The drinkers in the taproom of the Cracked Flagon looked up as the door opened and an icy draft swirled into the smoky room, bringing with it a flurry of snow.

"Close the door," snarled a heavily built wagoner by the bar, not even bothering to turn and see who had entered. Other drinkers did, however, and there was a stir of mild interest as they saw that the newcomer was a stranger. Such travelers were few once winter put its icy grip on Norgate Fief. The fields and roads were covered with deep snow as often as not and the temperature, driven down by the chill of the constant wind, often dropped below freezing.

The door shut, cutting off the icy blast from outside, and the candles and fire settled down from the mad dance the wind had set them to. The newcomer threw back the deep cowl of his black-and-white patterned cloak and shook a thick powder of snow from his shoulders. He was a young man with a light growth of stubble on his face. He was a little less than average height and slight of build-A black-and-white border shepherd had slipped softly into the room with him, eyes fixed on his face, waiting for a command. He gestured to an empty table near the front of the room and the dog padded silently to it, sliding her forepaws out in front of her till she lay stretched out on her belly by the table. Her eyes continued to roam the taproom, however, belying her relaxed appearance. The young stranger loosened his cloak and spread it over the back of the chair, to dry in the fire's heat.

There was a further murmur of interest as those present saw that the young man had been carrying under his cloak. He placed a hard leather instrument case on the table. If travelers were rare in winter this far north, so was entertainment, and those present saw the prospect of a more interesting night than they had anticipated. Even the previously surly wagoner's face split with a smile.

"Musician, are you?" he asked expectantly, and Will nodded, smiling in return.

"An honest jongleur, my friend, making his way through the bitter cold of your beautiful countryside." It was the kind of easy, joking reply that Berrigan had coached him in over the two weeks they had traveled together, stopping along the way at more than a dozen inns and taverns like this one. Some of the other drinkers moved a little closer.

"So let's have a tune then," the wagoner suggested. There was a murmur of assent from the rest of the room.

Will considered the request, then cocked his head to one side for a moment. Then he raised his hands to his lips and blew on them. Smiling, he replied, "It's a bitter night out there, my friend. My hands are close to frozen."

"You could warm them round this," another voice told him. He glanced up and saw that the tavern keeper had moved from behind the bar to place a steaming tankard of hot, spiced cider on the table in front of him. Will wrapped his hands around the warm container and nodded appreciatively as he sniffed the aromatic steam rising from the tankard.

"Yes. This would certainly seem to do the trick," he replied. The tavern keeper winked at him.

"On the house, of course," he said. Will nodded. It was no more than his due. The presence of a jongleur would ensure that the inn did excellent business that night. The drinkers would stay longer and drink more. Will took a deep sip of the cider, smacked his lips appreciatively, then began to unbuckle the straps fastening the mandola case. The wood on the instrument was cold to his touch as he drew it from its shaped resting place and he spent a few minutes retuning. The sudden change from the icy cold outside to the warmth of the tavern had thrown the strings hopelessly out of tune.

Satisfied, he strummed a chord, made another minor adjustment and looked around the room, meeting the expectant gazes of its occupants with a grin.

"Perhaps a few songs before my supper," he said to no one in particular, then added, "I assume there is supper?"

"Yes indeed, my friend," the tavern keeper replied quickly. "A fine lamb casserole that my wife made, with fresh bread and boiled peppered potatoes."

Will nodded. An agreement had been reached. "So it's a few songs, then my supper-then more songs. How does that sound," he asked. There was a chorus of approval from the room. Before it had died away, he launched into the jaunty introduction to Sunshine Lady.

"Sunshine lady, color of sunshine in your hair. Happiness is the gown you wear. I would follow you anywhere, my sunshine lady."

He looked up, nodding encouragement to the small crowd in the taproom as they joined in on the chorus of the popular country love song, tapping their wine mugs on the tables and singing in rough voices:

"Spread a little light around, sunshine lady. Isn't it true? I love you, la da da daa. Spread a little love around, sunshine lady. You are the one who lights up the sun."

Then, as he reached the second verse, they fell silent, leaving the singing to him until the chorus again, when their voices joined with his once more. It was a jaunty, bouncing little song-an ideal beginner, as Berrigan described it.

"It won't be the best song in your repertoire," he had said, "but it's bright and lively and well-known, and it's a good one to break the ice with an audience. Remember, you never throw your best song away first. Leave yourself somewhere to go."

Now, as Will reached the final chorus and the room joined with him yet again, he felt a warm flush of pleasure. It grew inside him as he sounded the final chord and the inn patrons broke into a clamor of applause. He had to remind himself, and not for the first time that this was a role he was playing-that he wasn't really a jongleur and his purpose in life was not really the applause that rang out so freely. Although sometimes, at moments like this, it was difficult to remember.

He did another four songs for them. Harvest Sunday, Jessie on the Mountain, Remember the Time and The Runaway Mare, a hard-driving song with a galloping rhythm that had fists pounding and feet tapping throughout the room. As he finished the last, he glanced down at the dog, lying with her eyes glued to him, and mouthed the word "Dragon" at her.

Instantly, the dog came to her haunches, threw back her head and barked long and loud-just as he'd taught her to do in the weeks they had been on the road. Dragon was their alarm word, the signal for her to bark until he told her to stop. He did so now.

"What's that, Harley?" he asked her. Harley was another codeword. It told her that she had done well and now she could stop her barking. Instantly, she fell silent, her tail thumping the boards of the floor twice in recognition that she had played the game properly Will looked up at the expectant crowd and spread his hands in apology, grinning at them.

"Sorry, my friends. My manager here says it's time for me to eat. We've had a long day in the cold and she gets a tenth of my earnings-and my dinner."

A gust of laughter rang around the room. They were country folk and they knew a well-trained dog when they saw one. They also appreciated Will's gentle way of reminding the tavern keeper that he was owed a dinner.

It wasn't long in coming. One of the serving girls hurried a steaming plate of the lamb casserole to his table. Without his mentioning it further, she also set down a bowl of meat scraps, bones and gravy on the floor. Will smiled his thanks to her and nodded to the man behind the bar. The tavern keeper, busy refilling tankards for people whose throats were dry from singing, smiled widely at him.

"Does your horse need tending, young man?" he called, and Will replied, through a mouthful of stew.