The Singer of All Songs (14 page)

Calwyn plunged from the sleepy silence of the streets into a world of bustle and clamour. A babble of excited talk echoed through the cloisters as the students hurried between lecture halls, and bells were ringing to mark the next part of the day. Shouts and footfalls reverberated between the ivy-covered walls, and from somewhere far off came the sound of a muffled explosion, followed by loud cheers. With all this noisy activity taking place behind the high walls instead of in the streets and squares, it was as though the city had been turned inside out. Never at her ease in crowds, Calwyn ducked her head and pulled her cap a little further down over her eyes, but no one challenged her.

She soon found that as long as she moved purposefully and kept to the shadows of the cloisters, no one paid her any attention. She strode through the teeming quadrangles, across galleries and along bustling corridors, but she never saw or heard any sign of her friends.

By late afternoon, she had searched four of the twelve colleges without success, and with growing apprehension. Surely Samis must be in Mithates by now; she was so tired and hungry, she had left
Fledgewing
unguarded, and it would all be for nothing.

At last she found herself where the wide placid river cut through the centre of the town, with a broad swathe of green bank on either side. Spander trees spread their branches in a shady canopy over the grass, and she sank down beneath one of them. The declining sun sent shadows chasing down the narrow streets between the colleges, though the riverbanks were still golden with light. Perhaps she should go back to Mithates Port, Calwyn thought dismally; she was still scrutinising every passerby, but now she was as fearful of seeing Samis as she was hopeful of seeing her friends.

Suddenly she was startled by shouts and hooting from the other side of the river. The strangest procession was approaching: a group of students running along, whooping and jeering, some brandishing sticks, others waving their bonnets in the air. Calwyn stared hard, but she couldn’t see what was at the centre of the parade. Then suddenly something broke away from the pack and began to cross the nearest bridge, moving quite fast, though unsteadily; she could just make out the head of a boy, a year or so younger than herself, with untidy brown hair blown back under his red bonnet, scowling with tremendous concentration as he skimmed along through the air, though still close to the ground. The rest of him was hidden by the bridge. The other students remained on the far side of the river, shaking their sticks and bonnets; some of them, bored, gave up the chase altogether. ‘Curfew’s getting close!’ Calwyn heard one of them call as he wandered away.

The flying student grew closer and closer, then suddenly he was across the bridge and in plain view, and Calwyn saw that he was not flying after all, but mounted on a strange contraption with three wheels, his feet pumping furiously, and dragging behind him a rickety cart laden with firewood. But she barely had time to take in this sight before the boy lost control of his machine. The front wheel wobbled mightily and plunged off the path, gathering speed as it hurtled down the slope. Calwyn gasped and leapt to her feet, certain that the boy and his machine were about to plunge into the river together. But with a desperate effort, he hurled his weight to one side and the machine collided violently with the trunk of a spander tree, flinging the boy to the ground, as limp as a doll. Firewood clattered over the grass. One back wheel spun slowly, whirring, in the air.

Calwyn hurried down the bank to where the boy lay unmoving. His eyes were open, and he was blinking dreamily up at the sky. ‘Steering pin must have come loose,’ he said. He sat up.

‘Are you hurt?’ cried Calwyn.

‘Hm.’ He considered the question. ‘I don’t think so.’ He put his hand to his face. ‘But I’ve lost my lenses.’ He began to feel around on the grass.

Calwyn spied something shining on the grass a little way off: two round pieces of glass, held together with a bridge of wire, with two long wires protruding from either side. ‘Is this what you’re looking for?’

‘Oh, thank you.’The boy placed them on his freckled nose so that the long wires rested on his ears. A pair of vague blue eyes blinked at her solemnly through the glass. But he was more concerned about his machine; he bent over it gloomily, inspecting the damage, which was considerable. The front wheel was bent almost in half, and a piece of broken chain trailed forlornly on the grass. ‘I knew that chain would never hold. How will I get it back to my college?’ He shook back his untidy hair and pushed the lenses up his nose in despair. ‘Look at that wheel.’

‘I can help you,’ said Calwyn automatically, but she was suddenly trembling. Perhaps it was the fright of witnessing the collision, but she felt she would like to sit down for a while beneath the trees. Her fingers prickled as though she were about to faint. She gave herself a shake, and bent to straighten up the cart.

