Ruifell, Eganene
She ordered another spiced wine as Jamie disappeared at the top of the steps. The barmaid returned quickly and if it wasn’t with quite the alacrity she had shown Jamie, well, who could blame her. Leaning back in the booth, her hair still damp against her shirt, Agatha closed her eyes. Cherishing the moment alone, she settled back to listen to the music.
It had been years since she had listened to a Yalilli troupe with such talent. The song ended, and a smattering of applause and calls for more ale resounded from the low beams overhead. An older gentleman was taking the stage, his orange and green garb making her wince. His curling white hair flowed to his shoulders, his white beard long and neatly braided into twin forks. Agatha smiled. She hadn’t seen that style in decades. It almost felt like home.
Deftly, he restrung his instrument. If Jamie had asked her, she would have told him it was a cross between a cello and a guitar. Only a Master could play it in both ways and she was thrilled that she might get a chance to hear him.
The guitara needed majic to form its sound properly. Not the type of majic that was outlawed, but a more innate kind. Only a certain, powerful few could use majic directly. Traveling and casting could only be accomplished by a handful of people. But the majic the performer would be using was a more natural kind. One that would emanate from within his body, echo through the guitara and produce a sound that in Agatha’s estimation was possibly the most haunting and beautiful she had ever heard.
The bow he chose was a shorter one, fatter than the bows on Earth and crafted for long, keening notes or rapid full ones. The performer tipped his head back, and Agatha leaned forward eagerly, her elbows against the table and her long hair pooling about her.
Deep and resonant, the song began. Agatha closed her eyes, maroons and oranges splashing against the back of her eyes. Sound, like colors, bloomed before her. The man was good, very good, but because of who she was, she would experience the music in a way that most Eganese would never understand.
Relaxing back into her booth, she lost herself in thought. The barroom was silent, each person listening carefully to the song. It wasn’t like they had a choice. While it wasn’t a spell in and of itself, the old man’s music surrounded them and stole them away.
Faster than she could process, the song was over, the performers circling the room with tipped hats. It was the old man who came to her table and she tossed him two coins, unable to resist.
“Why, thank you, lass,” he said, his voice low and pleased.
She laughed. Lass. Not in the last fifty years.
She didn’t see the two men staring at her, their hands pressed deeply into their pockets.
The music changed to a faster, happier song. Agatha saw two young men had the stage, their heavily muscled torsos were bare. Black tattoos tracing their sides in odd swirling patterns. They were of an age with Jamie. Agatha thought of the blue scars that crisscrossed his back, neck and arms, and wished she could have healed him.
The barmaid who had flirted with him earlier would want nothing to do with him once she saw those wounds. Jamie would probably be alone for the rest of his life. And Agatha knew what that was like. It was a sad thought that a boy so young was already doomed to that life.
The young men on stage had finished setting up their supplies and the musicians had finished their song, taken long swigs of their beers, and then started another lively tune.
Must be a juggling act, she thought.
They started with four, long, machete-like knives, their surfaces shined to gleam. Loud cheering erupted from the tables beside the fire as the performers flipped the knives behind their backs. The sharpened points neatly rotated in the air and came to rest, staking the apples laid out for sacrifice.
The music was a happy tune whose beat increased every few seconds. The metal flew faster and faster across the stage. The two men at the center table were on their feet, clapping and stamping in time. Sweat began to form on the boys’ skin as they worked and soon many of the patrons had stood to clap.
Agatha frowned and was momentarily glad her granddaughter wasn’t around. The performers had amazing skill, but at the end of the night, they got their bed and meal by making people happy and drunk. This night, they were successful. The song ended with the customers at the fireside tables toasting and shouting for more.
The performers had huge smiles on their faces. Rounds of ale were called for from several tables at once. While the barmaid ran to get their drinks, the performers began lighting pins on fire.
Cheers erupted again and Agatha wondered if Jamie would be able to sleep through the din. She was glad he had gone to bed. Traveling with him had been difficult. He was a constant reminder of what she had done and of her inability to find her granddaughter.
