Song of the Last Blood Weeper

"...left his wife to fend for herself. It fell to her father to take her back in. That was nearly fifteen years ago, and she still childless." The old dwarf ran his fingernail across the rim of his mug; the mountain ale inside was almost untouched as yet. "We thought at first that Mokdorn was preoccupied, but when we allied with your folk at the goblin hollows, we learned he had just been whistling at birds and kicking his heels, not even earning any cash."

The young human knight nodded. "I think I understand. The saying goes that the spoken word of a dwarf is a promise, and Master Mokdorn hasn't been keeping his."

The old dwarf almost smiled as he nodded. "You see our problem. Dwarves can lie, mind you - in war, a lie can save lives. But once the war is over, all accounts are told true and without shame. Then there's this one. 'Master' Mokdorn." Commander Duuri sipped his drink in leiu of spitting at that.

Sir Lorian Fellbane, a novice in the Order of the Accord, nodded again in agreement. What had started out as a simple exchange of information among wartime allies had turned into a minor but unavoidable extradition hearing. Mokdorn, a dwarvish self-styled expert in goblin strategies, had turned out to be a bit of a deadbeat who had left significant debts behind when he had emigrated to human lands.

If his advice had been more helpful, the human armies might have striven harder to resist the dwarven demands that the advisor be turned back over to them. As it was, though, Mokdorn had been surprisingly unhelpful for the high payment he had demanded. Fortunately he hadn't been permitted to learn that his erstwhile countrymen knew of his location and were clamoring for his profligate hide. That left only one issue requiring delicate handling - the sovereignty of the human kingdom. Garnia couldn't be seen merely handing over one of their own advisors on command, even to an ally in the Accord.

Thus, a young knight named Lorian was here in the Barracks - more properly named the Man-at-Arms Arms - sharing a fairly private table with a commander from the dwarvish divisions who also happened to be one of the thanes of their kingdom, Rimor, and thus had authority to dispense with extradition matters. This was the first such matter to have arisen among the allies, so quite aside from the final fate of Mokdorn there was also a protocol to establish.

They continued to discuss things amicably for a couple of hours after their first greetings had been exchanged, and after recording a few notes and making sure there would be no misunderstandings they ordered dinner and switched to stronger drinks. Neither would become truly drunk, but with business out of the way they had little to do for the remainder of the evening but enjoy themselves as best they could - the actual arrest and transfer of Mokdorn would wait until the morning. Nights grew dark hereabouts, and no human, even a Paladin, would try to travel through the local woodlands unless truly desperate. Dwarves were perhaps made of sterner stuff, but they were nothing if not patient.

All of this goes merely to explain why Lorian Fellbane, Knight of the Order of the Accord, was sitting in a corner of the Man-at-Arms Arms sharing a meal with an honored dwarven colleague at the moment when his life was changed forever.

The whimsically named inn was practically all that remained of the community of Five Points. A few decades earlier it had been a crossroads of the world, but the resurgance of goblinoids in that area and the opening of more accessible routes had reduced it's popularity and population considerably. It remained, however, an excellent mercenary muster and rallying point, and so the inn remained large and well-provisioned. Here deals were still brokered and gossip exchanged, although the deals were almost invariably of the sanguinary sort these days, and the gossip took a distinct scuttlebut cast. Soldiers of every imaginable nation had drank from the Barracks mugs.

Into the Man-at-Arms this evening trudged a small mercenary team, only two of whom were notable. The first was a gnomish arcanist; his boots were just as thick as any foot slogger, but the sheer number of pockets under his cloak - and indeed, the absence of a sword - told of his professional specialty. His neat but scanty beard perfectly framed a face permanently creased into a sly smile. No sooner had he entered than a gnomish woman who had been sharing a drink with a couple of halflings at one of the high tables set up for the smaller folks use got up, walked over to him and kissed him fulsomely. (Distracting though this gesture might have been, it was hardly untoward - the two were man and wife.)

The other was a tall woman, statuesque and clad in spiked leather and mith-chain. She bore a number of relatively small weapons along with her pack, but her own specialty was slung across her back, being much too large for a belt sheath - a bastard sword of simple but distinctive design.

