It seemed inadequate, and yet I forced myself to say no more. I would not be impetuous. I would think long and hard before I gave any real message to Nettle to relay to Burrich. I did not know how much she knew or guessed. I did not even know how much Burrich knew of all that had befallen me since last we parted. Better to regret unsaid words than repent of words I could never call back.
Who are you?
I owed her at least that much. A name to call me by. There was only one that seemed right to give her. Changer. My name is Changer.
She nodded, both disappointed and pleased. In another place and time, my Wit warned me that others were near me. I pulled away from the dream and she reluctantly let me go. I eased back into my own flesh. For a time longer, I kept my eyes closed while opening all my other senses. I was in the cabin, Thick breathing heavily beside me. I smelled the oil the minstrel used on the wood of his harp and then heard Swift whisper, “Why is he sleeping now?”
“I'm not,” I said quietly. I eased my arm away from Thick lest I awake him and then sat up slowly. “I was just getting Thick settled. He is still very sick. I wish we didn't have to bring him on this voyage.”
Swift was still looking at me oddly. Cockle the minstrel was moving very softly, wiping the frame of his repaired harp with oil. I stood, head bent beneath the low ceiling, and looked at Burrich's son. Much as he wished to avoid me, I had a duty. “Are you busy with anything right now?” I asked Swift.
He looked at Cockle as if expecting the minstrel to speak for him. When he remained silent, Swift replied quietly, “Cockle was going to play some Six Duchies songs for the Outislanders. I was going to listen to them.”
I took a breath. I needed to pull this boy closer to me if I was going to keep my word to Nettle. Yet I'd already alienated him by trying to send him home. Too firm a rein on him now would not gain his trust. So I said, “Much can be learned from a minstrel's songs. Listen, also, to what the Outislanders say and sing, and do your best to gain a few words of their language. Later, we will speak of what you learned.”
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. It was as hard for him to express gratitude as it was for him to acknowledge I had authority over him. I would not push for that, yet. So I nodded to him and let him leave. Cockle swept me a minstrel's gracious bow at the door and for an instant our eyes met. The friendliness there surprised me, until he bade me farewell with, “It's rare to find a man-at-arms who values learning, and rarer still to find one who recognizes that minstrels can be a source of it. I thank you, sir.”
“It is I who thank you. My prince has asked me to educate the lad. Perhaps you can show him that gaining knowledge need not be painful.” In the blink of an eye, I made a second decision. “I'll join you, if I would not be intruding.”
He flourished me another bow. “I'd be honored.”
Swift had gone ahead of us, and he did not look pleased when he saw me accompanying the musician.
The Outislander sailors were like any sailors I've ever known anywhere. Any sort of entertainment was preferable to the daily tedium of the ship. Those not currently on duty soon gathered to hear Cockle sing. It was a fine setting for the minstrel, standing on the bare deck with the wind in his hair and the sun at his back. The men who gathered to hear him brought their own handiwork with them, much as women would have brought their embroidery or knitting. One worked a tatter of old rope into a knotted mat; another carved lazily at a bit of hardwood. The intentness with which they listened confirmed what I had suspected. By choice or by chance, most of Peottre's crew had a working knowledge of Duchy tongue. Even those of the crew working the sails nearby had one ear for the music.
Cockle gave them several traditional Six Duchies ballads that memorialized the Farseer monarchs. Wise enough a man was he to avoid any of the songs that had to do with our long feud with the Out Islands. I wouldn't have to sit through the Antler Island Tower song today. Swift appeared to pay good attention to the songs. His attention was most deeply snared when Cockle told an Old Blood fable in song. I watched the Outislander sailors as Cockle sang it and wondered if I'd see the same disgust and resentment that many Six Duchies people showed when such songs were sung. I didn't. Instead, the sailors seemed to accept it as a strange song of foreign magic.
When he had finished, one of the Outislander sailors stood with a broad grin that wrinkled the boar tattoo on his cheek. He'd set aside his whittling and now he brushed the fine curls of clinging wood from his chest and trousers. “You think that magic is strong?” he challenged us. “I know a stronger, and best you know it, too, for face it you might.”