Chapter 19 #2
By the end of the sixth ballad, my throat is getting hoarse, but I’m determined to continue until we earn enough tips to get us a room and a hot meal.
And since that hasn’t happened yet—all I’ve managed is some hearty applause and a number of appreciative glances—I’ll keep singing.
So I start a seventh, but Lem interrupts me with a more discordant strum than usual.
“My lady needs a drink,” he calls, once he’s startled the crowd into ceasing their claps.
There’s a flurry of activity, men shoving each other for the privilege of serving me, and soon a glass is pressed into my hand, something sweet and refreshing.
I down half of it, then hand the rest to Lem.
He takes it, surprise lightening his face.
“Thank you,” I say to the young man who’d handed it to me. He blushes and stammers, slinking away when Lem glares at the poor chap. “Would you like another?” The crowd hoots their approval. I launch back into song, Lem accompanying with a truly dreadful sense of rhythm.
“Another drink, lady?” someone shouts during the next pause.
“Hey,” another man shouts. “The lady is good, but the guitar player stinks!”
Thank the godmothers for my Poise, because I nearly burst out laughing.
Lem looks at me very deliberately, then to the man who’d challenged him. Rising slowly, he holds out his guitar.
“Lem,” I say, surprised. “That’s—”
He looks at me again, and I realize that he hasn’t forgotten the limitations of his gift.
The man, swaggering, makes a show of pushing through the crowd to stand next to me on the floor beside my little platform. Taking the guitar from Lem, he looks up and winks at me. “Here, sweetheart.”
Lem growls.
“Let’s see how much better you could do with a real musician.”
Oh, this should be good. “You can pick the song.” I make sure not to add the other thoughts I have about this man—specifically his smelliness. But also his awful braggadocio. I’ll be pleased to see his smug face fall when he realizes what sort of guitar he’s holding.
The man adjusts the guitar in his arms with a swagger. “See if you know this one,” he says. He splays the fingers of his left hand over the fretboard with care, then begins plucking the strings rapidly.
If I were judging by sight alone, I’d call him an excellent musician—in truth, he might be. For the first two heartbeats, his fingers look sure and well-practiced.
Until he realizes that the instrument isn’t making a sound.
He stops, frowns, adjusts his posture, strums again.
Nothing.
He turns to Lem, who slouches by the wall. “What sort of trick is this?”
Lem raises a shoulder. “It works when I play it.”
“You don’t play it!” the man accuses. “You—you murder it! You’re no more a minstrel than I am a king!”
“Keep trying, then,” Lem says with another shrug. “Maybe you just need to warm up.”
The man’s face contorts. He plucks the strings with increasing fervor.
Lem, sighing, pushes himself out of his slouch and wanders back over to the man, extending his hand to take the instrument back. The man returns it with an ill-natured bit of muttering I pretend not to hear—I’m a lady, after all—and storms away.
Lem gives it a few extra strums, as if to make sure it’s still working. It’s louder and more off-key than ever.
When he glances at me, I’m surprised to see a smile lifting the corner of his scruff-covered mouth.
I’m even more surprised to realize that I’m smiling back.
The crowd, laughing at the braggart’s misfortune, cheers Lem’s discordant playing and calls for another song. I clear my throat, raising an eyebrow at Lem, hoping he’ll catch the hint.
It takes him a moment, but when I clear my throat again, his eyes open a bit wider. He looks from me to the crowd and back.
“My wife will sing once more,” he says loudly. “And then she’ll be needing some rest, and some supper.”
I meet his eyes and give him the tiniest of smiles, which he accepts with a stone-faced nod, then sing my final song: a sweet, crooning piece that will, hopefully, put everyone in a generous mood.
It works. When my song is finished, there’s a bit of clamor, men pressing around to escort me to a table. “Some food for the lady!” someone cries.
I hold up a laughing hand to halt them, then reach down to pluck at Lem’s shoulder. “Not without my husband.”
His lips twist cynically, but he rises and looms next to me, warning the other occupants against coming too close.
We’re shown to a table—me, smiling graciously, and Lem, scowling just as graciously—and one of the men quickly scuttles away some bits of crumbs and dirty dishes.
A pair of tankards full of something foamy is set before us, followed by two deep bowls of fragrant stew.
We eat and drink with gratitude, although I see Lem’s face curl a bit at the taste of the ale; he’s probably used to much more expensive wines.
I’m not used to expensive wines, but I would give thanks for some tea right now. I pat my pot absently.
Lem, gruffly, calls to one of our chattering companions. “My lady would like some tea.”
My eyes flash to him in surprise. How did he know—?
A teacup with curling steam is before me in another instant, and I sip, closing my eyes in delight.
The world is right when I have tea.
Even if I’m in a rundown inn in an unfamiliar city accompanied by a grouchy former prince.
I open my eyes to see Lem staring at me, the hint of satisfaction in his face.
“Thank you.” I raise my cup to him. I might be about to say something else, something stupid, but one of the other patrons of this fine establishment takes this opportunity to call out a rather lewd remark. I don’t blush (of course), but my fingers do tighten around my teacup.
Lem stands, his face darker than I’ve ever seen it, and stares down the scraggly youth who’d dared insult me.
“Speak of my lady like that again,” he growls, “and—”
I rise silently and lay my hand on Lem’s arm.
He snaps his mouth shut at my touch. “I doubt your mother would like to hear you say such things,” I say sweetly.
I look the boy up and down, unimpressed and showing it.
“And I really don’t think you’re capable of that yet, anyhow.
Perhaps in a few years, once you’ve finished developing?
If you survive that long, that is; men with small brains do tend to die young.
” I wrap my hand more tightly around Lem’s arm and smile condescendingly at the youth. “Now, perhaps you’d like to run home?”
