Mercedes Lackey - A Ghost of a Chance

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A GHOST OF A CHANCE

by Mercedes Lackey

A voice, an icy, whispering voice, came out of the darkness from all around her;

from everywhere, yet nowhere. It could have been born of her imagination, yet

Rune knew the voice was the Ghost's, and that to run was to die. Instantly, but

in terror that would make dying seem to last an eternity.

"Why have you come here, stupid child?" it murmured, as fear urged her to run

away. "Why were you waiting here? For me? Foolish child, do you not know what I

am? What I could do to you?"

Rune had to swallow twice before she could speak, and even then her voice

cracked and squeaked with fear.

"I've come to fiddle for you-sir?" she said, gasping for breath between each

word, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.

The Ghost laughed, a sound with no humor in it, the kind of laugh that called up

empty wastelands and icy peaks. "Well, then, girl. Fiddle, then. And pray to

that Sacrificed God of yours that you fiddle well, very well. If you please me,

if you continue to entertain me until dawn, I shall let you live, a favor I have

never granted any other. But I warn you-the moment my attention lags, little

girl-you'll die like all the others and you will join all the others in my own

private little Hell."

CHAPTER ONE

The attic cubicle was dark and stuffy, two conditions the tiny window under the

eaves did little to alleviate. Rune reached up to the shelf over her pallet for

her fiddle case, and froze with her hand less than an inch away. Her mother's

nasal whine echoed up the stairs from the tavern sleeping rooms below.

"Rune? Rune!"

Rune sighed, and her hand dropped to her side. "Yes, Mother?" she called over

her shoulder. She'd hoped to get a little practice in before the evening

customers began to file in.

"Have you swept the tavern and scrubbed the tables?" When Stara said "the

tavern," she meant the common room. The kitchen was not in Rune's purview. The

cook, Annie, who was also the stableman's wife, reigned supreme there, and

permitted no one within her little kingdom but herself and her aged helper,

known only as Granny.

"No, Mother," Rune called down, resignedly. "I thought Maeve-"

"Maeve's doing the rooms. Get your behind down there. The sooner you get it over

with, the sooner you can get on with that foolish scraping of yours." Then, as

an afterthought, as Rune reached the top step, "And don't call me 'Mother.' "

"Yes M-Stara." Stifling another sigh, Rune plodded down the steep, dark attic

stairs, hardly more than a ladder down the back wall. As she passed the open

doors, she heard Maeve's tuneless humming and the slow scrape of a broom coming

from the one on her right. From the bottom, she crossed the hall to the real

stairs taking them two at a time down into the common room.

The shutters on the windows on two sides of the room had been flung wide to the

brisk spring air; a light breeze slowly cleared out the last of the beer fumes.

A half-worn broom leaned against the bar at the back of the room, where Maeve

had undoubtedly left it when Stara ordered her upstairs. Rune took it; her first

glance around had told her that nothing more had been accomplished except to

open the shutters. The benches were still stacked atop the tables, and the

latter pushed against the walls; the fireplace was still full of last night's

ashes. Nothing had been cleaned or put into order, and the only sign that the

tavern was opening for business was the open shutters. Probably because that was

all anyone had thought to tell Maeve to do.

Rune went to the farthest corner of the room and started sweeping, digging the

worn bristles of the broom firmly against the floorboards. The late Rose, wife

of Innkeeper Jeoff, had called Maeve "an innocent." Annie said she was "a little

simple."

What Stara called her was "a great lump."

Poor Maeve was all of those, Rune reflected. She lived in a world all her own,

that was certain. She could-and did, if left to her own devices-stand in a

window for hours, humming softly with no discernible tune, staring at nothing.

But if you gave her clear orders, she would follow them to the exact letter.

Told to sweep out a room, she would do so. That room, and no more, leaving a

huge pile of dirt on the threshold. Told to wash the dishes, she would wash the

dishes all right, but not the pots, nor the silverware, and she wouldn't rinse

them afterwards. Of course, if anyone interrupted her in the middle of her task,

she would drop what she was doing, follow the new instructions, and never return

to the original job.

Still, without her help, Rune would have a lot more to do. She'd never have time

to practice her fiddling.

Rune attacked the dirt of the floor with short, angry strokes, wishing she could

sweep the troubles of her life out as easily. Not that life here was bad,

precisely-

"Rune?" Stara called down the stairs. "Are you sweeping? I can't hear you."

"Yes M-Stara," Rune replied. The worn bristles were too soft to scrape the floor

the way Maeve's broom was doing, but it was pointless to say anything about it.

So Stara didn't want to be called "Mother" anymore. Rune bit her lip in

vexation. Did she really think that if Rune stopped referring to her as "Mother"

people would forget their relationship?

