I watched until they were halfway up the stairs to the third circle. That's where Denna stopped and put a hand to her head. Then she looked around at the floor, her expression anxious. The two of them spoke briefly and she pointed up the stairs. Kellin nodded and climbed out of sight.

On a hunch, I looked down at the floor and spotted a gleam of silver where Denna had been standing near the railing. I moved and stood over it, forcing a pair of Cealdish merchants to detour around me.

I pretended to watch the crowd below until Denna came close and tapped me on the shoulder. "Kvothe," she said anxiously. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I seem to have lost an earring. Would you be a dear and help me look for it? I'm sure I had it on me just a moment ago."

I agreed, and soon we were enjoying a moment of privacy, decorously searching the floorboards with our heads close together. Luckily, Denna's dress was in the Modegan style, flowing and loose around the legs. If it had been slit up the side according to the current fashion of the Commonwealth, the sight of her crouching on the floor would have been scandalous.

"G.o.d's body," I muttered. "Where did you find him?"

Denna chuckled low in her throat. "Hush. You're the one who suggested I learn my way around a harp. Kellin is quite a good teacher."

"The Modegan pedal harp weighs five times as much as you do," I said. "It's a parlor instrument. You'd never be able to take one on the road."

She stopped pretending to look for her earring and gave me a pointed look. "And who's to say I won't ever have a parlor to harp in?"

I looked back to the floor and gave as much of a shrug as I could manage. "It's good enough for learning, I suppose. How are you liking it so far?"

"It's better than the lyre," she said. "I can already see that. I can barely play 'Squirrel in the Thatch,' though."

"Is he any good?" I gave her a sly smile. "With his hands, I mean."

Denna flushed a bit and looked for a second as if she would swat at me. But she remembered her decorum in time and settled for narrowing her eyes instead. "You're awful," she said, "Kellin has been a perfect gentleman."

"Tehlu save us all from perfect gentlemen," I said.

She shook her head. "I meant it in the literal sense," she said. "He's never been out of Modeg before. He's like a kitten in a coop."

"So you're Dinael now?" I asked.

"For now. And for him," she said, looking at me sideways with a small quirk of a smile. "From you I still like Denna best."

"That's good to know," I said, then lifted my hand off the floor, revealing the smooth emerald teardrop of an earring. Denna made a show of discovering it, holding it up to catch the light. "Ah! Here we are!"

I stood and helped her to her feet. She brushed her hair back from her shoulder and leaned toward me. "I'm all thumbs with these things," she said. "Would you mind?"

I stepped toward her and stood close as she handed me the earring. She smelled faintly of wildflowers. But beneath that she smelled like autumn leaves. Like the dark smell of her own hair, like road dust and the air before a summer storm.

"So what is he?" I said softly. "Someone's second son?"

She gave a barely perceptible shake of her head, and a strand of her hair fell down to brush the back of my hand. "He's a lord in his own right."

"Skethe te retaa van," I swore. "Lock up your sons and daughters." I swore. "Lock up your sons and daughters."

Denna laughed again, quietly. Her body shook as she fought to hold it in.

"Hold still," I said as I gently took hold of her ear.

Denna drew a deep breath and let it out again, composing herself. I threaded the earring through the lobe of her ear and stepped away. She lifted one hand to check it, then stepped back and gave a curtsey. "Thank you kindly for all your help."

I bowed to her again. It wasn't as polished as the bow I'd given her before, but it was more honest. "I am at your service, my lady."

Denna smiled warmly as she turned to go, her eyes laughing again.

I finished exploring the second tier for the sake of form, but Threpe didn't seem to be around. Not wanting to risk the awkwardness of a second encounter with Denna and her lordling, I decided to skip the third tier entirely.

Sim had the lively look he gets around his fifth drink. Manet was slouched low in his chair, eyes half-lidded, his mug resting comfortably on the swell of his belly. Wil looked the same as ever, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Threpe's nowhere to be found," I said as I took my seat. "Sorry."

"That's too bad," Sim said. "Has he had any luck finding you a patron yet?"

I shook my head bitterly. "Ambrose has threatened or bribed every n.o.ble within a hundred miles of here. They'll have nothing to do with me."

"Why doesn't Threpe take you on himself?" Wilem asked. "He likes you well enough."

I shook my head. "Threpe's already supporting three other musicians. Four really, but two of them are a married couple."

"Four?" Sim said, horrified. "It's a wonder he can still afford to eat."

Wil c.o.c.ked his head curiously, and Sim leaned forward to explain. "Threpe's a count. But his holdings aren't really that extensive. Supporting four players on his income is a little ... extravagant."

Wil frowned. "Drinks and strings can't amount to much."

