The magic was even worse. It was the kind of thing Verity had been doing since the age of nine, a weak tune that made the food taste better and lightened some emotion, but did both those things without any real power.
The girl had long blond hair tied back in a braid and a pleasant look to her, and for all that Verity could see every flaw in the music, the new bard seemed to be enjoying herself and the production of the music. The song sounded like an original, though in the eight months or so that Verity had been playing at the Fig and Gristle, she hadn’t been able to memorize the entirety of the local tunes, just the majority. The girl’s voice was nice and mellow, but it was nice in the way that raw clay was nice, something that needed to be worked and trained.
Verity ate her meal and listened, composing a critique in her head that she wasn’t unkind enough to ever actually share. When she was halfway through the meal, Verity’s mind began to wander from the music and the magic around her, turning to the more advanced problems of her own. As she saw it, the most major issue she faced in the dungeons was that of stamina, which in her opinion likely descended from the particulars of her training.
When a bard performed in a concert setting, it was usually full-tilt, as heavy as possible without regard for being able to continue on past the end of the piece. When a bard was in a dungeon, however, sustain was one of the most important things because it allowed more time to regroup between encounters and less of a need to rush. Holding the song and not having it drain her when there was no need for the effects, that was something that Verity had never really learned, because there had never been much need. What she needed was to be able to carry the magic down to its lowest level, barely a heartbeat of a tune and, ideally, to do that without needing too much of her focus. Then, when there was an actual fight, she could rouse the song into its full power and give the party what they needed to defeat whatever evil was in front of them. She knew that this was possible, but it was difficult, and learning it was more difficult because she had no one to talk to and learn from.
While she ate her dinner, she spun up a song of her own, going along with the half-ring bard and providing a companion piece. Working with another bard was always difficult, and doing it without them knowing it was harder still, especially with one as unskilled as this one. But reducing her own magic to a minimum was, Verity thought, a bit easier this way, because her magic could float on top of the other magic, barely perceptible to either of them, but still there. She reduced it even further, until it was at the edge of even her own perception, following along with one beat in every four, then one in every eight.
Then Verity tried to go down to one in every sixteen, and she was surprised that she was able to hold it for a few measures, but then it wavered like a candle flame in a light wind, and Verity wasn’t able to recover it. It had been a small bit of muttered magic though, kept going through a tapping of her foot and a bit of humming, and there was very little of the usual feeling of being exhausted.
Verity went again, trying to get the magic down to a bare minimum, though she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to do it without existing music to serve as a guide. This time she was able to hold it at one-in-sixteen for an entire verse before it wobbled and fell apart like a top losing the speed necessary to spin.
It was quite the opposite of what she’d been trained for and went against some of the musicomagical philosophy she’d been taught since she was young. Her tutors and, later, the conservatory had emphasized consistency of impact and a kind of boisterous playing that went at magical production with gusto, and they had never taught her how to do what she was now attempting, minimizing the impact of her magic, stringing it along without contributing much, focusing on maintenance.
After nearly two hours, with a half-eaten dessert that was now room temperature in front of her, Verity had spun up and then petered out nearly a dozen songs, probably a record for her. She was feeling the strain of it, and she didn’t feel anything she’d been able to do would be at all useful in the dungeons, but she felt like she’d made some good progress, and if she could get better, then in a month, perhaps they would be able to stay on the same song while taking ten minutes for healing and rest before moving on to the next room.
For all Verity’s criticisms, the half-ring bard managed to go quite a while, keeping up the minor effects for a longer set than Verity normally did, though obviously it used less power when the effect was so weak. It was clearly a strain on her though, and Verity hoped that the girl wasn’t on the verge of injuring herself. It was her first night at the Fig and Gristle, and clearly she was trying to make a good impression, but it wasn’t as though Cynthia was spoiled for choice, and even a middling bard like this would probably be staying for at least a few weeks.
To Verity’s surprise, when the bard had finished her set, she came over to where Verity was sitting and slipped into the chair without asking.
“You’re Verity, right?” the girl asked. She was flushed and sweaty, a clear sign that she’d gone too far with her playing, but she had a wide smile on her face. She held out a hand, and Verity took it. “Clemency.”
“Is that your name, or are you asking?” asked Verity.
“Both, I suppose,” replied Clemency. “I thought it was funny that we had similar names, when I heard about you.” They were both virtue names, though the name ‘Verity’ was among the more traditional virtue names, tracing back a further lineage than a name like ‘Clemency’.
“The lute gave me away?” asked Verity, nodding to the case that was sitting on the table, up away from foot traffic.
“You were doing some bardic work, weren’t you?” asked Clemency, quirking an eyebrow. She seemed exhausted but happy. “I thought that was a bit unusual.”
“Sorry,” said Verity. “I was trying something. I hope I didn’t interrupt you. I was trying to bring the magic as low as I could go without stalling out.”
“You got down to one in thirty-two very briefly there,” said Clemency. “I was quite impressed.”
“You have a good ear,” said Verity. “Or a good head for magic.”
“I’m not very good yet,” said Clemency, looking sheepish. “But I didn’t start until two years ago. I can do it better in my head than with my hands. I think I drifted out of tune for a bit, sorry.”
She had started out of tune, but Verity elected not to say that. It was the curse of any professional that they heard and saw flaws others didn’t. “You’re doing well,” said Verity. “I’m glad that my leaving won’t mean that the Fig and Gristle is without music.”
“Cynthia said that you’d decided to become a dungeoneer,” said Clemency.
“It’s more like an opportunity came to my door,” said Verity. “Which I suppose is now your door. It’s a bit of pressure, but nothing like playing a concert hall.”
“You’ve played a concert hall?” asked Clemency, eyes wide.
“In Dondrian, yes,” said Verity. “The Ellusifé twice and the Pallonia once.” It occurred to her after she’d said it that this could be seen as bragging, and following that thought, it occurred to her that this was saying a bit too much. “It was less of a big deal than it maybe sounds like. These were spotlight events rather than earned purely on merit.” But the clarification didn’t seem to have the intended effect because Clemency was still staring at her with wide eyes.