To Hakan it looked like magic: Miri's cupped hands were somehow producing an eerie, unexpected sound, playing haunting counterpoint to Cory's part of the round.
And then it was his turn to take a step closer to the mike and give the audience the song they had known all their lives, Miri's harmonica a faint, warm buzz beneath the familiar words.
He finished his verse, caught the signal from Cory, and kept the music coming, while Miri played the harmonica solo to the world, reminding the audience that as leaves dance, they die. The thought hooked her, calling up memories of friends, dancing and dead, recalling her to times when the harmonica had made the sounds the unit had dared not: the laughter, the curses, the sobs.
Coming back to herself, she let the improvisation flutter to an end. First Hakan and then Val Con let their music fade and stop. Miri whipped the harmonica across her mouth one last time, and bowed.
She bowed to a silence so absolute the wind could be heard against the door flaps. Then, in the silence, people began to stand, and for a heartstopping moment she thought they were going to storm the stage. Not knowing what else to do, she bowed again. Then she felt Val Con's hand in hers, felt him bowing with her, while the sight of him inside her head was a marvel of brightness and warmth.
The cheering started then, and lasted a long time.
The judges had not been as impressed by the performance as the audience had. The Snow Wind Trio was tied for second at the end of the first round; and that second was a long way in points from the first-place group, which was—as Zhena Wrand had insisted—as traditional as possible.
On the other hand, popular sentiment was clear: The Snow Wind Trio was a success. There was still a chance that they could gain more points in the second round, after the dinner break. In the meantime, they had been besieged as they walked through the hall.
Hakan stood with a list of offers in hand, reading them off one by one to Kem, Miri, and Val Con. "This one is for Laxaco's spring fest—three days at a club, one night in concert at the fest. This one is for a tour. I don't think it's so good—it's mostly one-night stands at smaller clubs. This one's an offer of a year contract, four nights on, three nights off . . ."
"Hakan?" Miri asked finally.
"Miri?"
"Why don't we wait until after the fair to count the pennies? The wind doesn't finish blowing yet."
"But some of these people say they need to know tonight! Zhena Ovlia, for example—"
"Ought to learn something about manners," Kem said, and Miri gave a crow of approving laughter.
"No, wait," Hakan tried again. "I mean she's trying to get things moving in a hurry and if we can say yes tonight—"
"If we can say yes tonight," Val Con said softly, "we can say yes tomorrow. After our second set we see: Do we get on the radio again? Do we get the award? Are we second or third? All these add up. Tomorrow is time enough to see what we have. Let us be patient."
"You be patient for everybody," Miri told him. "Me, I'm going to see when we play tonight."
In a moment they were all on their feet.
The luck of the draw made them spectators for most of the evening: They were scheduled last, right after the leading group.
"Cha'trez, have you considered a short walk?" Val Con asked after the second group played.
Miri blinked at him. "What for?"
He laughed gently. "For your tension. You are concerned?"
"Yes, dammit, I'm concerned. You'd be, too, if you had any nerves. I never sang in front of a group as big as the one this morning, and it looks like the evening show's gonna be a sellout. Feel like I'll probably freeze up and forget the words, or fall flat my face, or—"
Val Con took her hand, offering comfort and assurance. "Miri, you will do fine. You always do well and more than well—and then belittle yourself, eh?"
He smiled at her and reached to touch her hair, oblivious to the shocked zhena sitting just behind. "You are very bright, cha'trez. I see you as you see me, remember? And this edge, this concern, is not bad to have. But further—"
"I feel like I'm ready to fight, and it's only people with guitars and words! Wish that damn idiot upstairs would
do
something, if he's still hanging around. And Hakan's so set on us going on tour and seeing the world, I feel like we gotta do it for him, so that he won't be disappointed." She took a deep breath, looked at him, and grinned. "Never pays to let a Merc think, you know? I'll be okay."
As he watched with his inner eye he saw a slight wavering of Miri's fires, a mistiness, and then she was brighter than ever, the melody of her absolutely true.