Not here, Rune told herself sourly. Not when my existence is such a pointed

example of why good girls don't do That without wedding banns being posted.

Even though Stara was from a village far from here-even though she wore the

braids of a married woman and claimed that Rune's father had been a journeyman

muleteer killed by bandits-most of the village guessed the real truth. That

Stara was no lawfully wedded widow; that Rune was a bastard.

Stara had been a serving wench in the home of a master silversmith, and had let

the blandishments of a peddler with a glib tongue and ready money lure her into

his bed. The immediate result had been a silver locket and scarlet ribbons from

his pack. The long-term result was a growing belly, and the loss of her place.

Stara lived on the charity of the Church for a time, but no longer than she had

to. After Rune had been born, Stara had packed up her belongings and her meager

savings, and set out on foot as far as her money would take her, hoping to find

some place where her charm, her ability to wheedle, and her soft blond

prettiness would win her sympathy, protection, and a new and better place.

Rune suspected that she had soon discovered-much to her shock-that while her

looks, as always, won her the sympathy of the males of the households she sought

employment with, she got no favor from the females. Certainly on the rare

occasions when she talked to her daughter about those long-ago days, she had

railed against the "jealous old bitches" who had turned her out again after they

discovered what their spouses had hired.

And so would I have, Rune thought wryly, as the pile of dirt in front of her

broom grew to the size of her closed fist. The girl Stara had been was all too

likely to have a big belly again as soon as she'd wormed her way into the

household. And this time, the result would have been sure to favor the looks of

the master of the house. She had no credentials, no references-instead of

applying properly to the women of the household, she went straight to the men.

Stupid, Mother. But then, you never have paid any attention to women when there

were men around.

But finally Stara had wound up here, at the "Hungry Bear." The innkeeper's wife,

Rose, was of a credulous, generous and forgiving nature; Innkeeper Jeoff a pious

Churchman, and charitable. That alone might not have earned her the place as the

serving-maid in the tavern. But luck had been with her this time; their pot-boy

had signed with the army and gone off to the city and there was no one in the

village willing or able to take his place. Stara's arrival, even encumbered as

she was, must have seemed like a gift from God, and they had needed her

desperately enough to take her story at face value.

Although the villagers guessed most of the tale easily enough, they too were

obliged to accept the false story, (outwardly, at least) since Jeoff and Rose

did. But Rune was never allowed to forget the truth. Stara threw it in Rune's

face every time she was angry about anything-and the village children had lost

no opportunity to imply she was a bastard for as long as she could remember.

They only said openly what their parents thought. Stara didn't seem to care,

wearing low-cut blouses and kilted-up skirts when she went into the village on

errands, flirting with the men and ignoring the sneers of the women. Back in the

tavern, under Rose's eye, however, she had pulled the drawstrings of her blouses

tight and let her skirts down, acting demure and briskly businesslike in all her

dealings with males. Rune had more than once heard Rose defending her foundling

to her friends among the villagers, telling Jeoff afterwards that they were just

envious because of Stara's youth and attractiveness.

And that much was certainly true. The village women were jealous. Stara was

enough to excite any woman's jealousy, other than a tolerant, easy-going lady

like Rose, with her long, blond hair, her plump prettiness, her generous breasts

and her willingness to display her charms to any eye that cared to look. Of

course, none of this did any good at all for her reputation in the village, but

Stara didn't seem to concern herself over trifles like what the villagers

thought.

It was left to Rune to bear the brunt of her mother's reputation, to try to

ignore the taunts and the veiled glances. Stara didn't care about that, either.

So long as nothing touched or inconvenienced her directly, Stara was relatively

content.

Only relatively, since Stara was not happy with her life as it was, and

frequently voiced her complaints in long, after-hours monologues to her

daughter, with little regard for whether or not Rune was going to suffer from

loss of sleep the next day.

Last night had been one of those nights, and Rune yawned hugely as she swept.

Rune wasn't precisely certain what her mother wanted-besides a life of complete

leisure. Just what Stara had done to deserve such a life eluded Rune-but Stara

seemed to feel quite strongly that she deserved it. And had gone on at aggrieved

and shrill length about it last night. . . .

Rune yawned again, and swept the last of the night's trod-in dirt out into the

road. It would, of course, find its way right back inside tonight; only in the

great cities were the streets paved and kept clean. It was enough that the road

through the village was graveled and graded, from one end to the other. It kept

down the mud, and kept ruts to a minimum.

As well wish for Stara to become a pious churchgoer as to wish for a paved road.

The second was likelier to occur than the first.

Rune propped the broom in a corner by the fireplace and emptied the ashes and

clinkers into the ash-pit beneath the fireplace floor. Every few months the

candle-maker came to collect them from the cellar; once a year the inn got a

half-dozen bars of scented soap in exchange. A lot of the inn's supplies came

from exchange; strawberries for manure, hay and straw for use of the donkey and

pony, help for room and board and clothing.

