He frowned. “And what would that be? We’ve all we need. Fish, and ale.”

  The lute-player took that moment to warble his way up the octaves, setting Evanne’s just-fine teeth on edge. She turned, bawling, “Be still! We’re trying to have a business meeting over here!”

  The lutist gathered his dignity, stood, and said, “Think you can do better?”

  Evanne smiled, putting a little cat-with-cream into it. “I know I can do better. The question is whether this clown,” she jerked a thumb at the bartender without looking, “wants to pay for it.”

  “You what?” said the bartender.

  “Pay.” Evanne glanced back at him, dirty rag and all. “I promise you a song played better than any you’ve heard. A once in a lifetime performance that will make children quieten. Seabirds will cease their idle chatter, the very waves calming susurration for⁠—”

  “Susurwhat?” The bartender blinked.

  “The waves will still, the lake calm.” Evanne let the cat-with-cream go and harboured the wolf in her grin. “Men and women will stop their business, bewitched by the music coming from your tavern. It will be a song that all who hear it will remember. And they will remember your tavern as its source, and over time, memory will become legend, and legend myth. The finest bards will come from all corners to visit here, this place, where the song was first heard.”

  No one spoke. The lutist was frozen, barmaid stalled in her push of the asshole’s hand from her rear. Even the barman’s rag had stopped pushing dirt from one part of the mug to another. Then the fire popped, and the lutist said, “Are you saying I’m playing badly?”

  Evanne rolled her eyes, turning back to the barman. “So. What’s it to be? An eternity of mediocrity, or a song of ages, in exchange for information that will cost you nothing to give?”

  The barman put his mug down. “Can you fight?”

  Evanne thought about that. “Kind of?”

  “We’ll talk after you get yourself out of this, then.” He pointed with his chin over Evanne’s shoulder.

  She turned, taking in the lutist. Bad stubble, the kind of growth that reminded her of parched grass. Patchy in the way that would encourage a no, thanks to any offer. He held his lute by the neck, other arm outreached to grab her, but missed because she’d slowed his roll by turning.

  He looked at her, his lute, then swung it like a bat. If there was any doubt this man is a hack, it’s gone now. No self-respecting bard uses their instrument as a weapon, unless it’s crafted from moonbeams by the ancients. Evanne was no dab hand at fighting, not like her mother, or even her father, but she liked to think she was quick, and with her mended heart beating right, she wasn’t going to run out of puff.

  She stepped back, meaning to make an effortless dodge. Her heel caught on detritus, perhaps a fragment of the slumped bar, and she stumbled. The poise and grace she hoped to broadcast was lost as she staggered, but the outcome was positive as the lute swept past her face. The wannabe bard overbalanced, veered to her right, and went down on one knee as she took a seat on her rump. Tarragon squealed in her ear, which wasn’t fetching, but let Evanne know the fairy was still okay.

  The asshole by the barmaid tried to make free with his hands again, which earned him a wince-inducing right hook from the woman. She might look like yesterday’s breakfast, but she’s got a mean swing. The asshole stumbled back, to Evanne’s jaundiced eye more in surprise than impact, collected a stool on his way, and went down in a flail of limbs.

  The flailing hit a bleary-eyed fisherman, who took the hit like a pro. Didn’t bawl or fuss, just hefted his tankard and went to work on the asshole now on the floor beside him.

  The lutist rose, trying to navigate back to Evanne, and that’s when the fisherman’s tankard broke, sending a hunk of ale-drenched wood into the side of the not-a-bard’s face. The not-a-bard, uncertain as to priorities, bellowed, heading for the fisherman.

  The fisherman had brought friends, three likely lads who looked like they knew their way about a tavern brawl. Two intercepted the lutist, the third helping his friend beat on the asshole.

  For reasons Evanne couldn’t get straight, the barmaid shrieked and headed for her, which wasn’t a good outcome. Evanne struggled upright, dodged a swing, another, and collected a third in her stomach. She growled, feeling the Vhemin in her rise, her hand clutching for a weapon. At her back lay her guitar and scattergun.

