Jolie
Mary Crowell - Group 3: The Unforgiven

Jocelyn Maria Elanora Fantesca's birth was a much celebrated event. Her mother perhaps expressed it best in these words. "Three down. Three to go." How or why Rowena Jessica Cordova Fantesca arrived at the magical number of 'six' is not known, but that is how many offspring she bore for Lord Cedric Fantesca before she permanently shut the connecting doors of their bed chambers.

The older two: Rory and Jessica were earmarked for the family business and the Mage's Guild respectively. The family would eventually think of something useful for Jocelyn to do -- maybe she could be a lower executive or make an advantageous marriage. And then there were prospects to find for the last three. Never let it be said that the Fantesca's stinted on their children's care. Each child got his or her own wet nurse and own nanny. Jocelyn was lucky or perhaps unlucky enough to have hers be the same person.
Lia Naïllo, recently and forcibly bereft of her own infant, was not ready to care for someone else's child, but as a slave she was given no choice. When presented with the wailing infant, she predictably melted, as her trainer had known she would. What the trainer did not know is how much the two would fixate on each other. Jocelyn was for all intents and purposes Lia's child. The coincidental similarity in coloring (Jocelyn's baby blue eyes eventually turned an elven green possibly from some distant elven ancestry on her mother's side.) only intensified the effect. Anyone seeing their two dark heads bent together over a puzzle or a stack of blocks would almost swear that they were mother and child except that Jocelyn was very human and Lia was very elven. When Jocelyn was two, a strange woman all dressed in purple silks came to visit her. Jocelyn, on Lia's lap with a book saw her enter first. "There's a lady, Mommy." Lia immediately slid Jocelyn off her lap, stood up, and curtsied to Lady Rowena.

"How amazing! She calls me, Lady Mommy." cooed Rowena
"Not the Mommy!" Jocelyn said flatly. There was a moment of uncomfortable silence.
"Of course, she's your mother, pumpkin." There was a note of real fear in Lia's words -- that and appeal. Jocelyn studied her speculatively, and then she turned back to Rowena whose earlier smile had frozen on her face.
"Alright. Mother." Jocelyn looked back at Rowena and smiled sunnily. Then she made an elegant curtsy. "Hello, Mother." Lia quietly released the breath she had been holding. Laady Rowena knelt down and rather gingerly played with her two-year-old for a few minutes, and then looked up at Lia.
"She's quite a lovely thing. Does she have any talents?"
Lia thought of all the things that she treasured about the little girl she considered her own. What would this woman find valuable?
"She sings."
"Really?" Lady Rowena sniffed doubtfully as she studied Jocelyn. "Jessica and Rory could barely talk at this age."
"Well, she talks some, but she sings much better than she talks. I sing to her all the time."
"Will she sing for me?"
"I don't know. Will you sing for your mother, Poppet, please?" Jocelyn sang. After that there were muscial tutors, and then, when she was seven, boarding school. Jocelyn didn't want to go to boarding school. She successfully hid from everyone including Lia for two days when she found out her mother and father wanted to send her away to Cavelli's School of Fine Arts.
"It's here in the city!" Jocelyn protested. "Why can't I stay here and just go to classes."
"Jolie, my little one," said Lia smoothing Jocelyn's wavy black hair back from her forehead. "This is a very exclusive and fine school. It is completely run by the teachers and students and you are to be completely immersed in that environment. Your parents are also concerned that you do not relate to anyone except me and the other staff here. They want you to be able to interact with your peers."
"You mean they want me to be away from you, Mommy." Jocelyn scowled. Lia was 'Mommy,' and Rowena was 'Mother.' Jocelym was very careful to never let Rowena hear her calling Lia 'Mommy', but both nanny and child knew that there was no way Rowena could mistake where Jocelyn's first loyalties lay. Cavelli's did not normally accept children under the age of eleven. The school was being paid an enormous sum of money to accept a student so young.
"There probably is something in that." admitted Lia trying not to let the worry she felt show on her face.
The first four years at Cavelli's School of Fine Arts were intensely lonely ones for Jocelyn. She was allowed to come home during the summer and for family events, and she soon looked forward to hearing that Uncle Tobias was marrying Bathsheba, or Great Aunt Hillary had died from an overindulgence of bobons and tobacco, since it meant a visit to the House, as the Fantesca's family seat was called, to see Mommy. She was disturbed to see Lia looking a little more pale and unhappy each time she saw her.
"You are sick, aren't you?"
"No, Sweet. I'm fine. Just tired."
"No you're not. I'm going to ask Mother to send for a healer."
"NO!" Lia said with unusual intensity gripping Jocelyn's shoulders. The little girl's eyes went wide.
"Why not, Mommy? I don't want you to die."
"Please, do not. I am fine." But she was not fine. Jocelyn knew that Lia was trying very hard not to come to the notice of either Rowena or Cedric, and she also realized that a slave could not expect to be healed of a disease anyway. That was very powerful magic available only to those who had the means. And those who had the means did not typically spend their means on curing slaves. Jocelyn also knew a little song.
The potion is not for me -- for me.
It is to save my sisters three.
One disease is like another,
This is the one that felled my mother.