The young man, red-faced, splutters, but Lem’s barely-restrained anger is enough to make him waver, especially once he realizes he’ll get no support from the other patrons of the inn. He pounds a fist on the table and leaves.
“Ask your mother to bandage that for you,” I call to his retreating back. “Wouldn’t want you to get a bruise!”
Lem holds himself very stiff, eyeing the rest of the assembled crowd pugnaciously. “I believe,” he says, “that my lady would prefer to finish her meal in quietude.”
He’s using his princely air again, but apparently no one else seems to register it as odd that an unskilled minstrel is speaking like foreign royalty. “You’re fluffing again, Lem,” I murmur with a laugh.
Lem rolls his eyes, but his regal tone is effective.
The innkeeper pushes his way over to us, bright-eyed and bobbing.
“You spoke truly of your wife’s skill, sir,” he says with a half-bow.
Lem accepts it in much the same way he must have held court back home.
“I’d be glad to offer you your room tonight, if the lady will sing for us again.
” He looks around at the crowd that gathered during our performance.
“My lady needs rest,” Lem says.
And my heart stutters, because Lem doesn’t even like me, and yet, here he is, using all the force of his royal scowliness to bully some poor innkeeper into giving me a bed for the night.
I squeeze his arm, keeping my gaze trained on the innkeeper. “I could sing another hour,” I say, “if you’d make sure my teacup stays filled?”
The innkeeper approves this deal, bustling away to fetch me a whole pot of tea—oh, glorious tea!
Lem, still at my side, turns his scowl down on me. “What are you thinking?” he asks brusquely. “You’re too tired.”
I let my hand slide away from his arm. Does he …
relax when I’m not touching him anymore?
I bristle at that, so while I’d like to say something in my defense—that I’m quite capable, or that I’m not tired at all, or that I’m happy to oblige—I can’t manage it.
Instead, I paste a smile on and return to my platform.
Lem’s frown deepens, but he follows, obstinately settling himself at my feet once more and plucking his guitar with a sort of violent stubbornness that seems to say he knows that he’s hurting the ears of everyone in the room, but no one can stop him, because he’s a prince.
I wonder at that, letting my mind wander as I sing.
Melusine may have changed him, but Lem’s still royalty—he can’t help it.
Even when he’s slouching and scowling (which is, admittedly, nearly every time I look at him), there’s still a faint sense of …
princeliness. He claims he was no good at the role, but I’d wager that he’s more capable than he reports.
I feel his gaze, and glance down to find him studying me with a puzzled expression. Suddenly I realize I’ve started singing a Rhylorrian song—a love song, in fact.
Heavens. Why did I start singing this while thinking about Lem’s droopy eyebrows and prematurely wrinkled face?
It’s a very good thing I can’t blush.
Lem
Agatha sings beyond her allotted hour, while the inn becomes more and more crowded—men, women, children, even the odd dog pushing closer to hang on every one of her sweet words.
I keep myself planted firmly at her feet, snarling at anyone who dares to come too close.
That little brat who’d insulted her doesn’t show his face again.
I’m not sure if I’m upset that Agatha drove him away before I had a chance to pummel him, or if I’m impressed at her sharp defense.
Admittedly, I enjoy her wit more when it’s aimed at someone who is not me.
Mauthmin, true to his word, sends serving girls to ensure Agatha never runs out of tea. She sips it gratefully between songs. She should have some in her room, too; I’ll see that some is sent up once she retires.
I glance out the window occasionally, watching the sky turn from twilight to silky gray to the blue-black of a moonlit summer night. Agatha has more than earned her keep; this will be her last song, and then I’ll hold the innkeeper to his promise.
Except, when she finishes that song, she starts immediately into another, this one achingly familiar. It’s Rhylorrian, and though her pronunciation is charmingly accented, the tender words still wrap themselves around me. My strumming ceases.
Everyone will appreciate that, I’m sure.
I know she can’t mean this song for me. She must just be running out of things to sing.
Still, I find myself staring up at her, drinking in the music as if—
As if our marriage were something more than a sham. As if she could ever mean any of those sentiments about me.
Agatha meets my gaze, startling before she looks away. Her voice catches on the next word.
I drop my eyes back to the guitar, and though I still don’t know how to play the dumb thing, I think I actually manage to match her rhythm for once. She lingers on the final note, receiving a polite round of applause.
Ignorant Candoris. This song was much more difficult than any of the tunes she started with, but no one besides me seems to appreciate it. No one else seems to understand just how elegantly Agatha performs the song, how she caresses each phrase, how she makes each run seem easy.
I rise, hemming loudly. “My lady is ready to rest for the night.” I don’t look at Agatha.
Because I know that song wasn’t for me—I know she didn’t mean a word of it—and yet, I am ready to throw myself at her feet and beg to hear it again.
So I don’t meet her gaze as Mauthmin reluctantly calls for Agatha’s audience to clear a way for her to step down from her platform so she can smile her way through the room and toward the back, where a dark stairway leads up to the bedrooms.
I fall into step behind her and Mauthmin, glowering at the men who let their eyes trace her form with too much familiarity.
Candles on sconces light the narrow stairs and the hallway it leads to.
Mauthmin walks to a door at the far end of the hall and pushes it open, ducking his head to indicate that Agatha should enter.
She does so with a murmured thanks; I wait in the hall. The innkeeper looks at me curiously. “Anything else you’ll be wanting?”
“My lady would like another pot of tea.”
He nods. “I’ll send someone up with it.”
He still doesn’t move, and suddenly I realize that he expects me to share a room with Agatha.
Of course.
We are, after all, married.
I clear my throat and saunter past him to enter our room.