“Very well, kind sirs. I give you ‘The Fall of Sulcarkeep,’ which tells the tale of the great hero Magnus Osberic and how he destroyed his own stronghold rather than let it fall into Kolder hands.”
The tune this time was in a somber, minor key, as befitted a tragic tale. Lydryth began:
Wind and flame and earth and wave Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep! All sent to dig a trader’s grave;
Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!
” ‘Tis built to ward,” proud Osberic said, “Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep! There’s none without permission tread In Sulcarkeep, fair Sulcarkeep!”
She continued, losing herself in the music. Her tawdry surroundings faded as the song bore her back into that ancient stronghold, transporting her to the fateful night. Lydryth’s voice rose into an eerie wail as she described the desperate battle throughout the doomed fortress:
Yet when the fog stole rank and thick On Sulcarkeep, dark Sulcarkeep Sent by a Kolder demon-trick . To Sulcarkeep, cursed Sulcarkeep,
The trader knew his fate was nigh In Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep For Death came drifting from the sky To Sulcarkeep, doomed Sulcarkeep.
With swinging axe and bloodied sword Through Sulcarkeep, vast Sulcarkeep They fought the mindless, soulless horde Down Sulcarkeep, through Sulcarkeep.
The big sailor’s face was saddened and grim now, and Lydryth wondered whether he had lost a father or uncle during that terror-ridden night. It was almost as though she could see the mighty Osberic in his bear’s-head helm, his stained sword dripping red onto the blood-slicked flags of the ancient stronghold. Her voice soared up into the final sad yet strangely triumphant verses:
And when they reached the mighty heart Of Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep Then did witchmen and Sulcar part In Sulcarkeep, damned Sulcarkeep
“With my own hand shall I lay waste :
My Sulcarkeep, dear Sulcarkeep!” Said Osberic, “Now make you haste, From Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!”
So he unleashed the mighty power In Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep That made of stone a flaming flower;
Ah Sulcarkeep, Ah Sulcarkeep!
When she let the last, ebbing chord die away, there was silence for a long moment; then, as though just waking from sleep, the men stirred. The Sulcannan cleared his throat. “Well done, minstrel. Never have I heard it sung better.” A flash of bright silver spun through the air, landing in the harp case. As though the sailor’s gesture were a floodgate opening, coins spattered to join the first.
Lydryth nodded graciously, acknowledging their offerings, then gave them “The Mosswife’s Bargain.” A lighter mood prevailed as she spun out the skipping, skirling notes of “The One-Spell Wizard.” After a refreshing swallow of ale from a tankard ordered by the Sulcannan (even though she was thirsty, Lydryth dared not drink more-her belly was rumbling with hunger, and she needed a clear head to ferret out answers to questions she dared not pose too directly), she sang “Don’t Call My Name in Battle.” The song was one her father had taught her, years ago- Don’t think of him, Lydryth told herself firmly, feeling a catch in the back of her throat threatening to ruin the last verse- After the singing’s done, when you’ve money to journey on, then you can call up Jervon ‘s face to mind. Then you can think of your foster-parents, the Lady Joisan and her lord, Kerovan. Then you can think of Obred, and your chestnut mare Vyar, Hyana and Firdun and Kar Garudwyn itself, may Neave protect those within its walls! But until then, you must sing, and give no hint of what you seek, why you have traveled so far from home. . . .
Mastering her sorrow, she strummed the opening chords to “Keylor’s Rage,” feeling weariness threaten to overwhelm and net her like a cloak thrown in battle, muffling, blinding. Two more songs, she promised herself. Only two more, then I can stop and pick up my coins, knowing I’ve given full’measure for what’s been paid.
“And now, kind sirs,” she said, a few minutes later, muting the last chord of “Keylor’s Rage” with her palm, “a new song, one inspired by the story told me about the Kolder-cursed city of Sippar, on the Island of Gorm. Pay heed an’ you will to The Haunted City.'”