There were four folk working under that exchange right now; of the six employees

only two, Annie Cook and Tarn Hostler, received wages. The rest got only their

rooms, two suits of clothing each year, and all they could eat. While Rune had

been too young to be of much help, she'd had to share her mother's room, but now

that she was pulling her share of her load, she had a room to herself. There

wasn't a door, just a curtain, and there was no furniture but the pallet she

slept on, but it was hers alone, and she was glad of the privacy. Not that Stara

ever brought men up to her room-she wouldn't have dared; even the easy-going

Rose would not have put up with that-but it was nice to be able to pull the

curtain and pretend the outside world didn't exist.

Provided, of course, Stara didn't whine all night. There was no escaping that.

With the fireplace swept and logs laid ready to light, Rune fetched a pail of

water, a bit of coarse brown soap, and a rag from the kitchen, with a nod to

Granny, who sat in the corner peeling roots. Annie Cook was nowhere in sight;

she was probably down in the cellar. From the brick ovens in the rear wall came

a wave of heat and the mouth-watering smell of baking bread. Rune swallowed hard

as her stomach growled. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and dinner too far

away. She was always hungry these days, probably because she was growing like a

sapling-the too-short cuffs of her shirt and breeches gave ample evidence of

that.

If I hurry up, maybe I can get Granny to give me a bit of cheese and one of

yesterday's loaf-ends before Annie makes them all into bread pudding.

With that impetus in mind, Rune quickly hauled the tables and benches away from

the walls, got the benches down in place, and went to work on the tabletops,

scouring with a will. Fortunately there weren't any bad stains this time; she

got them done faster than she'd expected, and used the last of the soapy water

to clean herself up before tossing the bucketful out the door.

But when she returned the bucket to the kitchen, Annie was back up from her

journey below.

Her stomach growled audibly as she set the bucket down, and Annie looked up

sharply, her round face red with the heat from the oven. "What?" she said, her

hair coming loose from its pins and braids, and wisping damply about her head.

"You can't be hungry already?"

Rune nodded mutely, and tried to look thin and pathetic.

She must have succeeded, for Annie shook her head, shrugged, and pointed her

round chin towards the pile of ingredients awaiting her attention. "Two carrots,

one loaf-end, and a piece of cheese, and get yerself out of here," the cook said

firmly. "More than that can't be spared. And mind that piece is no bigger than

your hand."

"Yes, Cook," Rune said meekly-and snatched her prizes before Annie changed her

mind. But the cook just chuckled as she cut the cheese. "I should ha' known from

yer breeches, darlin', yer into yer growth. Come back later if yer still hungry,

an' I'll see if sommat got burnt too much fer the custom."

She thanked Annie with an awkward bob of her head, took her food out into the

common room, and devoured it down to the last crumb, waiting all the while for

another summons by her mother. But no call came, only the sound of Stara

scolding Maeve, and Maeve's humming. Rune sighed with relief; Maeve never paid

any attention to anything that wasn't a direct order. Let Stara wear her tongue

out on the girl; the scolding would roll right off the poor thing's back-and

maybe Stara would leave her own daughter alone, for once.

Rune stuffed that last bite of bread and cheese in her mouth and stole softly up

the stairs. If she could just get past the sleeping rooms to get her fiddle-once

she began practicing, Stara would probably leave her alone.

After all, she'd done her duty for the day. Sweeping and cleaning the common

room was surely enough, especially after all the cleaning she'd done in the

kitchen this morning. Sometimes she was afraid that her hands would stiffen from

all the scrubbing she had to do. She massaged them with the lotion the farmers

used on cow's udders, reckoning that would help, and it seemed to-but she still

worried.

From the sound of things in the far room, Stara had decided to turn it out

completely. She must have set Maeve to beating the straw tick; that monotonous

thumping was definitely following the rhythm of Maeve's humming, and it was a

safe enough task for even Maeve to manage. This time she got to her fiddle, and

slipped down the stairs without being caught.

She settled herself into a bench in the corner of the room, out of direct line-

of-sight of the stairs. It hadn't always been this hard to get her practice in.

When Rose was alive, the afternoons had always been her own. Yes, and the

evenings, too. As long as Rune helped, Rose had made it very clear that she was

to be considered as full an employee as Stara-and Rose had counted entertainment

as "helping."

Rose had forbidden Stara-or anyone else-to beat Rune, after the one time Rose

had caught her mother taking a stick to her for some trifle.

Rune carefully undid the old clasps on the black leather-and-wood case. They

were stiff with age, and hard to get open, but better too stiff than too loose.

