2
As I Walked Through the Fair
Eric Banyon kept his eyes shut tightly through most of the ride, his stomach lurching with every turn. He joked with Beth and Kory about his fear of riding; he never let them know how real that fear was. At one point in his life he had actually envied some motorcycle maniacs who had stunted their way past a bus he’d been riding; now that memory seemed to belong to another person entirely.
I was high, he told himself, or drunk. Or both. There were drawbacks to going clean and sober.
Or maybe it was so simple a thing as the fact that something that looked easy when you had no prospect of engaging in it—well, relatively; as opposed to, say, piloting a 747—became something else entirely when you had to do it.
And the simple truth was that Eric had been terribly sheltered in this one aspect of his life. He had never once owned a vehicle of any kind. As a child, he’d been driven from place to place by his parents; as an adult he’d cadged rides or used public transportation. He did have a driver’s license, which he’d taken care to keep updated, but he’d obtained it by taking the test on a dare, when high on a combination of grass and mescaline. He had no memory of the test, or even whose car he had taken it in. Like many things that he’d done back then, it had seemed a good idea at the time.
Kory had a license—kenned from his, with Kory’s picture substituted for his own. So long as no one ever asked him to produce his at the same time, there should be no trouble. Kory could drive; he could probably drive anything, Eric suspected. Or ride wild mustangs or pilot a 747. In all likelihood, no one would ever even think of stopping Kory, he was just that competent.
Or even if they did, he or Kory could probably play headgames with the officer to make him give them warnings and ignore the licenses. The “Obi-Wan-Kenobi Gambit,” they called it. “These are not the elves you’re looking for—”
Eric had never once driven anything that he remembered. He may have driven any number of times that he didn’t remember; there was a great deal of his life that was lost in an alcoholic- or drug-enhanced fog. But now that he was sober and staying that way, he had no intention of being at the helm of any vehicle when Beth and Kory were around to drive it. Hell, he wasn’t even certain he knew how to start these things! Let them deal with the motorcycles—even if Beth did drive like a graduate of the Evel Knievel School of Combat Driving. He’d stay a passenger, unless, of course, it was a dire emergency and both of them were incapacitated.
Not bloody likely—I hope, he thought, and clung a little tighter to Beth’s waist as she rounded a curve and the bike began to lean. The elvensteeds weren’t metal; Beth had learned with great glee that they wouldn’t reflect radar-guns. So she only gave speed-limit signs any weight when it was obvious that the limit was there for reasons of safety. At any other time—well, he’d learned his lesson on the first ride. Now he no longer watched anything, not even the passing landscape; he just closed his eyes and listened to the music in his head. There was always music in his head these days; he was only now starting to learn what it meant, instead of flying on instinct.
His stomach lurched. Better not think about flying.
The advantage to Bethy’s driving, as he had learned when they showed up for pre-Faire auditions and rehearsals, was that they got to the Fairesite in a reasonable length of time. Beth must have really been pouring on the gas this morning, though, because he felt her slowing down much sooner than he had expected to, and he cracked open one eye to see that she was about to turn down the gravel “back road” to the campgrounds. He relaxed, and flexed his fingers a little, one hand at a time, as she pulled onto the road, gravel crunching under the bike tires.
Kory pulled up beside them, and Eric felt the gentle touch of inquiry, mind-to-mind, the elf sent to him. I’m okay, he thought back. Just a little stiff from the ride. Now that they weren’t racing along at ninety-per, he could enjoy what there was left of the drive, despite the jouncing. It was going to be a beautiful day, that much was certain. Not too surprising, really; some of Kory’s kin were coming to the housewarming party, and Kory had hinted they might Do Something to ensure cooperative weather.
Convenient. Wonder if maybe I’ll be able to do something like that someday . . . With Southern California in the grip of a five-year drought with no end in sight, he’d be real tempted to tamper . . .
But would that be right? If he mucked around with the Southern California weather, what would that do up here? Would it have consequences that would reach even farther than that? What if he inadvertently created another Dust Bowl?
He mentally shook his head. There had been a time when he wouldn’t have thought about consequences, he’d have just done what he wanted to. Was this a result of being sober for more than a year, or was it something more than that?
Jesus, I’m getting responsible in my old age. Maybe it was watching Ria Llewellyn, seeing what she did to people and things by running over the top of them to get what she wanted. Strange. He loved Bethy—but there was something about Ria . . . the memories concerned with Ria, half-elven child of the renegade Perenor, were the sharpest of all of his recollections of the battle to save the elves of Elfhame Sun-Descending. There was just something about her—
He shook the persistent memory of blue eyes away, with just a faint hint of regret. In the end, ironically enough, it had been Ria who had saved them all. She had fought her father, when it became obvious that Perenor was mad, stark, staring bonkers—and that had given Terenil and Kory their chances to strike. And it had bought Eric and Beth time to move the magic nexus of the Sun-Descending Grove from the old, destroyed Fairesite, to a new Grove in the heart of Griffith Park, a place central to every elven Grove and a place that would—at least in the foreseeable future—never fear the destructive hand of humans. That had freed, Awakened, and empowered the elves of the LA. basin, who were slowly taking their lives out of holding patterns they’d been in for more than ten years.
