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This story begins immediately after the end of June’s story, Overheard.

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Mist dampened my face as we stepped out onto the cobbled street. Kirt—as I had been told to call him, although I found that difficult—pulled gloves from a pocket in his cloak. “I don’t want cold hands,” he said, at my glance. He didn’t pull up his hood, so I didn’t either.  A light wetting would do me no harm.

“There’s a musician playing at Ferrand’s inn tonight,” he told me. “We’ll go there. No doubt I will be approached for business reasons. You can act as my clerk, if I am. A chance to practice.”

“Shouldn’t I fetch paper and pen and ink, in that case?”

“Ferrand will supply them, if needed. Come, Audun. Let’s not get wetter than we must.”

The inn was busier than I had expected, given the weather. Kirt handed his cloak to a servant, gesturing for me to do the same. He greeted several men and women without stopping to talk, leading me to an empty table.

“Cyrennian wine for me, and—” He held up a hand to the potboy to wait. “Audun, would you prefer wine, or cider?”

If I had to be a clerk tonight… “Cider.” For now.

On a small dais at one end of the room, a slight woman played a cittara with exquisite skill. Golden hair tinged with red, pale skin. Could she—could she be the famed chantore Aífe? It would explain the crowd in the room. But then why had this table, with an unimpeded view of the stage, been empty?

Because, I realized, it was Kirthan de Guerdián’s table. His by—what? Payment to the innkeeper Ferrand, to keep it solely for him? Or simply through respect?

Or fear.  There were so many stories. And I was with him.

De Guerdián leant towards me. “Do you see the man at the large table? The one in the green tunic?” I nodded. “That is Hauke bé Karst, and in about one minute he will approach us with a proposal.”

“How do you know?” I kept my voice low, as Kirt had.

“His expression when he saw me come in. He will offer me his dreadful wine—well, I suppose it is drinkable, if one is not educated in the qualities of wine—probably for the Abertabh market. You’ll write your first note of business shortly, I expect.”

“Should I ask for writing materials?”

“And alert bé Karst that I am prepared to accept before he even offers? He is a fool, but even he might notice that.” Kirt’s voice held a trace of sarcasm, or reproach. My face warmed. To my relief, the potboy interrupted us with the drinks. A moment later, Hauke bé Karst stood at our table.

“Sit down,” Kirt said. There wasn’t a lot of warmth in his voice. “Don’t block your fellows’ view of Aífe, or the sound of her music.”  So it was her. I glanced over at the dais. Her eyes seemed to be on us, and there was a slight, almost wry, smile on her face. She’d know who de Guerdián was, I guessed, and was tolerating the commotion because of that.

Hauke bé Karst murmured his proposal, offering exactly what Kirt had said he would. They spoke back and forth for a few minutes. At some point Kirt raised a hand, and the potboy appeared again, this time with paper, pen, and ink.

I wrote what I was told to, passing the paper and pen to Kirt for his signature. “Take this to my agent tomorrow,” he told bé Karst. “I will visit the ship myself to ensure safe stowage.”

“Surely not!” Hauke bé Karst exclaimed.

“It keeps my crews careful,” Kirt answered. “I recommend the practice.” Just a hint of amusement in his tone, I decided.

“Then I must adopt it,” bé Karst said. “And now, may I offer you another glass of wine? Cyrennian, I presume?”

“I accept with pleasure. And perhaps one for Audun?”

“Your clerk?”

Kirt raised an eyebrow. “Would I bring a clerk to hear Aífe play? But I did neglect the introduction, didn’t I? This is Audun bé Torrey, Cenric bé Casille’s son. He has a fine hand, does he not?” Hauke bé Karst blinked, rapidly, then offered me his hand. I shook it, smiling.

“Aldor de Guerdián is kind to suggest wine for me,” I said, “but I would prefer cider, if I may.” I’d keep my clear head. I had questions for Kirt already. Things were happening here I didn’t understand, and the evening was far from over.

“Of course, of course,” bé Karst assured me. He signalled for the boy, and placed the order: the cider, and two glasses of Cyrennian red. He was, it appeared, planning to stay at our table.

Ferrand—or the man I learned was Ferrand, when Kirt introduced me—brought the drinks himself. “A glass for Aífe, when she is done,” Kirt said to Ferrand. “On my account.” His words, spoken quietly, fell into silence. The music had stopped. I looked at the dais. Aífe was adjusting the tuning on her cittara. She played a run of notes, high and almost eerie.

“Her last song,” Kirt said. “Aldor bé Karst, will you be so kind as to return to your table now, so this chair is free for Aífe when she finishes playing?”  It wasn’t really a question. Nor was bé Karst quite a fool: he didn’t argue.