Rose had taken a special interest in Rune, for some reason. Maybe because Rose

had no children of her own. But when Rose died of the cough last winter,

everything changed.

At first it hadn't been bad, really; it made sense for Rune to take over some of

Stara's duties, since Stara was doing what Rose had done. And work in the winter

wasn't that difficult. Hardly anyone came in for midmeal, there were very few

travelers to mess up the rooms, and people came for their beer and a bit of

entertainment, but didn't stay late. There wasn't any dirt or mud to be tracked

in, just melting snow, which soaked into the old worn floorboards fairly easily.

Really, winter work was the lightest of the four seasons, and Rune had assumed

that once the initial confusion following Rose's death resolved itself, Jeoff

would hire someone else to help. Another boy, perhaps; a boy would be just as

useful inside the inn as a girl, and stronger, too. There had even been a couple

of boys passing through earlier this month on the way to the hiring fairs who'd

looked likely. They'd put in a good day's work for their meal and corner by the

fire-and they'd even asked Rune if she thought Jeoff would be interested in

hiring them on permanently. But Jeoff always found some excuse not to take them

on-and Rune kept losing a little more of her free time with every day that

passed.

Now she not only found herself scrubbing and cleaning, she was serving in the

common room at night, something she hadn't had to do since she was a good enough

fiddler to have people ask her to play. That was one of the reasons the Hungry

Bear was so popular; even when there weren't any traveling musicians passing

through, people could always count on Rune to give 'em a tune to sing or dance

to. Why, people sometimes came from as far away as the next village of Beeford

because of her.

But now-she was allowed to play only when the crowds asked Jeoff for her music.

If they forgot to ask, if there was no one willing to speak up-then she waited

on them just like silly Maeve, while Stara presided in Rose's place over the

beer barrels, and Jeoff tended, as always, to the cashbox.

Rune bit her lip, beginning to see a pattern in all this. There were more

changes, and they were even more disturbing. There was no doubt in Rune's mind

that her mother had set her sights on Jeoff. Aiming, no doubt, for matrimony.

When Rose was alive, Stara had kept herself quietly out of sight, her hair

tightly braided and hidden under kerchiefs, wearing her blouse-strings pulled

tight, her skirts covering her feet, and keeping her eyes down. Rune knew why,

too-Stara flung it in her face often enough. Stara had one bastard; she was not

minded to attract the master's eye, only to find herself in his bed and saddled

with another bastard.

But since Jeoff put off his mourning bands, Stara had transformed from a drab

little sparrow to a bird of a different feather entirely. She was rinsing her

hair with herbs every night, to make it yellow as new-minted gold and smell

sweet. She had laced the waist of her skirts tight, kilted them up to show

ankles and even knees, and pulled her blouses low. And she was painting her

face, when she thought no one could see her; red on the lips and cheeks,

blackening her lashes with soot, trying to make herself look younger. Where she

got the stuff, Rune had no idea. Possibly a peddler, though there hadn't been

any with things like that through here since before winter.

Stara didn't like being reminded that she had a fourteen-year-old daughter, and

she certainly didn't want Jeoff reminded of the fact. It helped that Rune looked

nothing like her mother; Rune was tall, thin, with light brown, curly hair, and

deep brown eyes. She could-and occasionally did-pass for a boy in the crowded

common-room. She was nothing at all like soft, round, doll-pretty Stara. Which

was exactly as Stara wanted things, Rune was sure of it.

For there was a race on to see who'd snare Jeoff. Maeve was no competition; the

girl was plain as well as simple-although it was a good thing she was plain, or

she would have been fair game for any fellow bent on lifting a skirt. Rune

wasn't interested-and half the time Jeoff absentmindedly called her "lad"

anyway.

Stara's only competition would come from the village. There were a couple of

young women down there in Westhaven of marriageable age, whose fathers saw

nothing wrong with running a good, clean inn. Fathers who would not be averse to

seeing their daughters settled in as the innkeeper's wife. None were as pretty

as Stara-but they all had dowers, which she did not. And they were younger, with

plenty of childbearing years ahead of them.

Much younger, some of them. One of the possible prospects was only sixteen. Not

that much older than Stara's daughter. No wonder Stara wanted to be thought

younger than she was.

Rune got out her fiddle and began tuning it. It was a little too cold to be

playing outside-but Jeoff liked hearing the music, and once she started playing

it was unlikely that Stara would order her to do something else.

The gift of the fiddle had been Rose's idea. She'd watched as Rune begged to

play with traveling minstrels' instruments-and had begun to coax something like

music out of them right away-she'd seen Rune trying to get a good tune out of a

reed whistle, a blade of grass, and anything else that made a noise. Perhaps she

had guessed what Rune might do with a musical instrument of her own. For

whatever reason, when Rune was about six, a peddler had run off without paying,

leaving behind a pack filled with trash he hadn't been able to sell. One of the

few things in it worth anything was the fiddle, given immediately to Rune, which

Rune had named "Lady Rose" in honor of her patron.

