Tanya Huff - Kigh 1 - Sing the Four Quarters

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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
CHAPTER ONE
"Was it something I said?" The innkeeper laughed as the young woman continued her headlong
dash out the door, ignoring him completely. Lifting a slab of fried ham off the grill and onto an
already full plate, he slid the pile of food across to his other overnight guest. "Kids these days.
You just can't make 'em understand that if you sit up all night drinkin' you pay for it in the
morning."
The burly wool merchant lowered his tankard, wiped the ale foam off his mustache, and dug into
his breakfast with enthusiasm. "Used to be," he said around a mouthful of fried potatoes, "I could
empty a good half barrel on my own and never feel it. But these days…" He sighed and speared a
pickled onion. "I remember when my youngest brother got joined; the hangover nearly killed me.
I was seeing cross-eyed for three days."
"Wine," declared the innkeeper sagely. "Don't get that kind of a hangover on ale."
The merchant snorted. "Depends on how much you drink."
The story that followed probably contained as much wishful thinking as accuracy, but it was well
enough told that the innkeeper rested his forearms on the counter and settled in to enjoy it. No
point fixing more food when the only person around to eat it was still dumping her evening into
the privy.
Annice spit the last of the bile out of her mouth and straightened, brushing damp strands of short,
dark-blonde hair up off her forehead with the back of one hand. Her face felt clammy.
"No surprise," she muttered, sagging sideways against the rough plank wall. "All things
considered."
Perfectly willing to pay for a night's excess, she considered it entirely outside the Circle to be so
sick when she'd only had water and a little soft cider to drink. She hadn't overindulged—
Overindulged? I haven't even indulged!—for about a month now because the smell of anything
containing alcohol was enough to send her racing from the room.
In fact, the memory of the smell…
Stomach heaving, she bent over the hole again.
A few moments of painful dry retching later, she lifted her head.
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
"All right," she panted, stepping back. "If I don't shake this bug by the end of the week, I promise
I'll see a healer." With a shaking hand, she dumped a dipper of ash into the privy and fumbled at
the door latch.
A cold wind roared across the courtyard and ripped the door out of her grasp. Reluctantly
stepping out into the weather—she'd thrown on barely enough clothes for decency and not nearly
enough for warmth—she grabbed the door with both hands and fought to close it behind her. The
wind fought back. Frowning, Annice peered around the edge.
A thin and sharply pointed face, stormy gray eyes the most well-defined point in the shifting
features, hung in the air over the wind-sketched outline of an elongated body. A wide, nearly
lipless mouth opened in silent laughter as long, pale fingers clung to the boards.
"Kigh," Annice muttered. "Just what I needed." Running her tongue over cracked lips, she
whistled a series of four piercing notes.
Its expression clearly stating, I didn't want to stay longer anyway, the kigh let go of the door and
rode the wind out of sight.
The privy door, now pulled in only one direction, slammed shut.
"Shit!" Sucking on her pinched finger and wrapping the other arm around her for warmth, Annice
staggered toward the inn. I remember when I used to like mornings…
A wet fall, hanging on long past its time and leaving the roads a muddy quagmire, combined with
the expectation of the river finally freezing had put a damper on
traveling and given Annice not only the Bard's corner but the entire dormitory to herself. Leaning
against the lingering warmth of the huge stone chimney, she tucked in her linen shirt and
struggled to close the carved wooden button at her waist.
"I suspect," she grunted, as she finally forced the button through and reached for her sweater,
"that the cloth for these breeches wasn't as preshrunk as the weaver insisted."
Somewhat to her surprise, as the inn was only a day's walk from the Bardic Hall in Vidor, a
heavy fleece overcoat, very nearly her size, had been left in the closet. Although she'd already
switched to fleece-lined boots, she decided not to take it. It wasn't so cold that her oilcloth jacket
wouldn't do and any bards walking the Final Quarter might need it more. Although she hated
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
being wet with a cat's passion, the cold hadn't actually had much effect on her this year. Placing
the folded blankets up onto the shelves, she tossed in the pair of heavy socks she'd just finished
knitting and Sang the closet locked.
Checking that both her instruments were secure, she heaved her pack up onto her shoulders and
headed for the stairs.
"Down for breakfast, then?" the innkeeper called as she descended into the common room.
Annice smiled tightly and let her pack slide down onto the floor by the bar. "No. Thank you." As
she breathed in the odors of the grill still hanging in the air, she could feel the nausea returning.
"Just my journey food, please."
The innkeeper laughed, picked a heel of bread off the counter, and handed it to her. "Here, gnaw
on this while I fetch your bundle. It'll help."
Although dubious, Annice obediently nibbled at the edge of the crust. It couldn't hurt and if there
was any chance it might help…
The wool merchant watched her over the rim of his tankard. When he finally lowered it, empty,
to the bar, he nodded at her pack. "Heading to Elbasan, then?"