Lorian was just wondering how he knew that the sword's blade was angular, almost crystalline in shape when the sword itself was still sheathed when the woman took off her half-helmet and shook her hair out of it's tight bun and into a cascade of oddly greyish curls. Odd because she was clearly young herself, her skin finely scarred in places but still unlined. Odd because her skin was itself rather greyish, as were her dark slate-colored eyes. The surface of her cheeks was marked, however, by brilliant red vertical stripes. And the line of her wide, sensual mouth was broken by two upward-protruding canines, the left somewhat damaged.

Commander Duuri's eyes glittered with a kind of wary amusement as he took in the features of the warrior woman. "Can you believe that? Orcblood. I know you plains-bairns take pride in welcoming anyone into your bosom, but it wasn't a score of years ago that the orcs were about to roll over everyone in these parts. And led by the Blood Weepers, to boot! Takes a lot of nerve to mark her face the way she's done, then walk around here as open as that." All this was said quietly and behind a muffin; even a dwarven thane had no desire to offer discourtesy to a stranger.

Sir Lorian turned back to the commander, and spoke with an even voice. "Oh, those are birthmarks. She is of the Blood Weepers - my understanding is that she is the last of their blood. And I know for a fact that she has fought in enough battles and saved enough lives to walk safely anywhere she likes - some of the boys in this very room owe her their lives." And indeed, even as he said this, a number of the voices of the crowd in the common room offered friendly greetings to the party who had just walked in. It was the gnome who answered them, he being the more sociable of those two, but the woman at least acknowledged them with a smile as she appropriated a table near the door, then food and drink.

Duuri noted this, relaxed a little, then noted the oddly reluctant air of his human companion, as if he wanted to look back over to her but was forcing himself to stare at his cabbage. "You one of them, then?"

Sir Lorian shrugged. "I honestly don't know. I know that when the hobgoblins had us flanked at Red Marsh, it was her gnome friend there who got to us and told us about their hidden pass. And I know that until we got some relief down there it was her who held that pass. Single handed. When we got to her, there were so many blades in her we couldn't even get her armor off. But she had held. For nearly two hours."

The old dwarf pulled an impressed face and looked back at her table more appraisingly. The gnome woman had gone back to her other friends, perhaps leaving her husband to talk shop with the half-orc swordswoman. He gave Sir Lorian time, then glanced back at him out of the corner of his eye - yes, the young human had followed his own gaze, taking the opportunity to afford the woman a quick stare before returning his attention to his plate. The dwarf wondered if his lanky companion realized just how affectionate that gesture had seemed.

Sir Lorian, however, was remembering the other incident on which he had seen this particular orc-blood.

...a different tavern, nearly a year before the Red Marsh incident, in a different community not too far away. An older warrior, a veteran of the last great Orcish War, had recognized the marks on her cheeks and begun to rail about the evils of the orcs and Blood Weepers, about how many of his friends and family had been slaughtered at their hands and how they should all be scourged from the land. The tall woman had listened to him calmly for a moment, then allowed as her honor had been offended and there was nothing for it but to take it outside to settle up just between the two of them.

The old human, Lem Heyer, had almost quailed at that - the sheer muscle of half-orcs was well known - but he was a head of house and a fixture in that community. If he had backed down after delivering such a sober-headed tirade it would have meant a loss of hard-earned face, and so they both stepped outside and handed off their armor and weapons to others for fairness. Then after a few more formalities, they had had at it.

The ensuing fight had been incredible. If there had been a timekeeper, it would have been counted at ten rounds at least. The old lion was starting to lose muscle in his age, but he was cagy and sharp, still deadly. The younger woman was in the bloom of youth, as canny and ruthless as any half-orc brawler ever had been. They had wrecked half the stables and courtyard in the early strivings, contending first in agility, then in sheer strength - old Heyer was teaching her some of the most painful joint locks he knew when she had bitten down on his forearm hard enough to leave lasting scars.

After that it was a contest of sheer endurance, neither combatant avoiding the other's blows. If Heyer had any reluctance to hit a woman, this woman had beaten it out of him early on, and it was proving to be something of a mistake. She simply didn't seem to have the experience or learning curve to avoid his most damaging blows, but time and again her own punches glanced off him or missed completely. For only a few seconds Heyer was lost in a rage of vengeance, hitting her at will. Then, just as he began to lose his breath, she had fallen, savagely bruised and cut, at his feet.

