Then speak to me true, 'neath this untroubled sky:
What tribute would you have me honor you by?
Mirabelle Monet didn't think much of Caenlorn's voice, truth be told. It was thin and reedy – like Chancellor Ocato's, actually; perhaps that was why he was playing Dragon in this heraldic duet, but if so, it was a poor decision. Ocato had never precisely been a byword for bardlike charisma.
Of course, half the Flowing Bowl was gathered around to listen regardless. They probably would have done even without the guest of honor to anchor them.
In truth, at that threshold no foe gathered near...
Now, no complaints about Astia Inventius as Wolf. Astia's voice was deep and full-throated, carrying both beauty and a martial quality.
Last Seed not even come again, and she was already a critic. Perhaps if the first songs to be bandied about hadn't been such slapdash work... but no, if the Deadlands no longer preoccupied her as they once did, it was a good thing no matter the cause.
Never mind. Find Maenlorn and work out the deal. With sea trade as scanty as it was, she couldn't afford to be undercut.
"Ah- excuse me," said a voice behind her – a rather stunted Altmer with sea-hardened garments; crewman of the Highcrown, no doubt, though the rest who hadn't gone off down the Gold Road were sticking fast to the vessel. "You look as though you know the people in these parts. Who is that old man watching the bards?"
Then I must entreat that you turn all your power
To the hour of the king, for the king of the hour!
The harmony wasn't bad either, for all that Astia and Caenlorn sang on about the same scale.
"That," said Mirabelle, eyeing this likely patron, "is Ilav Dralgoner." He was giving the bards his undivided attention, certainly. She couldn't tell with accuracy from this angle, but it seemed as though the miserable old buffer was too occupied to be bitter and acerbic for once.
"Sorry, but I don't know who that is."
Fair enough. The way the guests were standing about Ilav like a festival fire – something to be near, but not to touch – showed his importance to anyone who paid attention. "He was Primate in the Great Chapel of Akatosh. Kvatch, you know. Just been called to the special Elder Council – to be frank, I hope it drags on a bit, so that he can go back to Kvatch when it's done. He's been helping to transition our Great Chapel, but he doesn't understand the way of Dibella at all, at all."
The sailor nodded, seeming satisfied with the explanation but disappointed that it didn't go the way he liked. "Not much of an authority on the harbor, then?"
"Oh! Is that what you're looking for! Mirabelle Monet, proprietor of the Foc'sle, at your service – and incidentally, most rumors you may have heard about my service are entirely accurate."
The Altmer didn't appear interested in that part of the offer – pity that so many elves were so choosy – but there was something that made his eyes go black with excitement all the same. "Then – about the detention of exiles from the provinces –"
And the shout from the mountain rings out to the Tower:
'Tis the hour of the king, and the king of the hour!
They began the interlude, Caenlorn on the flute and Astia on the drums.
"Well, that much isn't exactly my area. I'd ask at the prison if I were you."
"Would it be your area to know what vessels have arrived and when?"
"I don't know offhand, usually, but I maintain good records. But –" This whole conversation was quite out of the common way, and Mirabelle's interest was piqued. "Highcrown, aren't you? The diplomatic vessel? Surely someone aboard would have known-"
A Nordic woman toward the makeshift stage, who had been inclining an ear toward what looked like a cutting mutter from Father Ilav, turned about and yelled, "Ilav Dralgoner of Kvatch wants the whole lot of you to shut up!"
If he'd said that in so many words, Mirabelle knew he was perfectly willing to tell them himself. But the effect was immediate and universal.
In the silenced inn, Astia and Caenlorn's voices rang out as one.
All haste to the City, all trust to his claims,
His mantle borne true to rekindle the flames!
So proud a procession – so widely renowned –
Thus swift comes the onslaught, that he not be crowned.
All strength to the Temple, we shall yet prevail –
Nay, so tattered the world that no strength can avail.
Gaze now on our downfall, that walks our own ground,
Now all that we are for destruction is bound –
Yet arises the Dragon, that death shall not lower,
Caenlorn: In the hour of the king-
Astia: Who was king but that hour.
Mirabelle hadn't noticed until now, but the strange Altmer seemed ill – pale, shaking – clammy, too, by the looks of it. She opened her mouth to ask after him, but he silenced her with a forceful wave of his hand.
The tempo grew mournful and reflective. Caenlorn began the alternation.
The throne he was made for, though scarcely he knew-
His tongue was of silver, but only spoke true-
The guide to the threshold no hell's fire might pass-
'Twas he, only he, earned the wolf-and-cuirass-
In gold and in glory our triumph he led-
He walked the dark paths he'd bear none else to tread-
In truth, at his passing, the grief would be great
If the span of his years were one hundred and eight,
But ne'er in that time would be equaled the flower
Of the hour of the king, of the reign of an hour.
Perhaps it was the looming specter of the council, but for the first time she'd even imagined such a thing, Father Ilav was actually driven to tears. The little Altmer, meanwhile, seemed halfway to fainting. "What is this?" he asked hoarsely.
"I'm afraid I don't understand – if you might be able to pay for a potion, I-"
He shook his head erratically. "I mean to ask, what is the topic of this song?"
Mirabelle blinked. "Er, well, you did hear it fairly well, didn't you? That is, when I told you about Ilav Dralgoner-"
"You told me he was an important clergyman with the power to advise the Elder Council, and I thought that was reason enough for respect! What has he got to do with – with-"
The poor elf wasn't ill after all. He really didn't know. "By the Nine, where have they been keeping you?"
He smiled wanly. "The Summerset Isles."
"Oh," said Mirabelle, realizing. "The storms – and then the embargo – but I didn't think-"
"The embargo," he gasped. "By all the gods, I-" He closed his eyes. "I'll need to see these shipping records. At once."
"Not just yet," said Mirabelle regretfully. "I have something to see to. Maenlorn, the proprietor here, is undercutting my business – quite rude of him, as my share of the market is narrower to begin with."
"Ah... Are you saying that because the diplomatic contingent stayed here rather than at the Foc'sle?"
"Well, yes. Why do you ask?"
"If I were you," said the Altmer in an undertone, "I'd consider that it may be because Maenlorn is a mer and you are not. Listen – I beg you not to repeat anything that passes between us. My life may depend on it."
Mirabelle chuckled. "Easily arranged. I may kiss and tell, but that makes it all the easier to keep the rest confidential." And it took a very seasoned sailor to surpass the pleasure Mirabelle got from hoarding a good secret.