That night on the eve of Uncle Herbert's funeral (He, like Hillary, was fond of chocolates.) Jocelyn got very very ill. Her skin was fevered and clammy. She threw up several times into her chamber pot and couldn't stop shaking. The healer was brought forth so the family would only have one funeral to concern themselves with -- not two.
He questioned the bleary-eyed and mumbling Jocelyn who under much prodding admitted that two other students at the school had been very sick, and she had brought flowers to one only yesterday before she had come home. The healer wanted to summon the headmaster of the school to demand an explanation, but Jocelyn began to go into very convincing convulsions.

"It's either food poisoning or illness." The healer said to the servants as he set his two flasks down on Jocelyn's bedside table. The servants nodded and left. Jocelyn lay very still as the healer stood from where he sat on the edge of her bed walked across the room and closed the door. He turned and studied her, cocking his head to the side.
"Do you know who poisoned you, Child?" Jocelyn nodded, looking up at him with big bleary green eyes. He sighed, walked back to her, and fed her the poison curative.
"Do you get paid for both of these?" She asked.
"Of course, but you don't need both."
"Isn't it best to be sure?" She smiled mischieviously at him, and slipped a gold piece into his hand. Rowena wouldn't miss it.
"A potion to cure disease costs quite a bit more than a gold piece, Child."
"My parents are paying you for both potions -- just to be sure. This is for your silence, Sir." It was a bizarre negotiation to be having with an eleven-year-old, so the old healer finally just nodded and said.
"So be it. May it profit you well." After the healer left, the potion disappeared into Jocelyn's belt pouch. The servants came in and cooed over her, Lia the most. Eventually they left and told her parents of Jocelyn's miraculous recovery. The parents never made an appearance. Jocelyn was not surprised. Finally she and Lia were left alone. Jocelyn fished the curativepotion out of her beltpouch.
"Here. Drink this." She told Lia.
"I can't. It is for you. You look better, but you need to drink this to be sure."
"I know exactly what was wrong with me. I'm not sick. Drink."
"Oh? You're so sure."
"Yes. Drink."
"No. Not till you . . ."
"I poisoned myself, Lia. The healer fixed it. I'm fine."
"You poi--? Jolie. How could you endanger yourself like that? Do you know how much I would grieve if you died?"
"Yes, I know. The same way I would if you died. Please, I knew I wouldn't die. Drink. This will cure you." Jocelyn sang, "One disease is like another / This is the potion that cured my mother."
Lia smiled. "That doesn't quite scan, you know."
Jocelyn smiled too and then stopped. "Please. I took a risk that I might die. It wasn't a big risk. Can't having the heir's spare die from mysterious malady now can we? It looks too much like the Fantesca's can't take care of their own. That's weakness of a dangerous sort. A slaver family can't afford to look weak."
And Lia drank, realizing that Jocelyn had now left the nest at least to some extent. She had learned at the school of her family's primary source of business.

Chapter Two
The Guidonian Hand

"Ut, Re, Mi, Fa, Sol, la!" The class sang, Jocelyn with them, but in her head she sang, "Bored,bored, bored, bored bored bored!" Why was she so bored? They had been studying the six-note hexachords for forty-five minutes, and finally everyone was starting to understand it. She unfortunately already knew it, which meant she was bored, bored, bored, bored, bored, bored. Lia had taught it to her at home using a diagram of a hand. Apparently that was the accepted method of teaching solmization syllables, because here was the entire class of singers watching Master Arezzo jab angrily at his hand while he tried to get the singers' semitones on pitch.

