That afternoon, their merry band visited local taverns to offer their services. Markim at the Jig and the Jug had a regular musician and refused them. No answer at the door of the Gathering or at the Driftwood Pub. The owners of the Tipsy Taproom and Belanna’s Barrelhouse insisted they perform on-the-spot auditions, which resulted in invitations to play both venues.
If they could get someone to listen, they were as good as hired. That—and the fact that they hadn’t seen Jeffrey Korngold anywhere—reassured Cole that they were on track.
So it went. Days in the Dale, nights in alehouses.
One clear afternoon in the Dale, Zanna, off duty from Ice Island, went scouting. The milder weather drew such a thick crowd that after an hour, Kurtz emptied Mistel’s hat into a satchel, wary of leaving such a bounty in plain sight and tempting thieves.
While they were taking a break, Zanna crouched between Cole and Mistel, her dark eyes scanning their surroundings.
“Joonas Erlichman is here selling horses,” she said. “I saw him in the east stables.”
Mistel brightened and gazed across the yard. “Maybe he’ll hear us.”
This might be the North, as Kurtz was fond of saying, but Master Erlichman was one merchant who hadn’t returned to the Dale following the Poroo attack. Some said he’d been busy with the ruling council. Others said he was afraid. Cole was simply glad he was here.
“Maybe we should set up near the stables tomorrow,” he suggested.
“Not a bad idea,” Kurtz said. “What shall we play next?”
“Let’s do the set that starts with ‘Mountain Song’ and ends with ‘Chamswrath.’” Cole started them off, and the moment Mistel began to sing, a handful of people in the crowd applauded.
Cole grinned. Mistel was so talented, he sometimes forgot what it must be like to hear her for the first time.
After the final note of “Chamswrath,” a young man stepped forward, his focus on Mistel.
“Simply fantastic.” He bowed. “I’m Nash Erlichman. This is?—”
Mistel’s face lit up. “Erlichman? Are you any relation to?—”
“Joonas Erlichman? He’s my father.” Nash flashed a grin and gestured to the tall man beside him. “This is my friend, Drustan Fawst.”
Cole’s stomach dropped like a stone, for this was one person he’d hoped to never see again in his life. Drustan, his former stepbrother, had grown taller, stronger. The moment their eyes met, recognition flashed across Drustan’s face.
Mistel dipped a polite curtsy. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Mistel Wepp, and this is Cole Tanniyn and Kurtz Chazir.”
Drustan’s grin widened, making Cole’s skin crawl. “By the depths, I thought you’d died. That’s what Mother told us. Said you caught something from one of those mangy dogs you used to coddle.”
Cole grip tightened on the neck of his lute. “Drustan.”
His stepbrother laughed, sharp and mocking. “You always did have the luck of a cockroach.”
Mistel stepped between them. “Is there a problem?”
Drustan’s gaze lingered on Mistel like a cat sizing up a mouse. “None at all.”
Nash, oblivious to the tension, said, “We’re having dinner tonight at my father’s estate. You should come.”
A private performance for Joonas Erlichman? Cole couldn’t believe their luck. This could be a major step toward getting hired at the Black Boar.
Mistel looked at Cole. “Don’t we have something tonight?”
He thought it over and winced. “Oh, unfortunately, yes. Belanna’s Barrelhouse.”
“Perhaps tomorrow?” Nash offered.
“You would reschedule your dinner for us?” Mistel asked.
“Dinner does tend to come along daily.” Nash gave directions to the estate, then left with Drustan, who shot Cole a final glare before they disappeared into the crowd.
