The clerk took his time, sharpening his quill until Rune was ready to scream with impatience, before looking her up and down and asking her name.
"Rune of Westhaven, and lately of Nolton." She held to her vow of not claiming a sire-name. "Mother is Stara of Westhaven."
He noted it, without a comment. "Primary instrument?"
"Fiddle."
Scratch, scratch, of quill on parchment. "Secondary?"
"Lute."
He raised an eyebrow; the usual order was lute, primary; fiddle, secondary. For that matter, fiddle wasn't all that common even as a secondary instrument.
"And you will perform-?"
"First day, primary, 'Lament Of The Maiden Esme.' Second day, secondary, 'The Unkind Lover.' Third day, original, 'The Skull Hill Ghost.' " An awful title, but she could hardly use the real name of "Fiddler Girl." "Accompanied on primary, fiddle."
He was no longer even marginally interested in her. "Take your place."
She sat on the backless wooden bench, trying to keep herself calm. Before her was the raised wooden platform on which they would all perform; to either side of it were the backless benches like the one she warmed, for the aspirants to the Guild. The back of the tent made the third side of the platform, and the fourth faced the row of well-padded chairs for the Guild judges. Although she was first here, it was inevitable that they would let others have the preferred first few slots; there would be those with fathers already in the Guild, or those who had coins for bribes who would play first, so that they were free to enjoy the Faire for the rest of the day, without having to wait long enough for their nerves to get the better of them. Still, she shouldn't have to wait too long-rising with the dawn would give her that much of an edge, at least.
She got to play by midmorning. The "Lament" was perfect for fiddle, the words were simple and few, and the wailing melody gave her lots of scope for improvisation. The style the judges had chosen, "florid style," encouraged such improvisation. The row of Guild judges, solemn in their tunics or robes of purple, white silk shirts trimmed with gold or silver ribbon depending on whether they were Minstrels or Bards, were a formidable audience. Their faces were much alike; well-fed and very conscious of their own importance; you could see it in their eyes. As they sat below the platform and took unobtrusive notes, they seemed at least mildly impressed with her performance. Even more heartening, several of the boys yet to perform looked satisfyingly worried when she'd finished.
She packed up her fiddle and betook herself briskly out-to find herself a corner of the cathedral wall to lean against as her knees sagged when the excitement that had sustained her wore off.
I never used to react that badly to an audience.
Maybe she hadn't recovered from her sickness as completely as she'd thought. Or maybe it was just that she'd never had an audience this important before. It was several long moments before she could get her legs to bear her weight and her hands to stop shaking. It was then that she realized that she hadn't eaten since the night before-and that she was suddenly ravenous. Before she'd played, the very thought of food had been revolting.
The same cook-shop tent as before seemed like a reasonable proposition. She paid for her breakfast with some of the windfall-coppers of the night before; this morning the tent was crowded and she was lucky to get a scant corner of a bench to herself. She ate hurriedly and joined the strollers through the Faire.
Once or twice she thought she glimpsed the red hair of Talaysen, but if it really was the minstrel, he was gone by the time she reached the spot where she had thought he'd been. There were plenty of other street-buskers, though. She thought wistfully of the harvest of coin she'd reaped the night before as she noted that none of them seemed to be lacking for patronage. And no one was tossing pins into the hat, either. It was all copper coins-and occasionally, even a silver one. But now that she was a duly registered entrant in the trials, it would be going against custom, if not the rules, to set herself up among them. That much she'd picked up, waiting for her turn. An odd sort of custom, but there it was; better that she didn't stand out as the only one defying it.
So instead she strolled, and listened, and made mental notes for further songs. There were plenty of things she saw or overheard that brought snatches of rhyme to mind. By early evening her head was crammed full-and it was time to see how the Guild had ranked the aspirants of the morning.
The list was posted outside the closed tent-flaps, and Rune wasn't the only one interested in the outcome of the first day's trials. It took a bit of time to work her way in to look, but when she did-
By God's saints! There she was, "Rune of Westhaven," listed third.
She all but floated back to her riverside tree-roost.
The second day of the trials was worse than the first; the aspirants performed in order, lowest ranking to highest. That meant that Rune had to spend most of the day sitting on the hard wooden bench, clutching the neck of her lute in nervous fingers, listening to contestant after contestant and sure that each one was much better on his secondary instrument than she was. She'd only had a year of training on it, after all. Still, the song she'd chosen was picked deliberately to play up her voice and de-emphasize her lute-strumming. It was going to be pretty difficult for any of these others to match her high contralto (a truly cunning imitation of a boy's soprano), since most of them had passed puberty.
At long last her turn came. She swallowed her nervousness as best she could, took the platform, and began.
Privately she thought it was a pretty ridiculous song. Why on Earth any man would put up with the things that lady did to him, and all for the sake of a "kiss on her cold, quiet hand," was beyond her. She'd parodied the song, and nothing she wrote matched the intrinsic silliness of the original. Still, she put all the acting ability she had into it, and was rewarded by a murmur of approval when she'd finished.
"That voice-I've seldom heard one so pure at that late an age!" she overheard as she packed up her instrument. "If he passes the third day-you don't suppose he'd agree to being gelded, do you? I can think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have a voice like his in service."