That was enough guilt for one night.
She tried to take a sip of wine and was surprised to find it empty. Searching for the barmaid, she found the girl cornered by the two men at the fireside table. Both wore swords and both were clearly drunk. Agatha watched as the girl tried vainly to get around them, but each time she moved, their pinching fingers were waiting.
She could feel herself becoming angry. The man with the long, white ponytail lunged for the girl, his chair rocking forward on two legs and almost unseating him. The man beside him laughed harshly.
“You idiot! You won’t catch her if you’re on the floor!”
Ponytail glared at him and fought his way back onto the wooden chair. The girl slipped around while he was distracted.
Agatha signaled for another wine and the girl curtsying nicely to let her know she had seen the request. Agatha wished she could have helped her out. In the old days, she would have given those drunken buffoons a nice little lesson with her majic, one that would have bruised their bottoms for weeks. Now, she couldn’t even light a fire for fear of the Family.
The barmaid seemed like a nice enough girl. It made her think of her Bekka. There was no telling how long it would take to find her granddaughter. Perhaps if they returned here later, Jamie might be able to make the barmaid’s acquaintance. He had a pretty good start as it was, what with her fawning all over him. Silly girl had those big brown eyes and …
“Pretty smile,” said the deep voice beside her.
She jumped, her head cracking against the back of the booth.
“Ho, lass, are you all right?” the voice asked, sliding into the seat opposite her. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Just wanted to pass out a compliment.”
Agatha glared at him, her eyes squinted in pain.
“You are at the wrong table….” she managed finally.
Gently curling hair framed a pleasant face and twin forked beard, but his eyes were the most startling feature. Bright green and framed with crow’s feet, they looked at her from beneath huge white eyebrows.
“Your wine Mistress,” the barmaid said as she returned. “And for the Master?”
“I’ll have the same,” he replied, smiling at Agatha. “I’m sure the lady has chosen wisely.”
The girl curtsied again, dipping low enough to advertise her wares and then hurried to the next table. Agatha’s opinion of her dropped precipitously. Using her napkin to check the back of her head, she was relieved to find that she wasn’t bleeding.
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“Look, sir. Obviously, you have made a mistake, if you would be kind enough to…”
“No, no. I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,” he smiled, half bowing in his seat. “My name is Artemus.”
Agatha shook her head, her earrings tangling gently in her unbound hair. Quickly, she began to disentangle them. The last thing she needed would be to lose them.
“You see!” her new friend continued, “a picture of feminine grace. Your hair is lovely Madame. You have no need to draw attention to yourself, I…”
Agatha sucked in her breath, “Well, I never…”
And the man laughed, his head tipped back and a full stomach laugh rumbling out like thunder.
Stunned, Agatha just sat there. She wasn’t sure later if it was the wine or the man, but she couldn’t think of anything witty enough to say. When he finished, he smiled and extended his hands, both of them palm up.
“Madame, you must excuse me. I am an old man and impossibly rude. Let me introduce myself.”
Agatha glared at his hands. “I’ve already explained, sir, that you have the wrong seat. If you would be so kind as to remove your…”
“Lass, lass. Don’t be so hasty,” he said pushing his hands towards her.
It was an old greeting, one that had gone out of style before her parents were old. Rarely used in her own youth, she had been greeted that way a handful of times by statesmen at important functions.
And yet the social protocol was rigid in this matter. If she did not lay her hands on his, it would be tantamount to pulling a knife. Years of statesmanship screamed at her to perform the necessary social function and she relented, firmly placing her hands against his.
Artemus closed his hands around hers, the warmth of his body stunning her. Every time she had been greeted in this way, the person had assessed her majical strength and then released her. Artemus did none of these things. Instead, he smiled into her face.
“Your name, Madame?”
“Agatha.”
“A beautiful name. I am Artemus Virang, performer and traveler extraordinaire,” he continued, his face moving closer to her.
