Echoes of Betrayal Read Free Page B

another tapped sticks … or bones, Arvid saw on second look. A woman began a song in a high nasal voice, words Arvid could not follow. It would not have passed for music in any city tavern in Tsaia, but here in the snowy woods, as more voices joined in, that human resonance had a similar effect. He did not know the tune or the song … and it stopped abruptly. Another instrument was passed from hand to hand toward him until he took it and tried to pass it to the man on his right, who shook his head.
    He looked at it more closely. Flatter than the other; when he plucked a string, it had a strong sound. “I once played a small one something like this,” he said, plucking one string after another and feeling out the sounds it could make. “As a boy, my father bade me learn.” There … and there … and there … he could find a half dozen notes, four or five combinations that sounded good. “I do not know your songs, but here is one of my people.” A drinking song, common in all the taverns of Vérella because it was easy to make up more verses. He started with the ones that came first to mind:
    “A pretty girl in springtime
    Sweet and fresh as the air
    Is like the wild-plum flower
    But only for an hour …
    A handsome lad in springtime
    Is like the Windsteed’s foal
    Quick to dance and fight
    His pride is his delight …”
     
    One of the men beat a rhythm, this time with a stick against a box, and a woman shook a gourd with pebbles. Two men started the next verse with him.
    “A pretty girl in summertime
    Working in the sun
    She ripens like the grain
    But harvest brings her pain …”
     
    Feet stamped when he finished. Arvid could not tell if it was courtesy or actual pleasure. He held the instrument out; this time his neighbor took it. He was handed a bowl of something that smelled of strong drink. He pointed to the lumps on his head, shrugged, and passed it on. They seemed to understand. After more songs—mostly long, plaintive laments—one of the older women said something in their language, and the men got up slowly.
    That night, Arvid set himself to sleep lightly despite the supper he’d eaten and the exertions of the day. No matter what the woodsfolk said, he knew they still regarded him as a target. He guessed that their laws required him to prove himself worthy of their friendship; it could not be bought with redroots and onions, a song, or even gold. Residual soreness from riding bareback, from the bruises and cuts, helped him stave off deep sleep.
    Soon he heard the faint sound of steps approaching, pausing, the creak of a knee joint as someone bent down to him. Arvid lay still, aware of every probing finger, every stealthy shift of his cloak. He did not tense at the slight tug before the thongs that held the sack to his waist were cut away, but as the thief settled back, letting the cloak fall, Arvid rolled, sprang, parried the cut aimed at his head, and tripped the thief.
    As they rolled together, trading blows, others awoke and lit torches from the banked fire. No one interfered, though Arvid heard mutters that sounded suspiciously like bets being laid on one or the other. Finally he managed an elbowstrike to the other man’s head and then rolled him into a choke hold, held until the man dropped his long knife.
    “Mine,” Arvid said, snatching the sack of coins as he released the man and shoved him aside. He stood.
    Those watching all nodded; the man felt his neck, nodded, and left his knife on the ground, looking from it to Arvid.
    “Yours,” Arvid said, making a pushing motion. The man grinned, thrust it into his belt, and stood. The women made a peculiar sound,a fluttering whistle, thin and high, and then one of them threw her arms up and whirled around, skirts flying.

    T he brawl made them all friends, even the one he had fought. “You did well,” the man said over and over, nodding and grinning. “No gaj lie so still, breathe so sleep. You one of us, Torre’s