He had pushed her over on her back, and drawn back his hand, then hesitated. At that moment, she had coughed, opened her eyes to the extent that she still could, and asked, "Had enough?"

It was as if the clouds were blown away. At that moment, Heyer realized that he had been had, in a way. The young woman had known perfectly well that the kind of scars her forebears had left on the land, and on this man, could not be excused or forgiven. They could only be expunged. And if that meant taking a beating, then she would do it.

She hadn't thrown it, not completely. Heyer was hurt and bleeding himself, and his refusal to be healed by spell meant that the was down for nearly a fortnight afterwards. But this young woman had realized what sacrifice would be necessary for peace sake, and she had plainly made it.

To Lorian's sure knowledge, there were still Heyers hereabouts who would gladlly come if this half-orc woman called...

Sir Lorian himself would come to her side if she asked, but he suspected she didn't remember his name. And she was no noble lady, to accept a novice like himself as her champion. He couldn't imagine her needing a champion of any kind. For this reason, he was resigned to her not offering him more than the time of day. Well, the knights in stories were always venturing on behalf of great ladies who could never belong to them, weren't they?

Duuri swallowed a bite of beef, and offered, "Seems I heard about that pass. Hadn't known it was a half-orc in the middle of it, though. I think I did hear her name, though...what was it?"

Sir Lorian seemed to think for a second before replying. "Parhi. Parhi Grimjaws."

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Parhi made herself at home while her travelling companion renewed his wife's acquaintance. She ordered for him, mountain ale same as hers, and a meal. She had a feeling he was hungry, but she was ready to pass. She'd make do with a big breakfast; her appetite wasn't what it could have been.

The innkeep was just turning away when Seebo the gnome caught him by the elbow. "The food? Make it a double. The lady is having one too."

Parhi looked at the gnome with bemusement as he seated himself, feet dangling off the human-size chair. "You seem awfully confident of my being hungry, Shovel-snout."

Seebo emptied half the mug with one draught. "What can I say? Fight by your side for a couple of years, I start to patterns here and there. Only twice before have I seen you skip a meal, and each time I've seen you positively wilt over the rest of the night. Forget it."

"You've seen me skip plenty of meals." Parhi was honestly puzzled at that. "We didn't eat any solid food for nearly four days after the brass dragon thing - and I was carrying you!"

"True, true. But there's a big difference between enduring hunger because it's all you've got in your belly, and skipping a perfectly good meal." He closed one eye, appraising her as one might appraise a well-balanced catapult. "You eat well in town for the express purpose of being able to go without when you're on the trail, if you have to. It's one of the things about you I try to emulate. And, " here he lowered his voice, "it's not hunger that makes you wilt. You wilt, and so you don't have the energy to eat. "

"If that's true, what makes you think that having food in front of me is going to help?" Parhi was doing her best to appear calm, but she was trying earnestly to divert Seebo. He was cutting his way toward the closest thing to a secret she had.

She was assisted by the arrival of a platter of food and two plates. After their mugs were newly filled, though, Seebo continued. "Maybe it won't. But I'm guessing that if you stuff some decent food into your face, maybe you won't be too preoccupied with staring over my shoulder at him."

He covered this with a few leaves of cabbage, but the effect on Parhi was immediate. For long moments she glared at Seebo, who was trying his hardest to look oblivious. Finally, she shrugged and grabbed a turkey leg. "Alright, I give up. When did you figure it out?"

"Last time you skipped a meal. The time before that I thought maybe you were coming down with something, but the next time, just after you were healed up from the Red Marsh fracas, I looked around for what those two nights had in common - and realized that what they had in common was one knight. One young human knight named Lorian Fellbane."

Parhi tried to sound casual as she hissed, "Shut your yap. I know gnomes don't know from privacy, but you must grasp the idea that I'm not interested in advertising."

Seebo looked fakely innocent. "I am the soul of discretion. I know you half-orcs don't know from conversation, but you must grasp the idea that I trust you to work out your own affairs."

Parhi gave her turkey leg a chastened look, then: "I'm sorry. It's just that, see, he's a knight. A knight of the Accord. They always have ladies waiting on them, and I'm not one of them, you know? So he knocks the wind out of me every time I see him. So he makes my chest hot, my eyes blurry and my knees weak for hours afterwards, and that's without even knowing I'm alive. So pass me the muffins."

