“I’ll take it,” said the Pendragon.
Fiddler Fair
This is one of those fun ones. I submitted this to Andre Norton for her Magic in Ithkar braided anthology for Another Company; this was during that time when braided anthologies (otherwise known as “shared worlds”) were Hot Stuff. I didn’t know if I had a hope of getting in, but I tried—and she accepted it! Later, since Magic in Ithkar only made it to volume two, and I really liked the concept of the Free Bards, this became the basis for the “Bardic Voices” series I do for Baen. This is a case where I was able to “file the serial numbers off” and do a rewrite to fit the story into an entirely original world; you can’t always do that, but sometimes it works.
All the world comes to Ithkar Fair.
That’s what they said, anyway—and it certainly seemed that way to Rune, as she traveled the Trade Road down from her home near the Galzar Pass. She wasn’t walking on the dusty, hard-packed road itself; she’d likely have been trampled by the press of beasts, then run over by the carts into the bargain. Instead, she walked with the rest of the foot-travelers on the road’s verge. It was no less dusty, what grass there had been had long since been trampled into powder by all the feet of the pilgrims and fairgoers, but at least a traveler was able to move along without risk of acquiring hoofprints on his anatomy.
Rune was close enough now to see the gates of the Fair itself, and the Fair-ward beside them. This seemed like a good moment to separate herself from the rest of the throng, rest her tired feet, and plan her next moves before entering the grounds of the Fair.
She elbowed her way out of the line of people, some of whom complained and elbowed back, and moved away from the road to a place where she had a good view of the Fair and a rock to sit on. The sun beat down with enough heat to be felt through her soft leather hat as she plopped herself down on the rock and began massaging her tired feet while she looked the Fair over.
It was a bit overwhelming. Certainly it was much bigger than she’d imagined it would be. It was equally certain that there would be nothing dispensed for free behind those log palings, and the few coppers Rune had left would have to serve to feed her through the three days of trials for admission to the Bardic Guild. After that—
Well, after that, she should be an apprentice, and food and shelter would be for her master to worry about. If not—
She refused to admit the possibility of failing the trials. She couldn’t—the Three surely wouldn’t let her fail. Not after getting this far.
But for now, she needed somewhere to get herself cleaned of the road-dust, and a place to sleep, both with no price tags attached. Right now, she was the same gray-brown from head to toe, the darker brown of her hair completely camouflaged by the dust, or at least it felt that way. Even her eyes felt dusty.
She strolled down to the river, her lute thumping her shoulder softly on one side, her pack doing the same on the other. Close to the docks the water was muddy and roiled; there was too much traffic on the river to make an undisturbed bath a viable possibility, and too many wharf-rats about to make leaving one’s belongings a wise move. She backtracked upstream a bit, while the noise of the Fair faded behind her, crossed over the canal and went hunting the rapids that the canal bypassed. The bank of the river was wilder here, and overgrown, not like the carefully tended area of the canalside. Finally she found a place where the river had cut a tiny cove into the bank. It was secluded; trees overhung the water, their branches making a good thick screen that touched the water, the ground beneath them bare of growth, and hollows between some of the roots just big enough to cradle her sleeping roll. Camp, bath, and water, all together, and within climbing distance on one of the trees was a hollow big enough to hide her bedroll and those belongings she didn’t want to carry into the Fair.
She waited until dusk fell before venturing into the river and kept her eyes and ears open while she scrubbed herself down. Once clean, she debated whether or not to change into the special clothing she’d brought tonight; it might be better to save it—then the thought of donning the sweat-soaked, dusty traveling gear became too distasteful, and she rejected it out of hand.
She felt strange and altogether different once she’d put the new costume on. Part of that was due to the materials—except for when she’d tried the clothing on for fit, this was the first time she’d ever worn silk and velvet. Granted, the materials were all old; bought from a second-hand vendor and cut down from much larger garments. The velvet of the breeches wasn’t too rubbed; the ribbons on the sleeves of the shirt and the embroidery should cover the faded places, and the vest should cover the stain on the back panel completely. Her hat, once the dust was beaten out of it and the plumes she’d snatched from the tails of several disgruntled roosters were tucked into the band, looked brave enough. Her boots, at least, were new, and when the dust was brushed from them, looked quite well. She tucked her remaining changes of clothing and her bedroll into her pack, hid the lot in the tree-hollow, and felt ready to face the Fair.
The Fair-ward at the gate eyed her carefully. “Minstrel?” he asked suspiciously, looking at the lute and fiddle she carried in their cases, slung from her shoulders.
She shook her head. “Here for the trials, m’lord.”
“Ah,” he appeared satisfied. “You come in good time, boy. The trials begin tomorrow. The Guild has its tent pitched hard by the main gate of the Temple; you should have no trouble finding it.”
The wizard of the gate looked bored, ignoring her. Rune did not correct the Fair-ward’s assumption that she was a boy; it was her intent to pass as male until she’d safely passed the trials. She’d never heard of the Bardic Guild admitting a girl, but so far as she’d been able to determine, there was nothing in the rules and Charter of the Guild preventing it. So once she’d been accepted, once the trials were safely passed, she’d reveal her sex, but until then, she’d play the safe course.
She thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to the next in line. She passed inside the log walls and entered the Fair itself.
The first impressions she had were of noise and light; torches burned all along the aisle she traversed; the booths to either side were lit by lanterns, candles, or other, more arcane methods. The crowd was noisy; so were the merchants. Even by torchlight it was plain that these were the booths featuring shoddier goods; secondhand finery, brass jewelry, flash and tinsel. The entertainers here were—surprising. She averted her eyes from a set of dancers. It wasn’t so much that they wore little but imagination, but the way they were dancing embarrassed even her; and a tavern-bred child has seen a great deal in its life.
She kept a tight grip on her pouch and instruments, tried to ignore the crush, and let the flow of fairgoers carry her along.
Eventually the crowd thinned out a bit (though not before she’d felt a ghostly hand or two try for her pouch and give it up as a bad cause). She followed her nose then, looking for the row that held the cookshop tents and the ale-sellers. She hadn’t eaten since this morning, and her stomach was lying in uncomfortably close proximity to her spine.
She learned that the merchants of tavern-row were shrewd judges of clothing; hers wasn’t fine enough to be offered a free taste, but wasn’t poor enough to be shooed away. Sternly admonishing her stomach to be less impatient, she strolled the length of the row twice, carefully comparing prices and quantities, before settling on a humble tent that offered meat pasties (best not ask what beast the meat came from, not at these prices) and fruit juice or milk as well as ale and wine. Best of all, it offered seating at rough trestle-tables as well. Rune took her flaky pastry and her mug of juice (no wine or ale for her; not even had she the coppers to spare for it. She dared not be the least muddle-headed, not with a secret to keep and a competition on the morn), and found herself a spot at an empty table where she could eat and watch the crowd passing by. The pie was more crust than meat, but it was filling and well-made and fresh; that counted for a great deal. She noted with amusement that there were two sorts of the clumsy, crude clay mugs. One sort, the kind they served the milk and juice in, was ugly and shapeless (too ugly to be worth stealing) but was just as capacious as the exterior promised. The other, for wine and ale, was just the same ugly shape and size on the outside (though a different shade of toad-back green), but had a far thicker bottom, effectively reducing the interior capacity by at least a third.