Yeah, well, Ria’s at the Happy Home at the moment, with pineapple yogurt instead of brains. That Healer chick thinks someday she may be able to bring her out of it, but frankly, I doubt it. Not being a fan of necrophilia, I doubt there’s much of Ria Llewellyn in my future.
Some of Beth’s hair escaped from inside her jacket to tickle his nose, and he brushed it away with a grin. Now that was a distinctly odd circumstance: Beth with a full mop of dark red hair. The girl he’d broken up with just before his involvement with elves and magic started had red hair. Maureen—who, he’d heard through the grapevine, had really abysmal taste in boyfriends since. One had ordered her around and made like he was her agent until her real agent threw him out; the next one had sponged off her for six months, then disappeared; and he’d heard that the current one was a borderline psycho and leaving bruises on her, occasionally.
Yeah, well, I was no prize, either.
He’d expected the color-change on Beth to make him feel really uneasy—but it didn’t. She was still Beth Kentraine, only now instead of black hair in a punk tail, she had the most glorious mane of deep red curls he’d seen outside of a movie. Like the chick in The Abyss, and not like Maureen at all. It was lots of fun to play with, too—though he could sure understand why she didn’t want to camp out on site with it to worry about. Hard to keep a mane like that clean and unsnarled without magic helping. And Beth Kentraine was not at all happy about using magic in ordinary life.
They’d decided to go ahead and bring the bikes into the parking lot, after quite a bit of discussion, and park them in the middle of a lot of other bikes. Then Kory would work something like the “Obi-Wan” thing on them, only it would make people ignore the fact that they were there. So even if the Feds were on to them, it was unlikely that they’d try to meddle with the bikes, even if they were looking for them. Eric hadn’t quite believed in the “spell,” if that was what it was, until Kory had proved it to him—parking his bike in the worst area in Chinatown, throwing the spell on it, and walking away. They’d come back five hours later, and there wasn’t even a fingerprint on the bike.
Kory’s learned a lot from his kin up here. A couple of the other elves had been taking the Southerner under their wings, so to speak; teaching him little things that didn’t take a lot of magical energy, but were very effective. And they had helped him out by kenning and replicating a lot of the raw materials they’d used in restoring the house, letting him save his energy for harder things, like restoring the wood and brickwork. Eric had gathered that this lot was in contact with more elves—and even humans—out on the East Coast; a set of elves that wanted to integrate as much as possible into human society. They even had something to do with—of all things—racecar driving.
More power to them. There was a hefty faction—from what Eric had been able to make out—that were dead set against that. And it seemed that Perenor wasn’t the only renegade in the world, either, though fortunately there didn’t seem to be any more like him on this Coast. “Sheebeg, Sheemore” all over again—only it turned out there was a name for these renegades and they even had their own organization of sorts. “The Unseleighe Court,” that was what Kory’s cousin called it. But they seemed to keep themselves concentrated away from Cold Iron and in areas as isolated as possible—which meant they weren’t real fond of the West Coast. North Dakota, now, maybe . . .
Eric shook himself out of his daydreams; the parking lot was just ahead, and it was time to stop worrying about the problems of the world and start thinking about the day ahead. They still had to make some money—“the old-fashioned way”—because they’d pretty much drained the cookie jar dry setting up for the party tonight. It was gonna be slim pickings unless the hat filled well this weekend and next week.
Don’t think I can handle any more miso soup and ramen noodles for a while.
There was a cluster of bikes of all sorts off to one side, huddled together like musk-oxen; Beth brought the bike to a halt just behind Kory and all three of them got off. Eric took the bags from both of them, Beth and Kory walked the bikes over to the herd and parked them; Kory passed his hand over both.
That was it; no fireworks, no flashes of light. But as the three of them moved off, a couple of other riders came up and parked their bikes right behind the steeds, blocking their egress—something that would never have happened if they’d “noticed” the bikes were in place. Eric grinned, and slung his bags over his shoulder. All was as it should be.
Including Kory; when Kory took his helmet off, there was no way of telling him from any ordinary human.
Well, any ordinary, incredibly blond, six-foot-six, hunk-of-all-time, rad babe of a human, anyway.
