Bard city blues, p.1
Bard City Blues, page 1
BARD CITY BLUES
NATHANIEL WEBB
INTERIOR ILLUSTRATIONS CRIS PUGA
MAP MIKAEL ASIKAINEN
COVER PAINTING LUCAS MARQUES OLIVEIRA
Copyright © 2023 Nathaniel Webb
Wyngraf copyright © 2023 Young Needles Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover by Lucas Marques Oliveira
Interior art by Cris Puga
Map by Mikael Asikainen (www.orbigraphia.com)
CONTENTS
1. The Southack Method
2. Beneath the Sign of the Lifted Gate
3. Skeleton Fingers
4. Axework
5. Queen of the Delivery Girls
6. Molto Allegro
7. Fearless Creature
8. Uldor’s Ghost
9. The White Dragon
10. Night Swimming
11. Immaculate Miscellany
12. Plonk
13. The Melodic Maid
14. Because It's Beautiful
15. Wild Abandon
16. Xolgoth Hungers for Flakes
17. Lifesoil
18. Sugar Mice
19. The Real Treasure Is the Books We Read Along the Way
20. Here's to the Truth
21. Positively Hairy
22. Harp and Wreath
23. The Round Room
24. A Glass Otter
25. Impromptu No. 1
26. The House With the Yellow Door
27. Fourteen to One
28. The Flip of a Coin
29. Making Away Lies
30. Regenisraen
31. Never Steal from a Thief
32. Gutter Bard
33. And I Didn't Give a Damn
34. Reverse
35. In Favor of Decency
36. A Change of Seasons
Epilogue: Book and Bottle
Thanks for reading!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Kickstarter Backers - Sine Qua Non
This one’s for all the writers, reviewers, and (most of all) readers who have supported Wyngraf. Thank you for sharing my cozy dream.
CHAPTER ONE
THE SOUTHACK METHOD
Master Bard Cyprian Southack had pale green eyes, a gold-threaded doublet, and a tiny bit of pork dangling from the corner of his square, gray beard. The sapphire instructor’s badge of the Most Excellent Bardic Guild of Lackmore winked on his chest. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, tall and slightly hunched, frowning and eyeing me as I opened a battered case and pulled out my guitar.
I set it on my knee and gave it an experimental strum. It was fairly in tune, despite the bitter cold and lashing snow outside Master Southack’s chambers. Inside, it was mercifully warm. A great fire roared and leapt in the marble hearth, thick tapestries on every wall kept out the chill, and the floor was exclusively rug. I was thinking how wonderful it must be to live and practice somewhere so warm. My fingers would never cramp from cold again.
I adjusted two tuning pegs and tried another chord. Master Southack cleared his throat. The pork bit still clung tenaciously to his beard, and I wondered if I ought to say something.
“A highland lute?” he asked. His voice was a stern basso profundo.
“We call it a guitar, sir, but yes.” I pushed my glasses up my nose, stood, and slipped the guitar’s strap over my shoulder. My hands fell easily into position, one on the six-stringed neck and the other over the soundhole. It had been a beautiful instrument once, but its mother-of-pearl accents had fallen out and its lacquer worn away long before I scraped together the coin to buy it.
“Do you play anything else?”
“No, sir, should I?” I said. “I can sing. That is, I do sing. I play and sing.”
Master Southack arched an eyebrow. “She sings. Lords protect us, she plays the highland lute and sings. And have you auditioned for Clodo Stringfellow yet? Or Jane O’Shanties?”
“Lords protect us, she plays the highland lute and sings.”
I had to suppress a smile. Lackmore’s other two top music teachers had asked me the same thing about Master Southack. I told him what I had told them: “I came straight here as soon as I arrived in Lackmore. Start at the top, that’s my motto.”
“Mm.” Southack took a measured step backward, as though guitar music might poison him. “Well, Callie, let’s have it.”
“It’s Gally.”
He waved a dismissive hand, making the pork in his beard wobble. I sucked in a breath between my teeth. That pork was really bothering me.
“Sorry, sir, can I just…?” I reached up, pinched the tidbit between two fingers, and flicked it onto the floor.
Southack’s eyes narrowed and his frown deepened until it curved like a rebec bow.
I tried to smile in response. “Thank you. That’s much better.”
“If you’re quite ready?”
I gave my guitar one last testing strum, nodded, and launched into the same tune I had played for the other teachers, a well-known galliard from the Sconnet Isles. It was the perfect audition piece: tricky without being showy, complex but still accessible. You could even dance to it, if you considered what rich folk in stiff dresses and tight breeches did dancing.
I didn’t. I had come to Lackmore from the highlands, where great rams grazed on scrubgrass and the Weeping River crashed down from forever-snowy peaks. In the highlands we knew how to dance. There wasn’t much else to do.
Folk know I’m a highlander the moment they meet me. If my accent doesn’t give it away, my name does: Gally Chaparral. The blonde hair, ramswool sweater, and denim trousers probably don’t help either. Besides, folk in the city never get so ruddy and wind-chapped as a born shepherd girl, no matter how hard the snow blows down the narrow alleys.
