"So what will they think I am?" Will asked, and now the grin finally broke through on Halt's face.

"They'll think you're a jongleur," he said.

"A jongleur?" he repeated. "Me?"

Halt looked at him from under dark eyebrows. "A jongleur. You," he said. Will made a helpless gesture with his hands, for a moment lost for words.

"It's a perfect cover for you," Crowley said. "Jongleurs are constantly traveling. They're welcome everywhere, from castles to the meanest tavern. And in a godforsaken spot like Norgate, you'll be doubly welcome. Best of all, people talk to jongleurs. And they talk in front of them," he added, meaningfully.

Will finally found the words he had been looking for. "Aren't we forgetting one small detail?" he said. "I'm not a jongleur. I can't tell jokes. I can't do magic tricks and I can't tumble. I'd break my neck if I tried."

Halt nodded, acknowledging the point. "Aren't you forgetting that there are different types of jongleurs?" he said. "Some of them are simple minstrels."

"And you play that lute of yours quite well, Halt tells me," Crowley put in. Will looked at him, the confusion growing.

"It's a mandola," he said. "It has eight strings, tuned in pairs. A lute has ten strings with some of them acting as drones…"

He tailed off. Then he felt a small glow of pleasure as he registered what Crowley had said.

"Do you really think I play well enough?" he said to Halt. The older Ranger had always assumed a long-suffering expression whenever Will had practiced the mandola. Will couldn't help feeling a sense of satisfaction to hear that he actually admired his skill. The sense was short-lived, however.

"What would I know?" Halt replied with a shrug. "One cat screeching sounds pretty much like another to me."

"Oh," said Will, more than a little deflated. "Well, perhaps other people are likely to be more discriminating. Can't we find some other disguise for me?" he appealed to Crowley. The Ranger Commandant shrugged in his turn, willing to entertain suggestions.

"Such as?" he asked. Will cast around in his mind before an answer came to him.

"A tinker," he suggested. After all, in the adventures and legends that Murdal, Baron Arald's official storyteller, used to recite at Castle Redmont, heroes often disguised themselves as tinkers. Halt snorted disdainfully.

"A tinker?" Crowley asked.

"Yes," said Will, warming to his theme. "They travel around from place to place. People talk to them and-"

"And they are renowned as petty thieves," Crowley finished for him. "Do you think it's a good idea to assume a disguise that ensures that everyone you meet is immediately suspicious of you? They'd be watching you like hawks, waiting for you to steal the cutlery."

"Thieves?" Will said, crestfallen. "Are they really?"

"They're notorious for it," Halt said. "I've never understood why that boring idiot Murdal used to insist that his characters disguised themselves as tinkers. Couldn't think of a worse idea, myself"

"Oh," said Will, now bereft of ideas. He hesitated, then asked again, "Do you really think my playing's good enough to carry it off?"

"One way to find out," Crowley said. "You've got your lute there. Let's have a tune from it."

"It's not a…" Will began, then gave up as he reached behind him for the mandola case, where it lay on top of his saddle and other kit.

"Never mind," he muttered.

He took the instrument from its case and removed the tortoise-shell pick from between the two top strings. He strummed experimentally. As he had expected, the combination of bouncing around on a packsaddle and the effect of the cool night air had affected the tuning. He adjusted the strings, tried another chord and nodded, satisfied. Then he sounded the chord again, decided that the top string was a little sharp and loosened it a fraction. Better, he thought.

"Away you go." Crowley made an encouraging gesture. Will sounded an A chord, then hesitated. He went blank. He couldn't think of a single tune to play. He tried a D chord and then an E minor and a B flat, hoping that the sounds might give him some aspiration.

"Are there words to this tune?" Halt asked, far too politely. Will turned to him.

"I can't think of a song," he said. "My mind's gone blank."

"Could be embarrassing if that happened in a rough tavern" Halt said. Will tried desperately to remember a song. Any song.

"How about Old Joe Smoke?" Crowley suggested cheerfully, and Halt whipped around to glare suspiciously at him.

"Old Joe Smoke?" Will asked. It was, of course, the song that he had turned into a parody about Halt, and he wondered if Crowley knew that. The Ranger's face was innocent of guile, however. He nodded, smiling encouragement, ignoring the glare from his old friend.

"Always been a favorite," Crowley said. "I used to dance a fine jig to Old Joe Smoke when I was a youngster." He made the same go-ahead gesture. Will, unable to think of an alternative, began the introduction on the mandola, his speed and fluency gradually increasing as he became more confident. All he had to do, he told himself, was remember to sing the original words, not the parody version. Throwing caution to the wind, he began to sing:

"Old Joe Smoke's a friend of mine. He lives on Bleaker's Hill. Old Joe Smoke never took a bath and they say he never will. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, fare thee well I say. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, I'll see you on your way."

Crowley was slapping his hand on his knee, keeping time, nodding his head and grinning.

"The boy's good!" he said to Halt, and Will continued, emboldened by the praise. He played the intricate pattern of sixteenth notes that made up the interlude, then sang the next verse.

"Old Joe Smoke be lost a bet. He lost his winter coat. When winter comes Old Joe stays warm by sleeping 'mongst the goats. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, fare thee well I say. Fare thee well, Old Joe Smoke, I'll see you on your way."

He was well into the song now and he played the interlude again, this time trying a more ambitious pattern than before. He fumbled it once on the third bar but covered the mistake artfully, he thought, and launched into the third verse.

"Graybeard Halt he lives with the goats, that's what I've heard tell. He hasn't changed his socks for years, but the goats don't mind the smell. Fare thee well, Graybeard Halt, fare thee well I…"

And stopped, suddenly, realizing what he had sung.

From sheer force of habit, distracted by his own astonishing skill on the mandola, he had reverted to the parody version. Crowley cocked his head to one side, frowning in mock interest.

"Fascinating lyrics," he said. "Not sure that I've heard that version before."

He covered his mouth with his hand and his shoulders began to shake.

"Very funny, Crowley," Halt said in an exasperated tone of voice as the Ranger Commandant made strange choking sounds behind his hand, his face lowered and his shoulders shaking even harder Will looked at Halt in horror.

"Halt… I'm sorry… I didn't mean…"

Crowley finally gave up the struggle and burst into peals of uncontrolled laughter. Will made a helpless gesture at Halt. The older Ranger shrugged resignedly, then glared at Crowley. He leaned sideways and dug the Ranger Commandant painfully in the ribs with his elbow.

"It's not that funny!" he snarled. Crowley held his bruised rib and pointed at Halt.

"It is! It is! You should have seen your face!" he gasped. Then, to Will, he said: "Go on! Are there more verses?"