Authors: Joanne Bertin
Aralie nodded solemnly. “I’ll remember that, m’lord.” She winked.
They went on through the castle. As they crossed the great hall, Kella saw Bard Leet. For a moment her jaw clenched.
Then came the idea. It was a brilliant idea. All at once, she knew how she would get her revenge on Master Stuck-Up Bard Leet. She caught Rann’s sleeve, dragging him to a halt.
“Look!” she whispered fiercely. “There’s Bard Leet.” Her chin jerked, indicating a spot beyond his shoulder.
Rann looked over his shoulder. “Um, yes, I see him. So?”
Kella nearly stamped a foot in annoyance. “Don’t you see? He doesn’t have his harp with him! This is a perfect opportunity for me to get into his room and touch his precious harp!”
The prince shook his head. “But Kella—you don’t know how long he’ll be away. What if he came back while—”
“He won’t!” Kella nearly crowed. “Not if you help me! Remember how we saw Shima in the garden from your window? And remember the song he sang for us that first morning? I’ve got an idea.…”
She whispered in Rann’s ear. He listened carefully. When she was done, he said reluctantly, “Very well, I’ll do it. But I think you should run back to my rooms first and see if Aralie is still there.”
For a moment Kella looked blank. “Why—?”
Rann tugged on the sleeve of her tunic, rubbing his thumb along the embroidered hem, and stared pointedly at her.
“Oh! Good thinking!” With that, Kella shoved the small harp into his arms and hurried off.
* * *
Kella found Aralie just as the young servant was leaving Rann’s chambers. She caught the other girl’s arm and dragged her back in.
“Rann and I need your help for a jest,” Kella said, not quite lying.
She
thought it was a fine jest, even if Bard Leet wouldn’t.
Alarie grinned. “What do tha need, young mistress?”
Kella explained; Aralie nodded. When they were done, Aralie pointed to the ewer of scented water it was her duty to refill throughout the day.
“Best take that and the towel,” she said. “When tha are one of the lesser servants, it’s best tha aren’t seen empty-handed. Water’s still hot, so mind tha hands.”
“Good idea!” Kella pounced on the towel and wrapped it around the gently steaming ewer. She made for the door. “Thanks, Alarie! I’ll meet you back here in a little while to switch back.”
A moment later she was walking quickly down the hall, grinning from ear to ear.
She trotted through the halls of the castle. It was clever of Rann, she thought, to think of switching clothes with Aralie. No one
really
looked at servants, especially pages and maids. She shifted her grip on the ewer of steaming water; the heat was uncomfortable despite the folds of linen toweling that swathed the vessel. She stared straight ahead, with what she hoped was the proper expression on her face. Almost every servant she’d ever seen look bored; she suspected she looked more like a nervous rabbit.
La-la-la, I’m just bringing scented water for washing to some spoiled little lordling who drank too much wine last night or is too lazy to get out of bed at a decent candlemark, tra-la-la-la-la-la,
she told herself over and over again. If she believed it, so would anyone else—she hoped.
It seemed to be working. No one stopped her as she passed by, no one grabbed her by the shoulder and demanded to know what she was doing. When one or two people did seem to take a second glance, with that puzzled expression that says “You look vaguely familiar, but something’s not quite right…,” Kella just bowed her head a little so that the brim of her servant’s cap hid her face a bit more and hurried past as if on some urgent errand.
Still, she felt as if every gaze drilled a hole between her shoulder blades. She didn’t dare look around.
No one really looks at servants.
…
The thought was her only comfort against her growing unease. This had all seemed such a lark when they’d planned it in the hallway: a game, nothing more, a way of thumbing their noses at the arrogant bard. He hadn’t had to slap her hand and treat her like dirt because she was from a merchant family. He could have just said, “Don’t touch it.” Hmmph—she wouldn’t have even
considered
touching it if she hadn’t thought it was Daera’s. She knew what was proper.
Her hand still hurt, too.
It will serve him right for being so mean
, she told herself, and held the thought as a shield against any prickings from her conscience.
