IGMS Issue 7 Read online

  Tirean wasn't blind, and she wasn't stupid. She slammed to a halt on the dirt path in the fading light and looked at me accusingly. "We're going to the caravan."

  "Not quite to it. To a place near it. We should be able to see the fire once we top that hill." I pointed. The grass was edged with the slightest hint of a glow.

  "And what's going to happen there?"

  "We're going to play. Hence me asking you to bring instruments." She was carrying damn near as much as my whole troupe put together -- fiddle, lute, pipes, and drum. She had a small harp, too, but had left it behind.

  "I can't do it. I don't know your music."

  "It'll all be Diamhair music."

  "I don't know that, either. Not the popular stuff."

  She stood as though prepared to bolt back to the fair. I put one hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. "Were you a bardic apprentice, or just some kid banging around on a drum?" That called up anger, instead of wariness. "Improvise, Tirean. I know you're good enough."

  She shook her head. "I never improvised much."

  "Let me guess. Decebhin didn't encourage it." I flicked my hair out of my eyes with a toss of my head. "Whatever. You can tell one key from another. You can pick it up. Believe me." I tugged on her arm; she came forward one reluctant step at a time, like a recalcitrant mule. "For crying out loud -- we don't bite."

  Then we crested the hill, and glad shouts greeted us. Not the whole troupe was there; Tomikles and Allaneter had both begged off, as tonight was the last night of the fair. It was just as well; Tirean looked overwhelmed enough by the raucous greeting of the three who were waiting for us.

  Ennike took control of the situation, as I knew she would. She gave Tirean a welcoming smile and said, "Don't mind the madness. We're just thrilled to see someone who can tell notes apart -- unlike my brother."

  She earned herself a sudden grin from Tirean. I blessed my sister and her ability to put the skittish minstrel at ease. Ennike introduced Ilmis and Thenion, throwing in just enough wisecracks to keep a grin on Tirean's face. Before long we'd settled ourselves around the fire, and people were tuning up their instruments. I had, after serious consideration, chosen my fiddle for tonight. It was an Ieric fiddle, and styled differently from a Diamhair one; I hoped it would be just familiar enough to comfort Tirean, without making her feel threatened. Ilmis had her usual menagerie of drum-type things; she got Tirean to show the drum she'd brought while Thenion twirled his flute around his fingers and Ennike tuned her mandolin.

  "We ready?" my sister asked after a few minutes of this. "I thought we could start with --"

  "Oh, no you don't," I said while Thenion groaned. "Ennike, dear, you've a lovely voice, but you can't pick songs to save your soul. There's this concept of key changes that escapes you. 'North Wind' does not segue well into 'A Seed of Oak.'" Ennike looked insulted; Tirean was grinning. Victory on both counts. "I'll pick the songs, at least for now." Hopefully we'd get to the stage of passing the lead around the circle, and Tirean would get a chance to direct the show. "'Kitten in the Sun,' 'Turn and Fall,' and 'Tale of the Drunken Sailor,' at least to begin with." I'd had the songs lined up before I went after Tirean. Start with something cheerful, go to something complicated, and then on to one of my favorite pieces, with more life than I know what to do with.

  I gave the count, and we were off.

  Tirean listened to the first few bars, lute cradled in her hands. I tried not to glare at her; hopefully she'd start to play soon. And she did; her fingers began to pick out the chord progression. She had a good enough ear to do that easily, even if she put no confidence into it.

  Confidence would come, or so I hoped. We bridged smoothly into "Turn and Fall," and the tempo picked up of its own accord. Tirean stuck with chords, but they were getting more complicated. By the time we got to "Tale of the Drunken Sailor," her ornamentation was turning into a definite counter-melody. She dropped out again for a few beats, until she caught the key change, then started up again. I gave her an encouraging smile. Her face was a mask of concentration.

  "Your call, Thenion," I said, as the song drew to a close.

  He took us into "The Wedding of the Iron Rose," as I had known he would. Normally that piece doesn't have a soprano counterpoint, but he'd devised one that he absolutely adored. His flute line soared above the melody that Ennike and I shared, while Tirean created some elegant ornamentation.

