The Name of the Wind

“They both do. Stanchion handles the music end of it.”

“Is there anything I should know about him?” I asked, my near catastrophe with Deoch having sharpened my anxiety.

Simmon shook his head. “I hear he’s cheerful enough in his own right, but I’ve never talked with him. Don’t do anything stupid and everything should be fine.”

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically as I pushed my chair back from the table and stood.

Stanchion had a medium build and was handsomely dressed in deep green and black. He had a round, bearded face and a slight paunch that was probably only noticeable because he was sitting. He smiled and motioned me forward with the hand that wasn’t holding an impressively tall tankard.

“Ho there,” he said cheerily “You have the hopeful look about you. Are you here to play for us tonight?” He raised a speculative eyebrow. Now that I was closer, I noticed that Stanchion’s hair was a deep, bashful red that hid if the light struck him the wrong way.

“I hope to, sir,” I said. “Though I was planning to wait for a while.”

“Oh, certainly. We never let anyone try their talent until the sun is down.” He paused to take a drink, and as he turned his head I saw a golden set of pipes hanging from his ear.

Sighing, he wiped his mouth happily across the back of his sleeve. “What do you play then, lute?” I nodded. “Have any idea what you’ll use to woo us?”

“That depends sir. Has anyone played ‘The Lay of Sir Savien Traliard’ lately?”

Stanchion raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat. Smoothing his beard with his free hand, he said, “Well, no. Someone gave it a whirl a few months ago, but he bit off more than he could swallow whole. Missed a couple fingerings then fell apart.” He shook his head. “Simply said, no. Not lately.”

He took another drink from his tankard, and swallowed thoughtfully before he spoke again. “Most people find that a song of more moderate difficulty allows them to showcase their talent,” he said carefully.

I sensed his unspoken advice and was not offended. “Sir Savien” is the most difficult song I had ever heard. My father had been the only one in the troupe with the skill to perform it, and I had only heard him do it perhaps four or five times in front of an audience. It was only about fifteen minutes long, but those fifteen minutes required quick, precise fingering that, if done properly, would set two voices singing out of the lute at once, both a melody and a harmony.

That was tricky, but nothing any skilled lutist couldn’t accomplish. However, “Sir Savien” was a ballad, and the vocal part was a counter melody that ran against the timing of the lute. Difficult. If the song was being done properly, with both a man and a woman alternating the verses, the song was further complicated by the female’s counter harmony in the refrains. If it is done well, it is enough to cut a heart. Unfortunately, few musicians could perform calmly in the center of such a storm of song.

Stanchion drank off another solid swallow from his tankard and wiped his beard on his sleeve. “You singing alone?” he asked, seeming a bit excited in spite of his half-spoken warning. “Or have you brought someone to sing opposite you? Is one of the boys you came in with a castrati?”

I fought down laughter at the thought of Wilem as a soprano and shook my head. “I don’t have any friends that can sing it. I was going to double the third refrain to give someone the chance to come in as Aloine.”

“Trouper style, eh?” He gave me a serious look. “Son, it’s really not my place to say this, but do you really want to try for your pipes with someone you’ve never even practiced with?”

It reassured me that he realized how hard it was going to be. “How many pipes will be here tonight, roughly?”

He thought briefly. “Roughly? Eight. Maybe a dozen.”

“So in all likelihood there will be at least three women who have earned their talents?”

Stanchion nodded, watching me curiously.

“Well,” I said slowly. “If what everyone has told me is true, if only real excellence can win the pipes, then one of those women will know Aloine’s part.”

Stanchion took another long, slow drink, watching me over the top of his tankard. When he finally set it down he forgot to wipe his beard. “You’re a proud one, aren’t you?” he said frankly.

I looked around the room. “Isn’t this the Eolian? I had heard that this is where pride pays silver and plays golden.”

“I like that,” Stanchion said, almost to himself. “Plays golden.” He slammed his tankard down onto the bar, causing a small geyser of something frothy to erupt from the top. “Dammit boy, I hope you’re as good as you seem to think you are. I could use someone else around here with Illien’s fire.” He ran a hand through his own red hair to clarify his double meaning.

“I hope this place is as good as everyone seems to think it is,” I said earnestly. “I need a place to burn.”

“He didn’t throw you out,” Simmon quipped as I returned to the table. “So I’m guessing it didn’t go as badly as it could have.”