The Name of the Wind

“You’ve seen him here before?” I asked. Sim nodded. “Did he play?”

“Recited, actually. Poetry. He recited and kind of plucked at the lyre.” Simmon looked like a rabbit about to run.

“Does he have his talent?” I said darkly. I decided then that if Ambrose was a member of this group, I didn’t want anything to do with it.

“No,” Simmon squeaked. “He tried for it, but ...” He trailed off, looking a little wild around the eyes.

Wilem lay a hand on my arm and made a calming gesture. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to relax.

Slowly, I realized that none of this mattered. At most, it simply raised the stakes for tonight. Ambrose wouldn’t be able to do anything to disrupt my playing. He would be forced to watch and listen. Listen to me playing “The Lay of Sir Savien Traliard,” because now there was no question as to what I would be performing tonight.

The evening’s entertainment was led by one of the talented musicians from the crowd. He had a lute and showed that he could play it as well as any Edema Ruh. His second song was even better, one that I’d never heard before.

There was a gap of about ten minutes before another talented musician was called onto the stage to sing. This man had a set of reed pipes and played them better than anyone I had ever heard. He followed by singing a haunting eulogy in a minor key No instrument, just his high clear voice that rose and flowed like the pipes he had played before.

I was pleased to find the skill of the talented musicians to be everything it was rumored to be. But my anxiety increased a proportionate amount. Excellence is excellence’s only companion. Had I not already decided to play “The Lay of Sir Savien Traliard” for purely spiteful reasons, these performances would have convinced me.

There followed another period of five or ten minutes. I realized that Stanchion was deliberately spacing things out to give the audience a chance to move about and make noise between the songs. The man knew his business. I wondered if he had ever been a trouper.

Then we had our first trial of the night. A bearded man of thirty years or so was brought onto the stage by Stanchion and introduced to the audience. He played flute. Played it well. He played two shorter songs that I knew and a third I didn’t. He played for perhaps twenty minutes in all, only making one small mistake that I could hear.

After the applause, the flutist remained on stage while Stanchion circulated in the crowd, gathering opinions. A serving boy brought the flutist a glass of water.

Eventually Stanchion came back onto the stage. The room was quiet as the owner drew close and solemnly shook the man’s hand. The musician’s expression fell, but he managed a sickly smile and a nod to the audience. Stanchion escorted him off the stage and bought something that came in a tall tankard.

The next to try her talent was a young woman, richly dressed with golden hair. After Stanchion introduced her, she sang an aria in a voice so clear and pure that I forgot my anxiety for a while and was ensnared by her song. For a few blessed moments I forgot myself and could do nothing but listen.

Too soon it was over, leaving me with a tender feeling in my chest and a vague prickling in my eyes. Simmon sniffled a little and rubbed selfconsciously at his face.

Then she sang a second song while accompanying herself on a half-harp. I watched her intently, and I will admit that it was not entirely for her musical ability. She had hair like ripe wheat. I could see the clear blue of her eyes from where I sat some thirty feet away. She had smooth arms and small delicate hands that were quick against the strings. And the way she held the harp between her legs made me think of... well, the things that every boy of fifteen thinks about incessantly

Her voice was as lovely as before, enough to set a heart aching. Unfortunately, her playing could not match it. She struck wrong notes halfway through her second song, faltered, then recovered before she made it to the end of her performance.

There was a longer pause as Stanchion circulated this time. He milled through the three levels of the Eolian, talking with everyone, young and old, musician and not.

As I watched, Ambrose caught the eye of the woman on stage and gave her one of his smiles that seem so greasy to me and so charming to women. Then, looking away from her, his gaze wandered to my table and our eyes met. His smile faded, and for a long moment we simply watched each other, expressionless. Neither of us smiled mockingly, or mouthed small insulting nothings to the other. Nevertheless, all our smoldering enmity was renewed in those few minutes. I cannot say with certainty which of us looked away first.