Meanwhile, Jocelyn's sense of the ridiculous was piqued at watching him gesticulate while standing in front of a monstrous diagram of the Guidonian hand. Perhaps Arezzo was the high priest of the Five Digit pantheon. All hail Thumb, he who stands apart from the others. All hail Index! She who points at the sky and gives us rain. At the moment Master Arezzo was wiggling his left thumb chanting, "Ut re mi! Ut re mi!" at some of the first years in the front row. Perhaps they didn't understand the innate superiority of Thumb, who stands apart from the other fingers, yet can effortlessly touch them all. Without Thumb, there could be no grasping of objects. It was Thumb who determined by his direction, up or down, whether a gladiator would get to live. Jocelyn, much struck with this conceit, engaged her mind until class was over.

Techniques in Solmization was the last class before the noon bell rang for lunch. Jocelyn usually ate alone. This was not because she felt particularly unsociable, but more a peculiar aversion to her presence that afflicted almost everyone in the school once they learned about her family. The school was not that large to begin with. There were typically only 100 students at any one time, all between the ages of 11 and 18. When she had first entered Cavelli's she had assumed that the negative feelings were due to her extremely young age. As a lonely, miserable seven-year old, she just sat by herself at class and meals penning letters to Lia

Now, here she sat, a lonely miserable eleven-year-old staring at her untouched trencher and an unwritten letter while she remembered how she had come to learn the reason for her status as persona non grata. Henri was the one who eventually told her. He had entered Cavelli's as a first year in the middle of the Fall semester and instantly charmed the entire school -- even Jocelyn. He was good-looking and nice -- extremely rare traits in a boy to her eleven-year-old frame of mind. She mooned from afar just like the other six girls did. But she was different, because he actually smiled at her when she caught his eye in wind ensemble. That smile was the first she had received at Cavelli's ever. She actually enjoyed trumpet rehearsals instead of getting her customary headache.