“Listen, now,” Kirt murmured, when bé Karst had gone. “This song is reputed to have been written five centuries ago by a musician of Linrathe. It echoes the call of the curlew, and because it speaks of endings and rest, it is always Aífe’s final song, wherever she plays. One not forgotten, once heard.”

The room settled into silence, making space for Aífe’s clear voice and the notes of her cittara. Somehow, she was making the strings duplicate the curlew’s wavering cry. What it made me see was the arching sky at Torrey, the saltmarsh, the birds feeding at the tide’s edge. The wish to be there returned, sharp as a blade. I closed my eyes, to shut out the room, or maybe against the tears that threatened. Kirt had told the truth: the song was haunting.

The music changed into a different rhythm, with words in a language I didn’t understand. There was longing in them, and sorrow, but an old sorrow, not new grief, I thought. I’d never heard music like this, music that made me feel and understand things beyond words. I opened my eyes to gaze at the woman singing, all my attention hers.

The song ended. The room remained silent. Until Kirt stood, bowed, and held out the glass of wine to Aífe, breaking the reverie and giving tacit permission for the outbreak of applause. Loud and sustained applause, echoing off the rafters. Men and women stood—I among them—clapping with cupped hands. Aífe smiled, and bowed to the room several times. Then she stepped off the dais to join us at our table.

“If you conduct business while I am playing again, Kirthan del Candre de Guerdián en Leste,” she said, after a deep drink of the water Ferrand had brought along with the wine, “I will simply put down my instrument, and all the men and women who came to hear me will blame you.” She laughed then, to belie her stern words, and reached up to kiss him on the mouth. Not a quick kiss, either.

Confusion swept through me. Kirt was my father’s lover… But there were stories. Did my father know? Why was de Guerdián letting me—and half of Casille’s top tier of merchants—see this?

“Sit down, Audun,” Kirt murmured. “Not everything is what it seems. Very few things, actually.” His eyes were still on Aífe. “My companion is Cenric’s son,” he told her. “I’m taking him east with me, for his education.”

“That,” she said, “will be an adventure. Hello, Audun. I’m Aífe.”

“I know,” I said, stupidly. “That song…it was so beautiful.”

“You should hear it played properly.  I really must keep a second instrument for that last verse, and switch them over,” she said.

“What language was it? The last verse?” We had taken our chairs. Kirt had pulled Aífe’s out for her. I wished I’d thought to do that.

“Ikorsan. As for why—” She shrugged, with a glance at Kirt. “A reason lost to time. But I can only approximate the sound with clever fingering. The Ikorsan cittara is tuned differently.”

“Few here will know how the music should truly sound,” Kirt said.

“But you do. And after your travels, Audun will too.” She smiled at me. “Along the coast of Beria there are many men and women who play the Ikorsan instrument. If you are taking the boy east for his education, Kirthan, then music must be part of it.”

‘The boy’ rankled, a bit. But close to Aífe, even in the low light of the inn, I could see the fine lines radiating out from her eyes, telling me she was probably twice my age.

“Of course,” de Guerdián replied. “There are many things Audun will have the chance to learn in our travels.”

“I am sure,” Aífe said, with a smile that looked almost sly. My face heated; the innuendo wasn’t subtle. But beyond my embarrassment, I had a sense that there was an undercurrent to this conversation I wasn’t understanding, connections I was missing. Which did make me feel like a boy.

For a few minutes Kirt and Aífe spoke together, talking of people I didn’t know. I watched them. They were comfortable together, I decided, old friends. I wondered how Kirt had met her, and if they’d been more than friends once; the kiss she’d given him suggested that.

I realized I was staring, and looked away. Around the room, other eyes were on our table too: some with frank interest, one or two with an expression clearly envious. One, though…

Potboys needed to pay attention to all the customers, surely? And this one was, in a way. Except after every glance around the room to see who needed more wine or ale, he looked our way again. And his eyes were not on Aífe, but on Kirt.

Still, de Guerdián clearly had status here. Maybe the potboy had orders to keep this close attention. How did an inn treat a preferred customer, one who ordered the most expensive wine and had a famous musician join him at the table kept solely for his use? The inn at Torrey was mostly for merchants who came to buy baskets or fish or salt; those who lived there gathered for talk or games in each other’s homes, or, frequently, at the village hall. I had stayed in a few roadside inns, going back and forth between Wintredene and Torrey, but they were travellers’ inns, not a city establishment noted for its food and wine and the quality of its entertainment.

