The beggar’s gloves lay folded on the table in front of Sharp, alongside the remains of a noble meal. Between gobbles he had given us the news of the country – the king was still poor in health, but no closer to death, his heir was still a fool, two northern lords had plotted to take the throne but had fallen on each other’s throats instead, and fishing on the wester coast had been bad all summer. There was also news from the Guildhall in Slatten: crumbs dropped casually, but they meant all the world to me. The old Grandmaster had passed on, and his position fell to Master Meiltung, who in turn gave his position of Master over the Bards-in-Training to Master Marlin, the youngest of the Masters. I missed a few sentences while I remembered Master Marlin, who had earned his first string the day I became a Bard-in-Training. I idolized him for the fanciful stories he could weave and the stories he could tell.
When I returned to the world, Sharp was telling of Breck, a Bard-in-Training who played so poorly before the Masters that he was told to leave them before he finished his first piece. They asked him to play again at the Winter Solstice, and he had replied that he could not sit before them again. At the time Sharp left Slatten, just after this, Master Irving was gently trying to get the boy to change his mind, but Breck had not agreed.
“So you’re a full Bard now?” Lord Reinard asked, as if he could not see the tattoo on Sharp’s hand.
“Third level.” Both his confidence and conceit had been restored. “Soon to be fourth, once I’ve killed Lord Reinard.”
My Lord choked on his wine. “Any particular reason?”
“He killed my father.”
I hadn’t known that; or even that Sharp knew who his father was. Still, if Sharp could no longer mourn for a childhood friend, then a dead father would have to do.
My lord stirred the wine in his cup. “When was this?”
“When I was but a child.” His voice dripped with such drama that I could almost hear the notes of a strummed lute. “He went traveling for the summer, and was here the day the Guildhall burned.”
“Ah. So it is the Bard-killer you are looking for.” My lord seemed to relax.
Sharp stood. “And I’ll give my life for just the chance to strike him!”
Around the room, soldiers set their hands on their weapons.
My lord waved his hand. “I regret to tell you this, Sharp, but you’ve come too late.”
“What? Who did this?”
“A sudden chill, last spring.”
“Then – who is the lord here at Songless?”
“I am.” Steel rang in his voice.
“You? But the Lady Laurice, she is to marry Lord Reinard!”
“We are betrothed, yes.”
“But – how? How could you be Lord Reinard?”
His name had never applied to his brains.
My lord smiled, a thin smile that always made me cringe. “When my father died, I inherited his title.”
Slowly this sank in. Then Sharp jumped to his feet and swept his plate to the floor. “You are the son of the Bardkiller? You are the get of that bony pile of worm-ridden hate, offspring of an ass and a whore, whose spit would poison the ground it touched, whose cowerdly offspring drown in the sweat from their nightmares, may he sit by Hel’s cold fire for all days with only shadows to eat and dry sand to drink, he?”
“The same,” Lord Reinard said, with a clench of his fists.
I gestured to the archers by the door, who were drawing their bowstrings.
Sharp looked, then took in all the soldiers around him. He sat back down. “I’ll be damned. And you say he’s dead?”
“Dead and buried.” His voice was cold as winter’s frost.
“So.” Sharp rubbed the point of his chin. He continued as if he had not abused his host so throughly, and luckily for him, I knew my lord’s hunger for music would forgive any insult. “This leaves me without the adventure that would have raised me to fourth level. I suppose I shall have to find another one. Well, I thank you for the dinner, but I think I should be on my way.”
Lord Reinard leaned forward with a crafty smile. “You need an adventure? Shall I make a suggestion?”
