The Charnel Prince - J. Gregory Keyes [121]
“Oh,” Leoff said.
“Auy. Take my advice—play something on that hammarharp and then get out of here.”
Leoff nodded, wondering if Alvreic would take him back if he asked.
They had reached the instrument. It was beautiful, maple lacquered a deep red with black-and-yellow keys.
“What are you doing, now that your malend is burned?”
“Duke Artwair arranged a new position,” Gilmer said. “One of the malends on Saint Thon’s Graf, near Meolwis. Not too far from here.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
He settled on the stool and glanced back up. Gilmer was gone. With a sigh he touched the keyboard and started playing.
It was an old composition of his, one that had pleased the Duke of Glastir very well. He’d once been pleased with it, too, but now it felt clumsy and childish. He pushed on to the end, adding variations in hopes of making it more interesting, but when he was done, it felt hollow.
To his surprise, the final notes were greeted by applause, and he realized a small crowd had gathered, Lady Gramme among them.
“Enchanting,” she said. “Please play something else.”
“Whatever you would like, milady.”
“I wonder if I could commission a piece from you.”
“I would be pleased to do so, though I’ve already agreed to one commission I must complete first.”
“I was rather thinking you could invent something for this occasion,” she said. “I’m told you can do such things, and I’ve made a wager with the Duke of Shale that you can make an impromptu that pleases.”
“I could try,” he agreed reluctantly.
“But see here,” said the duke, a puffy man in a jacket that looked too tight, “how shall we know if he is inventing and not playing some obscure older piece?”
“I think we can trust to his honor,” Gramme replied.
“Not where my purse is concerned,” the duke huffed.
Leoff cleared his throat. “If it please you, Duke, hum a snatch of some favorite tune of yours.”
“Well . . .” He considered for a moment, then whistled a few notes. The crowd murmured laughter, and Leoff wondered exactly what sort of tune it was.
Leoff spied Areana in the crowd. “And you, my dear,” he said. “Give me another melody.”
Areana blushed. She looked around nervously, then sang:
Waey cunnad min loof, min goth moder?
Waey cunnad min werlic loof?
Thus cunnad in at, is paed thin loof
That ne nethal Niwhuan Coonth
She had a sweet soprano voice.
“Very well,” Leoff said, “that’s a start.”
He began with Areana’s tune, because it began with a question: “How will I know my lover, good mother? How will I know my true love?” He put it in a plaintive key, with a very light bass line, and now the mother answered, in fuller, more colorful chords, “You’ll know him by his coat, which has never known a needle.”
He separated the two halves of the melody now, and began weaving them through each other, and as counterpoint added in the duke’s whistle near the top of the hammarharp’s range. When they heard that, almost everyone laughed, and Leoff himself smiled. He’d guessed the juxtaposition of the lover’s riddle song against the other, probably vulgar tune, would amuse, and now he made it a dialogue: the girl asking how she would know her lover, the leering lecher who overheard her, and the stern mother warning the fellow away, bringing it all to a head with a sort of bang as the mother threw a crock at the man and he ran off, his melody quickly fading, until only the girl remained.
Waey cunnad min loof? . . .
Raucous applause followed, and Leoff suddenly felt as if he’d been playing in a tavern, but unlike the polite and often insincere acknowledgment he’d had in the various courts he had entertained, this felt sincere to the bone.
“That’s really quite remarkable,” Lady Gramme said. “You have a rare talent.”
“My talent,” Leoff said, “such as it is, belongs to the saints. But I’m glad I pleased you.”
The lady smiled and began to say something else, but then a sudden commotion at the door made everyone turn. Leoff heard a clash of steel and a howl of pain, and grim-faced