Summoned to Tourney (5 page)

:She’s not angry,:
Kory chuckled mentally.
:Or rather, she was very angry with this woman a long time ago, but now she is enjoying her discomfiture.:

And if I know my Bethie, the fact that Kath looks like hell is pretty entertaining too
, he thought wryly.

Kathie looked from one to the other of them, now totally confused. “If you’re thinking of, like, Eric Banyon,” Beth continued, in the same drawling Valley accent as Eric, “Somebody with the Celts told me he’d like had a major accident or something—”

“No—” Kory put in, in a voice completely without accent—very Midwestern. “His apartment blew up, and he disappeared. Somebody said he might have gotten in trouble with a drug ring or something. That’s what Ian told me, anyway.” He shrugged, insincerely. “Sorry. You could go talk to Ian if you can find him. He should be over with the Celts.”

“Oh.” Kathie backed away, slowly, her face crumpling. For one moment Eric was tempted to stop her—

:If you do, Beth will be angry at you.:

I feel sorry for her
, Eric thought, as she turned and plodded away.
I mean, look at her, she isn’t even doing the Faire, she’s a “traveler.” I don’t know what happened to her, but it must have been pretty awful
.

:I think she came here to try and find you,:
Kory warned,
:And if that is true, she could be either a plant, or someone else’s unwitting stalking-horse. In either case, she is dangerous to us. I begin to believe now in the wisdom of Beth’s plans.:

“Stick to the script, Banyon,” Beth muttered under her breath, leaning forward to adjust his collar.

“No problem, love,” he replied, with a grin. “Hey, all I have to do is remember the kind of rat she was back when, and it gets kind of hard to feel too sorry for her.”

“That’s my boy.” She smiled back. “Now, let’s make some pretty music for the travelers, hmm?”

“Okay.” The travelers were starting to fill the streets between the booths; Opening Parade must be over. Kory already had his bodhran out and ready; Bethie was tuning the last string on her mandolin. Pity they wouldn’t allow guitars out here, but the mando had a surprisingly loud “voice,” and Beth would be giving it all she had. Between the three of them, they ought to give the travelers some spirit for their money.

“Signature tune?” he suggested. Beth flashed him a smile, and Kory nodded. “Okay, Kory, lead off; Beth, in on four.”

Kory got the attention of anyone within hearing distance with a rousing four-count on the hand-drum, then he and Beth jumped in with the tune that had given them their name—”Banysh Mysfortune.”

They ran it through twice, but the crowd didn’t look to be in quite a giving mood, so as they rounded up the “B” part on the second pass, Beth called out “Drowsy Maggie!” and Eric followed her change.

He half-closed his eyes in pleasure. This was the way it should be; this was what he’d missed for the past year and a half. Not that they hadn’t been busking; in fact, they’d gone out to Fisherman’s Wharf most days when there was any chance of catching a crowd. But this was different— the crowds in the mundane world were harder to catch and hold. Ordinary people were off on little trips of their own, and they weren’t planning on taking the time to stop and listen. They didn’t necessarily want to hear folk music, either. Faire-goers were ready to be entertained; they wanted to hear something they wouldn’t get on the radio. That made all the difference.

There were toes tapping out there in the crowd, and heads nodding. The boothies around them were paying attention too, and that meant they were doing just fine. The galleon sailed by, on the arm of another black-clad fellow whose surfer-tan contrasted oddly with his hose and doublet. She stopped to listen, too.

“Rutland Reel!” Beth called out as they finished up “Drowsy Maggie.” If Eric hadn’t been playing he’d have grinned. It was really a fiddler’s tune, and the fingerings were a stone bitch, but he loved it, and the supersonic pace was bound to charm some cash from the crowd. Besides, they’d arranged it so that Kory had a place for a bodhran solo in the middle, to give him and Beth a rest, and they were going to need it.

They hit the change—and exploded.

The crowd loved it. When they finished, with a flourish, and swept immediately into a bow, change rained into the hat, and one of the boothies popped out of the tavern long enough to salt the hat with a flyer. Eric raised a surprised eyebrow at her; she just grinned from under her little dried-flower wreath. “Lunch is on us, and don’t you dare go anywhere else,” she said. “Just do some more Fairport Convention stuff,” and then she scampered back to work.