It had taken many months of squealing and scraping out in the stable where she

wouldn't offend any ears but the animals' before she was able to play much. But

by the time she was eight, minstrels were going out of their way to give her a

lesson or two, or teach her a new song. By the time she was ten, she was a

regular draw.

Rune was smart enough to remember what the common room had looked like on any

day other than a market-day before she had started to play regularly-and she

knew what it was like now. Rose's "investment" had paid off handsomely over the

years-gaining in new business several times over the worth of the old fiddle.

But Stara-and there was no doubt in Rune's mind who was behind all the changes-

evidently didn't see things that way, or thought that now that the extra custom

was here, it would stay here. Rose could have told her differently, told her how

it wasn't likely the Hungry Bear would hold anyone who didn't actually belong in

Westhaven if there wasn't something beyond the beer to offer them. But Rose

wasn't here, and Jeoff was not the kind to worry about tomorrow until it

arrived.

On the other hand, although Stara was behind the changes, Jeoff was behind the

cashbox. If Rune pointed out to him that he was losing money right now, that

people weren't coming from outside the village bounds, and that those within the

village weren't staying as long of an evening because she wasn't playing, well,

maybe he'd put a stop to this, and hire on a good strong boy to do some of the

work.

She thought again about going outside to practice, but the breeze coming in the

window decided her against the idea. It was really too cold out there; her

fingers would stiffen in no time.

She tuned the fiddle with care for its old strings; she wanted to replace them,

but strings were hard to come by in this part of the world. If she was lucky,

maybe a peddler would have a set. Until then, she'd just have to make sure she

didn't snap one.

She closed her eyes for a moment, and let her fingers select the first couple of

notes. The tune wandered a bit, before it settled on a jig, a good finger-

warmer, and one of the earliest melodies she'd learned. "Heart for the Ladies,"

it was called, and folks around here usually called for it twice or three times

a night when they were in the mood for dancing.

Rune closed her eyes again; she remembered the woman who had taught it to her as

clearly as something that had happened yesterday.

Linnet had been her name, so she said; odd, how many of the traveling players

had bird-names. Or maybe they just assumed bird-names when they started playing.

Linnet had been one of a trio of traveling minstrels doing the Faire circuit, a

mandolin player, herself on flute, and a drummer. Linnet was a tiny thing,

always smiling, and ready with a kind word for a child. She had more hair than

Rune had ever seen let down on a woman; she didn't wear it in a wife's braids,

nor loose under a coif like a maid. The coppery-brown tresses were twined with

flowers and piled in loose coils about her head when Rune first saw her, and

later, it was tied in two long tails bound around with leather and thongs for

traveling. When she let it down, it reached past her knees.

She had been as ready with her help as her smiles. When Rune brought out her

fiddle, and attempted to follow their tunes silently, fingering but not bowing,

she had taken the girl aside and played "Heart for the Ladies" over and over

until Rune had gotten it in her head, then helped her to find the fingerings for

it on the fiddle.

And then, the next day, when the trio had gone their way, Rune had practiced the

piece for hours until she got it right. She'd waited until someone in the crowd

that night saw her and called out, "Well, little Rune, and have ye got a new

piece for us to hear?" the way some of them used to, half in earnest, half to

tease her. This time, she'd answered "yes," and brought out her fiddle.

She'd surprised them all with the jig, so much so that they'd made her play it

again and again-and then, several times more, so that they all could dance to

it.

That night had brought her a pair of copper bits, the first time she'd been paid

for her fiddling. It had been a heady moment, made all the headier by the first

money she had ever owned.

She played the jig over twice more, until her fingers felt flexible and strong,

ready for anything she might ask of them.

But what she asked of them next was the very latest piece she had learned, a

slow, languorous love song. The lilting melody was the kind of song popular at

weddings, but mostly not in the tavern.

A real fiddler had taught her this one; this and near two dozen more.

She smiled to think of him. Oh, he was a villainous-looking lad, with a patch

over one eye, and all in gypsy-colors, half a brigand by his looks. But he had

played like an angel, he had. And he'd stayed several days the first time he'd

stopped at the Bear-because of the bad weather for traveling, so he'd said, and

indeed, it had been raining heavily during all that time. But he'd had a horse-a

pony, rather-a sturdy beast that was probably quite capable of taking him

through rain and snow and anything else he might ask of it. It wasn't weather

that had kept him, but his own will.

The rains pounded the area for a week, providing him ample excuse. So he stayed,

and enlivened the tavern by night, bringing folks in from all over, despite the

weather. And he'd schooled Rune by day.