"We're playing for joy," she said slowly, shifting so that her shoulder touched his companionably. "Just like I said to Hakan."
"We are playing for joy," he agreed. "It is the best of all things to play for."
It was a marvel the place did not take fire. The fairground was a maze of unsound wooden buildings, wooden walkways, wooden trade booths, and scattered mountains of chopped wood. And everywhere there was open flame—braziers, torches, cooking pits—tended by a half-witted barbarian or two, some clearly the worse for a jar or more of the atrocious local spirits.
More disturbing than the dangerous mix of fire and wood was the crowd itself. That this group of locals was as backward and ignorant as those in the south was expected; that the signs of disease and early aging were on many of them was not unexpected. Yet sig'Alda found the presence of so many infirmities distressing, so that he constantly reminded himself that his immunizations were current and that no disease known to modern medicine was capable of infecting him.
Out of the crowd bumbled a group of the local young, shouting and shrieking. One lost control of its balance and crashed heavily into sig'Alda, wrapping its arms around his legs in a clumsy attempt to save itself.
sig'Alda clenched himself into stillness and waited with what patience he could muster for the thing to sort itself out and be on its way. Instead, the cub tipped its face up, a vacuous smile on its fat face in loathsome parody of a proper and well-behaved Liaden child.
sig'Alda frowned. "Leave," he said curtly, and the round face puckered as it struggled with the meaning of the word.
"Laman?" An adult swooped out of the crowd and plucked the cub free, smiling to show a mouthful of crooked teeth. "I'm sorry, zamir, but you know what the young ones are!"
"Yes, certainly," sig'Alda said with scant courtesy, and moved on, counting wooden auditoriums until he came to the fourth on the left.
The music came up softly: "The Ballad of the RosaRing." They had schooled Hakan for an hour in his pronunciation of "Fly on by," the sum of his singing part. Val Con had a couple backup and fill-in lines, but primarily it was Miri's song to sing.
The audience, respectful, may have been expecting another set of rounds: what they got was the ballad, in Terran, of a pair of lovers separated forever when an experimental virus got loose on the RosaRing.
The translation they had given Hakan for the audience had the Ring a resource-rich island cursed with a strain of infectious madness—which to Miri's mind was as close as made no difference. The Ring virus had been deadly, the world it circled rich, and three rescue teams had been shot down by automatics before the fatcats had finally seen the stupid waste of it and quarantined the sector. The lover had been on the last rescue team. For Hakan—for the Winterfair—he escaped.
Miri sang the last "Fly on by," bowed low to hide her tears—which annoyed her—and lifted her head to the thundering crowd.
"Forget the words, Miri?" Val Con murmured at her side, and she laughed, breathlessly.
The crowd kept them at the front of the stage a moment more, then Miri unshipped her harmonica, ripped off a quick zipping sound with it, and the trio launched into the high-spirited Benish standard, "The Wind's Going My Way." The harmonica added a zest to the song Miri liked, and she dropped back to make room for the maneuver they had practiced.
Hakan dove for the piano, and passing Val Con the guitar, then Val Con was at the front lights, picking the tune rapidly with the harmonica's support. Some in the crowd laughed; there was even a sprinkling of premature applause, and, over on the side, the green light glowed steady.
They increased the speed of the song again, and once more, Miri watching for Val Con's signal. It came and they stopped, all together, bowing on the same instant.
The crowd stood, cheering and applauding and stamping their feet as the emcee stood uncertainly on the stage side, prepared to step up; but she stepped down instead as the cheering took up again.
"This never happens," Hakan whispered.
"No?" Miri said. She moved to the mike.
"Thank you! Thank you all!" she called, and the crowd grew quieter. "We are almost out of music now—" There was laughter as she paused to catch her breath. "But we know one more. Would you like to hear it?"
The audience roared assent, and Hakan stood transfixed.
"Zhena—" he began, but Cory was already back at the piano, and Miri was saying, "On the beat," with the hand-twitch that was the signal for "The Windmill Whirl." Hakan caught up his guitar and began to play.
