Redwing (14 page)

“Yes, sir,” he managed. “I'm definitely interested.”

Now Marten's grin was wide and open. “Right. Then let's get a couple of pints, and I'll fill you in.”

Arrangements were easily made: Rowan would start playing with them in Clifton right away, but then he was free to make the journey to his uncle's and rejoin them at the start of the summer season. Like most players, Marten's group traveled a good deal through the summer, but they stayed in the royal seat of Kingstown for the winter. “The king has his royal musicians, of course, but there is plenty more work,” Marten assured Rowan. “The nobles in the city rarely hire a band for the season like the country gentry do—they prefer to vary their entertainment, depending on the occasion. But there are so many occasions that, between that and the local watering holes, we never go hungry.

“I have a house there,” he added, answering Rowan's next question. “You are welcome to Ash's old room.”

“It sounds great,” said Rowan. “I'd be honored.”

IT WOULD BE VERY DIFFERENT, living in the biggest city in Prosper instead of the small world of a country estate. Less secure, certainly, but Rowan couldn't help being excited at the prospect. He tried to imagine it as he walked back to the caravan: the crowded streets, the lavish affairs thrown by the king's entourage, and the rich merchants, the rough taverns and lodgings clustered around the dockyards. What kind of house did Marten own, and who else would be living there?

Marten had said he would pay half the cost to winter the mules and store the caravan if Rowan kept it, explaining they were already too cramped in his smaller rig. It would be expensive in the city though. Rowan wondered if he might leave his rig with his Uncle Ward instead.

Lost in his thoughts, Rowan didn't realize at first that the guard at the gate was talking to him.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if that friend of yours is in some kind of trouble.”

“Why?” The question came out too sharp, Rowan's alarm plain for the guard to see.

“I thought as much.” The man, a plump old fellow who had worked the gate to the musician's park for years and seemed hardly to notice who came and went, nodded in satisfaction. “Bit of an odd one, your friend, even among this lot.” He cast his eyes over the park, as if cataloguing in his mind the many oddities of musicians.

Rowan wanted to shake the old bugger. “What happened?”

The guard's eyes fixed on him, bright with curiosity. “A bunch of foreigners came asking after him. Big men, and rough, looking for a tall young 'un with long blond hair and a fiddle.”

Rowan's heart sank. Jago's men had found Aydin. He looked wildly toward his caravan, torn between racing over to see if Aydin was there and trying to find out more. The guard's hand came down on his arm, staying him.

“Never fear, young sir, they learned nothing from me. I saw you mucking with his hair this morning. I said I hadn't seen no one like that. They tried to push through and look around, but I told them anyone comes in the park unauthorized, I sound the alarm.”

Rowan glanced at the man, aware of the courage it would take to stand up to thugs like that. His pink, round face was indignant. “I don't take kindly to bully boys, and that's a fact. Thinking they could swagger in here like they owned the place!” He shrugged. “Anyway, your friend wasn't here. He ain't back yet neither.”

NOT KNOWING WHERE TO LOOK for Aydin, Rowan decided to stay put at the caravan. He tried to work on some of the tunes he'd be playing with Marten's band tomorrow, but it was useless—his mind kept hopping like a flea back to Aydin. Where was he? What if Jago's men had already found him? What if they came back to the players' camp to try the night guard? This time they might not take
no
for an answer…

It was well dark when Aydin finally burst in the door, breathing hard. Wolf trotted in after him.

“They're asking around the pubs for me,” he gasped.

“Here too,” said Rowan. “The guard sent them packing, but…” He shook his head. They both knew that had only bought a bit of time.

Aydin was back by his bunk, hauling out clothes and stuffing them into his pack.

“Time for me to go,” he said.

“What, now?” A stupid question, since the caravan was clearly no longer safe, but the sight of Aydin's hurried, careless packing only ratcheted up Rowan's anxiety. “But where will you go?”