Kirt stood, interrupting my speculation, to stride to the dais. The noise level in the room dropped abruptly. He picked up the cittara, then sat on the stool, his head bent to the instrument. One voice, raised in surprise that reflected mine, was quickly hushed. Only Aífe had heard my whispered ‘what?’

“He plays. Very well,” she murmured. “Did you not know?”

I shook my head. In all the stories I’d heard of Kirthan de Guerdián—and in the few days I’d lived in the same house as him—there’d been no mention that he was a musician. Luce was, I knew: she played for pleasure, to relax. But there were probably a thousand things I didn’t know about this man I was shortly to travel with.

Kirt took his time adjusting the tuning, testing a run of notes after every few adjustments. Apparently satisfied, he played one last snatch of melody, and began the first song.

The song, and the ones after, were in a style reminiscent of the last verse of Aífe’s final piece. The men and women at the tables kept their conversation low, and those who left did it quietly. The music, I thought, was good enough to deserve that respect.

“Doesn’t he sing?” I whispered to Aífe, at some point.

“He is not a formally trained chantore, and therefore not a member of our guild. By the rules, he cannot sing in public. Nor may he accept payment for his music.”

Public, I thought, clearly didn’t extend to village halls. I’d grown up with music played on long winter nights, or on equally long summer evenings, stringed instruments and flutes and voices all together. No one in Torrey was a chantore; we just liked songs and stories told to music. The basketmakers sang at their work, too; it helped the time pass, and set a rhythm for their always-moving fingers.

But it wasn’t music like this, intricate and layered. Like, I realized—with some surprise at the thought—the man who was playing. The Leordh and I had spoken of the many aspects of men like Catilius—general, emperor, philosopher—and even of men and women in our own, more recent, history. I had thought of them as figures from the past, a time when events and circumstances allowed—or demanded—complexity. Not from a man, regardless of how storied he was, who traded in safran and pepper and wine, and shared my father’s bed.

That’s your second insight tonight, Audun, I told myself wryly. First you discover that music can make you see and feel in a way you didn’t know it could, and then you realize that people might be more than they appear. With that thought came another: if I listened closely enough to what—and how—Kirthan de Guerdián played, a glimmer of the connection between the music and the man just might reveal itself. My education, it seemed, had begun.

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Image credit: The Lute Player, Caravaggio, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

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Just Five Minutes. Five Minutes.

David M. Simon (@writesdraws)

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The Greyhound shuddered to a stop on the shoulder of the road, the high-pitched squeal of the air brakes piercing the summer air like screaming birds. The bus driver stood up and stretched, mopping his sweaty head with an already sodden towel. The air conditioner had been fighting a losing battle against the August heat since crossing from Oklahoma into Kansas, wheezing out meager puffs of barely-cooled air. “Sorry, folks, we need to make an unscheduled stop and let the engine cool off or she’ll blow before we reach the depot at Cottonwood Falls. Feel free to get out and stretch your legs. The way she’s ticking, it could be a little while.”

Bill Shepard groaned and shuffled off the bus with the other half dozen passengers. He looked around and shook his head in disgust. They were deep in corn country, the tall rows crowding the narrow two lane road on both sides, and Bill preferred to be surrounded by asphalt and tall buildings. He had thought it was hot inside the bus, but out here, even with the sun beginning to set, it was brutal. The corn was absolutely still, not a breath of wind, and the road shimmered in the heat. He looked at his watch, groaned again, and tracked down the bus driver leaning against the back bumper smoking a cigarette.

“Pardon me, sir.” Bill’s voice wheezed out, like the very act of speaking was too taxing in the heat.

“What can I do ya for?” The driver was clutching his sweat towel in his non-cigarette hand.

“Any idea how long we’re going to be here? My bus to Minneapolis leaves Cottonwood Falls at 11:00pm. I can’t miss it.”

The driver flicked his cigarette butt into the middle of the road, where it bounced once, the end briefly glowing red, then continued to smoke. “I hear you, my man, I hear you. I’ll get us back on the road as soon as I can, but if we start again too soon, we’ll just have to stop again.”

Bill felt frustration threatening to flare inside him like that cigarette butt, and he did his best to snuff it out. He looked at his watch again and said, “Look, I’ve done the math. If we’re not heading north in the next 45 minutes, there’s a good chance I’ll miss my connection.”

“I hear you. Like I said, I’ll do my best.”

***

The bus was finally on the road again an hour later. The air conditioning was no better than before, and the passengers were now so drenched with sweat that they could have wrung out their shirts. Bill stared at his watch, willing time to slow down, willing his clothes to stop sticking to the dirty vinyl seat, willing his life to suck just a little bit less. His business meeting in Broken Arrow had not gone well, and there was a good chance he’d get his walking papers Monday morning. Bill didn’t care. Right now he just wanted to sleep in his own bed tonight, and forget this day had ever happened.