Quite properly, despite her early fears as to his behavior. Fears-well, that

wasn't quite true, it was half hope, actually, for despite his rascally

appearance, or even because of it, she'd wondered if he'd pay court to her. . .

She certainly knew at thirteen what went on between man and maid, male and

female. She had taken some thought to it, though she wasn't certain what it was

she wanted. The ballads were full of sweet courtings, wild ones, and no

courtings at all-

But he was as correct with her as he had been bawdy with the men in the tavern

the night before. He'd stopped her on her way to some trivial errand, as he was

eating his luncheon in the otherwise empty common room.

"I hear you play the fiddle, young Rune," he'd said. She had nodded, suddenly

shy, feeling as awkward as a young calf.

"Well?" he'd said then, a twinkle in the one eye not covered with a patch. "Are

you going to go fetch it, or must I beg you?"

She had run to fetch it, and he'd begun her lesson, the first of four, and he

had made her work, too. She worked as hard at her fiddling under his critical

eye as she'd ever worked at any task in the tavern.

He saved the love songs until the last day-"A reward," he'd said, "for being a

good student"-for they were the easiest of the lot.

If he'd introduced them at the beginning of the lessons, she might have

suspected them of being a kind of overture. But he'd waited until the last day

of his stay, when he'd already told her that he was leaving the following

morning. So the songs came instead as a kind of gift from a friend, for a friend

was what Raven had come to be. And she treasured them as completely as she would

have treasured any material gift.

He'd returned over the winter, and again the next summer, and this winter again.

That was when he had taught her this melody, "Fortune, My Foe." He should be

coming through again, once the weather warmed. She was looking forward to seeing

him again, and learning more things from him. Not just songs-though courting was

not on her mind, either. There was so much she needed to learn, about music,

about reading it and writing it. There were songs in her head, words as well as

music, but she couldn't begin to get them out. She didn't know how to write the

tunes down, and she didn't have enough reading and writing of words to get her

own down properly so that another could read them. She had barely enough of

writing to puzzle out bits of the Holy Book, just like every other child of the

village, and there was no learned Scholar-Priest here to teach her more. There

must be more . . . there must be a way to write music the way words were

written, and there must be more words than she knew. She needed all of that,

needed to learn it, and if anyone would know the way of such things, Raven

would, she sensed it in her bones.

Raven was weeks away, though. And she would have to be patient and wait, as the

Holy Book said women must be patient.

Even though she was almighty tired of being patient.

Oh, enough of such lazy tunes.

The trill of an early songbird woke another melody in her fingers, and that led

to many more. All reels this time, and all learned from a rough-faced, bearded

piper just a few weeks ago. He'd come to play for the wedding of some distant

relations, and though he had not made any formal attempt at giving her lessons,

when he watched her frowning and following his music silently, he'd played

everything at least three times over until she smiled and nodded by way of a

signal that she'd got the tune straight in her head.

He'd gone before nightfall, not staying-he couldn't have played at the tavern

anyway; the pipes were not an instrument for indoors.

But this winter, after her fiddler had come and gone, there had been a harper

who had stayed for nearly two weeks. He was a Guild Minstrel, and was taking a

position at the court of the Sire. He was ahead of time, having come much faster

than anyone would have ever expected because of a break in the weather, and had

taken the opportunity to rest a bit before taking the last leg of the journey.

He was an old man, his hair half silver, and he had been very kind to her. He'd

taught her many of the songs popular at the courts, and she had painstakingly

adapted them for fiddle. He hadn't had much patience, but fortunately the

melodies were all simple ones, easy to remember, and easy to follow.

But from those simple songs, her fingers slowed, and strayed into a series of

laments, learned from another harpist, a real Gypsy, who would not come into the

village at all. Rune had found her with her fellows, camped beyond the bridge as

she had returned from an errand. Unaccountably, eerily, the girl had known who

she was, and what instrument she played. It still gave Rune a chill to think of

her, and wonder how it was the other musician had known all about her.

She'd stopped Rune as the girl lingered, watching the Gypsies with burning

curiosity. "I am Nightingale. Bring your fiddle," she'd said abruptly, with no

preamble. "I shall teach you songs such as you have never heard before."

With a thrill of awe and a little fear, Rune had obeyed. It had been uncanny

then, and it was uncanny now. How had Nightingale known who she was, and what

she did? No one in the village would have told her-surely.

And indeed, Nightingale had taught her music the like of which she had never

heard before. The strange, compelling dance music was too complicated to learn

in a single afternoon-but the laments stuck in her mind, and seemed to make her

fingers move of their own accord. . . .

"Rune!"

