Last night, once they’d returned to camp, Cole had put up the horses. When he’d made it back to their tent, Kurtz had already patched up the cut on his shoulder—swore it was just a scratch.
Cole didn’t believe him for a second.
Kurtz could have died, and it was Cole’s fault. Sure, Cole played the lute well, was unmatched with horses, and had a knack for observation. But if he couldn’t fight, how in all Er’Rets could he be a worthy spy? He simply wasn’t strong enough to protect anyone.
Runt of the litter—that’s what Nonda Fawst had always called him. He wanted to be strong and worthy, like the Tsaftown soldiers. Like Kurtz.
But he wasn’t.
To make matters worse, Kurtz had placed them in the procession six horses behind Jeffrey Korngold, a bard also bound for Tsaftown. The golden-haired man was more talented than Minstrel Harp and bolder even than Kurtz. He was currently playing “The Ballad of the Tanniyn”—the song Cole had sung to Mistel when she’d been stormed to the Veil, the mystical barrier separating the realm of the living from that of the supernatural. Jeffrey’s fingers flowed over the lute strings like river water over stone, his smooth, robust tenor twisting Cole’s insides into a knot.
“Where water meets sky, on vast ocean waves,
A lost man adrift, above a watery grave.
To the skies he prays, ‘I have a son, a wife!’
‘Oh Arman, how I’ll serve you if you only save my life.’”
Cole hugged his lute, inferiority mounting.
Was it wrong to hate the man?
Ahead, Kurtz guided his horse, Smoke, off the path, waited for Cole to catch up, then fell in beside him on the road.
“What kind of soldier wears his sword on his back and carries a lute in his arms?” Kurtz asked. “If you’re attacked, what are you going to do, bash them over the head with the instrument?”
“I would never break my lute.”
Kurtz chuckled. “I’ve no doubt of that. What’s with you, eh? Why so melancholy?”
Cole forced himself not to look at Jeffrey. “I’m fine.”
“A lie as tall as a redpine,” Kurtz said. “Out with it.”
Cole sighed and lowered his voice. “Who will hire us with that bard in town?”
“Korngold? Bah! Don’t worry about him, eh?”
“How can I not? He does everything far better than me.” To further prove Cole’s point, Jeffrey ended “The Ballad of the Tanniyn” with a fingerpicked run that resulted in applause and a few whistles from the surrounding soldiers. Part of their mission was to get hired at the Black Boar, a tavern in Tsaftown, but with someone like Jeffrey competing for work, Cole wasn’t at all confident in their prospects. “Mistel said she and I performed better together than alone. I wish she could have come.”
“Ah. So it’s the ginger songbird you’re sore about. Why are you still wearing that bracelet of hers, anyway?”
Cole eyed the string of beads around his left wrist. “What else is it good for?”
“Wearing it says ‘Don’t talk to me, ladies. I’m taken.’”
Cole wrinkled his nose. “It does not.”
Kurtz gestured at the bracelet. “It’s made of beads. It’s clearly a woman’s trinket. No man would wear something like that unless he’s being sentimental.”
“Maybe I want to be sentimental.”
Kurtz groaned, the expression on his face so exaggerated that Cole couldn’t help but laugh.
“What do you care, anyway?” Cole asked.
“Because you keep moping around, and it’s my job to guide you through life.”