"Yes."
"You finishing a Walk?"
He'd been in the common room the night before while she'd been singing, so he knew she was on
her way home. Annice considered pointing that out but decided it might be safer to continue
repeating words of one syllable. "Yes."
"I'm going that way myself. I was late leaving Vidor on account of that fire at the Weavers' Guild.
I suppose you heard about that?"
Annice forced down a gummy mouthful of well-chewed bread. "I'm carrying a follow-up," she
told him with little enthusiasm, hoping he wouldn't want a recall. Every moment she stayed
inside, inhaling the bouquet of greasy smoke and stale ale, increased the odds of another dash to
the privy. Given the inn's nearness to the source, most of the story still sat on the surface of her
memory, but she strongly suspected—from the tightening in her throat and the churning behind
her belt—that even recalling it without trance would take much too long.
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
"Terrible thing." He dusted crumbs out of his beard. "Anyway, I found a pilot willing to risk
freeze-up and take me into Riverton. You want a lift? It's a short walk into Elbasan from there
and you'll be home in plenty of time for Final Quarter Festival."
Five days, weighed against eight, maybe ten walking. Maybe more if whatever I've got doesn't let
go. As well as the nausea, she'd found herself tiring easily this last little while which meant more
frequent stops and less distance traveled and not arriving home in time for the Festival which was
when she was expected. Although she shuddered to think what the motion of the river would do
to her stomach, it really wasn't a difficult choice.
"I'd love a lift. Thank you."
"Good, good. And maybe you could convince the kigh to get us there a little faster?"
Annice frowned. "You know we're not permitted to Sing you an advantage."
"An advantage?" The wool merchant's teeth flashed white in the depths of his beard. "Hardly that
when everyone else is already downriver."
"You have a point…"
"And you are allowed to Sing boats out of freeze-up, I saw it done once."
"And you're splitting hairs." She sighed. "Still, if you're determined to go, then the faster you
travel the less likely you'll get caught in freeze-up and have to hire a Song to get you free. So I
suppose it would actually be doing a sort of public service if I helped."
His grin broadened.
you can rationalize anything if you want to do it badly enough. "I'll do what I can, but the kigh
decide."
"Good enough." He held out his fist. "Jonukas i'Evicka. Everyone calls me Jon."
Annice touched his fist lightly with hers. "Annice," she told him. Bards, like priests, used neither
matronym or patronym, and after ten years her name alone was seldom enough to provoke a
reaction.
The riverboat rode low in the water by the inn's dock, the pilot waiting impatiently on the stern
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
deck by the sweep oar.
"What did you get hung up on?" she snarled as they approached. "And who's she?'
Jon leaped aboard, timing it expertly between swells. "She's a bard. Name's Annice. She'll be
traveling with us."
The pilot's snort was nonverbal but expressive for all of that. "You payin' her weight?"
Annice swallowed another mouthful of the bread. To her grateful surprise, it seemed to be
settling things. "I've offered to Sing. To help you reach Riverton before freeze-up."
"You a water?" Her tone seemed to indicate she considered it doubtful.
"I Sing all four quarters."
The pilot's brows disappeared under the edge of her knit cap. "Well, la de sink it da. You know
the river?"
"I thought that was your job." The tone had been finely tuned to land just this side of insult.
The two women measured each other for a moment, then the pilot snickered. "Get on," she said,
jerking her head at the tiny covered cockpit up in the bow. "River's runnin' too fast to need you
today, but the Circle'll bring tomorrow around soon enough. Folk call me Sarlo. That's i'Gerda or
a'Edko if you wanna do a song about me later. Make it romantic, I like them best. Now move yer
butt."
More than willing to move her butt out of a wind that stroked icy fingers over any exposed skin,
Annice took a deep breath and stepped across onto the narrow deck. Safely on board, she spat
over the side and muttered, "We give to the river. The river gives back."
Sarlo started. "You know the rituals?"
Annice smiled up at her. "I'm a bard. Knowing the rituals is part of what we do."
One corner of the older woman's mouth twisted up. "Think highly of yerself, don't you?"
Annice's smile broadened. "I'd float with rocks in my pockets," she said.
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
Lashing her pack to the cargo stays, she wrestled herself, her instrument case, and the day's
journey food into the tiny bullhide shelter tucked in between the cargo and the bow. When Jon
and two bundles joined her a moment later, it got distinctly crowded.
"I hope you don't mind riding with the front curtain up." He tied it back as he spoke. "But I like to
see where I'm going."
"Actually, right at the moment, I appreciate the fresh air." Between the smell of the hide and the
lingering smell of tar clinging to the boat, Annice was beginning to regret the piece of bread.