But the closer she got to Bard Leet’s room, the more uneasy she grew. Bards, like Healers and Dragonlords, were among the favored of the gods. If she dared touch Leet’s harp against his wishes, would the ground open up beneath her? Would her fingers curl up with a palsy? She gnawed on her lower lip. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.…
And if she turned around now and admitted she was too scared to go through with it? She could imagine what Rann would say, especially since it had been her idea. No, she’d not beg off and be named ’fraidy cat. She could be as brave as any boy, she told herself, even a prince. Kella squared her shoulders and walked on even though her mouth was suddenly dry. The ewer felt as heavy as lead in her hands.
Almost there, almost there, almost there,
a frightened little voice in the back of her mind chanted.
Don’t let anyone notice me!
A servant bearing a towering armload of used bed linens looked over his burden at her as she approached. His nose twitched like a hunting dog’s. “Hoy, there,” he called sharply.
Certain she was discovered, Kella nearly threw down the ewer, ready to hike up her skirts and flee. But after a quick look at the bulbous red nose, she was certain she knew who he was: Griff, the laziest sack of bones in the castle according to Aralie. Griff, who’d grab any of the younger servants he could and make them do his work.
Griff didn’t know who she was; Griff didn’t
care
who she was. He just wanted to dump his chores on her. She swept past him with all the bravado she could scrape together.
“Sahrreh,” she replied, mimicking the accent of a Casna wharf brat so broadly she could barely understand herself. “Baht eft His Lahdship’s w’ter’s caowld, hit’ll be wurf moy hoide. Yeh knaow how hay is.”
Kella dared a quick glance over her shoulder. The servant stood, flummoxed, mouthing her words, trying to make out just what she’d said to him. She couldn’t blame him; she’d laid that accent on with a shovel. Kella nearly choked on a torrent of suppressed giggles as she scurried down the hall and around the corner.
There!
She broke into a shuffling run. The scented water sloshed wildly in the ewer, threatening to spill over with every step.
Third door down is Bard Leet’s.
To her dismay, as she reached the door, she thought she heard Griff coming after all. She fumbled one-handed to open the heavy latch. It stuck. The footsteps came closer.
Open, open, open, you stupid thing!
The door swung open and she was through it like a racehorse at the drop of the starting rope. Kella shoved it with a foot; the thick door shut with a muffled thud. She stood, listening.
Nothing. No one called after her from the hall, demanding to know her business bringing water to a man long awake. No one jumped up from the bed, angry at her invasion. She was safe.
Kella let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “That was too close,” she said to the air. After a moment she set the ewer on the small table next to the door. As she turned, she ran her shaking fingers through her hair. An image of her mother’s calf’s-foot jelly quivering in a bowl came to her mind; she decided that was just what she felt like.
“I’ve gone this far,” she muttered to herself. “I’m not quitting now. Best get on with this.”
She made herself take the time to examine the room; Rann would demand a description as proof. Almost the first thing she noticed was the extravagance of two clothes chests at the foot of the bed.
No, wait—only one was for clothes, she decided, after a quick look at the footboard and seeing that the carvings on both matched. The bigger chest was part of the room’s furnishings. The other must belong to Bard Leet; it was a different kind of wood, uncarved, and the wrong size and shape entirely. Kella thumped her forehead with the heel of her hand. Of course; that one must be the wooden traveling case for his harp.
“The harp I’m not good enough to touch,” she muttered angrily, all nervousness burned away by a hot wave of remembered humiliation. While she hoped the case wasn’t locked, she didn’t have the nerve to risk that disappointment just yet.
In a moment.
…
Instead she made herself walk around the room. It was much like any other guest chamber she’d seen in the castle while playing with Rann. Not as grand as some, true, but then Leet wasn’t a visiting prince. Still, it was large enough—and well-furnished enough—to do him honor; no odds and ends of the castle’s furniture for a master bard.
Even the carvings match,
Kella thought as she prowled the room,
not like my things. I like these acorns and oak leaves—they’re pretty.
