He took another drink from his tankard, and swallowed thoughtfully before he spoke again. “Most people find that a song of more moderate difficulty allows them to showcase their talent,” he said carefully.
I sensed his unspoken advice and was not offended. “Sir Savien” is the most difficult song I had ever heard. My father had been the only one in the troupe with the skill to perform it, and I had only heard him do it perhaps four or five times in front of an audience. It was only about fifteen minutes long, but those fifteen minutes required quick, precise fingering that, if done properly, would set two voices singing out of the lute at once, both a melody and a harmony.
That was tricky, but nothing any skilled lutist couldn’t accomplish. However, “Sir Savien” was a ballad, and the vocal part was a counter melody that ran against the timing of the lute. Difficult. If the song was being done properly, with both a man and a woman alternating the verses, the song was further complicated by the female’s counter harmony in the refrains. If it is done well, it is enough to cut a heart. Unfortunately, few musicians could perform calmly in the center of such a storm of song.
Stanchion drank off another solid swallow from his tankard and wiped his beard on his sleeve. “You singing alone?” he asked, seeming a bit excited in spite of his half-spoken warning. “Or have you brought someone to sing opposite you? Is one of the boys you came in with a castrati?”
I fought down laughter at the thought of Wilem as a soprano and shook my head. “I don’t have any friends that can sing it. I was going to double the third refrain to give someone the chance to come in as Aloine.”
“Trouper style, eh?” He gave me a serious look. “Son, it’s really not my place to say this, but do you really want to try for your pipes with someone you’ve never even practiced with?”
It reassured me that he realized how hard it was going to be. “How many pipes will be here tonight, roughly?”
He thought briefly. “Roughly? Eight. Maybe a dozen.”
“So in all likelihood there will be at least three women who have earned their talents?”
Stanchion nodded, watching me curiously.
“Well,” I said slowly. “If what everyone has told me is true, if only real excellence can win the pipes, then one of those women will know Aloine’s part.”
Stanchion took another long, slow drink, watching me over the top of his tankard. When he finally set it down he forgot to wipe his beard. “You’re a proud one, aren’t you?” he said frankly.
I looked around the room. “Isn’t this the Eolian? I had heard that this is where pride pays silver and plays golden.”
“I like that,” Stanchion said, almost to himself. “Plays golden.” He slammed his tankard down onto the bar, causing a small geyser of something frothy to erupt from the top. “Dammit boy, I hope you’re as good as you seem to think you are. I could use someone else around here with Illien’s fire.” He ran a hand through his own red hair to clarify his double meaning.
“I hope this place is as good as everyone seems to think it is,” I said earnestly. “I need a place to burn.”
“He didn’t throw you out,” Simmon quipped as I returned to the table. “So I’m guessing it didn’t go as badly as it could have.”
“I think it went well,” I said distractedly. “But I’m not sure.”
“How can you not know?” Simmon objected. “I saw him laugh. That must mean something good.”
“Not necessarily,” Wilem said.
“I’m trying to remember everything I said to him,” I admitted. “Sometimes my mouth just starts talking and it takes my mind a little bit to catch up.”
“This happens often, does it?” asked Wilem with one of his rare, quiet smiles.
Their banter began to relax me. “More and more often,” I confessed, grinning.
We drank and joked about small things, rumors of the masters and the rare female students who caught our attention. We talked about who we liked in the University, but more time was spent mulling over who we didn’t like, and why, and what we would do about it given the chance. Such is human nature.
So time passed and the Eolian slowly filled. Simmon gave in to Wilem’s taunting and began to drink scutten, a powerful black wine from the foothills of the Shalda mountains, more commonly called cut-tail.
Simmon showed the effects almost immediately, laughing louder, grinning wider, and fidgeting in his seat. Wilem remained his same taciturn self. I bought the next round of drinks, making it large mugs of straight cider for each of us. I responded to Wilem’s scowl by telling him that if I made my talent tonight, I would float him home in cut-tail, but if either of them got drunk on me before then, I would personally thrash them and drop them in the river. They settled down an appreciable amount, and began inventing obscene verses to “Tinker Tanner.”
I left them to it, retreating into my own thoughts. At the forefront of my mind was the fact that Stanchion’s unspoken advice might be worth listening to. I tried to think of other songs I could perform that were difficult enough to show my skill, but easy enough to allow me room for artistry.
Simmon’s voice drew me back to the here and now. “C’mon, you’re good at rhymes…” he urged me.
I replayed the last bit of their conversation that I’d been half listening to. “Try ‘in the Tehlin’s cassock,’” I suggested disinterestedly. I was too nervous to bother explaining that one of my father’s vices had been his propensity for dirty limericks.
They chortled delightedly to themselves while I tried to come up with a different song to sing. I hadn’t had much luck when Wilem distracted me again.
“What!” I demanded angrily. Then I saw the flat look in Wilem’s eyes that he only gets when he sees something he really doesn’t like. “What?” I repeated, more reasonably this time.
“Someone we all know and love,” he said darkly, nodding in the direction of the door.
I couldn’t see anyone I recognized. The Eolian was nearly full, and over a hundred people milled about on the ground floor alone. I saw through the open door that night had settled outside.
“His back is to us. He’s working his oily charm on a lovely young lady who must not know him…to the right of the round gentleman in red.” Wilem directed my attention.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, too stunned for proper profanity.
“I’ve always figured him for porcine parentage myself,” Wilem said dryly.
Simmon looked around, blinking owlishly. “What? Who’s here?”
“Ambrose.”
“God’s balls,” Simmon said and hunched over the tabletop. “That’s all I need. Haven’t you two made nice yet?”
“I’m willing to leave him be,” I protested. “But every time he sees me he can’t help but make another jab in my direction.”
“It takes two to argue,” Simmon said.