Seebo grinned and turned the platter's muffin-side toward her. "Parhi the brave. Oy, you're not what the heralds proclaim, are you?"

Parhi shot him a nasty look over her grin, and deliberately took a huge bite of butter muffin. Damn if she was going to let unrequited love put her down after taking on the Fire Giant Chieftain of Ripplecrag.

Seebo caught that sentiment, and approved. Without giving any outward sign, he had decided that Parhi was going to need her strength tonight.

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The Man-at-Arms Arms had few attractions. One of them was the simple fact that it had the largest common bunks in Five Corners - hence it's nickname, the Barracks - and another was the design of the barroom itself, permitting large parties plenty of space while also allowing for smaller parties wanting privacy, of a sort. The latter included Sir Lorian and Duuri, who were visible enough from the door but who could be overheard only with difficulty, even had the room been quiet.

And quiet was rarely to be found in the evenings. There was the crowd itself, of course, but there was also the stage.

The Barracks' stage was slightly infamous. Great bards had performed there, but none of them were employees of the house. Instead, the stage was opened in the evenings, and anyone who cared to take it could do so, with whatever company or instruments they liked. They were immediately subject to the scrutiny, catcalls and general forbearance of everyone in the room, however.

Even good performers had been known to catch some rotten produce from the more restive locals. On a night when the patrons included a large mass of soldiery, a bad performer was liable to be hauled out to a waiting press gang, thereafter to be put to 'some more productive use than making drunk people's ears hurt.'

Mind you, someone who could actually captivate the audience could make a good name for themselves. This kept the flow of performers light but steady, and few came near the stage if there was any serious chance of embarrassing themselves.

Vinya had been a waitress at the Man-at-Arms for nearly five years. In that time, she had heard songs of ravishing beauty, and she had heard half-hearted attempts by drunken imbeciles trying to get their bartabs paid. (Tipping was permitted; rarely were fortunes involved, but there were some regulars who knew they could get a days wage from a decent performance.) There were a few consistent patterns - human singers were fairly clearly divided between the good and the desperate, whereas the rare dwarven performer was loved by a dwarven audience but usually only tolerated by everyone else. Few elves had a taste for stagecraft, but those who did invariably brought the house down.

Halflings had a yen for simple melodies with which anyone could harmonize, whereas gnomes seemed to enjoy intricate, playful tunes - not always humorous. One of the most chilling songs Vinya had ever heard was the Ballad of the Loving Hands, a gnomish tune describing how a young lover's hands were cut off before he was killed, but even while his body mouldered his hands continued to woo the woman he had loved in life until she had unknowingly married the murderer. The Ballad included a queer series of internal rhymes that opened at the beginning of each verse and closed just before the refrain. The final closure, on the verse in which the hands intruded into the bridal bower, was absent.

So when a gnome approached Vinya, who was chiefly responsible for policing the stage this evening, she had a feeling she was in for a lively time. She couldn't have been more right.

This gnome, clearly some sort of arcanist by trade, kept silence by way of respect for the current performer, but he was the only one. The fellow was already into his cups, and his attempt at singing was drawing a chorus of boos and an incipient shower of refuse. It was good natured enough, though - tonight's crowd was fairly happy. A couple of locals, the Warriny cousins, were standing by with a few old onions, ready to lead the fusilade if it came to that, but everyone knew the singer on stage was only there in the absence of anyone else; even he seemed to know it and kept the volume down, which was a relief.

"Hallo, sir." Vinya quietly addressed the gnome. "Care to have a go? I don't think this poor lad's gonna last much longer."

"Oddly enough, no." replied Seebo, for he it was. "I"m here to ask if anyone might take the stage? I am acting as the agent for a friend, who was just inquiring about the possibility of singing for her own pleasure."

It should be known that in saying this, Seebo was lying his nose off. He had excused himself from Parhi on the pretext of seeing what his wife, Roywyn, was up to. He had indeed spoken to her, but only to assure her that he wasn't inclined to do anything as mad as sing in front of that crowd. She knew well that he could get himself killed that way.