Maybe the bus driver felt sorry for him, or maybe the deserted road helped, but they made up some time. By ten thirty, Bill felt a dim glimmer of hope stubbornly trying to take hold. The bus rolled up to the Cottonwood Falls bus depot at 11:05pm.

Bill was the first off the bus, duffel bag and briefcase in hand. The depot was barely a building, a faded wooden shack the size of a single-wide trailer with a shaded porch tacked on the front. Cornfields as far as the eye could see across the road and pressing against the small parking lot behind the depot. Not a bus in sight.

A man in a disheveled uniform was locking the door.

“Please tell me I didn’t miss the bus to Minneapolis,” Bill said, hope dying inside as he said it.

“‘Fraid so, sir. Left just five minutes ago.”

“Goddamnit to hell.” Bill collapsed onto a long bench next to the door. “Any idea when the next one is?”

“Of course I know, that’s my job. Next bus to Minneapolis leaves at 10:15 tomorrow morning.”

“That’s just fucking great. Any chance I can wait for it inside? It’s still miserable hot, even with the sun down.”

“No need to curse, sir. And no, you can’t wait inside. As you can see I’m locking up and going home to the missus. Wouldn’t matter anyway, the air conditioner inside is on the fritz, has been for a week. Anyway, you’re welcome to wait here on the bench. Homer, the morning guy, will be here bright and early at 6:00am to open up. You have a good night, now.”

The man sauntered toward the parking lot, joining Bill’s fellow passengers who had disembarked from the bus and walked to their waiting cars. The Greyhound circled the parking lot and headed back in the direction they had come from.

Bill sighed and slumped lower on the bench.

***

Bill awoke profoundly disoriented, with just one overwhelming thought: I need to piss right fucking now. He sat up too quickly and his head swam. He had to steady himself with both hands planted on the bench until the world stopped spinning. Bill checked his watch—just shy of 2:00am. He staggered to his feet.

Sodium vapor lamps high up on poles at either end of the depot, and in the parking lot as well, did little to dispel the gloom, the light obscured by clouds of swarming insects. Dim circles of light illuminated the road, just touching the edge of the corn field beyond. It was still wickedly hot, the humidity like a wet wool blanket draped over the world.

Bill walked to the front of the porch, looked up and down the deserted road, and reached for his zipper, then stopped. There was absolutely no reason not to drain the vein right there. Who would see? But Bill had been raised midwest nice, in the words of his Mama, and it didn’t seem right to urinate right out in the open. He climbed down the two steps to the gravel covered ground and walked around behind the depot. There, deep in shadow, he let loose against the corrugated metal back wall of the building. Bill was fairly certain it was the most satisfying piss in his 43 years of existence. Feeling several gallons lighter, he stood looking at the empty parking lot for a couple of moments, hands on hips. He shook his head, snorted a short laugh that had little humor in it, and started back toward the front.

As he was about to round the corner he heard a half shouted, half sobbed, “Fuck you!” Bill had always been a big believer in the adage that discretion is the better part of valor, and that fuck you had sounded like serious business. He pressed himself against the wall and cautiously peeked out.

An elderly man stumbled out of the cornfield, tripped and fell in the middle of the street. Bill was about to help him, midwest nice and all that, when a much younger woman strolled out of the corn. She held a handgun lazily at her side.

The woman approached the man, her high heels clicking on the asphalt. Not very practical shoes for a cornfield, Bill was surprised to find himself thinking. She waved the gun in the man’s direction, and said, “On your knees, Stanley. Now.”

“Jenny, you fucking bitch,” Stanley wailed, in the same voice Bill had heard shouting a moment before. But he did as he was told, climbing shakily to his knees.

The woman placed the barrel of the gun snug against the back of Stanley’s head. “We had a business arrangement, Stanley. I agreed to marry you, and whether you knew it or not, you agreed to have the good grace to die in a reasonable amount of time, leaving me everything. That time is long past, and I’m not getting any younger. I’m afraid our partnership has come to an end. Any last words?”

“Jenny, please, I—”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t care, and I have a party to get to.” A shot rang out, shockingly loud in the night. Stanley fell forward, landing face first. The blood that leaked out onto the road looked black in the meager light.

Bill backed away slowly, preparing to turn and run, when he heard Jenny say, loud enough that he knew it was directed at him, “Not so fast, friend. Step out here in the light and let’s have a look at you.” Bill tried to quickly calculate the odds that he could outrun the woman, or to be more precise outrun the bullets in her gun, but he had never been very good at math. He sighed and walked out into the open, his hands raised in the air without her even asking.