Lydryth hushed her voice into eerie, thrumming tones, thinking as she did that Sippar-or what was left of it-lay just across the bay, barely a day’s sail away. “No children sleep in Sippar now,” she began:
No vessels ride her harbor fair;
No footstep sounds on street or stair, For all lies turned beneath death’s plow.
When Kolder to rich Sippar came, They drank its life, then stole the cup, And when the demon-time was up, An empty city cried its blame.
‘Tis said the city twice was slain, First with the sword, then with the mind;
By warfare of an unclean kind The unsouled walked its streets again. Another death did Sippar die, When Simon Tregarth struck the blow That laid the power-wielder low, Then unlife settled with a sigh.
The corpses lay in silent speech, Slaves from bodies freed at last To bury with them all that passed;
No more to fight, no more beseech.
No ship now comes to Sippar’s quay, For none will step upon her shore Though time has shattered every door, The bravest let her shadows be.
Even as the final words whispered into the silence of The Dancing Dolphin, Lydryth saw her listeners shiver, then sit upright too quickly. The fellow who had accosted her when she’d first entered the tavern actually looked over his shoulder, as though a spectral hand might be descending to rest there.
Can’t have them loath to walk into the night, she thought. Something a bit bawdy will leave them laughing and free with their silver, and I need have no fears about playing something from High Hallack and them not understanding it… . A bawdy is a bawdy anywhere. . . . “Now sirs,” she called out, “for the evening’s last song, I give you ‘The Chambermaid’s Dowry.’ ”
She began the opening notes to the song about the poor young chambermaid who encountered a sailor with designs upon her virtue (though, of course, he protested that he intended honorable marriage). The verses unrolled amid guffaws from the sailors as the pretty maid accepted the sailor’s praises of her beauty, along with his many gifts, but through misadventure and misdirection managed to remain chaste-until one day the sailor (determined to succeed at long last) came home from a voyage only to discover that at that very moment the girl was off being married: she’d used for her dowry the gifts he’d given her!
Lydryth was smiling herself as she sang the chorus the last time: Oh, she was fine, that bonny lass Like a fair ship upon the sea- But oh! I rue the day we met For how that maiden plundered me!
“Thank you, thank you for your attention.” She stood and bowed, sipping her ale, as they toasted her, clapping. More coins rang into the harp case. After her listeners had dispersed, Lydryth counted the night’s takings. There was plenty to pay for a private room, dinner and breakfast, plus journey funds for several days.
The tavern-keeper showed her to her room, a small, bare loft beneath the overhanging eaves. After stowing away her harp case and pack beneath the wooden bedstead, Lydryth laved her face and hands in the icy water she found waiting in the ewer, then went in search of a late supper.
The tavern was deserted of all but the overnight guests by now, so she had the entire board to herself. At her request, Mylt the tavern-master brought her a late supper. Lydryth was pleasantly surprised by the hot bowl of creamy lobster chowder, vegetable pasty and respectable vintage he set before her, and ate with a good appetite. “My thanks, sir. This is excellent fare.”
The little man nodded. “My own recipe. Guests will excuse much in the way of accommodations if the food be good and the beer well chilled. You’re welcome to bide another day, songsmith. It’s a rare bard who can hold my customers enthralled the way you did tonight.”
“Thank you, but no, I must be on my way with the morn,” she replied, taking a sip from the goblet of wine. “Tell me,” she asked, with studied indifference, “how many days’ journey to Es City itself? I’ve a fancy to see it.”
“Walking?” Mylt asked,-and at her nod considered for a moment. “At least four, more likely five. Tis a full two days on horseback.”
“Good roads?”
“Aye, and well-patrolled, too. Koris ofGorm is a just man, but not one to coddle outlaws, and they stay far off the main roads these days.”
“Koris ofGorm… Hilder’s son,” Lydryth said, remembering the history she’d learned aboard the Osprey. ” Tis said that he, for all practical purposes, now rules Estcarp, with his Lady Loyse. And that the witches concern themselves with little but regaining their waning magic.”