Chapter 17
Mistel
Smile and nod, Mistel. Smile and nod.
Bower Renwall smelled like ale and onions and stood far too close. “You sing like a songbird,” he said, his grin revealing teeth crusted with bits of food. “When you’re done, let’s find a more private space. Some of my regulars like an intimate encore.”
Mistel held her grin but clenched her fists at her sides. “I perform onstage, Master Renwall. Nowhere else.”
“We’ll see.” The grimy hunx chuckled, slow and knowing, as if certain that time would change her answer.
Before she had to decide between smacking him or walking away, Kurtz stepped in and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder like they were old friends.
“Master Renwall, is that your storeroom I passed on the way in? I noticed the latch is cracked, I did. Might want to check on that before someone walks off with your best ale, eh?”
Bower cursed under his breath and shuffled off, muttering about thieves and lazy help.
“Thank you, Kurtz. I wanted to check on Cole, but Master Renwall would not stop talking.”
Kurtz gestured to where Cole sat on a chair by the kitchen door. “You’re free now, you are.”
Mistel hurried over to Cole. “This is a terrible spot,” she said. “Will you be able to play with that door swinging open?”
Cole glanced up at her as he continued to tune one of his strings. “I’ll be fine.”
She looked over the tiny space, counted fifteen tables, only five of them occupied. “This is shocking,” she said. “I’ve never sung in a venue this empty.”
“Might be because of the attack on the city today,” Zanna said, coming to stand beside her. “Poroo raiders ambushed a caravan at the southern gatehouse—killed several merchants and at least one Howler.”
A chill ran over Mistel’s arms. “That’s horrible. I’m not surprised people don’t feel like going out.”
“We already accomplished what we needed to this morning,” Cole said. “Tonight is just about playing well enough to get people talking.”
Mistel frowned at the measly crowd. “All nine of them.”
“Let’s start with ‘Hear the Pretty Maiden,’” Cole said. “Then do, ‘I Bless My King,’ followed by ‘The Pawn Our King,’ then slow things down with ‘Mountain Song.’”
“Perfect!” Mistel said.
“Best avoid singing about the king,” Kurtz said. “This is more of an epic ballads crowd.”
“But Mistel wrote ‘The Pawn Our King,’” Cole said. “And the king asked us to sing it along with ‘Sparrow’ wherever we went.”
“Well, he wasn’t thinking about our necks when he said that, was he?” Kurtz stroked his short beard. “Give ‘Pawn’ a try. Introduce it however you like, but wait and see what the reaction is before you sing any other royalist songs.”
Cole frowned, chewing on the term royalist, and said, “All right. Let’s switch ‘I Bless My King’ to ‘Chamswrath.’”
“Oh, they’ll like that one, they will,” Kurtz said.
Master Renwall returned and, once all was set, made his introduction.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, though there were only men in the alehouse, save Mistel and Zanna.
“Tonight, we have the great honor of welcoming a truly special performance. Give your ears—and your hearts—to the Wandering Songweavers!”
Kurtz started the beat on his tabor, and Cole plucked out the jaunty intro to “Hear the Pretty Maiden.” Mistel’s lips twitched, trying to hold back a grin as Cole shot her a sideways look.
Songweavers? he mouthed as his fingers struck the first chord.
Mercy. In all that had gone on since she’d invented that name, she’d completely forgotten to tell anyone. She winked at Cole, turned her attention to the sparse crowd, and began to sing.
“Hail the piper, fiddle, fife,
The night is young and full of life.
The Corner teems with ale and song.
And we will dance the whole night long.”
Mistel danced in the very small space she’d been given. Master Renwall tapped his foot, his gaze clinging to her like a burr to a wool cloak. Zanna watched the man with narrowed eyes, and Mistel was grateful for her statuesque protector. ZolZanna tan Quelle was not one to cross.
But the crowd barely looked up. A man at the farthest table slouched in his chair, mug to his lips. Nearby, two men talked, oblivious to the music. Only one man at a table in front glanced their way, then promptly went back to gnawing a chicken leg.
When the song ended and Mistel curtsied, no one clapped. “Hunxes, anyway,” she muttered, just loud enough for Cole to hear.
He shot her a sympathetic look but dove into “The Ballad of Bryndor and Chamswrath,” its melody dark and heavy. Mistel adjusted her tone, her voice ringing out like a bard in a great hall.
