The Singer of All Songs (10 page)

Every day they heard the ululating songs of the farmers echo across the plains as they drove their goats and oxen and called to their ducks. ‘Are they songs of chantment? Is this the Power of Beasts?’ Calwyn asked, but Darrow shook his head.

‘Once these lands held the secrets of the beasts, but now the animals obey no longer. The songs that the farmers sing are a shadow of the old chantments, but without the same power. You can see how thin the oxen are. And look –’ He plucked a handful of grain from the field and crushed it in his hand; the hot wind blew a cloud of dust from his fingers. ‘The crops do not flourish here. The life is drying up in everything; this land is pinched and mean.’

‘The people, too?’

Darrow gave a crooked smile. ‘Especially the people. That is why we ask for nothing, and keep our heads low.’

Calwyn said cheerfully, ‘If all the old chantments are forgotten, then at least Samis will never learn them.’

‘There is enough of the old knowledge left that he might be able to piece it together, perhaps. But not enough to let the lands prosper. You saw how the farms in the foothills have been abandoned. Every season the farmlands shrink a little more, and there is less food for the farmers to sell to the city.’

‘Is that why there are so many soldiers?’ The closer they came to the city of Kalysons, the more frequently they had to hide from the patrols. ‘To frighten the farmfolk into handing over their produce?’

‘Perhaps.’ Darrow was silent for a breath or two, and then Calwyn heard the low growl of chantment that meant his foot was giving him pain, and she asked him no more questions. But she thought often of that hungry youth, and the hopeless dragging of his feet on the dusty track.

They had been travelling for many days, a full turn of the moons, before at last they set eyes on the city of Kalysons. They paused under a windmill at the top of a low hill, and gazed down at the sweep of the plain, and the city nestled below them. Unlike the blue-grey stone of Antaris and the mountains, the earth of the plains was a greasy yellow-grey. Kalysons looked like a city built from blocks of lard.

‘Cheesestone,’ said Darrow briefly.

Except for the little hillocks raised for the slow-turning windmills, the drab and dusty land was as level as if it had been pressed with a flat-iron, like a ceremonial robe. The mountains that hid Antaris were the faintest smudge of grey on the distant horizon in the west. But Calwyn was not looking at the mountains, nor at the city below. For behind the city lay the sea she had so often dreamed of seeing: the broad curve of the Bay of Sardi, glittering emerald in the sun, a bright ribbon that spanned the horizon. Her heart sang as she drank in the sight of the shining ocean: so vast, so beautiful, so terrifying.

‘Come.’ Darrow was already limping down the hill. ‘If we make haste, we can be with my friends in time for dinner.’

Calwyn’s stomach growled at the thought of a rich stew and a cool cup of milk, and she hurried after him.

The sun had gone down by the time they reached the city gates.

‘They’re shut!’ cried Calwyn.

The enormous metal gates, set into the thick wall of cheesestone, were definitely, firmly, unmistakably locked. There was no one in sight, but she could faintly hear noises rising from the other side of the wall: the clatter and clamour of a city, the cries of street sellers, a murmuring hubbub. It was like the bees, Calwyn thought suddenly, the busy noise inside a hive.

‘The gates are always closed at dusk. It’s not important. We are not going to use the gates.’

Darrow led her for some distance around the curve of the wall. It was not as beautiful and forbidding as the icy Wall of Antaris, and it was much smaller, thought Calwyn scornfully. Why, this wall enclosed only a city, while the Wall of Antaris stretched around all their lands. And she thought still less of it when she saw Darrow hold up his hands before the greasy stone and sing a low chantment. One of the cheesestone blocks swung slowly outward to reveal a gap just big enough to squeeze through.

‘What use is a wall that anyone can climb through?’ she hissed as she followed Darrow through the opening.

‘Not anyone,’ said Darrow calmly. ‘Only an ironcrafter.’

Once they were through, he sealed up the crack with a second chantment. They were inside Kalysons.

Calwyn realised at once, to her chagrin, that Kalysons was much, much larger than Antaris. From far away on the plain it had looked small enough; now she could see that each one of the big, square, squat buildings, which she had thought were the size of farmhouses, was almost big enough to hold all the Dwellings of Antaris. They were standing beside one of these buildings now, hidden in its shadow; it rose so high that it blotted out the sky. Darrow set off immediately, weaving his way through a maze of narrow laneways and crowded squares, and over the humped bridges that crossed the city’s many canals.