She started, and opened her eyes. Stara had a mug in one hand, and most of the

rest up on their pegs, above the beer barrels, and she had turned to stare at

Rune with a strange, uneasy expression on her face. Rune got ready for a tongue-

lashing; whenever Stara was unhappy or uneasy, she took it out on someone. And

Maeve wasn't within reach right now.

"Haven't you practiced enough for one day?" Stara snapped crossly. "You give me

the chills with that Gypsy howling. It sounds like lost souls, wailing for the

dead."

Well, that was what it was supposed to sound like-

"-or cats in heat," Stara concluded, crudely. "Haven't you got anything better

to do than to torture our ears with that?"

"I-" she began.

A cough interrupted her, and she glanced over at the door to the kitchen. Jeoff

stood there, with a keg of the dark ale on one shoulder.

"We're going to be working in here for a while, Rune," he said. "I don't want to

sound mean, but-that music bothers me. It's like you're calling something I'd

rather not see."

Meaning he's feeling superstitious, Rune thought cynically.

"Don't you think Jib could use your help in the stables?" he said-but it sounded

like an order.

"Yes, sir," she said, trying not to sound surly. Just when I was really getting

warmed up. It figures. "I'll see to it, Master Jeoff."

But as she put her fiddle away, she couldn't help watching Jeoff and her mother

out of the corner of her eye. There was something going on there, and it had

nothing to do with the music.

It looked like Stara's ploys were working.

The only question was-where did that leave Rune?

CHAPTER TWO

With her fiddle safely stowed away, Rune made her reluctant way to the stable-

yard-such as it was. This little road wasn't used by too many people, certainly

not the kind of people who would be riding high-bred horses that required

expensive stabling. When the Sire traveled, he took the roads patrolled and

guarded by the Duke's Men. And when someone was sent to collect taxes and take

the man-count, it was never anyone important, just a bailiff. This village never

gave any trouble, always paid its taxes with a minimum of cheating, and in

general was easy to administer to. There were robbers, occasionally, but when

robbers cropped up, a quick foray into the woods by the local men usually took

care of them. There were places said to be dangerous, because of magic or

supernatural menaces, but the road bypassed them. People who traveled between

here and Beeford were simple people, without much in the way of valuables.

So the stable was a bare place, nothing more than four walls and a roof, with a

loft and a dirt floor. Half of it was the storage place for hay and straw-no

grain; the inn pony and donkey were sturdy enough to live on thistles if they

had to, hay and grass suited them very well. The other half had been partitioned

into rough stalls. There was a paddock, where beasts could be turned loose if

their owners couldn't afford stable-fees, or the inn beasts could be put if

their stalls were needed for paying tenants. That had never happened in Rune's

experience, though they had come near to it in Faire season. The loft stood over

the half where hay was stored, and that was where Jib slept, hemmed in and

protected by bales of hay, and generally fairly snug. Tarn Hostler, the stable-

master, slept with his wife Annie Cook in her room next to the kitchen. In the

winter, Jib slept next to the kitchen fire with Granny.

Rune hoped, as she took herself out the kitchen door, that Jib wouldn't try to

court her again today. He was her best friend-in point of fact, he was her only

friend-but he was the last person she wanted courting her.

She'd been trying to discourage him; teasing him, ignoring his clumsy attempts

at gallantry, laughing at his compliments. She could understand why he had the

silly idea that he was in love with her, and it had nothing to do with her looks

or her desirability. There were two available women here at the Bear, for Jib

was too lowly ever to be able to pay court to one of the village girls. And of

the two of them, even a blind man would admit she was preferable to Maeve.

Jib was fine as a friend-but nothing more. For one thing, he was at least a year

younger than Rune. For another-he just wasn't very bright. He didn't understand

half of what she said to him, sometimes. He wasn't at all ambitious, either;

when Rune asked him once what he wanted to be when he was a man, he'd looked at

her as if she was crazed. He was perfectly happy being the stableboy, and didn't

see any reason for that to change. He didn't want to leave the village or see

anything of the outside world but the Faire at Beeford. The only wish he'd ever

expressed to her was to become a local horse-trader, selling the locally bred,

sturdy little ponies and cobs to bigger traders who would take them to the

enormous City Faires. He didn't even want to take the horses there himself.

And-to be honest-when a girl dreamed of a lover, she didn't dream of a boy with

coarse, black hair, buck teeth, ears like a pair of jug handles, a big round

potato of a nose, and spots. Of course, he'd probably grow out of the spots, but

the rest was there to stay.

All in all, she wished he'd decide to settle for Maeve. They'd probably suit one

another very well as long as he told her exactly what to do. . . .

The yard was deserted, and Tarn Hostler was grooming the two beasts in the

paddock, alone, but Rune heard straw rustling and knew where she'd find Jib. And

sure enough, when she entered the stable, there he was, forking straw into a

pair of stalls.