Aydin stopped then and turned to face him. “To Armstrong's. I'll be safe there. He lives way on the outskirts of town, and Jago's men are looking for an itinerant viol player in the thick of the festival.” Aydin looked around the narrow room, decided he was done and cinched his pack up tight. “Anyway, we'll be gone soon.” He flashed a quick grin, regaining his old bravado. “They'll be tramping around Prosper, and I'll be part of a rich merchant's retinue, touring the vineyards of my homeland.”

“I'll walk you to Armstrong's,” Rowan blurted out. “See you safe arrived.”

Aydin began to protest and then stopped midsentence. His hands dropped to his sides, the bluster gone.

“Thank you,” he said simply. “For this, and for everything.”

They left the park cautiously and walked the long way around, avoiding the center of town. Wolf paced beside them, leashed for once. They made a few false turns, and it was nearing midnight when they entered the quiet, wealthy neighborhood where Armstrong lived. Aydin stopped at the end of a long street.

“We'll say goodbye here, I think,” he said. “Better for you if you don't know exactly where I am.”

“You're sure you'll be able to rouse him?” asked Rowan.

“Yes, yes. Always the mother! If not, I will sleep on his back porch and rouse him in the morning.”

There was an awkward silence, and then Aydin spoke in a rush: “Will you take Wolf? He likes you, and he hates sea travel. And I will be less noticeable without him.”

“Yes,” said Rowan, strangely touched. “Of course. If you're sure.”

Aydin reached out to put the leash into Rowan's hand. “Then I think that's all.” He looked up, just past Rowan's head, and with a formal little bow said, “Goodbye, lovely Ettie. Be at peace.”

Ettie
. Rowan had been forgetting her, hadn't thought of her for days. There'd been no voices or breaths on his neck to remind him either, not since the day he'd ignored her and broken the wheel. Guilt washed over him along with a strange thought: he wouldn't even have known about her, if not for Aydin. But Aydin had already turned back to him.

“Goodbye, Rowan Redwing, button box player. It has been an honor.” And then, taking Rowan completely by surprise, the young Tarzine stepped forward, hugged him and kissed him on the mouth—hard. Then he turned and strode, with his long, storklike pace, into the dark.

Rowan was so taken aback that he just stood there, but when Wolf whined and pulled at the leash, Rowan had to coax the great dog to let his master go and make the long trek home with him.

It was all very confusing. Rowan had thought he'd be happy to see the end of his odd, irritating guest—but he wasn't. He should have been annoyed at being stuck with Wolf 's care—the dog ate more than he did, for starters—but in truth he was glad of Wolf 's company. And that kiss. It was probably just how Tarzines said goodbye; another flamboyant gesture, like their dress and their music. But he couldn't quite convince himself, and his mind kept returning to it as he walked through the quiet night. He'd been jealous of Shay's obvious attraction to Aydin. What if all along Aydin had been more interested in
him
?

Well, he'd never know.
Chalk it up to the mystery that is
Aydin
, he told himself.
May the gods keep him safe.

EIGHTEEN

T
he festival was winding up, and Rowan was too busy playing and making plans with the Waterford group and preparing for his overdue visit to Ward and Cardinal's house to miss Aydin much. He did keep an anxious ear open for news of the men on Aydin's trail and was relieved to find that after another day or two of combing the pubs and busking corners, they had apparently given up.

Rowan planned to travel with the others along the Coast Road past Stormy Head. From there they would continue on to Kingstown, Prosper's royal city.
Aydin would have played
that one to the limit
, he thought ruefully, remembering his friend's endless amusement at perfectly ordinary names.

Rowan's route would then take him north from the Coast Road, deep into sheep country. He wasn't really looking forward to another dull journey along pokey country roads, or even to the reunion at the end. He had managed to grow a skin over his grief, but for his aunt and uncle it would be fresh and raw. And they would not understand, he knew, why he had not come to them immediately after his family's death. He hardly understood it himself. When he looked back on those days, it seemed like he had existed in a thick fog that didn't let him think beyond the next town.

SHAY RODE BESIDE HIM for most of the journey. “I hate riding inside the cart,” she said. “Makes me pukey. And Marten doesn't leave much room on the seat when he's driving.”