Though it was long after dark, the air was still warm from the heat of the faded day, and the streets were crowded with people. It seemed to Calwyn that the walls exuded a greasy sweat, like a cheese left too long out of the storeroom, and the sweaty odour mingled with the pungent smells of fried vegetables and roasted meats that wafted from the windows. Here and there in the dusk were thicker clots of darkness; wavering lamplight from doorways showed them to be groups of men, standing by the walls, muttering and watchful. ‘Be sure to keep your cloak wrapped tight,’ Darrow said in her ear, ‘in case anyone recognises the garments of a witch-girl from the mountains.’

At any other time, Calwyn would have protested at being described as a witch-girl, but now she felt very small and insignificant, almost frightened. She kept close to Darrow’s side, and though clutching her cloak under her chin made her hotter than ever, it was a kind of comfort to feel the scratching of the familiar cloth against her skin.

Darrow led them briskly through the darkening streets, not allowing his lame foot to slow him; for once Calwyn had to hurry to keep up with him. When they turned into a street that was hardly wider than two arm-spans, with pallid tenements rearing up like cliffs on either side, she ventured to ask, ‘Where are we going?’

‘To the harbour.’

Calwyn quickened her pace. The harbour meant the sea; perhaps she might even be able to dip her hands in that shining expanse she had glimpsed from the top of the hill.

The streets grew yet more narrow and more winding, and the smell of salt told her that they were very near it. And then they turned a corner and saw the rows of boats swaying on the dark water, and heard the soft slap of the waves.

Darrow led her past dark warehouses, sheds that stank of fish, and sailors’ and fishermen’s clubhouses that murmured with surly talk and the muffled clank of tankards. Little boats, the first Calwyn had ever seen, clustered by the jetties, riding the water like gulls resting on the waves. The smallest of the moons was rising, and the constellation she called theTree was already visible in the crisp clear sky. It had been very strange for Calwyn to watch the familiar stars come out every night, always the same, as she travelled further and further from home, but never so strange as it seemed this night, to see them gleaming over the dark sighing carpet of the ocean. The stars seemed dimmer here than in Antaris; she did not know why.

Darrow was limping fast, swinging his stick impatiently, as he scanned each of the quiet jetties until he found what he was looking for. Calwyn caught up with him where he stood staring down at a trim little fishing vessel with cheerful but shabby paint. The cabin was all in darkness.

‘They’re not here.’ Darrow stared back toward the lights and faint noises of the city buildings. ‘They must be ashore, perhaps in one of those inns.’

‘Can we wait for them on the boat?’ Calwyn was filled with hope; it looked so welcoming, bobbing gently on the dark water. But Darrow shook his head.

‘I would not trespass on friendship by going aboard uninvited,’ he said. ‘Besides, the cabin will be locked.’ He saw Calwyn’s look of surprise. ‘In Kalysons, people keep their houses and their possessions locked up. It is a more mistrustful place than Antaris. No, I will go looking for them. You had better wait here. The inns do not permit women to enter.’

‘But –’ Calwyn opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. Perhaps it was best to do as he said at least some of the time, when it didn’t really matter, and save her disagreements for a time when it did. Obediently she seated herself on a squat bollard, pulled her cloak tightly about her, and tried to look patient. ‘Very well.’

‘I will be as quick as I can.’ Darrow limped away, down the length of the jetty. Calwyn watched him disappear, then turned and gazed out over the endless dark cold sea. She found herself thinking of the great hall in Antaris, and the sound of all the sisters singing and laughing together, and the cheerful swirl of the little girls dancing before the fire, the warm hubbub of the place. But there, too, she had sat apart, and felt lonely and desolate; it was not so different here.

The single moon rose a little higher. She passed some time in practising the exercises that helped her to breathe and sing in one steady flow, without pausing to gulp for air. She did one round of the nightly exercises, and then another. Then she sang one of the hearth songs of the spring festival, the story of brave Si’leth and her doomed love for the dark heroVereth.

She broke off her song abruptly, listening for footsteps on the jetty. Darrow had been gone a long time. What would she do if he never returned? Seized with panic, she leapt to her feet and began to hurry back down the jetty toward the lights.