"A patron's responsible for more than that." Sim began to count items off on his fingers. "There's the writ of patronage itself. Then he provides room and board for his players, a yearly wage, a suit of clothes in his family's colors-"

"Two suits of clothing, traditionally," I interjected. "Every year." Growing up in the troupe, I never appreciated the livery Lord Greyfallow had given us. But these days I couldn't help but imagine how much my wardrobe would be improved by two new sets of clothing.

Simmon grinned as a serving boy arrived, leaving no doubt as to who was responsible for the gla.s.ses of blackberry brand set in front of each of us. Sim raised his gla.s.s in a silent toast and drank a solid swallow. I raised my gla.s.s in return, as did Wilem, though it obviously pained him. Manet remained motionless, and I began to suspect he had dozed off.

"It still doesn't add square," Wilem said, setting down his brand. "All the patron gets is lighter pockets."

"The patron gets a reputation," I explained. "That's why the players wear the livery. Plus he has entertainers at his beck and call: parties, dances, pageants. Sometimes they'll write songs or plays at his request."

Wil still seemed skeptical. "Still seems like the patron is getting the short side of it."

"That's because you only have half the picture," Manet said, pulling himself upright in his chair. "You're a city boy. You don't know what it's like growing up in a little town built on one man's land.

"Here's Lord Poncington's lands," Manet said, using a bit of spilled beer to draw a circle in the center of the table. "Where you live like the good little commoner you are." Manet picked up Simmon's empty gla.s.s and put it inside the circle.

"One day, a fellow strolls through town wearing Lord Poncington's colors." Manet picked up his full gla.s.s of brand and jigged it across the table until it stood next to Sim's empty one inside the circle. "And this fellow plays songs for everyone at the local inn." Manet splashed some of the brand into Sim's gla.s.s.

Not needing any prompting, Sim grinned and drank it.

Manet trotted his gla.s.s around the table and entered the circle again. "Next month a couple more folk come through wearing his colors and put on a puppet show." He poured more brand and Simmon tossed it back. "The next month there's a play." Again.

Now Manet picked up his wooden mug and clomped it across the table into the circle. "Then the tax man shows up, wearing the same colors." Manet knocked his empty mug impatiently on the table.

Sim sat confused for a second, then he picked up his own mug and sloshed some beer into it.

Manet eyed him and tapped the mug again, sternly.

Sim poured the rest of his beer into Manet's mug, laughing. "I like blackberry brand better anyway."

"Lord Poncington likes his taxes better," Manet said. "And people like to be entertained. And the tax man likes not being poisoned and buried in a shallow grave behind the old mill." He took a drink of beer. "So it works out nicely for everyone."

Wil watched the exchange with his serious, dark eyes. "That makes better sense."

"It's not always as mercenary as that," I said. "Threpe genuinely wants to help musicians improve their craft. Some n.o.bles treat their performers like horses in a stable," I sighed. "Even that would be better than what I have now, which is nothing."

"Don't sell yourself cheap," Sim said cheerfully. "Wait and get a good patron. You deserve it. You're as good as any musician here."

I kept silent, too proud to tell them the truth. I was poor in a way the rest of them could hardly understand. Sim was Aturan n.o.bility, and Wil's family were wool merchants from Ralien. They thought being poor meant not having enough money to go drinking as often as they liked.

With tuition looming, I didn't dare spend a bent penny. I couldn't buy candles, or ink, or paper. I had no jewelry to p.a.w.n, no allowance, no parents to write home to. No respectable moneylender would give me a thin shim. Hardly surprising, as I was a rootless, orphan Edema Ruh whose possessions would fit into a burlap sack. It wouldn't have to be a large sack either.

I got to my feet before the conversation had a chance to wander into uncomfortable territory. "It's time I made some music."

I picked up my lute case and made my way to where Stanchion sat at the corner of the bar. "What have you got for us tonight?" he asked, running his hand over his beard.

"A surprise."

Stanchion paused in the act of getting off his stool. "Is this the sort of surprise that's going to cause a riot or make folk set my place on fire?" he asked.

I shook my head, smiling.

"Good." He smiled and headed off in the direction of the stage. "In that case I like surprises."

CHAPTER SIX.

Love STANCHION LED ME ONTO the stage and brought out an armless chair. Then he walked to the front of the stage to chat with the audience. I spread my cloak over the back of the chair as the lights began to dim.

I laid my battered lute case on the floor. It was even shabbier than I was. It had been quite nice once, but that was years ago and miles away. Now the leather hinges were cracked and stiff, and the body was worn thin as parchment in places. Only one of the original clasps remained, a delicate thing of worked silver. I'd replaced the others with whatever I could scavenge, so now the case sported mismatched clasps of bright bra.s.s and dull iron.

But inside the case was something else entirely. Inside was the reason I was scrambling for tuition tomorrow. I had driven a hard bargain for it, and even then it had cost me more money than I had ever spent on anything in my life. So much money I couldn't afford a case that fit it properly, and made do by padding my old one with rags.