“Master Virang…” she tried, unable to rip her eyes from him. Dimly, deep inside, she knew something was wrong.
“Just Artemus, please. We don’t hold too much to formalities.”
“Artemus, then,” she tried again. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, Agatha, I do have a request,” he smiled and she felt her heart stutter. “But first let me tell you that I hail from Valeyden. From where do you travel?”
“East from Namaden,” she managed. “What is it you would ask?”
The barmaid chose that moment to return with his wine, tipping them both a wink and pointedly not looking at their hands.
Unfortunately, the two men who followed her were nowhere near as polite.
“Found yourself an old bird, singer?” It was the man with the white ponytail. His dark haired friend stood behind him. His eyes were black slits.
“I would be the bird, sir, since my job is to sing,” Artemus replied, slowly releasing Agatha’s hands.
Immediately, her palms went cold.
“You are too old to sing that tune,” Ponytail said, putting his hands on the table.
“Leave us be,” Agatha said, finding her voice.
Both men glared at her, neither man seeing Artemus slide his cane from the booth and pass it from one hand to another.
“Traded your Hunter for a Bird?” Ponytail asked, finally ripping glazed eyes from Agatha.
She shot a quick glance at Artemus, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“I asked you to let us be,” she said more forcefully. “You are not wanted here. Go back to your table. Or better yet, go back to your room and sleep it off.”
“You hear the old bag, Marcus?” Ponytail asked. “Looks like granny thinks we should move along.”
“Well, if you are not leaving, then I am. Goodnight gentlemen,” Agatha said, trying to stand.
Suddenly, Marcus’ hand shot out, catching her high on the shoulder and slamming her back into the bench. His fetid breath was hot against her face.
“Think you can tell me what to do, flee-bag?” he growled.
And then his forehead was bouncing off the heavy oak table.
Too fast for her to see, Artemus’ cane swung up from beneath the table, catching him in the shins and dropping him to his knees. Greasy black hair flew forward as his chin hit the table. Then, he disappeared completely from view as his nose hit the floor and his body followed. He lay motionless.
Agatha hadn’t even had time to take a breath.
“What!” she heard Ponytail yell.
The bar had gone silent. She saw the two jugglers move into position behind Ponytail, their faces unreadable. She watched their tattoos undulate with their breaths, the twisting pattern impossible to follow.
“You should take your friend and head upstairs,” Artemus said quietly.
Ponytail checked behind. The jugglers were holding heavy throwing pins. Ponytail had a sword, but it was sheathed. Agatha thought he was probably too drunk to avoid cutting himself anyway.
Even the bartender had moved out from behind his mahogany bulwark.
“I’ll give you a hand with ‘im,” he said to Ponytail, tucking his rag into his back pocket and hauling Marcus onto a meaty shoulder.
“Janessa, love! Grab a couple of clean rags. Looks like our man fell. We’ll get ‘im cleaned up in no time,” the barman said.
No one moved as the barmaid and the three men navigated the stairs and disappeared. Slowly, the band returned to their instruments and the woman took the stage again, her sequined, blue dress catching the firelight and casting a thousand reflections throughout the room.
Gently, softly, she started her tune. It was Wul or an adaptation of the original. The mystical story of her life and love, as haunting this time as it ever was. Even the patrons who looked set to find their rooms, settled back into their chairs.
After a few moments, Agatha was able to rip herself away from the sounds to thank Artemus. Turning, she found him staring at her.
“Madame,” he said, smiling. “I’m terribly sorry for…”
“Agatha. Call me Agatha. And there is certainly no reason for you to apologize. Those cretins had it coming. I only wish, I could have been the one to…”
Artemus laughed. “Well, well. Got some fire to you, too, now don’t you. Can’t see you whacking them with your cane, since you don’t have one. Maybe you could have thrown your wine at them.”
Agatha harrumphed and put her cane on the table.
“This cane?” she asked.