Pointy ears and cat-pupiled eyes had been effectively camouflaged by another tiny little spell. Kory stood out, all right—and that was a good thing. He was the most striking of the three, visually; if there was anyone still looking for them, they wouldn’t be looking for someone that looked like Kory. That in itself should throw confusion into the pursuit. And anyone who was looking for “Beth” and “Eric” would spot Kory first; since he was a stranger to the Faire circuit, no one would connect him to any of the regulars. Because of that, the existence of “Tom and Janice Lynn”—who just happened to bear a superficial resemblance to “Eric Banyon and Beth Kentraine”—would be more plausible. And they would all be accepted as newcomers without too much question.
Some of their old friends, most notably a few of the Celts, folks who knew how to keep their mouths shut, were in on the ruse, but most of the Faire regulars weren’t.
Beth got the passes at the Admin building with no problems and no questions asked; from there they went off to Celtic Camp (or as Eric liked to tease Ian, Keltic Kamp) to borrow a tent for a quick change. About thirty other Celts and Celt hangers-on had the same idea; the competition for space was fierce. But Beth and Eric were old hands at this; they managed to wiggle out of their leathers and into their costumes using no more than about two square feet of space. Kory undressed with sublime unselfconsciousness—but Eric did not miss the stunned expressions of those around him and the covert glances out of eyes, male and female. Clothed, Kory was a hunk. Stripped to the skivvies Beth insisted he wear in public, and he was causing a lot of people to reach for their drool-catchers.
Yeah, I don’t think there’s going to be too many problems with people recognizing us. He grinned as he wriggled into his leather Faire pants. Nobody’s gonna be looking at us. This is gonna be fun.
The bike leathers and helmets went into the costume-bags; the bags went to Admin to be locked up. Beth wasn’t taking any chances on someone making a try at their expensive-looking riding leathers, even if Kory could magic up new sets right away. For one thing, producing identical leathers within an hour of their loss would cause some serious questions to be raised, even if only the thief knew the leathers had been taken. Anybody who’d snitch someone’s personal property could be low enough to try and peddle the information of the miraculous reproducing clothing to some other interested party. And if it was the Feds who snitched the suits—the cat would definitely be out of the bag.
Not a good idea.
He laced up his leather vest over the front of his silk shirt, transferred the flute to his embroidered gig-bag, and slipped outside the tent to wait for the others. Funny, the bag used to be the classiest part of his costume; now it was the shabbiest. He’d have to ask Kory if the elf had the energy to make him one to match the rest of the costume. Beth followed a moment later, trailing Kory. As they conferred for a moment, getting their bearings, one of the ultra-period Elizabethan types sashayed by, in all her black-velvet, pearl-embroidered majesty, a galleon in full sail. She paused for a moment, one eyebrow lifted.
Eric waited for the usual comment—or, more scathing, the eyebrow to lift just a bit higher, followed by a slight sniff, before the galleon sailed on. Authenticity Nazis, he called them, and not entirely in jest. He’d gotten used to them over the years. They’d given him no end of grief because of his careless approach to costuming; he usually shrugged and ignored them. She probably wouldn’t care for the light leather breeches, or maybe the silk shirts—or even the appliqued leather vests that matched their boots. Granted, it did look a lot more like Hollywood’s idea of Elizabethan than was accurate, though Kory swore he hadn’t made that many changes; simply given them an older version of breeches than the silly little puff-pants that were correct. But he hoped Kory wouldn’t be upset when she gave them the inevitable thumbs-down . . .
The eyebrow remained where it was. “Quite—striking,” the galleon pronounced. “Really, quite elegant.” Her eyes lingered on Kory’s legs, and Eric did his best not to snicker. He should have known. She was a sucker for a hunk in tight leather pants. For that, she’d probably have forgiven them if they’d worn their biker leathers. “You must be professionals,” she continued. “I don’t remember seeing you here last year.”
“Not as a group, milady,” Kory said, bowing so gracefully that the galleon flushed with pleasure. “We’ve been rather busy getting settled in the area. We’ve had some jobs Outside, but this is our first year at the Faire together.”
“I’m looking forward to hearing you.” The great black construction picked up her skirts and sailed majestically on to her next appointment—Opening Parade, no doubt. Eric checked Beth out of the corner of his eye. Her mouth was twitching.
“Was that a queen?” Kory asked, politely. Beth fell apart laughing. Fortunately, the galleon was out of sight and hearing range.
Kory looked sorely puzzled, but Eric managed enough of an explanation to satisfy him as they dropped their bags at Admin—where Caitlin gave them a cheerful if harried “thumbs up” as a welcome for them. Just Caitlin’s little way of encouraging the newcomers, who were, by her very different standards, a class act. Caitlin was not in on the secret; Eric had wanted to tell her, but Beth voted him down. In the end, he’d had to agree, reluctantly. Caitlin knew too many people, and she might let something slip without meaning any harm.