"Is anyone sitting here?" The voice inquired, snapping Jocelyn out of her reverie. She looked up from the letter she had been staring at sightlessly for the last two minutes. The voice belonged to pudgy little dark-haired boy about her age. He was holding his trencher and looking distinctly nervous. She remembered him sitting in the front row of Solmization class.
"Er. . . no." She said stupidly, looking around her at the broad and empty expanse of oaken table before her. Feeling her social skills had gone a bit rusty she tried, "Would you like to sit down?"
"If it's alright with you, I would." He said. "No one else will sit with me for some reason. I'm Marc. I already know you're Jocelyn Fantesca." He set his trencher down across from her and awkwardly slid onto the bench.
"It probably means your family deals in slavery like mine does."She said carelessly and then gasped. He looked stricken. "I am so sorry! I--" He silently stared at his food for a moment.
Then he looked up at her defiantly and said, "So what if they do?" Seeing Jocelyn's stunned expression he added, "Besides, I figured you might welcome some company." He was not wrong in one sense. She would welcome company, but did she welcome his company? When she first came to school at Cavelli's she had not at all understood the antipathy of her classmates. This boy at least understood and perhaps accepted the reason for his social exile.
"It is very strange, you know," he was saying as he chewed on a heel of coarse bread. "Anywhere else but here and we would be on top with everyone eager to curry our favor. But here? We are treated like social pariahs! By whom? Musicians!" She decided she didn't much care for him.
"You don't like music?" She asked.
"Of course not, but I'm the fourth son and I have no head for numbers or magic. The folks thought it would be good if I could find out a little bit about this place anyway. There have been rumors, you know."
She didn't and much as she loathed encouraging this boy she inquired, "What rumors?"
"Well, you know. Rumors -- like some of the students and maybe the faculty have connections with certain unsavory elements." His tone irked her too, she realized. He continued in superior tones, "They might be even helping the Underground."
"They? the Underground?" She interrupted impatiently. "That sounds like nonsense to me."
"Then why are we held in such hatred here, hmm?" He asked munching on a carrot. "There are clearly many in here who not only harbor anti-slavery feeling but harbor it strongly." He had a point, but she still didn't much care for it or him. Is this what people saw when they saw her? She hoped not. She tried to stay quiet and out of everyone's way. The teachers were not unkind to her -- just not warm. But then there were the students.
She remembered the evening Henri decided to hate her. At that particular evening circle, she noticed the Trio converging on Henri. The three boys: Sean, Jim, and Ward were all upper levels at Cavelli's. They had started at the same time as Jocelyn, but were much older and made sure she knew it. As they surrounded him, all three glanced at her and then away. Jim bent to whisper something at Henri. Henri, who had been tuning his guitar, looked up and met Jocelyn's eyes. His expression changed from one of astonishment to hate in a disappointingly short period of time. He never smiled at her again, but unlike the others, he didn't avoid her. He became her persecutor. Primarily, he engaged in acts of sabotage, always remaining close by to witness or at least hear the results of his latest trick. Jocelyn learned to dread hearing him whistle the tune, "Vengeance.'
Her room was his primary target. The locks at the School were not good. Everyone could pick their own locks and frequently did since the keys were made of some unkown cheap metal which bent effortlessly and snapped easily. Sometimes Jocelyn wondered why any of them, herself included, even bothered to lock the door. For a time she simply gave up and left her room unlocked. Henri could get into it anyway. She did not have a roommate which made things better and worse: better because nobody else's possessions had to suffer what hers did so she didn't suffer additional blame, but worse because that meant that Henri's pranks never had witnesses, and he had no fear of hurting anyone except her with them.
Sometimes her closet was rigged to completely collapse its contents on her head when she opened it when she came home in the evenings. When she came back from morning baths her clothes were always poked full of holes or at the very least strewn about the floor which meant she failed room inspection every day. "And vengeance shall be mine. Whistle whistle." The tune always wafted up the stair well toward her while she received the latest dressing down from Matron Depa. This meant she had to work in the kitchens every day.
She learned quite a bit in the kitchens by dilligently and quietly peeling potatoes and listening. The kitchen staff -- all women --bore no silver bands like those men and women who staffed her mother and father's house. They were cheerful but guarded around her, but it was a welcome change from her classmate's thinly veiled hostility. While snapping beans, she learned that the proper way to kiss was not open your mouth too wide, but to open it a little -- that from Tilly who knew such things and had taught them to every young man entering his fourth year at Cavelli's. Whenever she heard whispered conversations about the Rite of Tilly in history class, she had to work hard to stifle a giggle -- especially after Tilly held forth on a few other subjects -- like her rating system. Jim was a three ladle -- Ward only a two. Henri was supposedly another four years away from that particular rite, but he was older than most first year students -- at least thirteen.
"Hello!" Marc shouted in her face. Jocelyn's attention snapped back to the present.
"Sorry, I've been doing that a lot lately. It's spring." She shrugged helplessly and smiled. Could he tell she detested him? She hoped not.
"Pay attention." He demanded roughly and Jocelyn realized that the lonely little boy was actually not all that he seemed. "Listen. You are in danger here. They don't like you, and they don't like me. We are not a part of their little freedom-loving bardic spread-the-word-about-the evils-of-slaver campaign." And saddened, Jocelyn realized that that was exactly what she would love to be a part of. "You need to to keep your ears open for anything that could help shut down this place."
"If slaver families are so powerful -- and let us face it, they are -- why don't they simply shut it down." She asked him, watching his face closely as he answered.
"Because no one considers them a serious threat, and they have many wealthy friends willing to turn a deaf ear to these 'over-inflated whisperings about Cavelli's.' No one entertains and befriends like a bard." She did not agree that overy anti-slavery feeling was enough to turn a place like Cavelli's into a hotbed of revolution, but she did know that Cavelli's had a few revolutionaries. She managed to get through the conversation with Marc and some of her meal, and then made her way to one of the practice rooms. Students were not encouraged to practice in their own rooms as it could be very disturbing to their neighbors.
