“I have seen very little of you, my son,” came the cool words. The priest's lean, dusky face beneath his slate. - gray cowl was as expressionless as Vanyel's own.

Vanyel shrugged, shifted his weight to one foot, and folded his arms across his chest. If he wants to play word-games - “I'm not surprised, sir,” he replied with detached civility. “I have spent very little time outside of my room. I've been using this time alone to catch up on a year's worth of lost sleep.”

Leren allowed one black eyebrow to rise sardonically. “Indeed? Alone?” His expression was not quite a sneer.

Oh, what the hell. In for a sheep - Vanyel went into a full-scale imitation of the most languid fop at Haven.

The man in question wasn't inclined to shay'a'chern, as it happened: rumor had it he played the effeminate to irritate . . . not Vanyel - but certain of his colleagues - and he also happened to be one of the finest swordsmen outside of the Circle or the Guard.

Following that sterling example, Vanyel set out to be very irritating.

“Quite alone, sad to say,” he pouted. “But then again, I am here for a rest. And company would hardly be rested.”

The priest retreated a step, surprise flashing across his face before he shuttered his expression. “Indeed. And yet - I am told young Medren spends an inordinate amount of time in your rooms.” His tone insinuated what he did not-quite-dare say.

I won't take that from Father, you snake. I'm damned if I'll take that from you. Vanyel transformed the snarl he wanted to sport into an even more petulant pout. “Oh, Medren. I'm teaching him music. He is a sweet child, don't you think? But still, a child. Not company. I prefer my companions to be somewhat older.” He took a single slow step toward the priest, and twitched his hip ever so slightly. “Adult, and able to hold an adult conversation, to have adult-interests.” He took another step, and the priest fell back, a vague alarm in his eyes. “More - masterly. Commanding.” He tilted his head to one side and regarded the priest thoughtfully for a moment. The alarm was turning to shock and panic. “Now, someone like you, dear Leren -”

The priest squawked something inarticulate about vessels needing consecrating, and groped behind him for the handle of the open temple door. Within a heartbeat he was through it, and had the gray-painted door shut - tightly - behind him.

Vanyel grinned, tucked his head down to hide his expression, and continued on toward the stables and Yfandes.

“Meke, is there going to be a Harvest Fair this year?” he asked, brushing Yfandes with vigor, as she leaned into the brush strokes and all but purred.

Mekeal did not look up from wrapping the ankles of one of his personal hunters. “Uh - huh,” he grunted. “Should be near twice as big as the ones you knew. Got merchants already down at Fair Field.”

“Already?” This was more than he'd dared hope. “Why?”

“Liss an' her company, dolt.” Meke finished wrapping the off hind ankle and straightened with another grunt, this time of satisfaction. “Got soldiers out here with pay burnin' their pockets oif, and nothin' to spend it on. There're only two ladies down at Forst Reach village that peddle their assets, and three over to Greenbriars, and it's top far to walk except on leave-days anyway. So they sit in camp and drink issue-beer and gripe. Can you see a merchant allowin' a situation like that to go unrelieved? There's a good girl,” he said to the mare, patting her ample rump. “We'll be off in a bit.”

:Keep brushing. You can talk and brush at the same time. :

Vanyel resumed the steady strokes of the brush, working his way down Yfandes' flank. “Would there be any instrument makers, do you think?” Forst Reach collected a peddling fee from every merchant setting his wagon up at the two Fairs, Spring and Harvest. Withen found that particular task rather tedious - and Vanyel hoped now he'd entrusted it to Mekeal.

Meke sucked on his lip, his hand still on the mare's shoulder. “Now that I think of it, there's one down there already. Don't think we'll likely get more than one. Why?”

“Something I have in mind,” he replied vaguely. And, to Yfandes, :Lady-my-love, do you think I can interest you in a little trip?: She sighed. :So long as it's a little trip.: :This soft life is spoiling you.:

:Mmh,: she agreed, blinking lazily at him. :I like being spoiled. I could get used to it very quickly.: He chuckled, and went to get her gear.

Before Vanyel even found someone who knew which end of Fair Field the luthier was parked in, he had picked up half a dozen trifles for Shavri and Jisa.

He paused in the act of paying for a jumping jack, struck by the fact that they were so uppermost in his mind.

What has gotten into me? he wondered. I haven't thought about them for a year, and now - Well, I haven't seen them for a year. That's all. And if I can give Shavri a moment of respite from her worry - He pocketed the toy and headed for the grove of trees at the northern end of the field.

He spotted the faded red wagon at once; there was an old man seated on the back steps of it, bent over something in his hands.

Shavri, bent over a broken doll some child in the House of Healing had brought to her. Looking up at me with a face wet with tears. Me, standing there like an idiot, then finally getting the wits to ask her what was wrong. “1 can't bear it, Van, I can't - Van, I want a baby -” He shoved the memory away, hastily. “Excuse me,” Vanyel said, after waiting for the carver perched on the back steps of his scarlet traveling - wagon (part workshop, part display, and part home) to finish the wild rose he was carving from a bit of goldenoak. He still hesitated to break the old man's concentration in the middle of such a delicate piece of work, but there wasn't much left of the afternoon. If he was going to find the purported luthier -

But the snow-pated craftsman's concentration had evidently weathered worse than Vanyel's gentle interruption.

“Aye?” he replied, knobby fingers continuing to shape the delicate, gold-sheened petals.

“I'm looking for Master Dawson.”

“You're looking at him, laddybuck.” Now the oldster put down his knife, brushed the shavings from his leather apron, and looked up at Vanyel. His expression was friendly in a shortsighted, preoccupied way, his face round, with cloudy gray-green eyes.

“I understand you have musical instruments for sale?”

The carver's interest sharpened, and his eyes grew less vague. “Aye,” he said, standing, and pulling his apron over his head. There were a few shavings sticking to the linen of his buff shirt and breeches, and he picked at them absently. “But - in good conscience I can't offer 'em before Fair-time, milord. Not without Ashkevron permission, any rate.”

Vanyel smiled, feeling as shy as a child, and tilted his head to one side. “Well, I'm an Ashkevron. Would it be permissible if I made it right with my father?''

The old man looked him over very carefully. “Aye,” he said, after so long a time Vanyel felt as if he was being given some kind of test. “Aye, I think 'twould. Come in the wagon, eh?”

Half a candlemark later, with the afternoon sun shining into the crowded wagon and making every varnished surface glow, Vanyel sighed with disappointment. “I'm sorry, Master Dawson, none of these lutes will do.” He picked one at random off the rack along the wall of the wagon interior, and plucked a string, gently. It resonated - but not enough. He put it back, and locked the clamp that held it in place in the rack. “Please, don't mistake my meaning, they're beautiful instruments and the carving is fine, but - they’re - they're student's lutes. They're all alike, they have no voice of their own. I was hoping for something a little less ordinary.” He shrugged, hoping the man wouldn't become angered.

Strangely enough, Dawson didn't. He looked thoughtful instead, his face crossed by a fine net of wrinkles when he knitted his brows. “Huh. Well, you surprise me, young milord - what did you say your name was?”