Eric looked at Beth, who chuckled. “The request line is open,” she responded. “‘Riverhead’ into ‘Gladys’ Leap’ into ‘Wise Maid,’ right off the record, just keep it trad-sounding, or the Authenticity Nazis will get us.”

“Can do,” he agreed, and they were off again.

By the time they were ready to break, the hat was heavy, and it wasn’t all change by any means. The folk running the tavern offered beer or lemonade; Eric thought about the beer, then chose the latter. No point in spoiling a spotless record by getting drunk on his butt by accident, just because the day was hot. He hadn’t been drunk since the night of despair—

That night, after Beth had told him Kory’d vanished, had been the worst night of his life. And it hadn’t ended with that; he had watched his apartment going up in flames on the evening news, and had realized from a clue on the news that Perenor had been systematically killing all the potential Bards in the L.A. basin. He had grabbed for the whiskey, and something had made him stop.

That was the night he’d decided that help wasn’t ever going to be found in the bottom of a bottle.

Besides, Eric Banyon had an established reputation for getting plastered at Faires. Tom Lynn should be different; another way of confusing the Feds and the Kathies.

By the time the Celtic show rolled around at 11:30, there was no doubt that they’d done the right thing, coming out here. There was more in the hat than he’d made in the best day of his life at Faire, and the day wasn’t even half over yet. Beth emptied the take into the pouch she kept under her skirt—wise lady, she knew very well that cutpurses of the traditional kind were alive and well at Faire, though they probably wore “Motley Cruë” t-shirts. Eric had lost his own pouch that way the morning after he’d awakened Kory with his music. Though he hadn’t known what he’d done at the time.

They turned the spot over to the harpist and her friends, and promised the tavern people to return after the show for the lunch they’d offered. They hurried to “catch the Celtic bus” before it left without them, running hand-in-hand like three kids, laughing all the way there.

They formed up with the other musicians in a loosely-organized mob; the chief gave the signal, and they were off.

The show was more of the same, but this time there were dancers to play for, and the show-mistress was the one calling the tunes. And there were more musicians to play with, which came very near to sending Eric into a full Bardic display of his power. He pulled himself back from the brink at the very last moment, exhilarated, but a little frightened by how easy it had been to call up the magic. He held himself in, then, just a bit; keeping his power under careful rein, like a restive horse. He exerted it only twice; once to throw power to Kory, who could never have enough with all the work he had to do, and once to grab a faltering dancer and save her from throwing out her knee.

That was something he hadn’t even thought of doing until he somehow sensed the accident coming, a moment before it did, and let the power run free for that brief measure of time. She never even noticed that anything was different.

But Kory did, and the warm look of approval the elf cast him made him glow inside. Magic—the important magic—wasn’t all big battles, the building of palaces. Just as important was keeping things around you running smoothly. He hadn’t understood that when Kory and Arvin told him, but he did now.

The show finished, and thoroughly exhausted, they headed back to the tavern for that promised meal and a chance to listen to someone else. The trio that had replaced them were good, and it was a pleasure to sit and hear music instead of producing it, at least for a little bit. Once again, Eric opted for lemonade, and this time was rewarded with Beth’s glance of approval.

That sobered him. Had she been watching him, waiting for him to revert to his old, bad habits? Probably.

I wish she’d said something,
he thought, a little bitterly.
But—then again, maybe I haven’t had a chance to prove myself out yet, at least not in the places where all the temptation is.

But before his mood could sour, Beth got his attention. The trio by the tavern fence was playing “Sheebeg Sheemore,” and Kory’s face wore an expression of wistful sadness. Eric had a pretty good idea why. Although it was a lovely tune, Banysh Mysfortune never played it, because it always reminded Kory of how many friends he’d lost to Perenor…

“Where are we going to set up next?” Eric asked, touching Kory’s hand For a moment, and trying to give him something of the same support the elf had given him when he’d confronted Kathie.

Kory shook himself loose from his mood, and turned his attention to them. “Indeed,” he said, “that is a good question. I’m loathe to deprive those three of such a location. We are, frankly, louder than they, and it I quiet here. I do think we could afford to go elsewhere.” He looked sideways at Beth. “Could we not?”

