Player's Ruse by Hilari Bell Page A

serve.
    And the entertainment was better, for afterward Master Makejoye went into his wagon and came out with a viol case, which I hadn’t noticed that morning.
    Michael stiffened as Makejoye pulled the instrument free, and I looked at him curiously. The sun had set as we finished eating, and not having cooked, I knew I’d be called on to help wash the dishes as soon as the water heated. I was pleased at the prospect of some music to lighten the chore.
    The viol looked perfectly ordinary, with lamp and firelight glowing on its varnished curves. Of course Michael’s sight wasn’t the same as mine, but surely a fiddle couldn’t be—
    Then Makejoye tucked it between his knees and drew the bow across the strings. The soft, pure notes may have started in my ears, but they didn’t stop there—they vibrated in my throat, my belly, my bones. I hardly recognized the melody, though it was a country ballad I’d often heard. I’d just never lived it before.
    Gwendolyn Makejoye raised her voice, giving words to the viol’s speechless wail. I’d have thought a human voice, even one as clear and sweet as hers, would have been lost in the intensity of the viol’s sound, but somehow it took her voice with it, giving it the same penetrating impact. Between the two . . .
    I was trembling when the music finished, and my throat was tight. Rosamund had tears on her face, and Michael had to swallow twice before he could speak.
    “How did you come by such a thing? A magica viol . . . I can’t imagine the sacrifice that must have paid for it.”
    “It was enough, I suppose,” said Makejoye softly. The others were going about their chores, far less shaken than the three of us. Exposure, no doubt, lessening the shock. But the echoes of the music touched all their faces. Even Gloria looked content.
    “My grandfather was a fiddle maker,” Makejoye went on. “My father played well enough, but he hadn’t the knack with wood that Granda had. At the end of his life Granda’s hands began to stiffen, and he realized he’d be making only one more viol. So he went to a Savant to get the wood, and he paid for it with just one finger—this one.” He lifted his left forefinger and wiggled it. “He could never play again. He never played the instrument he made, but my da played it for him, before he died, and I play it for his memory. Neither of our girls cares much for music—and how that happened, between Gwen and me . . . but there, sometimes these things skip a generation. I’ve a young grandson who’s showing talent, so I don’t think Granda would feel his sacrifice was wasted.”
    “What in the world,” I demanded, “are you doing on the road? You could play that for the High Liege’s court—in the great theaters in Crown City or Tallowsport—and charge any fee you’d care to name!”
    “So I will,” said Makejoye. “When I’m ready to retire. But there’s other crafts than music, and folk other than lords who care for such things. The deaf can hear this fiddle, can you imagine? It terrifies them at first, but then . . . Surely music, of all the arts, is made to share.”
    And share he did, all through the mellow evening. I suppose I washed the dishes, though I have no memory of it. The music still hummed in my bones as I drifted off to sleep. My last thought was to hope Makejoye hid the thing well. All Rosamund’s jewels weren’t worth half its price—though it might be hard to fence.
    *   *   *
    The next day Master Makejoye made good his promise to work with Rosamund—at first just with her, then in rehearsals that included all of us.
    It wasn’t a problem for me—despite Makejoye’s praise of my delivery, my lines were few. Michael played a peasant, whose only dialogue was a constant repetition of “I dunno,” and a brigand who spoke no lines at all. And Rosamund did make progress. By the day’s end, you could hear her voice on the far side of the clearing almost half the time.
    Skinday morning