Of course, he'd had to prove he was a minstrel by playing several songs.

That first contingent of Felk soldiers, though, had eventually issued him a civilian travel pass and let him through. That pass was a sheet of vellum on which had been dribbled hot yellow wax; in the center of that congealing blob, the Felk sergeant had imprinted some complicated shape with a small metal stamp. It wouldn't give Bryck unrestricted movement within the new Felk territory, but it would ensure that he wouldn't be summarily executed. The army was on alert for dissidents, deserters, and other runaways. Troubadours apparently weren't viewed as a threat.

Bryck now reined in his grey steed. He felt fortunate that no one had conscripted the horse. He raised an empty hand in the customary traveler's greeting. His other hand reached slowly into his coat to withdraw the wax-blotched sheet of vellum.

There were five soldiers in the Felk unit waiting at the road's terminus. From the deep ruts in the packed earth under his horse's hooves, Bryck guessed that this was" a major transit artery—or had been; there certainly wasn't much traffic on it now. Surely the Felk occupation had disrupted or even ended normal trade and travel. Indeed, he'd seen no other civilians at all on the road for days, this far into Felk territory.

Despite the disquiet of being so deep inside enemy lines, he'd seen no fighting, and the soldiers he encountered were occupiers, not combatants.

Fields of summer-yellowed grasses lay on either side of the roadway. Stones were gathered to make a fire pit, and there was presently something aromatic simmering in a bell-shaped pot over the flames. There was a water tub, laundry swaying in the breeze. Two of the soldiers were playing Dashes atop a small makeshift table contrived from a pair of supporting rocks and a shield laid across. Dashes was a game one played with cards, dice, and a good deal of underhanded cunning. Bryck had once been quite a deft player, even when he didn't sweeten his odds with a little subtle wizardry.

The five-strong unit looked like it had been at this post some while. It appeared to be rather light duty. They had shed most of their armor and made do with uniform tunics, though all were wearing their swords. The sergeant strode forward for Bryck's offered travel pass, barely acknowledging his presence with a swift sweep of her bland eyes. Behind her another of the Felk soldiers—this one male, nearer Bryck's age, with an intense air about him—eyed him more keenly.

The imprint in the yellow wax was complex and would have been difficult, if not impossible, to counterfeit. A glance seemed to convince the sergeant of its authenticity, but she held on to it anyway.

"Get off that horse." She sounded bored, not hostile.

Bryck climbed off. The other soldier continued to study him in a way that was becoming uncomfortable.

"What is that?" asked the sergeant, peering over his shoulder.

"Vox-mellie." No self-respecting troubadour would refer to the instrument as either a "vox-mellifluous," its formal name, or "stringbox," the nickname anybody but a troubadour would use.

"So, give us your best." She gestured for the attention of the pair playing Dashes and another soldier lethargically whetting his sword blade on a stool by the cooking fire.

Without lifting off the canvas tether, Bryck worked the instrument around to the front of his body, pausing briefly to tune a string, then launched into a number. His relentless practicing was paying off. Already his fingering had improved measurably. More important than that perhaps, was that he could now play on demand. He didn't need the spirit to move him, didn't need to be in a musical mood; if someone gave him coin (or in this case, ordered him), he could produce an entertaining song.

Which is what he proceeded to do, wishing as he had several times recently that his repertoire was more extensive. He knew a fine abundance of suggestive drinking songs, but a knowledge of some more traditional verses would strengthen the illusion of his being a professional songster.

He wasn't entirely over his stage fright. But he'd recalled a bit of sage advice thespians gave each other to combat such nervousness. Play your role to a lone individual in the audience and ignore

everybody else. The first time he'd played at an inn, he'd done just that, picking out a child, a girl, apparently traveling with a family of merchants. She was staring at him, large eyes following the movements of his somewhat bumbling fingers with fascination.

Bryck had played for her and her alone, and that some-how steadied his fingering of the strings, evened his voice. Actually his singing voice wasn't entirely miserable; it even had a certain flair, after a fashion. He performed a few of the more respectable ballads he knew, in deference to the young girl—three or four winters old—who was his audience. It definitely wouldn't do to belt out "Silda's Maidenhead" or "Man Drowned in Ale" for her. The girl seemed thoroughly enthralled, clapping small, chubby hands, giggling loudly. That, Bryck found, was gratifying.

So were the extra coins that appeared on his table as he'd played onward, enough to buy him a bed for the night, though he still had quite a few coins secreted in the lining of his coat. Aaysue had insisted he take the money with him on his heroic venture to Sook.

It was also gratifying that day that his audience had accepted him as a legitimate troubadour. It was essential to his entire scheme that he pass as one.

It was a full day later, riding north once more, that he had realized that the little girl at the inn reminded him of his daughter, Gremmest. That had made his throat go hot and thick. His youngest child had also enjoyed watching him play the stringbox.

These Felk soldiers didn't appear to care overmuch what Bryck played. They seemed interested in him only as a distraction from what must be a dull, if soft, assignment. The ribald wit of the lyrics he sang got an occasional chuckle, but by the third tune, the pair were back to their game of Dashes, and the soldier on the stool was stirring the pot over the fire.

Only the man standing behind the sergeant was still paying close attention. This was hardly Bryck's first checkpoint; he knew enough how to behave in the presence of armed warriors.

In the presence of the enemy ...

The thought beat—controlled but indestructible—behind his carefully flat expression. These were Felk soldiers. As ordinary and perhaps benign as they appeared here, these were the same creatures that had laid waste to U'delph, sparing only a handful of witnesses who had spread the stories of the city-state's destruction. Bryck had heard the stories on the road, tales of the Felk army appearing impossibly from the very air. If it was indeed magic, it was of a kind far beyond any he knew.

That these five particular soldiers had likely been manning this same post when U'delph was being annihilated meant, ultimately, little. Perhaps nothing. Felk were alike. They had to be. For the purposes of his vengeance they were as one. His hatred for them was expansive enough to accommodate them all.

Hatred. For what had been done to his home, his people, his family. That hatred had sired his thirst for vengeance. Killing all five of these soldiers—though he had no weapon with which to do such a thing—would be entirely justified, when compared with the numbers slaughtered at U'delph.

But his plan called for a different procedure; and so he played on until the sergeant brusquely returned him his travel pass and turned her back.

Bryck had at first been quite surprised how relatively easy movement was for him. He had yet to be thoroughly searched at any of these checkpoints, which was why he retained his cache of coin. Surely the folk taboo about meddling with a minstrel couldn't account for it. Then he'd realized that his masquerading as a troubadour was only an effective means of moving one individual within these Felk-held lands; for what damage, must be the thinking, could a lone individual do?