Chương 29: Best of Crows, You Will Fly Again

With fond thoughts for my hometown of Nekis, which is laid out more or less on level ground, I walk up yet another steep street. Kadunskil, the capital of the dwarven kingdom, is built on six hills, which are very demanding on the thighs, even though the climbs are mere bumps compared to the vast peaks that surround the city.

Again, I am impressed with the two-story houses (there are even three-story houses in the wealthier districts), as well as the considerable amount of glass that they each have, held in lead-crossed window frames. The dwarves know how to build for the cold temperatures of their mountainous city; in Nekis, windows are mostly simply open to the sky (with iron bars to keep thieves out), openings which can be covered by heavy drapes if necessary.

Our progress to the capital from the port had been mostly uphill and slow but I didn't mind that, since the four days of travel allowed me to reach 5 in Play Musical Instrument (Barbat). Every night I would practice and I discovered a joy in sound that I had not previously appreciated. The beautiful and (from Lady Horsta's perspective) far-too-expensive musical instrument I had acquired in Hammerfist was like a lute, in that it had six strings and a round sound box.

The head was strange though, being bent back further than the angle a hand could achieve when pulled back at the wrist. Not only had I worked up my skill in producing music from this instrument, I felt that my entire way of being in the world had subtly changed. I was surrounded by music. The rhythm of a nearby cart, for example, contains creaks, the jingle of harness clasps, the laborious footfalls of the mule, its steady exhalations. Nearby a magpie sounds the alarm to its companions with a staccato trill.

A rope on a flagpole clacks to an unsettled beat. This heightened appreciation of the music in the world has no obvious practical benefit: I am not a better rogue for it. Nevertheless, to have opened my ears to music in this way is a pleasure and certainly a very welcome distraction from the ache in my legs. Our new abode is The Gnarly Beech, apparently the best venue in the city for travelling entertainers like us.

Its owner, a black-bearded dwarf called Eccel Bloodstone, had offered us board and tips in return for six performances, which I initially considered a good agreement though Belle thought otherwise, wanting us to be paid too. She is right. For the morning after our shaking hands on the deal, Eccel had come over to our table with a roll of posters and a list of establishments and told us to go around town making sure they were properly displayed. This is unexpected work.

I have several of these posters in my hand and am feeling very tired from the strain on my thighs of walking these hills. The poster has the outline of an unrecognisably voluptuous female, one who is probably more elf than human. Famed Belle of Nekis, it proclaims, Dances Every Night at The Gnarly Beech. What would they make of the real Belle?

We had told Eccel that I am a well-known barbat player, but whether it was the lack of conviction in my companions as they said this, or, more likely, that Eccel knows perfectly well how to attract his customers, I do not feature on the poster. Aarax is with me and after we have tacked up the last poster (on the wall of a butcher's shop), he suggests we reward ourselves with a drink. A very welcome suggestion as far as my legs are concerned.

An inn terrace gives us a view across the city past its walls to an area of cloud far to the east that is, in fact, mist formed where the River Blackwater pours over a lip of rock to drop over a hundred metres as a massive waterfall. Warm, spiced wine is steaming on the table and our exhalations too form a faint mist. Yawning, Aarax stretches out.

'I'm tired. I thought the life of an adventurer would be easier than that of an apprentice coachman, but it's kind of the same: we are always travelling.'

'Yet you sleep very well, they must hear your snores from the depths of hell.' He laughs then looks rueful.

'You know it's only two weeks until the Day of the Dead?' I nod.

'This is the first time I'll miss the carnival.'

'As will I; without me they will find it hard to get by. Our temple is busy all day, as people call in to pray.'

'We have two zombies in the family. My dad's grandparents. They were soldiers you see.' Aarax looks over at me, then back to the view of the mountains.

'After the service, we usually go out to fields and find them to pay honour to them.' Such melancholy I have not heard in my young friend's voice before and I say, 'We should have our own ceremony here, and think of our friends and our home city with good cheer.'

'That's a great idea Crow. We can make masks and everything.' Our young druid springs up as if ready to prepare for the festival right away. Well, why not? I finish my spiced wine and feeling the pleasant effect of it am ready for the steep streets again.

I come down early for our first performance. We have a small stage, well lit by large-wicked lanterns, some of which have slots for coloured glass. This is where the Crow will play, puffed up and preening as though making a display for a mate, which is indeed part of my intention, to impress Belle with my unexpected musical skill. A young dwarf is covering the floor with something yellow that he throws from a bucket like chaff. It is sawdust.

'Excuse me,' I ask, 'but what is that for? Why do you put sawdust on the floor?'

'For the blood, isn't it? What will stain the wood otherwise.' If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. My lack of comprehension must show, for he gives me a look out of patient brown eyes and says.

'There be a lot of fighting; miners versus agrics usually.' The excitement that had been circulating through me and filling my limbs with energy sinks through my boots and leaks away into this now-yellow floor. Fighting? In my hands is a complex stringed instrument, with a beautiful lacquer finish. It cost us a gold and five silver from our party funds. How will it fare if a roomful of drunken dwarves are fighting? How will anyone even hear my playing?

The preening bird ceases its cocksure walk, feathers settling back down. I find a dark corner and tune the barbat, plucking a few melancholy notes from it. Have I wasted valuable skill points in my vanity? As the inn fills with dwarves, my friends join me, all but Belle.

'Shouldn't you bandage a hand or arm?' asks Lisandra, I shake my head. Already it is getting hard to hear her and the place is only half full. There are both male and female dwarves, dressed in woollen clothes mostly, though some have leather wrist and shin protection. The men all have beards. Other than very small knives, more useful for cutting than fighting, I am relieved that no one seems to be carrying weapons. The fashion here is for tattoos and all of the dwarves have them.