This song at least drew some attention. Gazes lifted briefly before returning to conversations. Mistel tried to coax them into clapping along, but they remained indifferent, clutching their drinks close as if that was all that mattered in the world.
After “Chamswrath,” Cole instantly strummed his way into “The Pawn Our King.” As he played through the first bars, Mistel addressed the room.
“This is a special song to me,” she said.
“I was born and raised in Sitna, and I knew our king when he was young. His story inspired me to write this. I hope you enjoy it.” She began to sing.
“He grew up here in Sitna town,
The hand his life was dealt.
He milked the goats and fetched the wood,
Or Poril gave him the belt.”
“The pawn our king, sing merry, merry, merry.
The pawn our servant king.
For he was once the lowest of all strays
And now he is our king.”
As Cole strummed into the second verse, a man in back yelled, “That stray ain’t no king of mine. This is the North!”
Mistel faltered for a heartbeat, caught Cole’s eye, and went right into the next verse.
“Then the Great Whitewolf took him up,
Taught him to use a sword.
He fought quite well, his blade struck true
And blood from Esek poured.”
Before she could return to the chorus, something soft smacked her ear, and a half-eaten roll of bread tumbled to the floor. She yelped and combed breadcrumbs from her hair.
Cole stood, his chair scraping back to the lone sound of Kurtz’s tabor. “Who did that?”
Kurtz stopped playing. “Sit down,” he said sharply.
“I will not,” Cole snapped. He set down his lute, then turned back to the patrons. “Who threw that?”
A massive man at the back of the room pushed to his feet, chest and arms like boulders beneath his tunic. “I did,” he growled. “We don’t want any songs about kings up in the North.”
Another man leaped to his feet. “A hex upon him!”
“Fool boy got our lord killed, now, didn’t he?” a third man chimed in, his words slurred.
The big man spat on the floor and walked toward Cole. “Only fools sing praises for a king who cowers behind walls while better men die for his mistakes.”
Oh, knightling, take care, Mistel thought as Cole clenched his fists.
“Now, see here,” he said. “You know nothing about our—”
But Kurtz slipped up to Cole and looped an arm around his shoulders in what appeared to be a friendly gesture. He turned their backs to the crowd, which stalled the big man’s forward movement. When Kurtz said nothing more, Mistel knew he was speaking to Cole with his bloodvoicing magic.
“Lost your voice, have you?” the big man said, drawing laughter from the patrons.
Zanna came to stand beside Mistel, who was grateful for the woman’s commanding presence.
Kurtz finally released Cole, who gritted his teeth, sat down, and picked up his lute.
“I can’t laugh,” he muttered.
“What?” Mistel asked.
Kurtz, back at his tabor, started a steady thump, thump, thump, and Cole’s fingers picked out the lilting intro to “Mountain Song.”
Well! Apparently, the show would continue. Mistel entered on cue, her voice softer now. Her heart ached as she sang, but she forced a smile, even as heat simmered beneath her skin.
Never had she been so disrespected by an audience. The thrown bread had rattled her, and when that man had stood and walked toward Cole…She shuddered.
But at least this motley crowd was seated again, their attention back on their drinks, and the food stayed on the tables. Ignoring the band completely but…Fine by her.
After their performance, Mistel and Zanna found Cole outside on the street, lute in hand.
“What did Kurtz say when he bloodvoiced you?” Mistel asked.
Cole glanced around them and spoke softly. “Not to forget that we supposedly left the king’s service, so we don’t get to defend him when drunkards throw insults. We’re to laugh instead—at the very least, hold our tongues.”
Mistel’s heart went out to Cole, who loved the king like a brother. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That entire experience was awful.”
“I’m just glad things didn’t escalate further,” Zanna said.
Kurtz exited then. “Bah! That was nothing,” he said, holding out his palm. “Plus, we made fourteen rutahs.”
Mistel gasped. “Even though they hated us?”
“One for each patron,” Kurtz said, “and five from Master Renwall, who said you held the entire room in rapture.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Mistel’s cheeks warmed. “Thanks for dealing with that hunx. It was wrong of me to run out when he was speaking to me, but I couldn’t stomach another word.”
“That’s what I’m here for, lass,” Kurtz said.
“Actually, that’s what I’m here for,” Zanna said, “but had I spoken to him, he might have lost some teeth. So perhaps I owe you a thanks as well, Master Chazir.”
