He waited another long moment, listening. He heard nothing. He perceived no sign that any Lonne mage had noticed the whisper of bardic sorcery through their city. Would he, if any did? And was there any point to asking himself such questions after he’d already chosen to risk this trespass? That last question, at least, answered itself.
Taudde made his way carefully to the rear of the cluttered shop. Yes, there was the table he recalled, with all manner of tools and fittings ready to hand for a craftsman. He got out his candlelighter, lit the waiting lamp to illuminate the table, absently pulled the nearest chair over to the table, and sat down to look over the materials available. He could already hear, in his mind, the instruments he wanted to make. Pipes—two sets, of course: one set pitched to open the way and the other to follow. He already knew their tones and voices, pure as the crystalline air in the high mountains… He reached, not even consciously looking, after a suitable blank for the first pipe, and then for a blade that would let him turn the ivory blank he’d selected into the pipe he already held, whole and perfect, in his mind.
Lost in his craftworking, Taudde found himself surprised by the dawn. He glanced up at last, surprised by the dazzle as the rising sun found its way through chinks in the shutters of the high windows and fell across the table. Reaching up, he pushed the shutters back. Then he looked down at the work of his hands, revealed by the vivid light of the sun.
He had worked through the night with intense concentration abetted by the occasional lift of sorcery. This was not the first time he’d lost himself in craftwork, but the resulting instruments nevertheless astonished him. He thought he had never made finer instruments. Ironic, that these should be a masterwork. What would his grandfather say to the use of uncommon skill toward such an end? Though… given the approaching solstice, he might actually say something on the order of Good work, boy. Probably Good work, boy, considering you’re a fool.
Taudde let his breath out and steadfastly turned his attention toward more immediate matters. Two completed sets of twin pipes lay before him. Each set was composed of six pipes, three matched pairs per set. The smallest were the length of a man’s forefinger, the longest perhaps twice so long. Taudde examined his work by the morning’s clear light. The craftsmanship, he judged, evaluating the instruments with an objective eye, was indeed very fine. And the sorcery threaded through the instruments… He let it resonate through his hands and his heart and thought that the sorcery, too, should prove adequate.
The table was littered with bits of cut wire, shavings of ivory and horn, discarded fittings, and the odd blank that had not proven amenable to the crafting. Taudde tucked the finished pipes into a belt pouch and began to clean up all this random debris. The shop’s proprietor had seemed shrewd. Probably he knew his shop as he knew the fit of his own boots. Even so… the supply of craft materials in this shop was so generous that possibly the proprietor would not realize some of his blanks were missing. Or at least not at once. Even a little delay would be sufficient. Or at least helpful.
Taudde swept the last of the shavings into a different pouch for later disposal and tried to remember precisely where the chair had been resting before he’d pulled it over to the table. And had the table lamp always been at this exact angle?
He had no time to decide, because at that moment—defying the general rule that late nights in the candlelight district should be followed by late mornings in wealthy districts such as the Paliante—the mage spell that guarded the door and front wall of the shop suddenly dissolved, and Taudde heard the simultaneous metallic clink of a key being inserted into the door’s lock.
Taudde didn’t panic. Not exactly. But for one shocked instant, he froze. For that instant, he was certain that the shop’s proprietor was going to step into the shop and find Taudde still standing there like a fool, speechless and motionless.
The door swung open and the proprietor came in. Taudde, ducking sideways and down, got just enough of a glimpse to recognize the man. He dropped to his knees, out of sight behind a bank of shelves that held more blanks and a large collection of clay jars and opaque glass bottles. Some of the bottles rattled gently as his abrupt motion rocked the shelves, and Taudde held his breath, listening intently. He could hear the proprietor moving unhurriedly about the shop and began to believe that he was, for the moment, undiscovered. This was good, although it did not answer the larger question of how he was going to get out of the shop. Bardic sorcery was out of the question; he certainly couldn’t play a single note without the proprietor hearing, and any suggestion of sorcery connected with this shop… No. It would be very bad to have anyone make that connection.