"Still a bit queasy?" he asked, sitting down and managing to squeeze his shoulders in beside hers.
"No. I'm fine," Annice said. But she said it through clenched teeth.
Back on the stern deck, the pilot yelled a command and a pair of rope-soled boots under oilskin
clad legs pounded into view.
"Sarlo's youngest, Avram," Jon explained as Annice craned around the edge of the shelter for a
better look. "I think he's got a love in Riverton. Didn't take much convincing when his mother
decided to take my cloth."
Late teens or early twenties, the bard decided, watching Avram expertly work the side paddle. He
was short and slight like most of the Riverfolk, but the hands wrapped around the paddle's
polished shaft gave an instant impression of capable strength and seemed almost out of
proportion to the rest of his body.
As though he felt her scrutiny, he half-turned, flicked a shock of dusty black hair up out of dark
eyes, and grinned down at her.
In spite of the lingering nausea, Annice grinned back. Good teeth and great hands, I do enjoy the
scenery on the river.
At another command from the stern, he rounded the bow and moved out of sight. With only the
bare branches of trees blowing about on the far shore remaining to look at, Annice stifled a sigh
and settled back.
Jon propped his feet up on the bow deck and pulled a ball of gray wool and four horn needles out
from a small pack tucked under the seat. "I can't sit with empty hands," he explained. "And it
takes most of my travel time just to keep myself in socks. I hate having wet feet."
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"As a matter of fact…" Shifting her weight against the motion of the river, Annice got
comfortable in the other corner and slipped an almost identical setup out of a pocket on the side
of her instrument case. The fresh air seemed to be canceling out the rocking of the boat so, while
she wasn't feeling any better, at least she wasn't feeling any worse. Remembering the alternative,
she decided she could live with that. "… I know exactly what you mean."
They sat knitting in companionable silence for a time, watching gray sky slide by above darker
gray water, listening to the occasional profanity drifting up from the stern, when suddenly a gust
of wind dove into the shelter, ripped the front curtains from the tiebacks, and belled the hide out
above them.
"Bugger it!" Jon grabbed the flapping hide in one beefy hand and dragged it back against the
wind.
Annice twisted around and glared up at the two kigh who were pushing against the roof of the
shelter. Pursing her lips, she twice repeated the series of four notes she'd whistled at the kigh by
the privy. The smaller of the two shot her a haughty glance, twisted back on itself, and ran its
fingers through Jon's beard as it left. The larger circled the inside of the small area twice, then
squeezed itself out the space between Annice and the curved wooden frame, lifting the ball of
wool off her lap and taking it along.
She grabbed for it but not in time.
"Kigh?" Jon asked, relying the curtains.
"Kigh," Annice repeated, pulling her dripping wool back on board.
"You usually have this much trouble with air?"
"It's usually my best Song. I can't understand why they're being such a pain lately."
"I've heard," Jon said as he smoothed his ruffled beard, "that across the border in Cemandia
there're those that say the kigh aren't in the Circle at all. And there're some people even here in
Shkoder that say the bards should have nothing to do with the kigh."
Annice snorted. "Have these people got a way to convince the kigh to have nothing to do with
bards?" There'd been enough lanolin in the wool to prevent much water from being absorbed, but
it was still too wet to use. "Because if they do, I'd love to hear it."
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
Jon spread his hands. "Just repeating what I heard."
"Sorry." Annice felt herself flush. She'd had no call to snap at the merchant, especially not when
he was passing on exactly the kind of things that bards were expected to listen for. As the crown's
conduit to the people, it could be vitally important that they hear what some people say. "They
weren't saying it when I was in Vidor…" She let the end of the sentence trail off; not quite a
question but definitely an invitation to talk.
"I'm not actually in Vidor much," Jon admitted. "I spend the late spring and summer collecting
fleece from the small holders in Ohrid and Sibiu—mountain fleece can toss lowland fleece right
out of the Circle as far as I'm concerned."
"You do the traveling yourself?" While she wanted to know, it was more interesting to learn that
Cemandian ideas seemed to have crossed into at least two of the mountain principalities.
He laughed. "I don't trade for anything I can't touch and I probably travel as much as you do. My
family lives in Marienka, at the head of the lake. We weave for the local trade, but every fall I
bring our extra fleece to the Weavers' Guild in Vidor, pick up the fabric from last year's extra,
minus their percentage…"
Annice made a mental note to have the Guild's percentage checked into. While traders
traditionally complained about the percentages they had to pay in order to deal with the larger
guilds, the Council had asked that bards keep an eye out for price gouging.
"… and then I continue—usually a little farther from freeze-up—downriver to Elbasan."