“Well, this is a special moment, it is.” Kurtz tipped his head back to the stars. “Watchers, bear witness to this miracle!”
Cole and Mistel laughed. Zanna shook her head, clearly annoyed. Mercy, the woman still couldn’t lighten up about Kurtz.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Cole asked.
“We need to play the Ivory Spit, or Merrygog will throttle me, eh?” Kurtz said.
Playing at the Ivory Spit would be lovely, but this place…“How will we ever get hired at the Black Boar?” she asked. “This audience will have nothing good to say about us.”
“Master Renwall will, thanks to you.” Kurtz winked.
Mistel grimaced and edged closer to Zanna. “I don’t like his sort of compliments.”
“Joonas Erlichman owns the Boar,” Cole said. “If we can connect with him, maybe he’ll ask us to play.”
“Cough up ten golds and go boar hunting,” Kurtz said.
“I couldn’t even get half that for my lute,” Cole said.
“Why don’t I just go to the Black Boar and ask,” Mistel said. “That’s how I got hired here. They might have a Master Renwall-type who does the hiring.”
“You can’t just walk into the Black Boar,” Zanna said. “Even with me at your side, those men will get the wrong idea. But—” She held up her finger to Mistel, whose mouth was open to argue. “Why don’t you set up in the Dale tomorrow? For the festival?”
“Will they have it after the attack today?” Cole asked.
“They’ll insist on it, they will,” Kurtz said. “This is the North. We don’t let something like that affect us.”
Playing outdoors sounded miserably cold. “Will they have us on such short notice?” Mistel asked.
“You won’t be onstage,” Zanna said, “but playing a street corner at the festival is enough to get noticed and invited elsewhere.”
“Don’t hate that idea, I don’t,” Kurtz said. “The Boar is the goal, but give it a little time, eh?”
“Let’s meet at the Dale tomorrow afternoon,” Cole said. “That way we can sleep in.”
“Now you’re speaking my language, you are,” Kurtz said.
“I’ll have to work,” Zanna said, “but I’ll drop Mistel by the Spit on my way.”
Mistel reached out and touched Cole’s arm. “You did wonderful tonight. I’m sorry the crowd was horrible. They won’t all be that way, I promise.”
“Guess I’d better listen to Kurtz next time,” Cole said. “He was right about royalist songs.”
Kurtz growled and crowed, “This is the North!”
Mistel laughed. She and Zanna left the boys and walked toward Fat Vandy’s in silence.
They made it two blocks before Zanna spoke. “You’re quiet. I find it alarming.”
Zanna was a perceptive woman. How to answer that? “I was just thinking…What have I got myself into?”
Zanna chuckled. “That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say.”
Mistel wasn’t sure how to take that. “When I got hit with that roll, it surprised me and hurt my feelings a little. But it was fine. All part of singing in a place like that. I’ve performed for rowdier crowds, honestly.
But when Cole stood up to defend me…He was so angry and determined. Then that man stepped forward…”
“And looked like he could use Cole for a toothpick?”
Mistel gaped at Zanna. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“I thought Cole needed me here,” Mistel said. “But if I wasn’t here, then he wouldn’t have to put himself in foolish situations like that to protect me. And if Thusk is really selling people out of the prison…that’s only going to worry Cole more.”
“That you said all that makes me like you,” Zanna said. “Just a little.”
Really? This fierce woman valued transparency? Mistel would never have guessed that. “I care about Cole. I think we’re better together than apart—singing, I mean.”
“You are good together.”
“Then he does need me?” Mistel asked. “And if I leave, he might not do as well. Right?”
Zanna lifted her hands. “Don’t ask me for advice about romance. I know nothing.”
“I wasn’t talking about romance. Not really. Cole is my friend. I care about him.”
“Platonically.”
Mistel thought about that. “Well, not exactly.”
Zanna growled at the sky. “I take it back. I hate you again.”
“I just want to make things better,” Mistel said. “But sometimes, I make things worse. Maybe I’m just too much? Too loud. Too reckless, like he said. I want to dive in and help, but what if I’m the reason he gets hurt? The reason we fail?”
Zanna gave Mistel a sharp look. “You’re not too much, Mistel. But you are a lot. And sometimes, a lot is what people need to wake up and see things differently. Don’t second-guess yourself. People who wait around for permission to live aren’t worth much in the end.”