Jocelyn set up her harp and stand in the tiny room quietly singing "ut, re, mi." She began tuning the first string to "ut." Her fingers began to wander over the strings as her mind wandered. Where was Henri now?
On the fateful day she learned the family business Henri had actually failed room inspection. Jocelyn was already hard at work chopping carrots when she heard him whistling merrily right before he strode into the kitchens, confident as a lord. She froze, terrified he was about to spoil her one place of refuge, but then realized the tune he whistled was "Carry on, my ladies." He merrily swung around the corner and stopped abruptly when he spotted her and glared. "You didn't fail room inspection today!" he accused, his blue eyes widening.
"How do you know?" Jocelyn asked archly. She should not have failed room inspection. Inexplicably, Henri had not stolen in her room to put excrement in her bed or pour a bucket of water under door. But, unable to face a morning without the more friendly faces of the kitchen staff, she had deliberately missed a stocking during her early morning clean-up. Matron Depa, instantly spotted the offending article of clothing peeping out from under the bed and sentenced Jocelyn to yet another morning of Kitchen duty. Jocelyn had carefully schooled her face to look disappointed to have failed yet another room inspection. Matron Depa was known for her zeal -- not her mental acuity.
Henri's eyes slid past Jocelyn to peruse the rest of the kitchen staff. "I fear have disappointed our benevolent Matron Depa this morning. What may I do to help you, Ladies?" he asked pleasantly. The entire kitchen staff visibly melted before Jocelyn's stunned eyes. Tilly's eyes narrowed specualtively. Jocelyn's jaw dropped. Why when he could be this nice was he so mean to her she had wondered? Henri was assigned to spit turning. This was a very repetitive and tiring chore, but one that put him right next to Tilly's elbow. He chatted with Tilly easily, absently turning the spit with one hand as he tried to slip the other around her trim little waist. Tilly shrugged him off, smiled at him with a toss of her blonde head, and told him to turn faster. Jocelyn watched Tilly make eye contact with Margery over the top of Henri's head. Margery, a ginger haired woman of indeterminate age, held her hand about knee heighth and shook her head. Too young. Henri was too young. Tilly shrugged philosophically began vigorously kneading dough for the morning's bread. This did impressive things to her breasts in her loose-fitting low cut bodice.
Jocelyn noted that the spit stopped moving a full thirty seconds. The roast for lunch was forgotten as Henri's arrested gaze remained fixed on Tilly's bouncing bosom. The rest of the kitchen duty passed without remark, although Henri's presence put a decided damper on some of the more ribald conversations the women customarily had among themselves.
The lunch roast was awful that day. Margery, who was serving that afternoon, made sure Henri got the most burnt slices she could find. In line right behind Henri, Jocelyn noticed that she was served the most beautiful succulent juicy portions of the unfortunate roast.
Just in case Henri might not have noticed this discrepancy, Margery murmured in dulcet tones, "Eat child. You are too skinny. Here, I saved the best pieces for you." Jocelyn thanked her, silently wishing Margery had chosen a different way to avenge the burnt roast.. Then she hunched her shoulders protectively, grabbed her cup of water, made her way quickly to her accustomed table to eat. She soon had company.
"What have we here? Such a nice piece of meat. Are you going to be eating all of that yourself?" Jocelyn startled and looked up into Henri's angry eyes. She swallowed nervously. Semi-anonymous pranks she could handle. She had even gotten pretty good at springing the closet traps without getting beaned on the head by her valise. Direct confrontations were to be avoided at all costs.
"I was planning to try." She snapped at him and ate some of the roast right in front of his face. It was surprisingly good, and her eyes widened. His face turned red.
"What I have is inedible, and it is your fault."
"That does not make any sense, and while you are incredibly mean to me, and I don't know why, you don't seem to be a fool."
"So you do talk." He said keeping his eyes on her face while he tried to make a snatch for some of the food off her trencher.
"Not to you, anymore." She deftly pulled her trencher out of the way. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the Trio watching them. "Is this all to impress them?" She asked making aliar of herself.
"All what?" He asked innocently. "Oh. You mean the fact that I hate you." He flashed a grin at the Trio and successfully pinked the top strip of meat.
Stung by his victory Jocelyn said, "Yes that. And while you're telling me that --" she stabbed his purloining fingers with her fork as he went in for another slice. Her sentence was to be left unfinished.
"Ow! Bitch! Slaver brat! I'll--" He balled up his hand into a fist to hit her.
"Wait!" Jocelyn stood and roared. "What did you just call me?"
"Bitch." and he swung at her. She dodged out of the way picking up her trencher on the way. Beautiful cuts of meat flew through the air unheeded by the two combatants.
"Not that. The other." She held the trencher protectively in front of her, but too high.
"Oh." He smiled a moment before his fist viciously and suddenly slammed into her stomach. "Slaver brat." She doubled over and fell to her knees. He spat on her head. "That's why we all hate you." He walked away, and she struggled to her feet in the silence that filled the air in his wake. That night, nothing was done to her room. Nothing needed to be. She thought about all of the snippets of information she had picked up in the kitchen, all of the slaves she had seen in the House, all of the money that was made easily available to her if she needed it. She didn't. She arrived a one inescapable conclusion: she was not just a member of a slaver family -- she was a member of one of the most powerful and dangerous slaver families. She would never had any friends in this place.
Two things made it possible to make it through classes the next day: first, her Uncle Herbert died which meant she would have to go home for at least a week for the funeral; second, Henri had mysteriously disappeared. When she had gotten back from the funeral the students acted different somehow. They acted deferential and nervous around her. She found she missed kitchen duty.
Today had been the best day in a while, and then Marc had to sit with her and spoil it. "Ut, re, mi," she whispered into the dimly lit practice room. "Do not sit with me." Mi and me were sound alikes, not rhymes but she found the little litany comforting as she tuned her instrument. What had happened to Henri? She hoped he had simply left the school. Her practice session was devoted to dirges for someone she hoped was not dead or worse.