She grabbed a pitchfork and went to help him, filling the mangers with fresh

hay, and rinsing and filling the water buckets at the paddock pump. The pony,

Dumpling (brown and round as one of Cook's best dumplings), and the donkey,

Stupid (which he was not), watched her with half-closed eyes as old Tarn gave

them a carefully currycombing, brushing out clouds of winter hair. They knew the

schedule as well as anyone. Bring back loads of wood for the ovens on Monday,

haul food for the inn on Tuesday, wood again on Wednesday (but this time for the

baker in the village), be hitched to the grindstone on Thursday, since the

village had no water-mill, wood again on Friday for the woodcutter himself, odd

jobs on Saturday, and be hitched to the wagon to take everyone to Church on

Sunday. They'd done their duty for the day. Now they could laze about the yard

and be groomed, then put in their stalls for the night, once Jib and Rune

finished cleaning them.

"Hey, Rune," Jib said, after trying to get her attention by clearing his throat

several times.

"You ought to see Annie about that cough you've got," she interrupted him. "It

sounds really bad."

"My cough?" he replied, puzzled. "I don't have a cough."

"You've been hemming and hacking like a wheezy old man ever since I got out

here," she replied sharply. "Of course you have a cough. You ought to take care

of it. Get Annie to dose you. I'll tell her about it-"

"Uh, no, please," he said, looking alarmed, as well he might. Annie's doses were

fearsome things that took the skin off a person's tongue and left a nasty,

lingering taste in the back of the throat for days afterwards. "I'm fine, really

I am, please, don't tell Annie I'm sick-"

He babbled on about how healthy he was for some time; Rune paid scant attention,

simply pleased that she'd managed to elude whatever he'd planned to ask her.

With that much nervousness showing, it had to be romantic in nature, at least by

Jib's primitive standards of romance.

Which were at best, one step above Dumpling's.

She looked about for something else to distract him when he finally wound down,

but fate took a hand for her-for his babble was interrupted by the sounds of

hooves on the hard-packed dirt outside, and a strange voice.

They both ran to see who it was, just as they had when they were children, Rune

reaching the stable door a little before Jib.

At first glance, the newcomer looked to be a peddler; his pony had two largish

packs on its back, and he was covered from head to knee in a dust-colored cloak.

But then he pulled the cloak off, and shook it, and Rune saw he was dressed in a

linen shirt with knots of multi-colored ribbon on the sleeves, a bright blue

vest, and fawn-colored breeches. Only one kind of traveler would dress like

that, and her guess was confirmed when he pulled a lute in its case out of one

of the packs.

He was very tall, taller than Rune, and lanky, with dust-colored hair, and

wonderfully gentle brown eyes. The stable-master saw them both gawking from the

shelter of the doorway, and waved them over abruptly.

They obeyed at once; Tarn told them to groom the minstrel's pony and put it in

one of the prepared stalls, then come fetch the inn beasts when a third stall

was ready. He himself took the stranger's packs, leading him into the inn as if

he owned it.

Jib and Rune eyed each other over the empty pack-saddle. "Flip you for it," Rune

said. Jib nodded wordlessly, and Rune bent down long enough to fetch a pebble

from the dust at her feet. She spat on it, and tossed it into the air, calling

out, "Wet!" as it fell.

It landed wet side up, and Jib shrugged philosophically.

She led the visitor's pony into one of the stalls, unsaddled him and hung his

tack over the wall of his stall, and gave him a brisk grooming. He seemed to

enjoy it, leaning into the strokes of the currycomb with an expression of bliss

on his round little face.

When she had finished, Jib was still forking in hay for the new stall. She

turned the pony loose in this temporary home, made sure that the door was secure

(some ponies were wizards at finding ways to escape), and took herself back into

the inn.

She was met at the inner door by her mother, who barred the way with her arm

across the doorway. "His name is Master Heron and he's on his way to the Lycombe

Faire," she said, as Rune fidgeted. "He promised Jeoff he'd play tonight, and

that means that you serve."

"Yes, M-Stara," she replied, catching herself at the last minute before saying

the forbidden word.

"Jeoff wants you to go down to the village and make the rounds of all the

Guildsmen," Stara continued. "He wants you to tell them all that Master Heron

will be entertaining tonight; from them it will spread to everyone else in

Westhaven."

"Yes, Stara," Rune said, curbing her impatience.

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AGHOSTOFACHANCEbyMercedesLackeyAvoice,anicy,whisperingvoice,cameoutofthedarknessfromallaroundher;fromeverywhere,yetnowhere.Itcouldhavebeenbornofherimagination,yetRuneknewthevoicewastheGhost's,andthattorunwastodie.Instantly,butinterrorthatwouldmakedyingseemtolastaneternity."Whyhaveyoucomehere,stupidc...

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