“Ah, so you do have one!” he conceded with a grin. “And a lovely one it is too. Look at these carvings! This is good work, done by a Master, I would say.”
He touched the cane gently, and Agatha noticed his fingers were thick and rough, not at all the fingers of a musician.
“Do you carve?” she asked, curious why he would be so interested in a cane.
“No, never had the skill. Although I always wished I did. I craft instruments, but that is different. Bending and hollowing wood is nothing like seeing these faces and drawing them out. My skill is in the playing.”
He traced Wul’s face again and then handed her back her cane, “I’m glad you have a weapon. Even if it be a shame to bounce such a lovely piece of wood on such an idiot’s head.”
“Thank you for that,” she replied, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine why those men came to harass us.”
Artemus signaled to the barmaid, who had returned from tucking in her drunkest costumer.
Wiping at the table with his kerchief, he said, “The white haired one said something about a Hunter.”
“My grandson. We are traveling together.”
“He would be the gentlemen in the hood then?”
Agatha nodded, thinking quickly. This was not where she wanted the conversation to be going. If anything, she should be heading upstairs now.
“Anything else?” the barmaid asked, setting down their newest beverages.
“This will be my last,” Agatha replied, dismissing her. She turned back to the man across the table. “I must thank you again, Artmeus, for helping me out of that situation. I am very grateful.”
“It was my pleasure. May I ask where are you and your grandson are heading?”
“South, to his sister’s house. She will be with child soon.”
As he took a sip of his wine, Agatha noticed he had a large golden pendant tucked beneath his shirt.
“And how is Namaden then?” he asked, wiping his mouth against the back of his sleeve.
Agatha grimaced. He might be an accomplished singer, but his manners certainly needed working upon.
“Not well, then?”
“No, no, it is well enough,” she replied, taking a long sip of wine.
“Ah, I must say that I’m surprised,” he said softly, his green eyes looking at her seriously.
Agatha’s head was swimming. She had definitely had too much wine. The woman was no longer singing and the jugglers were back, albeit with a more reserved performance of tumbling. The light from the fire had grown brighter.
Blinking, she tried to stand, but Artemus caught her hand. “Please, Mistress, finish your wine. I am a poor musician, one who has spent all his coin on his lady’s pleasure. Do not leave me now.”
Agatha laughed and sat back down. It was flattering to speak with him. In Philadelphia, she lived with her granddaughter and had only a few friends. This evening had been most entertaining.
“I will retire in a few moments though,” she warned him, smiling to take any sting from the words. “If the weather clears tomorrow, we must be on our way. I fear an early rise tomorrow might be impossible now.”
“You were telling me of Namaden?” he queried.
Agatha noticed he was still holding her hand. She thought about removing it, but his fingers were so warm.
“Namaden, is fine,” she started, struggling to remember much about the small town, south and east of Delphi. “We had bad rains last year, washed out the bridge, but other than that nothing too important. Are you heading up that way for Springfest?”
Artemus shook his head, his white hair falling over his eyes. “Mistress…”
“Agatha ,” she reminded him.
He looked at her carefully. “Agatha, Namaden is no more.”
“What!” she asked sharply, withdrawing her hand from his.
He winced as if she had hurt him and rubbed his palms together. He took a long sip of wine before he answered her. Agatha felt her head begin to spin. Her cousins were from Namaden. It was a jewel of the empire. Snuggled beside the backs of the river, the town’s people had a Springfest renown across Eganene for its gaiety, music and games.
“It was destroyed years ago,” Artemus whispered so softly she had trouble catching the words. “During the Uprising.”
The twin forks of his beard dragged against the table. Agatha noticed he had braided small beads into the ends. “Everyone was killed. No one lived. No one.”
When she didn’t respond, he touched her hand. “Agatha, how can…”
And then she was gone, grabbing her cane. She was across the room and up the steps before he could think to call out her name. The barmaid brought him another drink and he finished it off without noticing it was there. Two more followed the first.