It was half a trek, and I broke up the monotony with a hit of breath when it felt appropriate, as it often did. This section of the city was mostly industrial, cavernous mills and foundries with little nightlife to speak of. Yancey’s having to play there was a sign of the blight that had overtaken his career, a sharp reversal from the decade of uninterrupted success his talent and drive had earned him. While playing a private party a year back some noble had said something or done something that made Yancey decide to arrange his face into a different pattern – an understandable impulse, if self-defeating in the long run. He’d gotten out after five months, which was shorter than I had expected – putting a digit on a noble pays out the same as murdering a dockworker. Yancey wasn’t soft, but the time he’d spent inside had done him no favors. His eyes were older and there was an occasional tremor to his vibrato. More than that, having gained a reputation for brutalizing members of the audience, his old fans weren’t quite so enthused about having him round.