CHAPTER THREE
A Master

"Today there will be no wind ensemble practice in the afternoon. Instead, report to the Great Hall for a Master class with Master Adam de la Halle." Master Tallis made this announcement at the beginning of his class, Elements of Centonization, and immediately regretted it. Nobody concentrated on singing the kanones Tallis had painstakingly prepared. Nor could or would anyone attempt to create one of their own. Dividing the class into small groups only made matters worse because then conversation always turned from debates over whether this or that melodic phrase would be more suitable for the beginning or the end of the kanones to speculations about Master Halle.

"Who is Master Halle and why the hubbub?" Marc asked Jocelyn and Taverner, his group partners. Jocelyn and Taverner, who had apparently forgotten Jocelyn was an accursed slaver brat in his excitement, were debating who might be asked to perform at the Master Class. This question brought them both up short. Taverner rolled his eyes refusing to answer such a stupid question. Since his dark eyes already seemed far too large and proturbant for pale face, the expression suggested an incredulous halibut. Jocelyn sighed and enlightened her fellow pariah.

"He is, without exaggeration, the most widely travelled, best educated, and most consummate musician of our time," She was unable to resist a little dig, "Which you would know if you ever listened to Petrus in history class."

"Oh." said Marc, and then unfortunately added, "Do we have to be there?"

"Why no, Mr. Havera," The three looked up in surprise. "Of course you do not, but the alternative is dusting the Northern wing of the library. Do you two wish to help him?" Master Tallis glared through his tiny spectacles and down his long thin nose at the three of them. His bow shaped mouth, peeping out from under his thin grey beard was pursed. Since he was not currently in choir class demonstrating any vocal techniques, the three did not consider it a good sign. Jocelyn, privately wondering how his glare managed to lose nothing in intensity even after making such a long trip, shook her head vigorously. Taverner beside her seemed to be making an equal effort to dislodge his head from his shoulders. They studiously avoided looking at the very red-faced Marc until Tallis had swept by to harangue another chatting group. After some discussion and division of labor, the three of them decided Taverner should begin the exercise; Marc could continue, leaving Jocelyn to repair the damage Marc had wrought, bring the back the melodic elements Taverner had introduced, and end the piece. They came up with a fairly credible maqam to present to the class. They were made to regret this accomplishment soon after.
"Thank you, group two, for the only presentable melody I've heard this morning." Master Tallis shot dagger-like looks at the rest of the class. The rest of the class focused one large dagger like look on group two. On the receiving end of this look, Jocelyn and her compatriots later agreed that the dagger-like look was not merely a dagger -- it was at least a spear, and poisoned at that. Group two, you will present your composition at the Master Class this afternoon. Mr. Havera, the North wing will have to wait for another time.

"What? Oh, yes, sir!" Marc mumbled. Jocelyn hated Marc's stupid act, and had told him this many times. When informed of her opinion on the matter, Marc had explained that it was to "lull them into a false sense of security so they might let something slip." Jocelyn acidly imagined the bardic masters at their ease in the great hall, absently sipping mulled wine.
Perhaps one of them would rest his booted feet near Marc's and say to himself. "I believe I shall discuss my plans for the overthrow of the Athkatlan government and hegemony of slaver families out loud as you are too stupid to understand. Why do I discuss this out loud? Well, because I am a musician of course, and we like to hear things sound out loud -- rolled on our tongues as it were. You understand. Or rather you don't, being a stupid, insignificant boy with an incredibly rich and powerful family whom, I'm well aware, wishes the school ill and would sooner cut my throat and poison my family than look at me."
Finally the tinkling little silver bell that announced the end of class sounded high above Tallis' head at the front of the large classroom, jarring Jocelyn out of her musings. Everyone got up from their rough wooden chairs and tried to avoid rubbing their backsides. Elements of Centonization met only twice a week and was doubly long to make up for it. The chairs at Cavelli's school yielded not at all to pressure. As Taverner, Marc, and Jolie gathered their books and scrolls off their long oaken table, Master Tallis strode up to them.

"Please, make sure the three of you report to Master Machaut's office after the master class this afternoon." Jolie and Taverner silently nodded, Taverner's eyes in danger of popping out of his under-sized countenance.