‘They call me Trout, by the way.’ The boy held out his hand; it was filthy, and covered in burn marks and the scars of many small injuries, and there was a grubby bandage around one finger. It looked as though his clothes had also gone a long time without washing: his trousers were streaked with oil, there were various unidentifiable stains down his shirt, and he seemed to have been using his bonnet as a dishcloth.

‘I’m Cal –’ Too late, Calwyn remembered that she was supposed to be a boy. ‘Cal,’ she said firmly. Together she and Trout picked up the machine and piled the wood into the cart, though Calwyn’s hands were still shaking. She hadn’t eaten that day. Perhaps, she thought with sudden hope, this Trout might be able to give her some food, and maybe shelter for the night. With a little difficulty, they were able to balance the contraption on its one remaining good wheel, levering the front part between them and pushing it along, back across the bridge.

‘Perhaps I should have used the horn. I forgot all about it.’ Trout pointed to a small battered clarion fixed to the steering handles.

‘Never mind that,’ said Calwyn. ‘The sight of you flying along on this thing was terrifying enough. What do you call it? I’ve never seen anything like it before.’

‘Of course not. This is the first one that’s ever been built. I haven’t named it yet. It’s for transporting supplies swiftly on a battlefield –’ He halted suddenly in the middle of the road and stared at her suspiciously. ‘Were you following me? Did your college send you to spy on me?’

‘If you want to keep your inventions secret, you shouldn’t ride them about in the street,’ said Calwyn tartly. Her head was throbbing; perhaps she had been walking in the sun too long.

A look of dismay dawned on Trout’s face. ‘You’re right. If the Masters of the College find out, I’ll be in trouble again. But I needed a long run, and there isn’t room enough inside the walls.’

Calwyn felt herself warming to him. ‘Are you in trouble often?’

‘All the time, especially after the business with the explosion. Though it was the fire that really upset them. But that wasn’t my fault. It got away from me.’

‘Yes, they should teach you how to control your chantments,’ said Calwyn absently, forgetting that magic was outlawed here.

Trout stared at her through the spokes of the bent wheel, as if trying to decide whether she was joking or serious. ‘
Chantments
? Where do you come from? Antaris? They still believe in magic up in those mountains, or so they say.’

Calwyn didn’t reply, struggling to wheel the machine straight along the bumpy cobbled street. At last she said, ‘Supposing I were from Antaris. What would you say then?’

‘Nothing.’ He gave a snort of laughter. ‘I don’t believe those stories.’

‘What stories?’

‘You know what I mean. The stories of the witches with their magical songs, who can raise up walls of ice out of nothing, and make a snowstorm on a summer’s day. They’re tales to frighten children, nothing more. Anyone with any sense can see that those things aren’t possible. Only fools and babies would believe those stories.
Chantments
! You might as well believe in the gods!’ He gave another derisive snort.

Calwyn was sorely tempted to sing up a flurry of snow to whirl about his head, just to prove him wrong, but then she winced as pain stabbed behind her eyes. All she wanted was to sit somewhere dark and quiet, and sip a cool drink of water until her head stopped aching.

‘Here we are; this is my gate.’They came to a halt below the towering walls. He said hesitantly, ‘Would you mind helping me a bit longer? My workshop’s just inside.’

Calwyn held the gate open whileTrout clumsily manoeuvred the cart inside; the gateway was so narrow that they couldn’t both go through it together. Inside was a lush green lawn, dotted with spander trees. Trout led the way toward a cluster of low buildings that looked like sheds or stables. ‘They banished me out here,’ he said cheerfully. ‘After the fire.’

Calwyn held the machine upright while he fumbled in his pocket for some keys. He unlocked the nearest shed, then he helped her wheel the cart inside. ‘Just drop it anywhere, it doesn’t matter.’