A warm breeze from the open window brought in the scents of sunshine and the gardens. She looked with a touch of envy at the rich furnishings: a good-sized featherbed with thick curtains, now pulled back; a clothes cupboard; a washbowl and water pitcher with a pretty green-and-white glaze—neither one chipped—resting upon a little table by the window. By the head of the bed and half-hidden by the bed curtains was a second little table. And upon that table …
Kella blinked, then grinned. There was no mistaking the shape under the covering of red silk. It wasn’t locked away where she couldn’t get at it after all. With her hands on her hips, she tossed her head and said, “We’ll see if I’m not good enough!”
She stalked across the room, muttering, “Keep him busy, Rann.”
Telling her conscience to hush its yammering, she tugged at the covering. It slid to the table in a cascade of heavy silk, covering the leather music case lying on the table.
Before her stood Leet’s harp.
Kella caught her breath at the beauty of it. The forepillar swept up, elegant as the neck of a swan; the harmonic curve rose from the soundbox of the instrument, dipped, and rose again to meet the forepillar, like “a salmon leaping,” just as Daera had said of a fine harp. Would she ever be able to afford anything half as good as this?
“Oh, you
are
a beauty,” Kella whispered. She peered at the design burned into the wood at the inside “shoulder” of the harp where neck met soundbox. It was a bird, long, narrow wings outstretched in flight inside a circle of flowers. She hadn’t been able to see it clearly before. It was perfect in every tiny detail.
The flowers look rather like ruffly morning glories. And the bird … Oh, I see. It’s a seagull. Hunh—not what I would have picked,
she thought, remembering how a seagull once dropped a clam on her head. The resulting gash had bled and bled, and she’d cried for candlemarks. Besides, seagulls couldn’t sing worth a bent penny.
She traced the gull’s outline with an outstretched finger. A roughness under her fingertip surprised her. Curious that the luthier would leave such a flaw, she bent closer, searching for the source. It was a few moments before she found it: a tiny gouge as if the artist’s hand had slipped right at the end of one wing. It looked as if the gull were missing part of the leading feather, like a finger missing its first joint. Still, it was pretty design.
The breeze slipped through the window again and teased a haunting refrain from the strings as it blew over them. Kella stood enchanted as the harp “sang” for her. Then, unable to resist the temptation, she trailed a finger along the strings. The glissando hung shimmering in the air, calling to her.
“Oh, how lovely,” she breathed. Still, she didn’t quite dare play it; if she was caught in here …
If she was caught in here—even if she never touched the harp—she’d be lucky if she’d be able to sit down for a tenday.
Oh, hang it all,
she thought,
just play the wretched thing. You might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. Just do the best you can with that hand.
So she slipped around the little table and pulled the harp to nestle against her right shoulder. She placed her fingers on the strings, a touch light as a snowflake, then hesitated. What to play? “The Barley Boy”? “Autumn Dance”? She knew both songs well but both seemed too simple and rustic for such a fine instrument.
Still—with her hand still so sore, it wasn’t as if she could play one of the more complicated pieces she’d been learning. She’d be lucky if she could play even scales without making a complete mess of it, let alone even something as easy as “The Barley Boy.”
Then her fingers chose for her. As if directed by unseen hands over her own, they picked out a melody, at first slowly, then with growing confidence.
It was a pretty tune, yet strangely eerie, and made the back of her neck prickle. The more she played, the worse the prickling got, until she feared the skin would crawl off. And now there was another feeling, crawling up her fingers, slithering up her arms like a snake. Cold, so cold, and heavy, and … evil.
Her breath came short and fast. No more of this! She tried to pull her fingers away.
But the harp wouldn’t let her go.
Twenty-eight
Rann watched Kella leave, then
turned his attention to the bard. When the man finished his discussion with the steward, he started off again.
Rann followed at a discreet distance. He hoped the bard was leaving the castle; that would be safest. But if he showed signs of returning to the part of the castle where his chamber was, Rann would intercept him and put Kella’s plan into play. She was right—it was something the vain master bard wouldn’t be able to resist.
Rann stalked his prey here and there, pretending he was a snowcat on the hunt.
The mountain ram wandered through the valley, unaware of the great snowcat stealing along behind him. Step by slow, stealthy step the big cat crept up on his unwary prey, using every blade of grass, every tiny bush as cover, moving like a ghost. The doomed ram walked on
—