"Why, sir, if you don't mind my asking?" They both turned and stared at Marc in shock. Tallis merely raised a snowy eyebrow.
"Because it's been requested of you, Mr. Havera." With that the gray-robed master turned on his heel and strode off. Taverner insisted they stay right there in the classroom and rehearse their pattern until it had very few mistakes. Jolie watched Marc as they sang. He always closed his eyes while he sang, but he would crack one eye open now and then -- usually right before he sang the wrong note or syllable. He finally caught her watching him and met her eyes guilelessly.
"You're doing that on purpose!" she hissed, angry that she too had fallen for Marc's stupid act. All the times he had muffed his trumpet solo in wind ensemble, asked ignorant questions in Theory and Application lab, sang an obviously incorrect interval in Ear Training, he was purposely coming across as a musical idiot. "You're actually quite good at this." He smiled.

"Maybe even as good as you, Jocelyn or you, Taverner." He murmured smugly.
"W-why?" Taverner's stutter, which he had finally defeated last semester was back.

"Because unlike the two of you slaver brats," He paused to let this sink in to Jocelyn and Taverner. "I can put aside my pride and play a role that might enable me to find out a bit more information. I don't have to prove anything to these people" He gestured grandly with one pudgy arm to indicate the entire school of music. Jocelyn cut her eyes to Taverner.

"You?"

"Me. But, just a minor family, and it's not their main source of income. But, nobody --" He looked at Marc. "Few people here know." Taverner's thin shoulders hunched together.

"But, you treated me like a pariah!" Jocelyn's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and she looked away.
Taverner sighed painfully and began,"I tried not to be unnecessarily mean, but sometimes there was no way --"
"I was always hoping I could get even one of you to look past it, but you, all the time --"
"Alright already. Enough drama, Jocelyn!" Marc's voice could cut through quite authoritatively when he wanted it. "I play stupid. Taverner here, plays innocent. And you, Gods, you 're our tragic queen of drama, Jocelyn. So? So. We have an opportunity here. As I said, I have nothing to prove to these people, but I might to Master Halle." The other two found themselves staring at Marc again.

"How do you suppose one gets to be a master here?" They waited. "Practice? There are musicians that have been here for decades.² He glanced at Jocelyn. "To borrow your turn of phrase, Miss Fantesca. -- consummate musicans. There must be something extra."

"Travel?" Suggested Taverner.
"That's part of it, and Master Adam de la Halle and others like him."
"Like him, how?" asked Taverner, eager to turn the conversation away from his family background.
"Bards, of course." Marc said, irritatingly superior. "Real bards have power. They aren't just trained monkeys like most of the folks here."

"That's what you really hope to find out about here, isn't it?" guessed Jocelyn. "Your family sent you to find out about Bardic power, and did it really exist."
"It DOES exist. I'm not just supposed to find out about it; I'm supposed to acquire it."
"But you're not really that good a musican." said Taverner.
"Sure he is." said Jocelyn glowering at Marc. "He just plays stupid, until he needs to be noticed."
"You must admit, Jocelyn, that you wouldn't catch nearly so much heat about being a slaver brat if you weren't such a show-off. Besides, Taverner, performing is only part of being a bard. A bard influences people, acquires information, spreads rumors and stories, goes places people probably wish he wouldn't." Jocelyn, didn't interrupt for once, much struck by the concept.

"I would like to be a bard." said Taverner.
"You're going to have to get rid of that stutter then," said Marc cruelly, "And you probably need to be in better shape." He said, eyeing the other boy's painfully thin frame.
"What do you mean, they're mean because I'm a show-off?" Jocelyn finally demanded hands on hips. "Why don't they say that?"

Marc sighed and explained with exaggerated patience. "That wouldn't hurt your feelings nearly as bad as calling you a slaver brat would, now would it? People are cruel. It's the way of the world. You just have to learn to be thick skinned. You are so easily upset, dear. Such a little whiner -- OW!" Jocelyn took her fist out of his gut and angled back to hit him again. Taverner interposed his scrawny frame between the two combatants.

"Oof! Stop it, you two. We need to rehearse. If Marc's right, I want to make an especially good impression on Master Halle. Now, let's all sing this thing to our highest level." Jocelyn hit an ear splitting note. "You know what I mean, Jocelyn and no mistakes, Marc. We're on to you now." The three apprentices practiced through lunch time and afternoon break.

The Masters had designated the Chamber Orchestra room for Adam de la Halle's master class. It was a circular room swathed in green velvet curtains which did little to deaden the echoes when the room was empty. Today, it was not empty. A steady flow of gray, blue, green, brown, and black-robed masters passed through the large pair of oaken doors adorned with carvings of Dionysus and Apollo and their attendants. Nine smaller doors, most of which opened to a curving hallway, were arrayed around the room behind the chairs. A cacophony squawked, honked, and sawed from the practice rooms which satellited off the hallway, as students frantically warmed up in preparation for Halle.