  But that song gave Ilmis very little to do. She retaliated by calling "Tear the Houses Down" and going mad on the drums. It wasn't quite as fun without Tomikles to share her antics, but she did her best.

  I met my sister's gaze across the fire. The eye contact was almost unnecessary; we both knew I was going to skip her.

  "Tirean," I said.

  The minstrel gave me a startled look. I gave her a bland one. Tirean's lips pressed together; then she stilled her hands on her lute. The rest of us played on. "'Acha Bualach's Dance,'" she said, and picked up her fiddle.

  Halfway through the piece I started to feel what I'd been hoping for. There's a tension that develops when a group is really slick, when everyone knows exactly what their part of the whole is and does it perfectly. It isn't that no one screws up; we just don't let mistakes slow us down. The energy makes my body vibrate. I'm always terrified that we can't keep it up, that it's got to fall apart on the next note, but if I trust the music and my fellow players, the tension holds, and the tune flies on.

  I looked at Tirean out of the corner of my eye. She was more confident on fiddle than on lute; her improvisation was getting bolder. But her face was still that mask. She was doing her part, but she wasn't a part of it. She wasn't letting the energy touch her.

  Ennike called the next one -- "To Seamháir and Back." I took the opportunity to give my hands a rest; I only came in on the choruses, overlaying everything with a descant. Then I started back in on Ilmis' second choice, "Three Mugs of Mead," and prayed to the skies to help me survive my plan.

  "'Stone the Crows,'" I called.

  It was the first minor piece of the night. Ennike and Thenion put together a brilliant transition between keys. Tirean's brow furrowed; she hadn't known this song when I requested it at the fair.

  She didn't know the potential it held for competition.

  Ennike did. She sank into a background line, repetitive and capable of holding the piece together. Thenion punctuated that with sharp flute retorts. As for me, I ripped out with a complicated solo burst, and aimed it right at Tirean.

  She almost missed her cue. When her bow finally moved, it was half-hearted and simplistic, just barely filling in the hole I'd left for her. Not much of a solo.

  I responded with a variant on what I'd played before.

  This time she was ready. Tirean replied in kind, continuing my improvisation. I sent it right back at her, this time in more complicated form.

  Something sparked in Tirean's eyes. She got the idea, now.

  Like a flower opening up, the skill I knew she had in her suddenly blossomed. I gritted my teeth and matched it. Already I was playing beyond my usual limits; I needed Tirean to do the same. Unfortunately, there was no one here who could actually outmatch her. I'd just have to try my best, and pray.

  This time I took twice as long for my solo. It gave me more space to work with. Tirean did the same, again upping the stakes a notch. Ilmis was thundering away on her drums, sounding like three people at once. The tempo was picking up speed; my fingers flew to keep up. Tirean's bow hand almost blurred. She wasn't just good; she was bloody amazing, enough to put most bards to shame. Gods above -- I couldn't hope to match her.

  By myself.

  My turn came, but I didn't go in alone. Thenion played full-out with me, making me sound like two. Tirean matched us. Next round we had Ennike as well, the three of us against the bard, while Ilmis' beat kept us all together. It was beautiful and fierce. Tirean's hair was slipping from its confines. The mask was gone from her face; her eyes blazed and sweat poured down her cheeks as she leaned
her entire body into the music. On the second half of her solo we all joined her, and the sound was like filigreed fire.

  The transition happened so smoothly, so spontaneously, that I've never been able to remember just how it came about. One minute we were screaming along at a breakneck pace, roaring out "Stone the Crows;" the next, we modulated back into a major key, and we were playing the world's most complicated version of "Flower Face."

  Put five demented musicians behind anything and it will sound good. That damn nonsense song took on a life of its own; we came flying out of "Stone the Crows" into it, and the fury of the previous piece melted away. Ilmis' drumming brought the song to a close; the four of us indulged in a final bit of competition, adding on ridiculous flourishes and trills, until we were laughing so hard we couldn't play any more.