The wood was the color of dark coffee, of freshly turned earth. The curve of the bowl was perfect as a woman's hip. It was hushed echo and bright string and thrum. My lute. My tangible soul.

I have heard what poets write about women. They rhyme and rhapsodize and lie. I have watched sailors on the sh.o.r.e stare mutely at the slow-rolling swell of the sea. I have watched old soldiers with hearts like leather grow teary-eyed at their king's colors stretched against the wind.

Listen to me: these men know nothing of love.

You will not find it in the words of poets or the longing eyes of sailors. If you want to know of love, look to a trouper's hands as he makes his music. A trouper knows.

I looked out at my audience as they grew slowly still. Simmon waved enthusiastically, and I smiled in return. I saw Count Threpe's white hair near the rail on the second tier now. He was speaking earnestly to the well-dressed couple, gesturing in my direction. Still campaigning on my behalf though we both knew it was a hopeless cause.

I brought the lute out of its shabby case and began to tune it. It was not the finest lute in the Eolian. Not by half. Its neck was slightly bent, but not bowed. One of the pegs was loose and was p.r.o.ne to changing its tune.

I brushed a soft chord and tipped my ear to the strings. As I looked up, I could see Denna's face, clear as the moon. She smiled excitedly at me and wiggled her fingers below the level of the table where her gentleman couldn't see.

I touched the loose peg gently, running my hands over the warm wood of the lute. The varnish was sc.r.a.ped and scuffed in places. It had been treated unkindly in the past, but that didn't make it less lovely underneath.

So yes. It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because because. That's as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.

Stanchion made a sweeping gesture in my direction. There was brief applause followed by an attentive hush.

I plucked two notes and felt the audience lean toward me. I touched a string, tuned it slightly, and began to play. Before a handful of notes rang out, everyone had caught the tune.

It was "Bell-Wether." A tune shepherds have been whistling for ten thousand years. The simplest of simple melodies. A tune anyone with a bucket could carry. A bucket was overkill, actually. A pair of cupped hands would manage nicely. A single hand. Two fingers, even.

It was, plainly said, folk music.

There have been a hundred songs written to the tune of "Bell-Wether." Songs of love and war. Songs of humor, tragedy, and l.u.s.t. I did not bother with any of these. No words. Just the music. Just the tune.

I looked up and saw Lord Brickjaw leaning close to Denna, making a dismissive gesture. I smiled as I teased the song carefully from the strings of my lute.

But before much longer, my smile grew strained. Sweat began to bead on my forehead. I hunched over the lute, concentrating on what my hands were doing. My fingers darted, then danced, then flew.

I played hard as a hailstorm, like a hammer beating bra.s.s. I played soft as sun on autumn wheat, gentle as a single stirring leaf. Before long, my breath began to catch from the strain of it. My lips made a thin, bloodless line across my face.

As I pushed through the middle refrain I shook my head to clear my hair away from my eyes. Sweat flew in an arc to patter out along the wood of the stage. I breathed hard, my chest working like a bellows, straining like a horse run to lather.

The song rang out, each note bright and clear. I almost stumbled once. The rhythm faltered for the s.p.a.ce of a split hair.... Then somehow I recovered, pushed through, and managed to finish the final line, plucking the notes sweet and light despite the fact that my fingers were a weary blur.

Then, just when it was obvious I couldn't carry on a moment longer, the last chord rang through the room and I slumped in my chair, exhausted.

The audience burst into thunderous applause.

But not the whole audience. Scattered through the room dozens of people burst into laughter instead, a few of them pounding the tables and stomping the floor, shouting their amus.e.m.e.nt.

The applause sputtered and died almost immediately. Men and women stopped with their hands frozen midclap as they stared at the laughing members of the audience. Some looked angry, others confused. Many were plainly offended on my behalf, and angry mutterings began to ripple through the room.

Before any serious discussion could take root, I struck a single high note and held up a hand, pulling their attention back to me. I wasn't done yet. Not by half.

I shifted in my seat and rolled my shoulders. I strummed once, touched the loose peg, and rolled effortlessly into my second song.

It was one of Illien's: "Tintatatornin." I doubt you've ever heard of it. It's something of an oddity compared to Illien's other works. First, it has no lyrics. Second, while it's a lovely song, it isn't nearly as catchy or moving as many of his better-known melodies.

Most importantly, it is perversely difficult to play. My father referred to it as "the finest song ever written for fifteen fingers." He made me play it when I was getting too full of myself and felt I needed humbling. Suffice to say I practiced it with fair regularity, sometimes more than once a day.

So I played "Tintatatornin." I leaned back into my chair and crossed my ankles, relaxing a bit. My hands strolled idly over the strings. After the first chorus, I drew a breath and gave a short sigh, like a young boy trapped inside on a sunny day. My eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room, bored.