Cole shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Just…band things.”
Mistel hid a grin. Last-minute, indeed. He just wanted Nash gone.
Nash laughed good-naturedly. “All right, all right, I’ll get out of your way.” Before he left, though, he hesitated, letting his gaze linger on Mistel.
She had long been used to such attention from men, but Cole glared at Nash’s back as they followed him out to the main room. She touched Cole’s arm lightly, a silent thank-you for his rescue, but if he felt it, he pretended not to notice.
Nash joined Drustan Fawst at a nearby table. Sitting with them was a thin, white-haired man, whose many rings gleamed in the low light.
Mistel leaned toward Cole. “Who’s that old man with Drustan and Nash?”
“Verdot Amal,” Cole murmured as he sat down and began tuning his lute. “We need him to like our performance so he’ll invite us to play at the prison—and let me visit my uncle.”
So that was the man who’d put Cole in such a foul mood the other day. Honestly, Cole didn’t look much better now. Mistel moved behind his chair and hesitantly placed her hands on his shoulders.
He tensed up. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” she said, rubbing the knots in his shoulders. “It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”
Cole nodded. Her touch had calmed his stiff posture, yet his brow stayed pinched adorably. Mistel leaned over his shoulder and pressed her finger to the wrinkle between his eyes. “Relax!” she teased.
He turned and grinned up at her. Good. He’d been carrying the weight of their mission for too long.
Kurtz’s boots thudded against the wooden floor as he approached. “If anything goes wrong, that hallway leads to the alley. Run and don’t stop until you reach the stables.”
Mercy. Kurtz was wound up too. “We know about the back exit,” she said, “but nothing’s going to go wrong. It’s a great crowd.”
“It’s a drunk crowd,” Kurtz muttered, tapping his drumstick against his thigh. “Which makes it anyone’s guess how things will go.”
“It’s time,” Cole said. “Kurtz, count us off for ‘Stars Above.’”
Mistel blinked, confused why Cole had changed things. “Not starting with ‘Hear the Pretty Maiden’?”
“No offense,” Cole whispered, “but I’m not leading with a song that calls attention to how pretty the maiden is. Not with this crowd.”
Mistel clicked her tongue. “Cole…”
“I’ll sing lead for the first two songs,” he said. “Then you can start us out on ‘The Messenger.’”
“I think you’re overreacting, but fine.” She’d rather not relive the Ice House.
Kurtz struck the tabor drum, launching them into “Stars Above.” The melody rose, steady and strong, with Cole’s voice carrying the lead.
“Oh, stars above, eternal bright,
Keep vigil through the darkest night.
Protect us all from evil’s sway,
Against the storm, we make our way.”
The crowd responded instantly—clapping, stomping. Two men linked arms and danced in a circle. Mistel’s heart soared. See? Cole and Kurtz had nothing to worry about. The audience loved them already.
But when she took the lead on “The Messenger,” the mood shifted. Whistles and crude remarks erupted. Mistel’s practiced smile faltered, though she did her best to ignore the drunken hunxes.
She sought a friendly face to focus on—the trick she’d taught Cole for playing the Ice House—but even Nash’s eager gaze made her uneasy. She finally settled on the old blind man beside Fenris. He sat still, except for his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. She sang to him, relieved, until?—
Never seen a blind man before? A voice boomed inside her mind.