“We certainly could,” she replied, an impish grin on her face. “And I have a very choice spot in mind. After all, we’ve had lunch; now is time for dessert!”

Eric laughed. “I might have known!” he said, and pointed an admonishing finger at her. “It’s all going on your hips, and you’re never gonna be able to get back in those leather pants!”

“What?” Kory asked, bewildered, looking from Beth to Eric and back again. “What? What is this about?”

“The chocolate truffle booth by the Kissing Bridge,” Eric replied, shaking his head. “Beth’s a closet chocoholic.”

She hung her head in mock shame. “Mea culpa. But I still think we should see if the venue’s free, and grab it if it is. And I promise not to overindulge. But I’ve earned
one
, surely?”

“All right,” Eric conceded. “One. But there’d better be something there
Kory
can eat.” He raised an eyebrow at the elf. “Don’t forget for a second that chocolate has caffeine in it.
I
haven’t.”

“There is,” she said confidently. “White chocolate amaretto truffles. No real chocolate at all, I checked. Or white-chocolate-dipped strawberries. Or peanut-butter fudge. Or—”

“Enough! So, we play for dessert, and then?” Kory asked.

“Then we take a break. Go back to the camp and have something with salt in it to drink.” Eric was adamant on that. “We can let the newbies wear themselves out, and we can catch the dinner crowd. We’ve done all right, we can afford the break.”

“I think you should sing a bit, Beth,” Kory added reproachfully. “You haven’t yet.” He gave her the look Eric called “lost puppy eyes,” and she made a face. But when Eric gave her a dose of his own version, she capitulated.

They left the tavern and wandered down to the Kissing Bridge. A fiddler and bodhran-player—Eric recognized Ian and one of the girls from this area he knew by sight, though not by name—were just wrapping up and glad enough to relinquish the place and claim their rewards. Evidently the other two put in a good word at the booth as they collected their goodies; the boothies nodded before Beth could even approach them and gave her the high-sign.

“So what are we up to?” Eric asked, putting out his hat.

“If I’m going to have to sing, so are you two,” Beth said, with a look that told them she’d take no argument to the contrary.

Eric sighed. “Do I get to pick?” he asked plaintively.

“One,” she said.

“All right.” He grinned. “ ‘The Ups and Downs.’ ”

“Oh no—” she protested, but it was too late. She was stuck with a song about a girl who should have known better—and she couldn’t even cry off, because the man’s part was longer than hers. All
she
had to sing was the part where she complains about how he’s taken advantage of her, and tricked her into thinking he’d given her his name when he hadn’t.

“Be grateful I didn’t pick ‘Ball of Yarn,’ ” he said, grinning even harder. “Or worse.”

She only groaned, and nodded to Kory to lead off again.

The rest of the afternoon was even better; with no money worries for the day, they joined several others whose “take” hadn’t been as good, to give them a boost. Kory was even persuaded by the step-dancers to join them in an impromptu table-dance. It paid off handsomely for the girls; Kory fairly charmed the coins out of the hands of the ladies, and Eric thought once that one yuppie-type was going to stuff a bill into the waist band of his breeches, but she evidently remembered that she was at the Faire and not a Chips revue at the last moment, and put the flyer in the hat.

By the time the Faire security chased everyone out, Beth had gone to boothies three times to get the change they’d collected converted to bills, and every time she came back, her smile was broader.

When they were in another tent, changing back into their riding leathers, she whispered the total to Eric, who whistled. Even allowing for the fact that it was a three-way split, it was worlds away better than he’d ever done alone. Today alone was going to cover the utility bills for the month. Tomorrow might well take care of groceries for the month as well—

—and the Faire would run for the next seven weeks! That meant their take at the Wharf could be put aside, saved for leaner times, like the winter.

Last winter had been very lean; too many days of cheap noodles, too many arguments with Kory about the advisability of using magic to conjure up better food. Too many weeks wondering if they were going to be able to pay the electric bill; too many nights huddling together to save on heat. Too many times wondering if their odd menage was going to work— if Beth was going to storm out, if Kory was going to flee Underhill, or if he himself was going to give in to his temper and bludgeon one or both of them. Faire season was going to make the difference.