White Sisters who help? They’re not called the Old Sisters, but…Well, you must know.”
“I’ve heard of them.” Emerald had volunteered to join them, but so had a hundred others, so she had been turned down. “Some of them have died, also.”
“I didn’t know that!”
“Why should you?” she asked quietly.
He gulped awkwardly. “Well, I’m interested.” After a moment he sneaked a look at her and evidently decided he had failed to convince. “I met Sir Snake once. You should tell him about this Gentleholme gang.”
“I can’t prove they made my father’s sickness worse. They did put their price up and up until they had taken all our money. When he died there was nothing left.” Not even Peachyard, the estate her mother’s family had owned for generations.
“Or they let him die when there was nothing left to take?” That was a surprisingly cynical remark. At times Wart sounded much older than he looked. She sensed an unexpected element in his makeup—a faint trumpet note in the far distance, a whiff of familiar scent on the wind. It might be the fading trace of some old magic, perhaps a healing, but somehow she thought it went deeper than that.
“You may be right,” she said.
Her brothers had gone off to war and died together in their first campaign. The White Sisters offered almost the only respectable profession open to a woman and would pay even a novice a stipend if she had real promise and the money was needed—as it was in her case. Her mother could no longer see well enough to sew. She could do washing and cleaning, but the rich folk who employed servants had no use for elderly women with twisted hands. She had been living on Emerald’s wages. Now it was rich husband or nothing. Trouble was, most rich suitors were old, ugly, crabby….
“If you can detect sorcery,” Wart protested, “why can’t you get a job doing what White Sisters do? Protecting warehouses from thieves and so on?”
“We don’t—I mean they don’t protect anything. All they can do is warn. Who’s going to take my word for what I can do? They’d assume I was in league with a gang of thieves.” She smiled at him. “That’s enough about me. Let’s hear your story.” He didn’t look old enough to have one.
“Me? I’m a wandering minstrel. Hold this.” Thrusting the reins into her hands, he squirmed around to rummage in the cargo. Saxon accepted the change of command without argument, although he twisted his ears nervously when Wart’s legs waved in the air. In a few minutes he turned right side up again, clutching a contraption longer than himself.
“Is that a chitarrone?” she exclaimed.
“Almost—an archlute. Very similar. Its mother was a lute and its father an unscrupulous harp.”
That described it well. It had the usual catgut strings and a lute’s sound box in the normal half-pear shape, in this case beautifully inlaid with brass and mother-of-pearl rosettes. But instead of stopping at the keys, the neck continued for another three feet or more and ended in another set of keys that tuned a second course of strings—metal ones, running the whole length of the instrument.
Leaving Emerald to steer Saxon—who was quite capable of looking after himself—Wart went to work to tune the monster. That would have been a hard enough task on level ground. On a small and bouncing bench, it proved impossible, because the keys for the bass courses were out of his reach. But he tuned up the standard lute portion well enough and soon his fingers were dancing on it, plucking out torrents of melody. He played a few pieces, sometimes singing, sometimes not.
“Wonderful!” Emerald said when he paused to adjust the keys again. “You are as good as any minstrel!”
“Better than most.”
“You could earn a living with that skill!”
He shook his head pityingly. “There are more worthy ways a man can earn a living. Any requests?”
She told him to play whatever he wanted.
He stopped
“I’ve heard of them.” Emerald had volunteered to join them, but so had a hundred others, so she had been turned down. “Some of them have died, also.”
“I didn’t know that!”
“Why should you?” she asked quietly.
He gulped awkwardly. “Well, I’m interested.” After a moment he sneaked a look at her and evidently decided he had failed to convince. “I met Sir Snake once. You should tell him about this Gentleholme gang.”
“I can’t prove they made my father’s sickness worse. They did put their price up and up until they had taken all our money. When he died there was nothing left.” Not even Peachyard, the estate her mother’s family had owned for generations.
“Or they let him die when there was nothing left to take?” That was a surprisingly cynical remark. At times Wart sounded much older than he looked. She sensed an unexpected element in his makeup—a faint trumpet note in the far distance, a whiff of familiar scent on the wind. It might be the fading trace of some old magic, perhaps a healing, but somehow she thought it went deeper than that.
“You may be right,” she said.
Her brothers had gone off to war and died together in their first campaign. The White Sisters offered almost the only respectable profession open to a woman and would pay even a novice a stipend if she had real promise and the money was needed—as it was in her case. Her mother could no longer see well enough to sew. She could do washing and cleaning, but the rich folk who employed servants had no use for elderly women with twisted hands. She had been living on Emerald’s wages. Now it was rich husband or nothing. Trouble was, most rich suitors were old, ugly, crabby….
“If you can detect sorcery,” Wart protested, “why can’t you get a job doing what White Sisters do? Protecting warehouses from thieves and so on?”
“We don’t—I mean they don’t protect anything. All they can do is warn. Who’s going to take my word for what I can do? They’d assume I was in league with a gang of thieves.” She smiled at him. “That’s enough about me. Let’s hear your story.” He didn’t look old enough to have one.
“Me? I’m a wandering minstrel. Hold this.” Thrusting the reins into her hands, he squirmed around to rummage in the cargo. Saxon accepted the change of command without argument, although he twisted his ears nervously when Wart’s legs waved in the air. In a few minutes he turned right side up again, clutching a contraption longer than himself.
“Is that a chitarrone?” she exclaimed.
“Almost—an archlute. Very similar. Its mother was a lute and its father an unscrupulous harp.”
That described it well. It had the usual catgut strings and a lute’s sound box in the normal half-pear shape, in this case beautifully inlaid with brass and mother-of-pearl rosettes. But instead of stopping at the keys, the neck continued for another three feet or more and ended in another set of keys that tuned a second course of strings—metal ones, running the whole length of the instrument.
Leaving Emerald to steer Saxon—who was quite capable of looking after himself—Wart went to work to tune the monster. That would have been a hard enough task on level ground. On a small and bouncing bench, it proved impossible, because the keys for the bass courses were out of his reach. But he tuned up the standard lute portion well enough and soon his fingers were dancing on it, plucking out torrents of melody. He played a few pieces, sometimes singing, sometimes not.
“Wonderful!” Emerald said when he paused to adjust the keys again. “You are as good as any minstrel!”
“Better than most.”
“You could earn a living with that skill!”
He shook his head pityingly. “There are more worthy ways a man can earn a living. Any requests?”
She told him to play whatever he wanted.
He stopped
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