The galliard was done before I knew it. I always get caught up in the music, but that’s all right, I play best that way. I opened my eyes to find Master Southack’s frown had become… well, not a smile, but a straight line at least.
“I assume you are familiar with my methodology,” he said. “We meet for one lesson every week. Between lessons, I expect you to practice at least four hours a day. I will know if you don’t.”
“Every week,” I said somewhat faintly. I knew what Cyprian Southack charged for instruction—if I didn’t start making money soon, I would be broke in a month.
“Furthermore, I strongly encourage you to live here at the studio with my other students. I keep a number of rooms in the basement for the purpose. There will be a few moderate restrictions on your behavior, but I have found these help young musicians maintain focus and discipline.”
“I assume there’s a fee, too, sir?”
“Naturally. Real estate is costly, Miss Chaparral, particularly this high up Symphony Hill.”
Standing there with my highland lute—my guitar—hanging from my shoulder, I felt suddenly foolish. The guitar is a folk instrument, built to fill rowdy taverns with sound and survive travel and hard weather. It’s louder than the harp, tougher than the lute, and simpler than the hurdy gurdy. Best of all, it’s cheaper than all three.
Mine had cost nearly all my money nonetheless.
Yet here I was in a studio at the top of Symphony Hill, hoping to afford room, board, and lessons with one of the greatest music teachers in Lackmore. I knew all about the Southack Method, and the long list of famous bards it had produced: Opar Oparro, Sings-through-Sunlight, Trudy Forgeborn… If I wanted to add my name to that list, I would simply have to manage the expense.
I pushed my glasses up. “Thank you, sir, I’d be honored to live here. And, ah, how long do students usually stay with you?”
Southack’s frown returned. “That is entirely up to you and your progress. My method is reliable, but most students require years to earn my sponsorship. Some never do. Membership in the Bardic Guild is not a trifle that can be purchased at the cost of so many lessons. However…” He eyed me up and down. “If you put in the work and do as I tell you, you have a chance. Even if you do play a highland lute.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. Once again, I had no choice but to agree. The Most Excellent Bardic Guild of Lackmore controlled access to all the best inns, taverns, and concert halls in the city. From journeyman to master, no bard played anywhere halfway decent—and no bard made a halfway decent living—without joining the Guild first. To earn a Guild audition, however, I needed the sponsorship of a member.
Who better than Master Bard Cyprian Southack?
“You’re certain you won’t learn a proper instrument?” he asked. “You could adapt to the pandore in only a year, I am sure.”
“No, thank you, sir.” I unslung my guitar, knelt, and began packing it away. Tucked into the case was a list I had written on a scrap of paper before moving to Lackmore:
THE PLAN
Top teacher
Somewhere to live
Steady gig
Get sponsored
Join the Guild
I could cross out the first and second items. The third was crucial, though, if I was to have any hope of paying for the first two.
“Sir, I don’t have much coin,” I said. “I’m concerned about meeting my expenses until I join the Guild. Could you possibly suggest somewhere I can perform before then?”
Ma ster Southack’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a joke, Miss Chaparral? Surely you didn’t mean to imply that I debase myself among gutter bards in unlicensed taverns. Perhaps you might find such a place on your own, though I cannot recommend it. If not, many of my students are maintained by their parents.”
I swallowed. That was right out. The day I left for Lackmore, my mother had disowned me for being a bard and my father had done nothing to stop her. I would be fortunate if they ever spoke to me again, let alone supported me.
Southack moved to a little writing desk, opened the top, and drew out a sheaf of papers which he held out to me. “We will meet for lessons at ten o’clock every Sunday morning. Prepare this, please. You may see Mister Bilberry in the basement about your room.”
I stared at the papers. “Étude No. 1 — C. Southack” was written in a neat hand at the top. Below that, the page was absolutely covered with notes. Measure after measure, they spilled and swept in long runs and dense clusters. A few bars looked almost black. I checked the tempo marking and gulped: this piece was fast. I had my work cut out for me preparing it in time for my first lesson—and what sort of musician wanted to work on Sunday mornings, anyhow?
I took the music, laid it on top of my guitar, and shut the case. “Thank you, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”
Filbert Bilberry, half my height and dressed in a somber gray suit, ticked off rules on his fingers.
“No noise from ten at night until six in the morning, unless you’re practicing. No staying out unreasonably late, unless you’re at a gig.” He pushed back his hat, a round little thing of black felt, and scratched at his forehead. “No goats in the hallway on festival days.”
“Are there any exceptions to that one?” I asked.