  The human in her gave a pitying stare to the Vhemin, and Evanne regained some control. “Hold up a second⁠—”

  Someone hit her over the head, like, really hard. Wood shot past her face, suggesting stool, and she saw Tarragon pop free, stars, rage, and the floor in that order. Evanne bit her lip, tasting hot salty, then someone hauled her up. She had two men on her, the barmaid lining up for a swing.

  This is bullshit! “Hitch!” She reached for the spectre, and he flowed into her. Evanne let him hold her, touch her thoughts, then take control. Her body leaned left, the swing taking the man on her right in the jaw, and Evanne’s knee came up all by itself to impact with the barmaid’s crotch. The outcome wasn’t as impressive as it could’ve been on a man, but Hitch was trying to distract. She felt him buy space, her left shoulder dropping to break the man’s grip on that side, and then she leaned right into the man floundering there.

  A quick stamp into the back of the left-side man’s knee and he was out of action for a moment. Evanne felt Hitch slam her elbow into the guy on the right, then kick the barmaid in the crotch—again!—as the woman came back into the fray.

  Her left hand chopped down on the left-side man’s neck, then she spun to the right, sending the blade of her right hand into that motherfucker’s throat. He coughed, and she followed that with a punch that landed like an anvil.

  Back to the barmaid. Just in time to see her fielding another stool, swing half done, so Evanne stepped inside her reach, grabbed an elbow, and help her along. The woman tumbled face-first into a table, the sound of teeth on wood like the scattering of gravel on stone.

  The lutist roared, coming at Evanne from her left, and that’s when Hitch swung the ancient’s scattergun from under her cloak. The weapon whined like an insect, the big chamber beneath the barrel thrum-clicking, the nose of the weapon against the lutist’s forehead. Tarragon hovered, then settled back into Evanne’s collar, which was very fetching indeed, and not unnoticed by everyone present. Evanne could imagine their thoughts. A holy weapon, and she has one of the fey with her.

  The man stopped cold. Hitch shivered out of her shadow, misting to nothing. Evanne didn’t know what it cost him to do that, but he never stayed for long. She gave a sly, sideways grin. “Hi. Do you want to hear something epic?”

  The man gave a feverish nod. “Hello. I am listening! I’m listening right now.”

  “Good man.” She spun the scattergun beneath her cloak, a Trick she’d been practicing for a moment just such as this, then flicked her fingers at him. “Back up. That’s right. Keep going. Over there. Sit down.” The lutist sat at the table the barmaid hit, helping the woman up beside him without seeming to pay much attention.

  The barman cleared his throat, so she turned to give him her attention. “I guess it’s time to talk about it, then. You said you’d play in exchange for information.” He considered the remains of his bar. “Never seen someone fight like you did. You barely moved, yet you tossed Muriel,” he nodded at the stunned barmaid, “aside like she was nothing. Muriel’s the town brawling champion. I keep her around for times like this.”

  Evanne kept the sly smile about her lips. “The deal was a song for information. Are you good for it?”

  “I’m good for it.” He retrieved a mug. “I’ll throw in some ale for free.”

  Her smile widening, Evanne sauntered to where the lutist had played. She pushed broken furniture aside, retrieved a stool, uprighted it, sat, and pulled her guitar from its sling across her back. Tarragon glimmered from her perch in Evanne’s cloak. “What are you going to play?”

  “Same thing that hack tried to.” Evanne put her fingers on the strings, plucked them, and gave a tuning peg a quarter turn. “This is called The Three Come. It was made in Imshir, I think. The days were long and hot. Hard, too. The land across the sea is desolate and doesn’t offer kindness easily.”

  Evanne bowed her head over her guitar, fingers touching strings, soft, and delicate. The ancient guitar Uncle Day had given her set its notes as she asked, the music rising like embers from a fire. She felt the dead about her as she knew she would. She knew them as they arrived. Wolrif, a young man lost in the lake just two summers back, perched on a table. Yvette, his lover, who’d drowned herself after, watched Evanne with yearning only the dead knew. Behind her, Elder Gallile leaned on her cane, all shimmering blue like the dead did.