Obediently Calwyn let her side of the contraption fall, and looked around, her eyes adjusting to the shadows. Trout fumbled for a light, and the room suddenly brightened with a white glow from the brightest lantern that Calwyn had ever seen. The workshop was an incredible jumble of objects, bits of machinery, little cogs and wheels and gears like the inside of a windmill, and all sorts of things she couldn’t recognise. There were tools and nails and screws, glass jars, lumps of rock with glittering veins of minerals running through them, rows of stoppered vials filled with different coloured liquids, balls of string, flints and coils of wire lying all over bench tops and stools and scattered on the floor. There was a large burned patch on one bench. She said, ‘It looks as though a storm has blown through here.’

‘Yes, people often say that.’Trout gazed vaguely around the workshop. ‘Thanks for helping me. I should offer you something – something to eat.’ He looked hopefully along the workbench, but nothing remotely edible sprang to view.

‘If I could just have some water –’

He fetched a jug and a beaker, and watched as she gulped the water down. But the throbbing in her head and her fingers refused to go away.

Trout said suddenly, ‘Are you really from Antaris? Why are you dressed as a boy?’

So he wasn’t quite as vague as he appeared, after all. Calwyn said shakily, ‘What a ridiculous idea. How could I possibly be from Antaris?’

Trout looked at her shrewdly. ‘I suppose you’re right. I’ve heard that everyone from Antaris is kept locked away in the mountains and forbidden to leave on pain of death.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,’ said Calwyn. ‘I think there are a few who manage to escape. Those who want to see more of the world.’ She thought suddenly of her mother.

Trout pulled off his bonnet and rubbed his hands through his hair until it was even more untidy than before. ‘More of the world? No, thanks. I’ve got enough to keep me busy for a whole lifetime between these four walls.’ He tapped the bench with its odds and ends of machinery and strange tools. ‘This is wide world enough for me!’

‘What about your machine? That could carry you far beyond Mithates.’

He looked surprised, considering. ‘Yes, I suppose it could carry a traveller further than he could go on foot. I hadn’t thought of that.’

Now it was Calwyn’s turn to laugh. ‘Why did you build it, if not for that?’

‘I told you, to carry supplies into battle. Or to carry messages more swiftly between a commander and his soldiers.’

‘Battle. Of course. Tell me, is everything you make here designed to help in killing people?’

‘Of course not.’ His voice was indignant. ‘We have
loads
of inventions for defence.’

He picked up a pair of pliers and bent over the mangled contraption. Calwyn leaned over too, and the buzzing in her head intensified. Something was calling to her, screaming to her, and all at once she knew exactly what it was. She reached out her hand to touch the battered clarion that dangled by a wire from the iron frame. At the precise moment that her fingers touched it, the screaming in her head cleared. She whispered, ‘What is this?’

Trout looked puzzled. ‘Just a little horn I found lying about. No one wanted it.’

She could only nod dumbly. Now she understood what the throbbing in her head had signified; it was as though she had touched her flesh to the sacred Wall without knowing the power it held. This object, this small battered instrument, immeasurably ancient, was an artefact so charged with magic that her senses had reeled from it until she comprehended what it was. The chanters of Mithates might have vanished, but they had left this precious gift behind them. And this boy Trout had tied it to his cart with a length of wire as though it were a child’s toy!Trembling, her fingers fumbled to set it free.

‘Please – may I have it?’

Trout shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Though I don’t see what use –’

But he never got the words out. Even as Calwyn struggled with the last twist of the wire, the door of the workshop flew open. A figure stood in the doorway, outlined in the red light of the sunset.

Trout looked round, frowning. ‘Hey! Who’s that? Mind the light – shut the door, will you?’

It was too late; the lantern guttered in the draught, and went out.

‘I’m sorry,’ came the voice from the doorway, and Calwyn’s heart leapt.

‘Darrow!’ She flew across the workshop with a glad cry. To her surprise, Darrow opened his arms and gathered her into a rough hug. For that brief moment, with the cloth of his jacket pressed to her cheek, she felt so utterly safe and so joyfully relieved that nothing else mattered. Her head swam; she thought she might faint.

But now Darrow’s strong hands were holding her away, and she struggled to see his face in the dusk. He said gently, ‘You have found something, little one. Give it to me.’

‘You mean the clarion? What is it?’

Darrow spoke low, barely louder than a breath. ‘It is the Clarion of the Flame.’

five
The Clarion of the Flame