“No.” Lips pursed, Filbert squinted up at me from beneath the brim of his hat. He was the most humorless halfling I had ever met, but he was excellent at staring daggers. “I assure you, each and every one of Master Southack’s rules is in place for a good reason. The sooner you learn not to question them, the better. I just want to make sure that’s clear. Now, where was I? No noise, no late nights, no goats, no drunkenness…”
I let my gaze wander over Filbert’s shoulder. Master Southack’s basement boardinghouse comprised a single long, narrow hallway with six bedrooms on either side, marked off by two parallel rows of doors, and a small bathroom at the end. It was tidy and very orderly, and I could see at once how such an austere environment would help Southack’s students ward off distractions and focus on their music. Seven people lived there currently, Filbert had told me, and I would make eight.
As he droned on, my thoughts turned to the food and bed I was due. I was exhausted, hungry, and getting chilly. There had been no time to eat or rest all day—I had arrived in Lackmore at noon, and spent the daylight hours finding and auditioning for those three famous teachers. Masters Stringfellow and O’Shanties had turned me away immediately for refusing to give up my guitar. Cyprian Southack had been the kindest of the three.
There was a thought to chill the bones.
“Any questions?” Filbert said, startling me.
“Any questions?”
“How does the bathroom work?” I asked, as I had been staring at its door rather than listening to him.
“How…? Ah.” Filbert nodded to himself. “You’re a highlander, you won’t be familiar with indoor plumbing. Allow me to explain. Once you’ve done the needful—”
“No! No. We have plumbing in the highlands.” I tried for a smile. “I only meant that one bathroom seems inadequate for eight people. Is there a signup sheet?”
“There is not. Signup sheets are no longer allowed.” Filbert’s eyes took on a faraway look. “It was tried, once. Now then. Your rent covers room and board, that is, somewhere to sleep and something to eat. Mealtimes are at seven in the morning and five at night, so you’ve missed supper. I hope you’re not hungry.”
My stomach growled in dismay.
“I collect the rent on Master Southack’s behalf,” Filbert continued. “It’s due on the first of each month. That’s the first, not the second or third or fourth. Apologies for the emphasis, I just want to make sure there’s no confusion. I assume I can look out for payments from your family?”
“Er, no,” I said. “I’ll give you the money.”
Under the brim of his felt hat, Filbert’s neatly plucked eyebrows rose. “I suppose your parents are dead—ooh, or poor?”
I hesitated. They were neither, but if my mother meant what she’d said, they were no longer my parents. Regardless, I felt no desire to unload my woes on Filbert Bilberry. “They don’t support me becoming a bard, that’s all.”
He tipped his hat back and stared up as if appraising me honestly for the first time. “You plan to pay your own way? In that case, there’s one more rule. The rent is due weekly.”
I stowed my few belongings—guitar, shoulder bag, a small stack of books—in my room, which was as charmless and unwelcoming as Filbert: a barren square five paces across, featuring nothing but a steel-framed cot with a thin blanket and no pillow. With the day’s excitement through, I was able to concentrate fully on my hunger, which hollowed me out more with each passing minute. I knew I ought to sleep, but that was impossible on an empty stomach. The conversation about rent was weighing on me, as well. Southack’s boardinghouse could offer featherbeds and five-star meals, but they would do no good if couldn’t afford to stay. I needed work.
I took my guitar and headed out into Lackmore.
A winter wind blew down String Street. The sky, barely visible in the last of the evening, comprised a single low mass of cloud. I turned uphill, squinting against the cold. Master Southack’s studio stood near the crown of Symphony Hill, only a block below the Bardic Guild Hall at its very top. I could barely make out the Hall in the gloom. Then the moon broke through the clouds, and for a moment I saw marble columns glowing like pillars of silver fire.
“Someday,” I said. But first, I needed work.
A sudden blast of wind leapt out at me like a mugger from a nearby alley. I pulled my coat tight, but it was little help—and this was my good shearling, a highland shepherd’s coat, all wool and tanned hide as though someone had turned a sheep inside out. I turned my back on the Guild Hall and set out downhill.
The sidewalks had been shoveled and salted while I was indoors, and all the torches lighted. Some of the finest inns and taverns in Lackmore lined String Street, their windows glowing with golden lamplight. Muted laughter and music waited behind those windows, and the scents of a dozen different meals cooking. My stomach gave a hollow grumble.
I paused in the shelter of a tavern doorway, listening to a harper within play demanding two-handed runs and enjoying the respite from the cold. Her music was lush, intricate, and flawless, the performance of a master for certain. I would find no unlicensed venues on Symphony Hill. This was the Guild’s domain.
After a minute I dragged myself from the doorway and resumed my downhill trudge. The wind picked up again, stinging my face and hands with snow that had escaped the shovellers. I tucked a hand into my coat, but the other, carrying my guitar, was painfully exposed. As I plodded along I switched hands every minute, then twice a minute, and finally every few seconds.
The wind died away at the foot of Symphony Hill, but it was markedly darker in the lower city. Not only were lanterns and torches scarcer down here, but full night had come on. I kept walking, though I had no better plan than to head away from Symphony Hill until I found somewhere I might audition. Now and then I passed a tavern—none so grand as those on String Street, but I paused outside each to listen. I heard music every time.