  In Imshir's land, where sun-blazed skies unfurl,

  Three gods descended, their banners proudly twirl.

  Cophine, the summer warden, her flame aglow,

  Ikmae, the middle patron, strength to bestow,

  Khiton, the god of endings, wise and bold,

  Together they stood, their destiny foretold.

  The Three Come, they stand so strong,

  In Imshir's heat, they'll right the wrong,

  Against the demon horde, they'll fight,

  Bringing hope to Imshir's darkest night.

  Imshir's sands, unyielding, scorched and dry,

  But in their hearts, a blaze that touched the sky.

  They vowed to cleanse this land of dread and woe,

  With every step, their spirits began to grow,

  Cophine's fire, Ikmae's steadfast might,

  Khiton's wisdom, guiding them through the night.

  The Three Come, they stand so strong,

  In Imshir's heat, they'll right the wrong,

  Against the demon horde, they'll fight,

  Bringing hope to Imshir's darkest night.

  In the fallen city, the demons gathered near,

  Their shadows looming, and their intentions clear.

  But the Three Come, unbroken and unbowed,

  Their unity a shield against the darkest shroud,

  With valour and courage, their spirits aflame,

  They'd face the demons, and they'd stake their claim.

  The Three Come, they stand so strong,

  In Imshir's heat, they'll right the wrong,

  Against the demon horde, they'll fight,

  Bringing hope to Imshir's darkest night.

  Through battles fierce, they pressed on unafraid,

  In their hearts, the hope of a brighter shade.

  Imshir's people, they rallied to their side,

  Together they'd conquer, with hearts open wide,

  For Cophine, Ikmae, Khiton, and the land they'd mend,

  In unity, their strength, they'd find their way to the end.

  The Three Come, they stand so strong,

  In Imshir's heat, they'll right the wrong,

  Against the demon horde, they'll fight,

  Bringing hope to Imshir's darkest night.

  In the land of Tebrani, they'll sing this song,

  Of the Three’s triumph, as they stood strong,

  Though Imshir's days were long and hard, it's true,

  The dawn of better times, their hope shines through.

  For in unity and courage, the darkness shall fall,

  And Imshir shall rise, as a city for all.

  The spectres played with her by lending their strength to her song, their need to hers, and giving something back to the living they waited on. Evanne felt the cold gather about her, shivering as her breath misted past blueing lips. I’m not done. Keep going. Her fingers wanted to tremble on the strings, but there’d be time for that later. She pushed on, feeling Wolrif and Yvette gather closer, Gallile not far off, the dead hungry for the song she offered. The Three Come played, and Evanne sang, her husky voice a balance against the sweetness of the guitar.

  When the song was done, Evanne stilled her fingers. “Knight Champion Geneve brought her Light, and her love, and saved the world. Not the Three. No matter what the song says.” She stood, facing the bartender. Then swayed, exhausted, and sat. Stood again as Tarragon glimmered inside her cloak, giving her the warmth she craved. Lips still blue, she croaked, “Information.”

  The bartender’s face was wet with tears. “I’ve never heard music like that.”

  “And you won’t again. I keep counsel with the damned, and I’m here to save this world. Will you keep your part of the bargain?”

  “I will,” he husked. “But first, I beg your name.”

  Evanne let her smile fall. “Is it important?”

  “People will want to know.”

  Evanne eyed the spectres in the room. She wanted to say, You should remember Wolrif, Yvette, and Gallile. Their work is yet undone. But it wouldn’t matter. Not in a place like this. She squared her shoulders. “I’m Evanne, the Half-Made.”

  Wolrif, Yvette, and Gallile walked with her to the jetty. The old woman’s ghost was a little slower, her steps marred by the arthritis that plagued her last living years. They didn’t say anything to Evanne.

  The dead never spoke to the living.

  “Hi,” Hitch said.

  There’s always one. Evanne let the cold wind tug a rust lock free, the wisp tickling her lips. “Done enough resting?”