"Well," said Vinya, "It's not her pleasure she should be worried about. But don't worry - ol' Lockstead over there wouldn't let anything really bad happen to a lady. This stage is right chivalrous that way - and open too, as soon as his nibs has been carried off she can just step right up. Shall I announce her, then?"

Seebo nodded, gave her a name. The first name was a fairly normal dale-lander womans name, the surname was a bit odd but sounded like the kind of thing people got named in the turbulent north. Vinya didn't see any reason to be alarmed -

-until she watched the gnome go back to his table and sit own next to a half-orcish woman. Orcs evoked a remarkably consistent response as singers - chaos. The only virtue she had seen of their performance was it's typical brevity, but that was small comfort given that the performance of an orc-blood usually ended in a brawl.

Vinya hadn't imagined it was possible, but she found herself praying that the gravelly performance on the stage now would continue for a time...

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Seebo hustled back to the table with a big grin on his face. Parhi knew that was a bad sign - true to his nature, the gnome was almost always smiling, but he only grinned that broadly if there was a surprise in the works. Normally Parhi didn't mind, but tonight she just wasn't in the mood.

Seebo didn't keep her waiting. "Finish your ale. You've got an appointment."

Parhi swallowed one last bite of turkey, then tossed back her ale. "Okay, what's the job? Somebody using your nose for a football? Told you it made you top-heavy..."

Seebo shook his head. "Nothing violent. Just a debt you need to pay. Remember that tussle on Ripplecrag? How I kept that giant's dog off your back? Remember what I said you owed me?"

Parhi didn't have to think long. The battle had occurred in the middle of a running argument over whether Parhi had a good singing voice. She enjoyed singing, but more or less all she sang in company were marching songs and the occasional sea chanty. By herself, however, she had a preference for sentimental love songs, so treacly that they virtually parodied themselves. But she always sang them with heartfelt conviction. She never sang quietly, but she never sang those songs for anyone but herself.

Seebo had found himself gently needling Parhi on the subject, coaxing her to a public performance. It was only after the fight that he, having kept her from being blindsided at a crucial moment, had gotten her to promise him a song. He had even made a suggestion, a song he had heard her singing form watering holes when she had been bathing, that he rather wanted to hear again. She had nodded, and taken a deep breath...

...and he had abruptly said, "Not right now. Later."

Parhi had exhaled testily. "Well when?"

Seebo had nodded placatingly. "I'll let you know. But sometime, I'll ask to hear that song."

Parhi had nodded and smiled, dismissing the idea that it could cost more than five minutes worth of embarrassment. But that had been then.

Now, Seebo's smile was actually growing as her eyes widened. "Now's the time."

"No way." Parhi's head shook almost without her volition. In here, maybe. In here, with *him* listening? "I'm not singing that tonight. Not here, not now."

Seebo clucked his tongue. "Sorry. Here and now. Well, I'm not really sorry. You owe me a song. The 'You say you see' song. And I want it now. On that stage."

Parhi had faced death before. She had faced pain. She had had her body and mind controlled by awful magics, and she had endured with only a few moments of rage to mark the moments passing. Suddenly her heart was beating harder than it ever had in her life.

The other singer, such as he was, collapsed off the stage to a rather sarcastic round of applause. Then the barmaid stepped up, and cleared her throat. She looked only a bit paler than usual, but her voice was quite clear as she announced, "Now, lads, a bright welcome for our next singer, here to favor us with just one song for the night, Parhi Grimjaws."

Enough people knew who Parhi was to look in her direction. The trap was closed. Seebo's look grew more pointed. "And we all know what song that will be." he said quietly.

Parhi got up, and leaned close to Seebo on her way to the stage to hiss, "I will always hate you. Always." Seebo had seemed rather cheered for being the recipient of such a vehement declaration of enmity; Parhi was still headed for the stage, after all.

Parhi took the stage. From her girlhood being raised among humans, she had always felt a bit clumsy but never more so than now. The vibration of her boots striking the floor sounded positively elephantine in her ears, and she had to fight to keep from fidgeting; her hands just didn't seem at home at the end of her arms anymore.

Her skin had always looked dusty in whatever mirror she had seen, and her hair always had a vaguely unwashed look. She could never brush the grey color therefrom; it was as real as her muddy eyes. The streaks of red on her cheeks glared bloodily, fittingly making her feel as if she had gaping wounds on her face. Her teeth had never felt more like a pigs tusks, and her mouth felt clumsy and tangled. How she would sing, like this, she couldn't guess.