She had no clear idea in which direction Darrow had gone. Raucous singing burst from the nearest of the inns; she couldn’t quite make out the words. The door was open. Calwyn drew her cloak over her head, and was about to slip inside when someone blocked her path.

‘Where do you think you’re going, missy?’ A greasy-faced youth with lank hair leered at her.

Calwyn drew herself up as tall and proud as Tamen or Marna. ‘I am seeking my friend.’

‘Not in there, you’re not. It’s a private club, see? Not a member, are you?’

‘Stay out here and talk to us, bright-eyes,’ came another voice, and Calwyn saw that there were three or four young men lounging about outside. One of them leaned over and spat close to her feet. She stepped backward. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Where you from? That don’t sound like a voice from our city.’

Calwyn thought quickly. ‘I come from a farm far away on the plains – almost in the mountains.’

They all sniggered. The greasy youth reached out and fingered the cloth of her cloak. Calwyn pulled away, afraid he might see the yellow of her tunic beneath. ‘Just being friendly,’ said the youth, and he gripped a handful of her cloak tightly in his fist.

‘Come from the mountains, do you?’ a voice drawled from the shadows. ‘Ever see any of them witches?’

‘They’re not witches.’ Calwyn flushed with temper. ‘They are priestesses of the Goddess.’

‘Hear that? I think she’s a witch-girl herself !’ The first youth looked to his friends for appreciation, then gave a tug on Calwyn’s cloak to pull her closer. He put his face up to hers; his breath stank. ‘Sing a spell for us, witch!’

Calwyn was hot with fury. If they wanted to hear chantment, she would give them chantment. She drew in a quick deep breath, narrowed her eyes, parted her lips, and sang.

Instantly, the youth who had been taunting her took a step backward, his hands flying to his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. He made a muffled imploring sound, as though he were gagged; frantically he tore at his mouth with his fingers, but he could not part his lips.

In a voice that shook with rage, Calwyn said, ‘Those who speak ill of the Goddess or Her servants should not speak at all.’

The youth stared at her with wide belligerent eyes, but there was terror there too. He shook his head dumbly from side to side, his fingers still scrabbling at his mouth. His friends had drawn back, gaping with shock and fright.

A sharp voice behind Calwyn said, ‘What goes on here?’

It was Darrow, striding along the cobbles with his uneven step, swinging his carved stick, his face set and angry. Behind him were two men, dressed in high boots and thick short jackets.

‘They have threatened a Daughter of Taris, and received just punishment.’ Calwyn’s fists were clenched at her sides; she stood tall and straight, staring hard at the youth who had mocked her. He turned wildly to Darrow, his hands clapped over his mouth, his face contorted with helpless rage.

Darrow was at her side now. ‘Whatever you have done, undo it.’ His voice was low, but angry. Calwyn sang some notes, and at once the greasy youth tottered backward, released. His mouth opened wide; he felt his jaw gingerly with both hands, and spat several times onto the street, as if getting rid of poison. Then with one final menacing yell, he and his friends stumbled away into the night.

‘What did you do to him?’ It was one of Darrow’s friends who asked, half-admiring, half-amused.

‘I froze his spittle in his mouth, that’s all,’ said Calwyn. ‘It’s done him no harm.’

‘Come.’ Darrow turned with a sweep of his cloak. Calwyn hurried to walk beside him. His profile in the moonlight was hard and hawk-like; presently he looked sternly across at her. ‘That was very foolish, Calwyn.’

‘I didn’t hurt him. And he deserved it.’

‘No doubt he did, but that’s not the point. I have told you over and over again that chantment is feared and abhorred in Kalysons, that chanters are not welcome here. This is no place to play your tricks. What if those boys run about the town telling the story of how a witch of Antaris stopped one of their tongues with magic?’

‘Don’t lecture me as if I were a child! You should be praising me for using my wits.’ Calwyn’s face burned with resentment and rage. ‘Those boys won’t tell any tales, since they were the ones made to look foolish.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ he said grimly. ‘But next time, try to hold your tongue.’

Calwyn stalked along in a fury. Had she escaped the scoldings of the priestesses only to exchange them for lectures from Darrow? And to tell her off like that in front of his friends was unforgivable. Darkly she muttered, ‘At least in Antaris men don’t behave as though women are there to do their bidding.’