  “Resting is a loaded word,” the spectre complained. “It implies I’m off doing naught while you do all the work.”

  “You … are,” Evanne said. “That’s literally what you’re doing. You’re not here, instead off on some cloud,” here she kept her voice light, because the other Hitch warned her to not remind him of what he’d lost, “while I’m doing all the hard work of walking about.”

  “You weren’t doing all the hard work of fighting.”

  “I literally was! I punched. I kicked. I⁠—”

  “I did all that.” The spectre strolled out over the gently lapping lake water. He waved her cares away. “I⁠—”

  “You don’t even have hands,” Tarragon piped from Evanne’s collar. “You can’t hit someone.”

  Evanne closed her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “It doesn’t matter. Are you well, ghost? Are you with us?”

  “To the bitter end.” His voice was bright, as if the end wasn’t bitter at all. To be fair, he’s lived as a shade eight hundred years past his demise. He knows what happens when you die. “Did you get what you came for?”

  “No,” Tarragon said.

  “Kind of,” Evanne hedged.

  “The dirty barman said nothing useful.” The fairy nestled back into her collar. “It was all, ‘Oh my, you sing so well,’ or, ‘My tavern will be famous’!” Her voice was not a bad impression of the bartender’s uncultured tone.

  “He said this lake arrived four generations past.” Evanne counted on her fingers. “That’s what, a couple hundred years?”

  “Healthcare sucks now,” Hitch said. “I don’t know if we can be so bold.”

  Evanne gave the ghost a little side-eye, but let it lie. “However many years exactly doesn’t much matter. He,” she pointed at Wolrif, “was one of the first to die in this new lake. Off performing for his sweet,” she turned her gaze on the silent Yvette, “who goaded him on. Oh, aye, I can see the Trick of it well enough. I can see how it happened, and how the guilt of it carried you down, too.” Evanne frowned, glancing at Gallile. “I’ve no idea what you’re doing here, though.”

  The old woman said nothing. They never did.

  “Maybe she knew the lake wasn’t safe,” Tarragon said.

  Evanne thought about it, then shook her head. “There’s no way she could’ve. Wolrif was the first to drown. Unless…” Evanne turned to Gallile. “You’ve been below, haven’t you?” The old woman nodded, glimmering blue. “You went there before Wolrif, and knew what devils the ancients hid.”

  “Not devils.” Hitch turned his not-face on her. “Riches. She found something worthy of keeping to herself, knew the way around the guardians, and here she stands, a signpost of human greed.” Gallile shrugged, denying nothing.

  “Can you release them?” Tarragon clambered free, trailing glimmer, and took wing, flitting about the three ghosts. “They look so sad.”

  “Aye.” Evanne waved the question off, suddenly tired. Always one more thing. She rubbed her chest where her healed heart beat, stronger than it ever had. “We just need to get there. Get past the guardians. Uncover the riches. And then, maybe, the ghost will be appeased.”

  “It’s never that simple,” Tarragon said.

  “No, it never is.” Evanne tucked her stray lock back under her hood, shivering. Her heart might be stronger, but her blood was still Half-Made. This land was too cold for a part-Vhemin like her. “We’ll work it out. First things first. A boat.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Tarragon perched on the prow of the skiff Evanne had liberated from its mooring. No one complained, gave chase, or threw rocks at them, which made a pleasing change. It was a pretty good skiff in a pretty bad town. Tarragon could see how the lines of the boat would love the water, and it didn’t leak. A neat coil of rope, a stacked pair of oars, and other oddments inside suggested it was often used, but well cared for.

  She glanced at Evanne. The young woman seemed recovered from her ordeal at the tavern. She’d bounced back from the cold of the grave once more, but it didn’t mean she always would. Just last night, Tarragon had argued with her, pleaded, raged, and cajoled, but nothing would sway Evanne. The maybe-Vhemin was stubborn, cleaving close to her mission to do better, whatever that meant. Living or dead, Evanne had said, I will help them all.

  Tarragon bit her lip. That’s why I love her.