Since they are mostly covered up, I can only guess from the dense black ink on hands and necks that these tattoos extend across their bodies. Livelier now, the inn fills up until there are no more seats and still dwarves are arriving, a chill but refreshing flow of air announcing each new entrant. That many curious looks are evident whenever someone looks over at our table can only be expected. A young dwarf, the one that was distributing sawdust, comes over and shouts.

'Ecce says it's time for your act and don't play any elf music or he can't guarantee your safety.'

'I'll get Belle,' Lisandra heaves herself up, both hands on the rough wooden table.

'Lady Horsta, Gerard, Amaris, please clear the stage and guard her when she dances.' There are dwarves seated all along the wooden edge of the stage and they do not look pleased to be moved to their feet. When I leave our table, carrying the barbat in my right hand, Aarax looks surprised but says nothing. I stand on the stage and the noise around me diminishes a little. From the stairs to my left, first Lisandra descends, then breathtaking Belle.

Belle has acquired a new dress and the poster we have been putting up around the city is not so far from the truth. In teal and light green, with silver fastenings, she is a whirl of delicate and floating silk. I have not seen her this way before, womanly, gorgeous, desirable. Is this strange woman also attractive in the eyes of a dwarvish audience? Those close enough to see Belle are certainly astonished, many a mouth is open.

With a wave of her arms and an inaudible chant, Lisandra shimmers and reforms as a stocky red-haired dwarf. Her Shapechange, presumably.

'Ladies and Gentlemen!' dwarf Lisandra steps onto the lit stage and calls out from the front of it, to some effect as measured by the fact that four or five of rows of those nearest to us pay her attention. Further back, though, in the dark and smoke-filled recesses of the inn, the noise does not abate.

'Having thrilled the Arkine Emperor himself; having danced for the Duke of Dunshandan, and now having arrived at the finest city in all the world, it is with even more pride that Belle of Nekis will dance for the miners and farmers without whom we would have nothing!' Approval all around greets this sentiment and was that even a smile? No, just a twitching mouth.

Still, as Belle steps onto the stage, lightly, with a hint of a leap in each motion, I can tell that the dwarves around us are interested and willing to give us a chance. A pause. Belle looks to me, a question in her expression.

How wrong of me to tease her in this moment; to tease Lisandra, who is miming a broken wrist; to tease Aarax at his table, who looks at me concerned; to tease Lady Horsta, Amaris and Gerard, standing just off the stage, bodies facing the audience but heads turned towards me; to tease the expectant audience. But having raised the barbat and my hand to strum at the strings, the rascal in me cannot but delight in how everyone is suffering on my behalf. A long pause. And then I play.

I open with an irresistible polka, easy for Belle, she will have danced to this form a thousand times. Light and simple as the music is, it is appealing all the same, speaking of good friends and cheerful nights. Easy to grasp. Many a head is moving from side to side in time with my chords. With eager eyes, Belle moves across the stage as much as its small length allows, turning with a swirl at the end of each of my statements and offering a lovely smile for the audience.

Giving the audience little time to hoot and stamp – their mode of approval I discover – I start into a more sophisticated waltz. Again, this is well-rehearsed music for Belle but there's more subtlety now in how I'm playing, so that she can sway her arms and fingers to the melody while her whole body rises and falls to the strumming of the chords. My barbat is bravely meeting the challenge of overcoming the background sounds of talk, laughter, and motion.

Under a low roof, the mellow tones of the deep notes fill my ears, the sweet, plucked notes from higher up the neck sing out loudly. Another waltz, this time filled with romance, and, appreciating this, Belle is flirting with the audience, giving each one of them a personal smile and a glimpse of pale thigh or chest. Amused by the open-eyed, guilty expressions of the dwarves in the front rows, I give Belle a foxtrot so that she can strut, like my heart is strutting, and reinforce her command over them.

Dance after dance, we keep the dwarves more than entertained; they have been won over and their hoots in the short interval between the tunes make Belle happy, a happiness she shares with me: when her brown eyes turn to mine they are filled with comradeship. I have been playing long enough – and Belle must be tired enough – that I consider ending the performance with one last dance. Instead, though, my fingers are working on a song that had come to me while I learned the instrument. Crow's Song.

A song of loss, for where is the flock? Crow is someone who once had a huge, cawing family. And the family comes together to feed, some taking turns guarding the sky while the others find insects. Proud young Crow. Clever Crow, warning of the dark human, standing almost invisible beside a tree. You'll do, he says, come with me and be my eyes. And Crow's family say, go, it is a god. And Crow serves the god until his eyes start to fade and he returns to the roost where his siblings all have children of their own.

And they honour you. As does the god, arriving and picking you up from your nest when you can no longer fly. Best of crows, he said, do not be afraid of death, you will fly again. Somehow Belle understands the music: she has been a bird in flight, a god-chosen bird, cunning and alert. And she has been a lonely bird. And she has been a dying bird, surrounded by the audience who are the flock to which she has returned after serving the dark god. And she is not afraid of death.

When the last note ends, the entire inn is still. Nearby, the eyes of the tattooed dwarves are full of tears. Then the hooting and stamping begins, loud and fervent. They do not cease even after Belle has bowed a dozen times. At last she takes my hand and we run up the stairs to where Lisandra is standing, her original form resumed.

'Lord Scrithax save us, Crow, I've never heard music such as that.' She wipes away a tear and then clasps me tight to her, big arms wrapped around me.

'Crow, you have a family now, you know that.'