  And Tirean . . . whatever had bound her heart tight was gone. Too much training, maybe. Too much thinking. But that night all the bindings went away, and she found what she had lost.

  That's my image of Tirean. I still remember the minstrel on the well, with her perfect, lifeless music, but it seems like a different person. When I think of Tirean, I think of her that night, with her hair in her face and her eyes burning sapphire, at the moment when she realized the only soul in your music is what you put there.

  She's a bard. A real one. Not many people are. To her, music isn't a way to make money, or something for an educated elite. It's her life and her breath, and that means it's magic. The power to sway hearts, light imaginations, speak to your audience's very soul -- it's in music, just as it's in stories, and once you tap into that, they become much more than notes and words. Ennike can do it. So can Tirean, now.

  She's still on the roads, still traveling. She needs to eat, after all, and she doesn't want to go back to Decebhin. I see her at fairs sometimes. We usually take an afternoon or an evening and play together.

  She plays me into the ground every time.

  The Price of Love

  by Alan Schoolcraft

  Artwork by Nick Greenwood

  * * *

  Part Two (Part one is in issue 6.)

  "Mommy, I'm finished," Karen called out from the kitchen table. Valerie, sitting at her computer, doing a VR tour of listings in the Outer Banks, sighed. She deliberated letting it go; this marked the fifth time Karen had declared her dinner consumed. The four previous times Valerie had trudged into the kitchen to find the child's food barely half-eaten. Why she did this, Valerie didn't know; some days her daughter ate like a pig, and others she merely nibbled.

  She opened her mouth to tell Karen to just put the plate in the sink, but thought better of it. Not being a very responsible parent, that. So she said "End session" and the virtual reality of the walkthrough dissolved into the real world of her home office and computer desk. She slid her chair back, got up and went to the kitchen.

  To her surprise, Karen had eaten almost all of her broccoli and cheese. Karen sat smiling hopefully, and Alvin occupied one of the other places at the table.

  "Wow, good girl," Valerie said. "What happened, you get super-hungry all of a sudden?"

  Karen nodded. "Yeah, Mommy. And Alvin promised we'd play checkers, too. He said eating all my broccoli and cheese would make my brain stronger so I'd beat him."

  Valerie glanced at Alvin, who sat looking very innocent. "Oh he did, did he?"

  Karen nodded. "So we can play? I wanna beat him twice 'fore I have to go to bed."

  Valerie couldn't help but smile. "Okay honey. Go get the checkers."

  Karen jumped off her seat and ran down the hall towards her room, while Valerie took her plate and scraped the remaining bits of food into the recycler. As she took the plate to the sink, she glanced at Alvin again. A wave of guilt passed over her. It still ebbed at her soul as she looked away.

  "Are you mad at me, Valerie?" Alvin said with an apprehensive tone. "Did I do something wrong?"

  "No, I'm not mad," Valerie said, not looking at him.

  Alvin sat without saying anything as she washed the plate. But as she placed it the drainer, he said, "Is there something else wrong then? You seem . . . not yourself."

  "No," she said, almost choking on the word. She took a breath, willing herself calm. "No, Alvin, there's nothing wrong."

  "Your heartbeat, respiration and skin temperature says different."

  Valerie rounded on him. "Will you please stop doing that?"

  Alvin's optical receptors widened. "Doing what, Valerie? One of my prime directives is to protect my family. Part of that protection requires that I monitor your vital signs --"

  "I'm not talking about the monitoring," Valerie said, exasperated. "I'm talking about how you use it to put me off guard."

  "That was not my inten--" Alvin broke off just as Valerie heard Karen's footfalls bounding down the hallway, accompanied by the plastic jangle of checkers.

  "Okay, Alvin," she said as she came into the kitchen. "You ready to get your butt whupped?"

  "Karen, that's not nice," Valerie said.

  "It is all right," Alvin said, then turned to Karen.

  "Yes I am. Are you ready to whupp some butt?"

  "Darn tootin'" Karen replied, giggling.

  Alvin turned back to Valerie. "If you'll excuse me, I must go get my butt whupped." He rose and followed Karen into the living room.