And her clothes; she had divested herself of her arms and armor at her table, and bundled everything up for the night. Now she was dressed in a plain shirt and breeches. She wore a leather and steel armlet, which was made more to be a memento than a decoration, and a few earings, more for an easily carried form of wealth than for beauty's sake. She felt like she was bundling up a bovine bulk of flesh in a mercenary warrior's work clothes, and then putting the result on a stage as an exhibition of sheer eye-gouging ugliness.

Parhi Grimjaws was a half-orc. She knew how humans, and indeed any of the civilized races saw her. She heard them talk about it, making allusions to orcish ugliness, clumsiness and stupidity, occasionally with 'pig' references thrown in, and always adding for her benefit, 'but not you, of course. You're different.' She always saw through that so easily she wondered why they bothered.

Parhi seriously considered cheating her debt. Once on that stage, no one could dictate what song she chose; she could select a rousing battle anthem or a silly drinking song. She knew that whatever virtues her voice might lack, it had strength and tempo, and she knew that she could have the entire room rollicking along with the strains of 'The Captain's Daughter's Private's Purse', or 'The Shadow of Goran's Mount'. Seebo would not leave her alone for weeks, but he would eventually get over it.

She could even tell that some in the room were expecting something of the kind. There were frowns, and a couple of yokels seemed to be fidgeting with a bag of vegetables or something, but many were settling down to be entertained in a respectably soldierly fashion. She considered it, she decided, she opened her mouth -

And out of the corner of her eye, she saw his face. He had half-turned in his chair to watch her, to listen to her.

At that moment, a voice inside her, one that sounded suspiciously like Seebo's own, said you'll never get another chance like this.

And just like that, she decided to pay her debt as promised.

The patrons had fallen silent as she had inhaled. She permitted the silence to build for another breath, then she began to sing.

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When Parhi took the stage, most of those gathered were willing to be polite. Some had worked with Parhi before, and most of them knew she had a very hearable voice, but many were simply chivalrous and ceased murmuring.

Many frowned as soon as her face became visible. A half-orc was trouble in the minds of many, but the Blood Weepers were a whole different league of trouble. An especially organized and vicious tribe of orcs, the Blood Weepers were known for the horde they had raised a generation before and for the vivid red birthmarks on their cheeks. The horde had been put down at great cost. In the course of this war, the marks of the Blood Weepers became emblematic of ferocious cruelty, even among orc-kind.

But orcs know nothing of forgiveness. When it became clear that the orcish army raised by the Blood Weepers would make no further conquests, the other tribes had fallen upon them. The Blood Weepers had been spit from the mouth of history, leaving seemingly one half-breed woman as an echo of their savagery.

Humans forgive. But rarely forget.

So it was that there was quiet for the woman on the stage, but little warmth.

Here is what Sir Lorian Fellbane saw:

A tall half-orcish woman arose from her table upon being introduced and spoke briefly with her gnome companion - thanking him for making the necessary arrangements, probably. Then she walked onto the stage with a stately pace and a calm, amost distracted demeanor.

She stood on the stage for a moment, looking around to survey the audience, giving Lorian an opportunity to truly take in every detail. She was wonderfully tall, as tall as himself no doubt, lean but powerfully muscled. Her clothing was clean and well ordered but plain, leaving plenty of room for subtlety, and was filled out with voluptuous curves.

Her skin was greyish brown and her hair was brownish grey, exotic shades rarely seen among human kind. Even her large and heavy-lidded eyes were the color of a dark slate, and her hair fell into natural curls with her bangs giving her a naturally veiled look that perfectly complimented her unaffected expression. Each cheek had a red vertical streak upon it, accenting her face as her tusks accented her wide and expressive lips, somehow seeming more natural than could be guessed.

Lorian was ready to forgive any deficiencies in her voice. She opened her mouth, breathed in, and seemed to look right at him (wonderful stagecraft! Probably everyone in the audience got that impression) then held that breath for just a bit more, then she began to sing. Lorian ever recalled that performance as a series of moments.

Parhi, on the other hand, remembered it as a kind of trial. She had learned to sing from her mother, who had taught her as many of the secrets as she could. Now she found herself throwing her mind back to those old lessons in a kind of pained exultation. The first verse, put plenty of breaks between the lines, give the lyrical despair time to sink into the audience.