Wolf, who had claimed the front seat for himself, seemed a bit put out at being displaced. He climbed into the back of the caravan and flopped on the floor. “I guess he misses Aydin,” said Rowan. “Normally, he'd be loping along with his nose to the road.”

“You must miss him too,” offered Shay.

Rowan shrugged. “I guess. He's…” He hesitated, not sure there was a word for what Aydin was.

“Really handsome,” Shay finished. She cocked her head, her gaze dreamy, as if to summon up every good-looking detail.

“So I gather,” said Rowan shortly, remembering the effortless way Aydin talked girls into giving him food, sneaking him into cellars, cutting his hair. He wished he had half that ease and charm, instead of being awkward and average-looking.

“Ah, now, I'm sorry.” Shay laid her hand on his arm, just briefly. “I didn't mean to make your eye start up again. You're perfectly fine-looking yourself.”

“My eye?”

“You know, that little twitch. You hardly do it at all anymore.”

Rowan stared at her blankly, and then his cheeks burned hot with humiliation as he felt the fleeting pull at the right side of his face. He
had
felt that before, lots of time, without even noticing.

“Oh, shite. You didn't know. Heska's teeth, I'm sorry.” Now Shay was red-cheeked and embarrassed.

Rowan stared at the road, his jaw set. “Do I do it a lot?”

“No. Aydin said you did it a lot when he first met you. And I saw it a few times that night I first talked to you. But never when you're playing, and like I said, hardly at all lately.”

Rowan nodded, trying not to show the relief he felt. “Must be from when I was sick,” he said, still not meeting her eye.

“Yes. Anyway, it's nothing. I was stupid to even mention it.” Shay glanced at him, trying out a tentative smile. “Maybe we should not talk for a bit, so I don't make any more blunders.”

Rowan smiled back in spite of himself. “It's much harder to be annoyed with you than with Aydin. He never hesitates to blunder on.”

SAMIK RESTED HIS HEAD against the cushioned leather seat of Armstrong's carriage. This, he reflected, was the proper way to travel, not having your teeth jolted out of your head in a plodding cart. And the inn they had stayed in last night at Stormy Head had been first class. The food, the lodgings, the work itself—everything was better with Armstrong. Still, it had been hard to leave Rowan, and harder still to give up K'waaf.

Maybe he should have told Rowan about his dream, warned him to be careful. That dream had stayed with him all these weeks, and the sighting of the bald-headed Tarzine had been chilling confirmation. But Rowan didn't believe in true dreams or premonitions, and even if he did, what could he do? No, it was better this way. Once it was clear that Samik and Rowan had parted ways, Jago's thugs would lose interest in Rowan. And if the danger happened to be from some other bald man, some petty criminal, K'waaf 's presence alone was enough to deter most small-time thieves. If not, he would defend Rowan fiercely.

With a sigh, he shook off these thoughts and turned his attention to the road ahead. It had taken longer than he had expected for Armstrong to make his preparations, and he had been on edge every extra day he spent in Clifton. It was good to feel safe again.

“Second thoughts, my young friend?” Armstrong had been watching the road go by, but turned at Samik's long sigh.

“Not at all.” Samik grinned. “I was just thinking how long it's been since I've had a really good wine.”

“Not much longer now.” Armstrong returned the smile. “Then we'll toast to a great venture. You and I are going to make a good deal of coin together.”

Samik nodded. “Will we reach Kingstown today, do you think?” Stormy Head was a smallish harbor, mostly fishing boats. Kingstown, the country's largest trade center, was where they would find a ship to take them to Guara.

Armstrong shook his head. “Not unless you want to travel into the wee hours of morning, and I don't. There are a couple of guest houses along the way that are not too grim.” He grimaced. “I'm still embarrassed that I didn't even know we had to sail north, not south.”

The first ship's captain Armstrong approached would have set him straight, but Samik didn't tell him so. He liked the fact that he had already proved his worth on this trip, and didn't mind if that worth was exaggerated in his new partner's mind.

“So where do we land, somewhere around here?” Armstrong had asked as they hunched over a map of the island, planning their trip. He pointed to the little harbor of Rath Turga. “Or maybe this place, Baskir. It looks bigger.”