I LURED WIL AND Sim to the Eolian with the promise of free drinks, the one piece of generosity I could afford.
You see, while Ambrose’s interference might keep me from gaining a wealthy noble as a patron, there were still plenty of regular music lovers who bought me more drinks than I could comfortably consume on my own.
There were two simple solutions to this. I could become a drunk, or use an arrangement that has been around for as long as there have been taverns and musicians. Attend to me as I draw back the curtain to reveal a long-kept minstrel’s secret….
Let’s say you are out at an inn. You listen to me play. You laugh, cry, and generally marvel at my craft. Afterward, you want to show your appreciation, but you don’t have the wherewithal to make a substantial gift of money like some wealthy merchant or noble. So you offer to buy me a drink.
I, however, have already had a drink. Or several drinks. Or perhaps I am trying to keep a clear head. Do I refuse your offer? Of course not. That would just waste a valuable opportunity and most likely leave you feeling snubbed.
Instead I graciously accept and ask bartender for a Greysdale Mead. Or a Sounten. Or a particular vintage of white wine.
The name of the drink isn’t the important thing. The important thing is that the drink doesn’t really exist. The bartender gives me water.
You pay for the drink, I thank you graciously, and everyone walks away happy. Later, the bartender, the tavern, and the musician share your money three ways.
Better yet, some sophisticated drinking establishments allow you to keep drinks as a sort of credit for future use. The Eolian was just such a place.
That is how, despite my poverty-stricken state, I managed to bring an entire dark bottle of scutten back to the table where Wil and Sim waited.
Wil eyed it appreciatively as I sat down. “What’s the special occasion?”
“Kilvin approved my sympathy lamp. You’re looking at the Arcanum’s newest journeyman artificer,” I said a little smugly. Most students spend at least three or four terms finishing their apprenticeships. I kept my mixed success with the lamp to myself.
“About time,” Wil said dryly. “Took you what, almost three months? People were beginning to say that you had lost your touch.”
“I thought you’d be more pleased,” I said as I peeled the wax off the top of the bottle. “My days of being a pinchpenny might be coming to an end.”
Sim made a dismissive noise. “You stand your round well enough,” he said.
“I drink to your continued success as an artificer,” Wil said, sliding his cup toward me. “Knowing it will lead to more drinks in the future.”
“Plus,” I said as I stripped the last of the wax away, “there’s always the chance that if I get you drunk enough you’ll let me slip into the Archives someday when you’re working the desk.” I kept my tone carefully jovial as I glanced up at him to gauge his reaction.
Wil took a slow drink, not meeting my eye. “I can’t.”
Disappointment nestled sourly in the pit of my stomach. I made a dismissive gesture, as if I couldn’t believe he’d taken my joke seriously. “Oh, I know—”
“I thought about it,” Wilem interrupted. “Seeing as how you didn’t deserve the punishment you got, and I know how much it’s been bothering you.” Wil took a drink. “Lorren occasionally suspends students. A handful of days for too loud talking in the Tombs. A few span if they are careless with a book. But banned is different. That hasn’t happened in years. Everyone knows. If anyone saw you…” He shook his head. “I’d lose my position as scriv. We could both get expelled.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” I said. “Just the fact that you considered it means—”
“We’re getting maudlin here,” Sim broke in, knocking his glass against the table. “Open the bottle and we’ll drink to Kilvin being so impressed that he talks to Lorren and gets you unbanned from the Archives.”
I smiled and began to work a screw into the cork. “I have a better plan,” I said. “I vote we drink to the perpetual confusation and botherment of a certain Ambrose Jakis.”
“I think we can all agree to that,” Wil said, raising his glass.
“Great God,” Simmon said in a hushed tone. “Look what Deoch found.”
“What’s that?” I asked, concentrating on getting the cork out all in one piece.
“He’s managed to get the most beautiful woman in the place again.” Sim’s grumble was uncharacteristically surly. “It’s enough to make you hate a man.”
“Sim, your taste in women is questionable at best.” The cork came free with a pleasing sound and I held it up triumphantly for them to see. Neither of them paid me any attention, their eyes pinned to the doorway.
I turned to look. Paused. “That’s Denna.”
Sim turned back to look at me. “Denna?”
I frowned. “Dianne. Denna. She’s the one I told you about before. The one who sang with me. She goes by a lot of different names. I don’t know why.”
Wilem gave me a flat look. “That’s your girl?” he asked, his voice thick with disbelief.
“Deoch’s girl,” Simmon amended gently.
It seemed to be the case. Handsome, muscular Deoch was talking to her in that easy way he had. Denna laughed and put an arm around him in a casual embrace. I felt a heavy weight settle in my chest as I watched them talk.
Then Deoch turned and pointed. She followed his gesture, met my eyes, and lit up as she smiled at me. I returned the smile by reflex alone. My heart began to beat again. I waved her over. After a quick word to Deoch she began to make her way through the crowd toward us.
I took a quick drink of scutten as Simmon turned to look at me with an almost reverent disbelief.
I had never seen Denna dressed in anything other than traveling clothes. But tonight she was wearing a dark green dress that left her arms and shoulders bare. She was stunning. She knew it. She smiled.
The three of us stood as she approached. “I was hoping to find you here,” she said.
I gave a small bow. “I was hoping to be found. These are two of my best friends. Simmon.” Sim smiled sunnily and brushed his hair away from his eyes. “And Wilem.” Wil nodded. “This is Dianne.”
She lounged into a chair. “What brings such a group of handsome young men out on the town tonight?”
“We’re plotting the downfall of our enemies,” Simmon said.
“And celebrating,” I hurried to add.
Wilem raised his glass in a salute. “Confusion to the enemy.”
Simmon and I followed suit, but I stopped when I remembered Denna didn’t have a glass. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I was hoping you would buy me dinner,” she said. “But I would feel guilty about stealing you away from your friends.”
My mind raced as I tried to think of a tactful way to extricate myself.
“You’re making the assumption that we want him here,” Wilem said with a straight face. “You’d do us a favor if you took him away.”
Denna leaned forward intently, a smile brushing the pink corners of her mouth. “Really?”
Wilem nodded gravely. “He drinks even more than he talks.”