"Be certain," Priscilla said for the third time, because that was the ritual—and because she distrusted his mood, all emotion bright and hard-edged and deliberate.
Shan folded his shirt neatly onto a chair and looked up at her, amusement flickering through eyes and pattern. "Come now, Priscilla, am I as faint-hearted as that?"
"You did say," she reminded him, "that it was madness for both captain and first mate to risk themselves when the Clan was in danger." She slid her trousers off and straightened, stern and lovely in her nakedness. "There
is
risk. One or both of us could die, if the Goddess frowns." She leaned forward, holding him with eyes alone. "Be
certain,
Shan."
"Well, I did say so," he agreed, sitting down to pull off his boots. "But that was before we had assassins at Trealla Fantrol, and the Clan spread to the Prime Points, and the
Passage
taking on weapons. All very well and good for Val Con to send a message telling us to stay out of trouble while he and his lady vacation. We're
in
trouble, damn him for a puppy!"
He unfastened his belt and sighed. "We need him, Priscilla. There's a reason why the Delm is chosen from yos'Phelium, and if the Ring falls into yos'Galan's keeping, we serve only as First Speaker-in-Trust, surrendering it with a sigh of relief the first moment duty allows."
He finished undressing, folded his trousers atop his shirt, and stood straight. "And now?"
"Now." She came across the room in a smooth glide and wrapped her arms around him, her breasts pushing into his chest as she kissed him deeply and thoroughly. When she was certain of his arousal, she stepped back, motioning to the bed. "Lie down."
Wordless for once, he obeyed, his eyes not moving from her face.
Priscilla nodded. "There is sometimes a danger, when you are soul-walking, of forgetting the pleasures and the pains of the body. Remember them, and cherish them all, so that when you come home, joy will ease your way back in."
She sat on the edge of the bed and touched his cheek very lightly, allowing him an instant to read all the tenderness and love she held for him, allowing herself the same instant to embrace the singing brightness of his regard for her. Firmly, then, she closed it off and composed herself to teach.
"You will enter trance," she instructed. "You will do this with all inner doors open and unguarded, with nothing at all left behind your Wall. You will remain in trance, awaiting my summons. It will be my responsibility to carry us both to your brother. It will be your responsibilities to keep your essence centered and balanced, and to be sure that you have left a connecting line between your soul and your body." She paused, considering him. "Can you do these things, Shan?"
"Yes."
"Be sure," she said, though nowhere in all the Teachings was a fourth asking of that question required. "Because, if you lose your lifeline or can't maintain your balance, I'm not strong enough to keep us both alive."
"I understand," he said. "I'm to stay in one piece and keep the way home clear. No matter what."
"No matter what," she agreed. "Even if something goes wrong. If I seem to fail, or you reach out and cannot find me—come back to your body!" She read his objection and repeated her order more gently. "Come back to your body, even if you think you're without me. Remember, my body is here, too. If I can, I will come back to it."
"And if you can't . . ." He closed his eyes, and she waited, listening to the hum of his thoughts, watching the interplay of needs and desires. At last he sighed and opened his eyes. "All right, Priscilla. May your Goddess have room in her heart to forgive me."
"She forgives everyone, my dear." She touched his bright hair. "Whenever you're ready."
Again he closed his eyes, and she watched him bring down his shields and his protections, extinguishing alarms—all with deft skill. He entered the trance quickly, his pattern thickening as he went into the second level, then thickening again, reinforcing itself and shining with the energy of his will. He achieved the final level, heartbeat slowing, breathing long and deep and leisurely, his pattern so solidly formed that it seemed to overlay and partly obscure his physical self.
Priscilla waited a bit longer, analyzing pattern and body. Only when she was satisfied that both were sound, that both trance and soul-shield were solid and unlikely to fail, did she lie down beside him and begin her own preparations.
Tyl Von sig'Alda stood in the noisy, smelly hall, watching his prey on stage. He had seen the sketch in the primitive newssheet, of course, yet the actual sight of a Liaden gentleman with his face marred in such a way was nearly as unsettling as the noisome proximity of so many locals.