Merchants said that in Elbasan they could trade for the world. As a child, Annice had loved to be
taken to the harbor to watch ships unload strange and exotic goods. While the captains had
entertained one or another of her older siblings, she'd run about the docks poking her nose into
odd corners and driving her nurse to distraction. As an adult, she often thought about petitioning
for what the bards called a Walk on Water but had never gone so far as to actually make the
request.
Warming to his subject, Jon leaned forward and began sketching trade possibilities in the air.
Annice, not really interested in the cycle of wool cloth for exotica for linen back in Vidor, slid
into the light trance that would ensure memory as he expanded on his season. She had no idea if
the information would ever be of use, but under the bardic adage, wasted knowledge is wasted
lives, better to have it than not.
"… and if that trader from Cemandia's still up in Ohrid, I might be able to unload some on him."
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That roused her. She'd run into a pair of Cemandian traders in Ohrid and another in Adjud. She'd
even seen a small cluster of them in the market in Vidor. In fact, she'd seen more on this latest
Walk than she had in all her previous travels combined.
Jon laughed when she mentioned it. "There's always been some trade across the border. Ohrid's
never quite managed to close the pass." Then he was off again on an unlikely tale of how he'd
bested a Cemandian in an impossible deal.
Annice slid back into trance; all Jon seemed to need was an audience and she was more than
willing to oblige. Few people realized that bards spent half their training time learning to listen.
And half of that, Annice mused as the story slid from unlikely to improbable, learning to sleep
with our eyes open.
"All right, Bard. This is where you float yer weight." Sarlo hooked the sweep oar into one armpit
and gestured ahead with her free hand. "Got a whole stretch of river here where the current
spreads out and ain't worth shit. Not to mention wind's comin' northwest and'll keep tryin' to blow
us onto the far shore. We get through it slow and sure as a rule, but since I don't want to end up
with my butt caught in ice, it's all yers."
Fingers clamped not quite white around the oar support, Annice peered off the stern. The fantail
following the riverboat was a deep gray-green; not exactly friendly-looking water. Watching the
bubbles slipping away upstream induced a sudden wave of vertigo. Annice swallowed hard and
sat down, legs crossed for maximum support and eyes closed. Thanks to the innkeeper's well-
timed hunk of bread, she'd discovered that small, bland meals at frequent intervals both remained
down and damped the nausea to merely an unpleasant background sensation. Unfortunately,
during the two days on the river, she'd found all sort of new ways to make herself sick.
"You okay?"
Annice opened her eyes and decided she could cope. "I'm fine."
"You seen a healer yet?"
"I'll see one after I get to Elbasan."
Sarlo snorted. "Yer business."
Reaching under her jacket and sweater, Annice pulled out her flute, the ironwood warmed almost
to body temperature. When the kigh arrived she'd Sing, but first she had to get their attention.
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Huff, Tanya - Sing the Four Quarters
"They're gonna be deep with freeze-up so close," Sarlo observed.
Annice ignored her, setting her fingers and checking the movement of the single key. She took a
deep breath and slowly released it, then lifted the flute to her mouth.
The kigh took their time responding to the call, but eventually three distinct shapes became
visible just below the surface.
Three would have to be enough.
Shoving chilled fingers and flute between her legs, Annice Sang. Some bards argued that as long
as the music was right and the desire strong, words were unimportant; that the kigh didn't
understand the words anyway, so why tie rhyme and rhythm into knots in what was probably an
unnecessary attempt to Sing a specific request.
Personally, Annice preferred to repeat variations of short phrases over and over. It occasionally
got tedious, but it usually got results.
The kigh listened for a few moments, one lifting a swell two feet into the air the better to stare
intently at the source of the Song, then suddenly all three dove and the boat jerked forward.
"Whoa!" Sarlo took a steadying step and braced herself against the sweep as Annice let the Song
fade to silence. "This'll make us some time. How long do you figger they'll push for?"
Annice slumped forward. "Hard to say," she admitted. "I haven't actually asked for much, so we
might make it out of the slow stretch before they get bored."
"Then what?"
"Then I'll play them a gratitude and we're back on our own."
"They won't hang around and cause trouble?"
"Probably not…" A sudden gust of wind lifted the top off a wave and flung it up over the high
stern deck of the riverboat and into Annice's face. The air kigh flicked the last few drops off its
fingers at her, then sped away.
"More kigh?" Sarlo asked.
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Huff,Tanya-SingtheFourQuartersCHAPTERONE"WasitsomethingIsaid?"Theinnkeeperlaughedastheyoungwomancont\inuedherheadlongdashoutthedoor,ignoringhimcompletely.Liftingaslaboffriedham\offthegrillandontoanalreadyfullplate,heslidthepileoffoodacrosstohisotherovernig\htguest."Kidsthesedays.Youjustcan'tmake'emu...

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