The flow of colors abruptly brightened as the journeymen and women made their way in. Tunics of red, saffron, green, and azure vied with long gowns with slashed and dagged sleeves of metallic hues. Journeyfolk dressed to be noticed. A few select apprentices in street clothes were eventually allowed to enter by the ushers. Group Two was among them.
"Why didn't they open the main hall?" asked Taverner rubbing his shoulders nervously. It was always cold in the performance halls to protect the health and tuning of the instruments.

"They're dismantling the main organ for cleaning," answered Jocelyn. "Tilly said that Master Halle didn't give any warning of his arrival or they might have postponed that."

"They actually dismantle the main organ?" Marc asked.

"Pipes." Jocelyn said tersely and frowned at him, keenly aware that his earlier ignorant act had been specifically designed to get more information. That he was right about her showing off only exacerbated her ire. He only smiled.
Master Tallis, Master Arezzo, and Master Machaut entered with someone Jocelyn had never seen before. He was difficult to sum up, Jocelyn decided. His collar length hair was neither blond, nor gray, nor brown, but a a mixture of all three. It had a silky texture though, which caught the light, and made Jocelyn think of stories of Selkies and mer-folk. His eyes also seemed to defy description. Were they grey, blue, green? He listened to Tallis and Arezzo as they each vied to be louder more entertaining than the other. This alone would have been enough to make Jocelyn sit up, because neither man was much given toadying. Machaut beamed upon it all, his mouth smiling through his somewhat trimmed black beard.
All four men wore black robes with four stripes adorning the edges of their long flowing sleeves. The stripes were gray, blue, green, and brown. Not for the first time, Jocelyn wondered just how the hierarchy worked here. She assumed black-robed masters were the highest ranking faculty. The color-robed masters all seemed to have some other specialty -- like herbalism or weaponry. Some of the older students got to take some other classes which sounded quite intriguing to Jocelyn -- something besides music, music, and more music, which is how she filled her days.

Her ruminations ceased as Master Machaut raised his arms for silence. "It is my pleasure to introduce a musician of superb mastery, a gentleman of many talents, and a voice that will make a demon weep true tears -- one of our own -- Master Adam de la Halle. Halle bowed correctly, but not pompously to his audience. The room erupted in applause which continued for a full five minutes. Marc turned to Jocelyn who pretended not to notice. As Marc opened his mouth to ask a question, Tavener covered it absently, his own eyes never leaving the stage area of the hall. At Marc's glare, Taverner removed the offending hand and the three gave the bard their full attention.

Halle smiled gently, almost shyly, at his audience and then sat down in the chair which had been placed behind his orchestral harp. That was probably what Marc was trying to ask about, Jocelyn decided, because it was very unusual for a travelling performer to have such a large, heavy instrument to carry on the road.

The most interesting thing about the concert, Jocelyn remembered later, was that she felt completely immersed. Usually, no matter how good the performance, she could not keep her mind focused on the music for the duration of even one song. She would distract herself critiquing attire, hand position, even choice of musical material. More often, she would start thinking about tomorrow¹s homework assignments, or the next concert, or reorganizing her methods of potato peeling in the kitchen or what was for dinner. For a place that kept one completely immersed in one¹s craft, it often seemed the faculty and staff of Cavelli¹s conspired to keep one from concentrating on music itself. This lack of focus was often remarked on at her private composition lessons with Master Rohlig.

³Your music is lovely, but quite rhapsodic. It¹s as if you make it up as you go along, one measure at a time. Do you have a plan? Where is this theme going? How do you plan to end it?² he would ask her in accented Athkatlan his mild blues eyes on the score -- not her. This was good as Jocelyn usually rolled her eyes as she made up some answer. ³Er, yes this theme is coming back -- as a sequence in about oh, thirty-five measures. I end at measure fifty with um six fortissimo tonic chords² Typically he forgot or if he did remember, she would simply say she changed her mind.

She liked his term, "rhapsodic" it sounded much better than the word "disorganized" which is what Rohlig was trying to convey as he carefully studied a score which she had put maybe twenty minutes of work into. Rhapsodic could describe her life -- not that she was joyous or excited -- as most people define the word, just unfocused and unorganized. But, in one song, Master Adam de la Halle had changed that.