They hit the “streets” and headed for their chosen busking-site near the tavern, hoping to get it before anyone else staked it out.
Their luck held; they reached the shelter of the trees and got themselves arranged just as another group arrived: a lutanist, a harpist and a mandolin player. The dark-haired harpist sighed; Beth shrugged. “Try back in a couple of hours,” she said. “We’ll be doing the Celtic show, and if you get here before we leave, we’ll just wrap up and turn it over to you.”
The harpist brightened. “Thanks!” she called, as they headed off at a brisk walk to whatever had been their second choice.
They won’t be trotting like that in a couple of hours, Eric noted. He hadn’t recognized any of the three players—there was a certain amount of turnover among “Rennies,” and these three didn’t have quite the same casual saunter of seasoned hands. Although the morning had begun cool, by noon it was probably going to be pretty warm, and most Renfaire costumes got very hot quite quickly. Heat exhaustion was a constant problem, especially among those who were new at the game. That was why he and Beth had agreed on several particular shady sites for busking, if they could get them, even though their costumes were a lot cooler than they looked.
He was fitting the pieces of his flute together when he was startled by a familiar voice calling his name.
“Eric? Eric Banyon?”
He came within a hair of turning; he certainly jumped a little, nervously. Then—:Gently, Bard,: came another voice, this one deep inside his mind, steadying him as if Kory held a comforting hand on his shoulder. :Remember who you are. Do not react. She is coming up behind you—she is going to touch you.:
“Eric?” A real hand touched his elbow, and he turned, carefully schooling his face into a mask of surprise and puzzlement, mixed with a bit of annoyance at familiarity from a stranger. “Jesus, Eric, did you dye your hair or some—”
She stopped and stared at him when he didn’t respond. It was Kathie, of course. Kathie, who had driven him out of Texas Faire and contributed in no small way to his drinking problem. Dressed, not in one of her carefully embroidered Faire shirts and bodice-skirt combinations, but as a “traveler,” one of the paying customers, in designer jeans and a halter-top.
“Like, excuse me?” he said, in a deep Valley accent. “I think you’ve got, like, someone else in mind, I mean, y’know?”
She looks terrible, he observed, dispassionately. She’d lost at least twenty, maybe thirty pounds; her complexion was pasty, and from the harshness of her speaking voice she’d been doing way too much grass. She had that vague, not-quite-focused look of someone who’s been smoking dope for so long it’s gotten to be a permanent part of her system. Stoned and anorexic. She stared at him with her mouth a little agape; not a pretty sight.
And I used to be in love with her. Like his reflections on the days when he’d taken that driver’s test stoned, it seemed worlds away, as if it had been someone else entirely who thought he’d lost the universe and all reason for living when this woman threw him over for a chance to sleep her way into a pro band.
:It was another person, Bard,: Kory said solemnly, as Beth kept her own expression icily aloof. :You were another person entirely. You met misfortune and grew; she met with fortune and diminished.:
She looked prosperous enough; at least her clothing was expensive. Kathie collected herself as Eric moved enough away that her hand was no longer in contact with his arm. “Come on, Eric!” she said—or rather, whined. “Quit the BS! I know it’s you! Y’still have the bag I gave you!”
“What?” he said, thinking quickly. “Like, this?’ He pulled the embroidered gig-bag around and looked at it. “Oh, man, listen babe, I mean, I hate t’like, y’know, thrash out yer day, but like, I got this’n the flute in a pawnshop down in Pasadena.” He wrinkled his lip a little, in simulated disdain for the bag and its contents. “I didn’ wanna, y’know, take a really good instrument out here in the boonies.” He scratched his head in an utterly unEric-like gesture, and shrugged in a good imitation of the moneyed youngsters he’d watched on Rodeo Drive, when they weren’t impressed with someone. Indifferent to any distress they might cause, but going through the motions. “You’re like, about the fifth person t’think I was, y’know, this Eric dude. I mean, sorry babe.” He shook his head. “Name’s like, Tom, okay? This’s, like, our first gig out here, right Jan?”
He turned to Beth, who nodded confirmation. “We’re, like, twins,” she lied smoothly, and smiled. It was a very cool smile, and Eric hoped she wasn’t really as angry as she looked. “We’ve been like, a duet forever, but it’s always been like, conservatory gigs, y’know? Kory like told us we oughta like try the Faire this year, when we like got him to make it a trio, you know?”
: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 Bethy, 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; Bethy 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 fiver. 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 land were alive and well at Faire, though they probably wore “Motley Crue” 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 loath to deprive those three of such a location. We are, frankly, louder than they, and it is 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 waistband 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 fiver 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.
Faire season was going to keep them together.
Eric donned his helmet and mounted up behind Beth, his heart completely light for the first time in months. It was going to work. They were going to work.
And now was truly time to party!