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anybody.” Bill hated how whiney his voice sounded.

“Oh, well in that case, have a good night.”

“Really?”

“No, not really! What the fuck is wrong with you? Come sit down here next to my…huh, I was going to say husband, but I guess he’s my ex-husband now. Sit. Now. That’s it, criss-cross-applesauce.”

Bill sat. “Look, I live hundreds of miles away. Who would I tell? I wasn’t even supposed to be here,” he said. “I missed my bus by just five minutes. Five lousy minutes.”

Jenny smiled, and Bill thought, she’d be really pretty if she didn’t have a gun pointed at my head. “Five minutes, huh? The funny thing is, if you’d stayed back there for just five more minutes, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Five lousy minutes, like you said. You couldn’t do a little stargazing, have another cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke.” Bill sounded so miserable that Jenny barked out a genuine laugh.

“Probably for the best,” she said. “Those things will kill you. Speaking of which, I have a party to get to, and you’ve complicated that. Two bodies are twice as much of a pain in the ass as one. I’ll tell you what…I already have a grave dug for Stanley a ways back in the corn. You drag his body in there and toss him in the hole for me—”

“And you’ll let me go?”

“Oh, sweetie, no. That ship sailed as soon as you peeked around the corner and minded my business. No, I’m not letting you go. But if you help me with Stanley, you’ll get to live for an extra twenty minutes or so. What do ya say?”

Bill wanted to feel truly pissed off, wanted to be consumed by rage. But he was mostly just tired. “What do I say? Seriously? I’ve had a shitty day on top of a shitty week, and to tell you the truth the past few months haven’t exactly been great, either. So fuck no, I will not help you, and fuck you for asking.”

“Suit yourself. You’re kind of a scrawny fella, and I dug a deep hole. You and Stanley can snuggle up, take a dirt nap together. Anything else to say, or can we get on with it?”

“Just one question. What did Stanley do to deserve this?” Bill knew the answer, or thought he did, but he wanted to hear her say it. He hoped there would be just a touch of guilt or remorse in her voice.

“He got old. He got old, and I ran out of patience.” No guilt, no remorse, just a statement of fact.

“Fair enough.” Bill closed his eyes, and waited for his shitty day to end.

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   Image by Champverti from Pixabay

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Another Chance

Joseph P. Garland (@JPGarlandAuthor)

Image: Woraphon.n via DepositPhotos

July Team Showcase

Marian L Thorpe‘s eighth and final book in her historically inspired speculative fiction series Empire’s Legacy, Empire’s Passing, is out in paperback and as an ebook. (Empire’s Daughter is the first part.) She has numerous titles available; they can be found at her aptly-named website, MarianLThorpe.com  or at Books2Read. Marian’s short story On Shining Wings is included in the anthology Historical Stories of Exile, published by Taw River Press.

Renée Gendron‘s Frontier Hearts is a Western historical romance set in the late 1800s in the District of Alberta, Canada. The series follows a variety of romantic leads as they arrive and thrive in Prosper, Alberta. Each book involves a different romantic pair, a mystery, and plenty of historical details to take you back in time to the Canadian Western frontier. Jaded Hearts. Golden Hearts. Silver Hearts

The Nearer Realm Tales is an epic fantasy romance series that combines humour, mystery, adventure, and romance. Each book features a strong cast with many recurring characters.  A Gift of Stars: Book 1 The Nearer Realm Tales is available for pre-order on Amazon.

Renée’s Heartened by Sport is a series of humorous amateur sports romances. Each novella features a new setting, sport, and romantic dynamic: Seven Points of Contact. Two Hearts on the Backspin:  Three Volleys to Love.

David M. Simon has published The Wild Hunt: Novella 2 of The Wild Hearts and Hunts Duology (Part 1 is Renée Gedron’s Ninth Star) as well as Trapped in Lunch Lady Land, a middle-grade fantasy adventure.

Joseph P. Garland, as J.P. Garland, has done some editing and republished his romance Coming to Terms. Several excerpts from the book have been included in prior issues of the review. His Becoming Catherine Bennet is available on KU and also on Audible.com.  (First Chapters.) He has also adapted his AMBR submission of a few months back involving Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy entitled “Mr. Darcy’s Regrets” from June 2023 into a novella entitled The Omen at Rosings Park, also available on Kindle Unlimited and as an Audiobook on Audible.com. He has also started a newsletter and those interested in getting on the mailing list can contact him at JPGarlandAuthor@DermodyHouse.com. He has also published the pieces from AMBR in something called A Compilation.

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