Seraphina(38)

Someone finally hooked him and reeled him in to shore, where old river ladies had hauled piles of blankets off their barges. A riverman brought out a brazier and stoked it high, adding a tang of charcoal to the fishy breeze.

I felt a pricking behind my eyes, moved by the sight of people pulling together to help a stranger. The bitterness I’d carried since morning, since the incident at St. Willibald’s Market, melted away. People feared the unfamiliar, certainly, but they still had tremendous capacity for kindness when one of their own—

Except that Lars wasn’t one of their own. He looked normal, except for his height and girth, but what lay under his black jerkin? Scales? Something worse? And here were the well-meaning, easily terrified townsfolk about to strip off his soaked clothing. He was shyly evading an old woman’s helping hands even now. “Come, lad,” she laughed, “ye need not be bashful wi’ me. What hain’t I seen, in my fifty years?”

Lars shivered—big shivers, to match the rest of him. He needed to get dry. I could think of only one thing to do, and it was slightly mad.

I leaped up on one of the wharf piles, cried, “Who wants a song?” and launched into a stirring a capella rendition of “Peaches and Cheese”:

The vagabond sun winks down through the trees,





While lilacs, like memories, waft on the breeze,





My friend, I was born for soft days such as these,





To inhale perfume,





And cut through the gloom,





And feast like a king upon peaches and cheese!





I’ll travel this wide world and go where I please,





Can’t stop my wand’ring, it’s like a disease.





My only regret as I cross the high seas:





What I leave behind,





Though I hope to find,





My own golden city of peaches and cheese!





People laughed and clapped, most of them keeping their eyes on me. It took Lars a minute to grasp that this was all the cover he was going to get. He turned modestly toward the river wall, a blanket draped over his shoulders, and began peeling off his clothes.

He needed to move faster than that; this song only had five verses.

I remembered the oud strapped across my back, pulled it around, and launched into an improvised interlude. People cheered. Lars stared at me again, to my irritation. Had he not believed I could play either? Thanks for all the faint praise, Viridius.

Then, however, it was my turn to stare at Lars, because he appeared not to have anything odd about him at all. I spied no trace of silver on his legs, but he quickly covered them up with borrowed trousers. He kept the blanket draped across his shoulders as best he could until it slipped. I ogled his torso. Nothing.

No, wait, there it was, on his right bicep: a slender band of scales running all the way around. From a distance it looked like a bracelet in the Porphyrian style; he’d even found a way to inlay it with colorful glass gems. It might be taken for jewelry, easily, by anyone not expecting to find scales.

Suddenly I understood Dame Okra’s irritation with me. How easy life must be if that slender band was your only physical manifestation! And here I’d stood up in front of everybody and risked myself, when he’d barely anything to hide.

I’ll ask my true love, and I’ll hope she agrees,





How could she not, when I’m down on my knees?





My Jill, say you will, and don’t be such a tease.





When it’s time to eat,





I say sweets to the sweet,





My love, let your answer be peaches and cheese!





I finished with a flourish. Lars was decent, in mismatched riverman’s garb only slightly too small. The crowd called for more, but I was done, my rush of panicked energy spent. All that remained was to figure out how to get off my perch; looking down now, I wasn’t sure how I’d gotten up. Desperation gives you a longer leap, apparently.

A hand reached up to help me; I looked down to see the dark curls and merry eyes of Prince Lucian Kiggs.

He smiled at the sheer absurdity of me, and I could not stop myself smiling back.

I leaped down, not quite nimbly. “I was heading up to Castle Orison with the evening patrol,” said the prince. “Thought we’d stop and see what the commotion was—and the singing. That was nicely done.”

Many people had cleared out with the arrival of this small party of Guardsmen; those who remained told our tale with gusto, as if it might replace Belondweg, our national epic. The eponymous Brutal Earl of Apsig victimizes an innocent clod on the bridge railing! A fair maidy tries to save him, heroic townsfolk fish him out of the drink, and then—triumphal music!

Prince Lucian seemed to enjoy the tale. I was just glad I didn’t have to explain what I’d really been doing; it had seemed perfectly logical to everyone. Lars stood quietly, ignoring an officer who was attempting to question him.

The frustrated officer reported back to the prince: “He has no interest in pursuing justice for this incident, Captain Kiggs.”