’ Do you know it?”
    Artwair looked a bit surprised. “Yah. It’s a favorite at the Fiussanal.”
    “Imagine it. One crother plays the melody, then another comes in, playing the same tune, but starting a bit after, so it makes a round. Then the third joins, and finally the singer. Four voices as it were, all at counterpoints to one another.”
    “I don’t know counterpoint, but I know the song.”
    “Good. Now imagine ten croths, two pipes, a flute, an hautboy, a greatpipe, and every one playing something different.”
    “I reckon it would sound like a barnyard full of animals.”
    “Not if it’s written right and the musicians perform it fair. Not if everything is in its place. I can hear such a piece, in my head. I can imagine it before it’s ever been played. I have a fine sense for things like that, Sir Artwair, and I can see when someone else does, whether it’s for music or not. There’s something bothering you. The trick is, do you know what that thing is?”
    The knight shook his head. “You’re a strange man, Leovigild Ackenzal. But, yes—this town I mentioned, Broogh—it’s just ahead. But what do you hear, with those musician’s ears of yours?”
    Leoff concentrated for a moment. “Sheep bleating, far away. Cows. Blackbirds.”
    “Raeht. By now we ought to hear children hollering, wives yelling at their men to lay off the ale and come home, bells and horns sounding in the field, workers. But there’s none of that.” He sniffed the air. “No smell of cooking, either, and we’re downwind.”
    “What could it mean?”
    “I don’t know. But I think we won’t go in by the main road.” He cocked his head. “What use are you if there’s trouble? Can you use a sword or spear?”
    “Saints, no.”
    “Then you’ll wait here, up at the malend. Tell the windsmith that Artwair said to look after you for a bell or so.”
    “Do you think it’s that serious?”
    “Why would a whole town go silent?”
    Leoff could think of a few reasons, all bad. “As you say,” he sighed. “I’d only be in the way if there’s trouble.”
    After ascending to the birm of the dike, Leoff stood for a moment, musing at what a few feet in altitude did to transform Newland.
    Mist collected in the low places like clouds, but from his heightened vantage he could see distant canals dissecting the landscape, coral ribbons that might have been cut from the dusky sky and laid on those amber fields by the saints themselves. Here and there he could even make out moving slivers that must be boats.
    Lights were beginning to appear, as well, faint clusters of luminescence so pale, they might be the ephemeral dwellings of the Queer-folk rather than what they must be—the candlelit windows of distant towns and villages.
    At his feet lay the great canal itself, broader than some rivers—but indeed, it must be a river, probably the Dew, caught here in walls built by human hands, kept here by ingenuity. It was indeed a wonder. Finally he studied the malend, wondering exactly how it worked. Its wheel was turning in the breeze, but he couldn’t see how it was keeping the water from drowning the land below. It squeaked faintly as it rotated, a pleasant sound.
    A cheerful yellow light shone through the open door of the malend, and the smell of burning wood and fish grilling wafted out. Leoff got down off his mule and rapped on the wood. “
Auy
? Who is it?” a bright tenor voice asked. A moment later a face