Fortune's Fool - Mercedes Lackey [45]
“I will see what can be done, Father, but I have only just met him—” she began.
He laughed. “And you know how to rectify that. Go, my dear. And be glad that you have Siren, and not Mermaid blood in your veins.”
She blushed even harder. But she also lost no time in retracing her path back to the shores of Led Belarus.
Chapter 8
Sasha sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the message that had finally caught up with him. He had been sending Yasha short reports from every significant stop he had made, more as a way for his family to keep track of where he was than because they needed any news about what he was doing.
It was a message that came with a gift, which told him immediately that he probably wouldn’t like it. Had this message arrived at any time previous to yesterday afternoon, he would have been angry, a little hurt, and a great deal resentful.
Dear Sasha, We are at a delicate position at the moment. The negotiations for your brother’s bride are going very well. But any little thing could bring it all crashing down. Therefore, if you would, please remain where you are until we send for you? With the letter had come a substantial pouch of money, enough to keep him well for quite some time, and the messenger waited patiently down below for his answer. Which, because Sasha was a good son, and would do as his father asked, would be to agree to the request and not make trouble.
Now at any other time, he would have been annoyed, and even hurt by this. After all, it wasn’t as if he chose to be the Fortunate Fool. Given the option he would much rather—
He weighed the pouch of money in his hand. What would he rather be?
If he was to have the choice without needing to factor in starvation…he’d be a minstrel. He could still sing the Kingdom to make it prosper and protect it as a minstrel. In fact, it might be easier.
He entertained the fantasy for a moment—for it was a fantasy—of spending his time riding from inn to inn, enjoying the sun and sky by day, tucked up in a cozy corner with an appreciative audience by night, and after the inn was closed, finding a saucy serving wench waiting for him in his bed….
But the reality for minstrels, as he very well knew, was traveling afoot, or if lucky, catching a ride with a farmer. There were very few minstrels who could afford a horse, and most of those were with a troupe of entertainers, sharing a wagon, which had its own advantages and drawbacks. Since he didn’t think he’d fit in well with any such group, he would have to go it alone. The life of a minstrel was filled with lots of rainy days, cold days, days of endless snow, and the occasional blistering-hot day just for variety. It was smoke-filled, filthy inns that, unlike the Jolly Sturgeon, were full of the stench of stale, thin kvass—a thin, bitter beer—burned food, unwashed bodies, and vomit. And most of all, the life of a minstrel was going hungry, sleeping without shelter, most of the time. When there was shelter, it was in someone’s barn, in a shed, or on the hard floor of one of those wretched inns.
I am a pampered Prince, he thought wryly. I wouldn’t last out the season.
Of course, if he could manage to be a Prince incognito, to have money sent to him whenever he needed it, to have a good horse under him and good clothing on his back, that would be very different.
I wonder if it would be possible to simply make the rounds all the time? Or, well, not all the time, but there would be no difficulty finding a nice, cozy inn to spend winter months. Would he still then be the Fortunate Fool for the Kingdom? That would be the real question. Probably only a Godmother could answer it.
If he couldn’t then—no. He could not in all conscience do something like that. The Kingdom, and his family, depended on his Luck. He couldn’t do anything that would diminish it, not and feel anything but guilty.
But if he could…
Well, this was not the time to daydream. For once, when he’d been told to stay away, he was happy about it. He was at his favorite place, it was the middle of summer,