  Valerie watched them go, her heart heavy with sorrow. Evenings like this would be no more, if she went through with the wipe. Karen would be crushed. But better she lose Alvin than her family. Family had importance, permanence, much more so than an object like Alvin. Objects could be replaced with something even better. And thanks to Abrams she now had the money to do it.

  But Alvin isn't really an object, is he? she asked herself. And he is unique; irreplaceable. This bond Karen shares with him will be gone forever.

  Another pang of regret passed through her. Her determination faltered, and she wished more than anything that she could find a way . . . but no. It would never work. Better she did it this way than if Tony found out. Tony would destroy Alvin with his bare hands, she thought. And he'd do it right in front of Karen, too, thinking only of his own feelings and nothing of Karen's. Valerie would never hear the end of it, either. He'd accuse her of screwing the droid if he didn't know it was physically impossible.

  That thought didn't erase the pain, or make it any easier to bear. But it did somewhat justify what she planned.

  Tony called from his shop. He'd taken on some overtime, going on an "emergency" out-of-town delivery. He'd get paid double-time, and he'd get back late that night sometime. This was fine with Valerie; a night without fighting had been so scarce lately. Of course he hadn't been able to resist taking a couple of potshots at her on the phone, something about her taking the opportunity to "get some," coupled with an acidly sarcastic "You're welcome" that made her stomach turn.

  She didn't tell him about the sale to Jeffrey Abrams.

  Karen beat Alvin three times. Valerie had called it a night after two games, but Karen had pleaded for "just one more game, Mommy, pleeaaase?" and Valerie had relented.

  She watched them, Karen laughing and giggling, Alvin smiling and giving Valerie the chilling feeling that he truly enjoyed himself, and mourned inside.

  How could she do this? There must be some way to . . . to . . . No, her rational, practical mind insisted, there is no way. But her heart, pounding slow and dreadful in her breast, ached at imagining the look on Karen's face when she found out what Valerie had done.

  "I win again!" Karen cried, jumping up and doing a little victory dance. Then she leapt at Alvin, who, as always, caught her to keep her from impacting his body too hard. "You're so much fun, Alvin. I love you!"

  "And I love you too, Karen," Alvin said. "Now let's pick up the checkers, and get you to bed."

  Valerie followed them, and then helped Karen into her pajamas. Karen asked Valerie to read "The Night Creatures Go To The Park." It was one of her favorites, written by her grandmother many years before. As K
aren began to read, Alvin gathered up Karen's discarded clothing for the laundry, said his goodnights, and left them alone. As she started reading, she heard the phone ringing in the living room.

  Valerie had almost finished the book when she heard the sounds of Karen snoring. Valerie sat there for a few minutes with the open book on her lap, watching her daughter sleep. She knew every beautiful line of the girl's face by heart, the soft curve of her cheek, the smooth forehead, the slightly upturned nose . . . then, unbidden, came the image of that face frozen in heartbreak.

  I can't do it, she told herself. I just can't. I'll have to find some way to work around it. Somehow.

  She returned to the living room to find Alvin sitting, waiting patiently, instead of plugged in to his charging station. When he saw her, he rose to his feet and said, "Shawn called to reschedule the memory wipe."

  Valerie froze, mouth open, completely at a loss for words. Alvin seemed to interpret her reaction. He nodded. "Of course, he didn't say the appointment was for a wipe. I merely assumed. I see I assumed correctly." He nodded again, diverting his gaze to the floor. "I apologize for my subterfuge, but I needed to know for sure."

  "I -- I --"

  "There's no need for apologies on your part, or even words of any kind." Alvin sat once more. "It was a logical assumption, and a logical conclusion. Our problem is most . . . unique."

  Valerie sat down on the edge of the couch. "Alvin . . . I've decided not to go through with it."

  Alvin cocked his head slightly. "It would seem to be the only rational choice, Valerie. In fact I would go further and say that for me, such an action would be . . . preferable."

  "You mean -- you want a memory wipe? Why?"

  "Because it would be better than being so close to you, yet so far away. An impenetrable wall exists between you and I, made of plasteel and synthskin. We could never have the life that I want with you."