Parhi's voice was a strong alto, low and rich. From the first phrase, people who had feigned sleep began to awake, and people who had feigned disinterest began to perk up.

Lockstead, who had been worriedly eyeing the audience for trouble started attending to the stage and not looking so worried.

Vinya found herself quietly gripping a towel as the verse drove on in short, sad phrases.

-first refrain, firm up the breath control, it's still in your range, girl, keep that vibrato under control -

The first chorus made the song seem louder and more complete. The verse had made it sound as if the singer was almost broken in spirit, but now the spirit was renewed as the lyrics brought an object, a lover, into the singer's view.

One of the Warriny cousins reached into the bag; the other promplty but quietlyi stifled him with an onion. Parhi noticed none of this because her eyes were closed.

Lorian saw that Parhi was singing with her eyes closed but could not for the life of him remember when she had closed them.

Duuri, thane among dwarves, was leaning back in his chair contentedly. It wasn't really his style, but not bad at all.

-second verse, keep the rhythm together, no tricks with timing this time, the words go back to despairing, it's all got to be tone -

The first verse had spoken of personal pain which had been answered by the chorus. The second verse was more abstract but even more despairing in a way, rolling all of life's meaninglessness into a kind of fervor of loss.

Lorian noticed that as the verse wore on, Parhi's face became more pained, her posture weaker, as if the song were sapping her very life.

This was Seebo's favorite part. He rested his chin against the back of his chair as the second chorus began.

-second chorus, it's breath control playhouse now, put gut-muscle behind this one, stand straighter but don't pour it on too much, you want to please the listener not knock him down -

The song grew louder, slowly, as the chorus began again. The words were the same, but they answered the second verse just as well as the first. Just as love answers despair.

Lorian could see Parhi straightening; the chorus required more strengh as it wore on, the melody grew more demanding, but it seemed that strength was being poured into Parhi from on high, and she in turn was pouring it into the tavern.

-time for the refrain. It usually changes keys, goes lower so the final line can be more elaborate, but I'm not going to do that. Leave the elaboration for the bards, I want to end this on my strength -

As the final note to the second chorus made the very rafters throb, Parhi began to sing the same melody again but with different words. Before it was the love of the singer that gave her strength, but now -

-now the singer recognized the love of her beloved for her, and from this gained peace. The song became quieter and slower, soothing as a benison, and ending on the same kind of quiet, strong note on which the song had begun.

For a moment, Parhi was frozen silently on the stage. Then she opened her eyes.

For a moment more, she was almost panicked at the echoing silence.

Then, a thunder of applause.

She spend another moment in shock, then she bowed as she had seen some bards do, down on one knee with her hands clasped over the other, a dignified yet humble gesture.

She found herself beaming as she walked off the stage and resumed her place; it took a while for the applause to fade, and that can be a heady stimulant.

She murmured to Seebo as she sat down, "I still hate you. And thank you."

Seebo stopped applauding at that. "Any time I can bring torment to your contrarian spirit with a little unexpected joy, you may be assured that I shall. And welcome to it."

Duuri was a little worried that Lorian was going to have some sort of attack. He wasn't applauding or even tracking Parhi's movement, just sitting staring glaze-eyed at the stage. "Sir Lorian? Are you well?"

Lorian took a couple of deep breaths before he responded. "I think not. I think that I am falling ill. I think it is an ailment that an old teacher of mine once spoke of, something to do with the heart."

Duuri nodded. "I think I know the ailment of which you speak. And although there are some fine treatments, I believe there is only one cure."

With that, he got up. "As for our business, if you can send a mere message to your leaders of what we have arranged, I'm sure all the details can work themselves out. The night is young, and I can write the necessary forms and policies. For your approval in the morning, of course."

Lorian looked closely at Duuri; this was slightly irregular, which was quite undwarflike indeed. Then he saw Duuri glance over at Parhi's table, where Seebo was taking his leave to spend some time with his newly available wife, and he understood. Duuri was giving him time, a whole evenings worth, to see if he could find this miracle cure.

Sir Lorian stood, made the obeisance of an honored colleague, and walked to a different table to address it's sole occupant.