The Singers of Nevya (56 page)

“I will not,” Zakri promised. “May I please have the soap back, master? I have two weeks’ worth of dirt in my skin!”

“No more tricks, then,” Iban warned, holding the bar on his palm. “I just want a peaceful bath. And tell me what’s ahead for you and Singer Sira. Did she get what she came for?”

“She did not,” Zakri told him as he took the soap. He watched Iban’s eyebrows dance in surprise. “They refused her. We have to earn metal!” he added blithely.

Iban’s brows made a straight line. “That could be tricky. Not many traveling parties will want to hire a Cantrix as itinerant, no matter how capable. It’s not the way people like to think of the Conservatory-trained.”

Zakri paused in the energetic washing of his hair, and peered out at Iban from between soapy fingers. “Would you perhaps have a suggestion for us, master?”

Iban tuggged at his own fringe of wet hair. “Could be. But it won’t be what Singer Sira planned, I expect.”

Zakri resumed lathering his hair, trying to be patient. Iban frowned, then lifted his brows. His eyes began to twinkle. “Let’s take on a party together, you and I,” he suggested.

Zakri grinned. “Would you take me? Truly?”

“I would truly take you, Singer Zakri. You’re a very capable Singer. You’re maybe a little unpredictable, but I think we could manage.”

Zakri crowed, “It’s a wonderful idea, Singer Iban! I would love to earn the metal we need, and present it to Singer Sira. She has done so much for me. How much do you think we can earn in one trip? Five bits, six? To share?”

Iban chuckled. “We’ll have to see. Let me find out who’s going where, and how big a party, then we’ll negotiate. Your job will be to arrange things with Singer Sira.”

A moment’s doubt assailed Zakri. “That might not be so easy.” He considered the problem. “She should rest. It has been a long time since she had a rest.”

“I’m sure it’s true, and I wish you luck persuading her,” Iban said dryly. “I’ll talk to you at this evening’s meal.”

Iban climbed out of the tub and dried himself, grimacing at the wet spots on the floor left by Zakri’s splashing. Zakri remained in the water after Iban left, soaping his hands until they were as clean as a baby’s, scrubbing his face until it stung. Lying back and raising his legs out of the water, he examined his dripping feet. If they grew any more, he thought, they would be as big as
hruss
feet. He was eighteen now, and almost as tall as Sira. Probably he was done growing, but if he could only manage another inch or two, he would reach her height. He grinned at the thought. It would be nice to look down at people!

Dried and dressed in fresh clothes, Zakri wandered out of the
ubanyor
and down the long corridor. It was odd having nothing to do. Of course, he could be practicing, but maybe just this once he would put it off a bit. He reached the turning of the hall where it opened onto the great room and the Cantoris. He meant to go into the great room, but the sounds of music from farther down the corridor drew him past it to the practice rooms where students worked behind closed doors. He heard the scales he himself had learned only this year, bits of songs, one or two Singers doing the vocalise he was still waiting to learn.

Outside one of the rooms he stopped. There was no music here. What he heard was sobbing, the sound of a child crying her heart out. Her pain seized Zakri like a hand, stopping his progress, drawing him to her.

For a moment he stood helplessly outside the door, not knowing what to do, but not able to leave the child without responding in some way. He lifted his hand to knock, but it seemed the wrong choice. Finally he sent to her, risking offense.
What is it? What is the matter? I am Singer Zakri. Can I help you?

The sobbing stopped abruptly. The door to the practice room opened, and a little girl with tumbled curly hair and cheeks blotched with crying looked up at him. Her lips trembled, and she put a pudgy hand to them.
You are the boy!
she sent.
You are the one!
Her blue eyes were round with amazement, their lashes sparkling with tears.

Zakri knelt and looked into her face.
I do not know what you mean. What boy am I? And who are you?

I am Trisa
, she responded, and her lips quivered again.
And you are the boy who did not have to come here! Did they find out about you? Did they make you come after all?

Zakri shook his head.
No, Trisa, I traveled here with Singer Sira. When I was young like you, I wanted to come here very much.

I do not like it here
. She dropped her gaze to her feet.
I miss my mama so much. I like the music, but . . . I miss . . .
She began to weep again, and without stopping to think, Zakri put his arm around the child. Her small body was warm and fragile, and he stroked her unruly hair and let her soak his tunic with her tears.

“What are you doing?” The voice behind him was sharp with anger, and something else. “Do you not know better than to touch one of the Gifted, even a child?”

Zakri drew back from the little girl and turned, still on his knees, to see a frowning woman in a dark brown tunic, her hands braced on her hips.

“I am—I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean . . . she was crying.”

Trisa,
the woman sent, without shielding herself,
go back into the practice room.

The child’s tears stopped instantly. She pushed out her lower lip and looked up at the woman with a fierce light in her eyes.
Where is your
filla? the teacher demanded.

Trisa’s chin rose high and her cheeks flamed. She stepped back very slowly to let the woman see into the practice room, and pointed with her chubby finger to the floor. Zakri saw the
filla
lying where she had flung it, and he sucked in an audible breath.

I hate it!
Trisa sent. Tiny sparks of anger flew about her face.
And I hate this place!

Zakri winced and threw a glance over his shoulder at the woman. Her face was dark. As she opened her mouth to speak, Zakri reached out with his psi and rolled the
filla
, ever so gently, toward Trisa.
Pick it up,
he sent to her.
Please! You should not drop it, ever.

Trisa looked up at him for a moment, and the woman behind him. Then she bent and picked up her
filla
.
Thank you, Singer Zakri
, she sent. She went back into the practice room and slammed the door with as much force as her small body could muster. The sound reverberated in the corridor.
But I will not practice!
came clearly from behind the closed door.

Slowly, Zakri got up from his knees. “I apologize, Cantrix,” he said again.

She stared at him, openmouthed. “Who are you? How did you do that?”

Zakri shrugged. “I am Zakri . . . Singer Zakri,” he amended. “Sometimes I am able to move things.” And sometimes I cannot help it! But he shielded that thought.

The teacher crossed her arms and shook her head disapprovingly. “I do not think such demonstrations are good for the children. Itinerants should not be in this wing, in any case. This is the student wing.”

“I heard her crying.”

“Many of the students cry in their first year. They are lonely, and they are working hard. They get over it.”

Zakri looked at the woman closely now. She was not young, and she looked tired and worried. He clearly heard her thinking that the rest of Trisa’s class had stopped crying for their mothers, and that she feared Trisa would never adjust. He knew he should shield himself, and not trespass, but it was so much easier to gather information in this way.

“I hope she does,” he said mildly. He bowed, hiding his expression.

“I will go in to her now,” the woman said dismissively.

He bowed again as she followed Trisa into the practice room. In a few moments he heard the halting sounds of a
filla
, badly played. He listened for a bit, then walked away. He would have to ask Sira how this child might have known who he was. He would not soon forget her heartbreaking sobs, nor her stubborn spirit. Trisa. Yes, he would have to ask Sira about Trisa.

Chapter Twenty-six

After much argument, Erc was persuaded to set a price for the
filhata
. He asked only four bits of metal, but Sira knew the
filhata
to be worth far more. She insisted the price be a fair one. In the end, they agreed upon eight bits.

It was hard for Sira to let Zakri go off with Iban to earn it, while she remained behind at Conservatory. She bid them farewell, and welcome when they returned, and otherwise made herself as useful to Erc as she could, to earn her keep. She avoided Magister Mkel and the Cantors and Cantrixes. She kept away from the student wing, from the great room, and from the Cantoris. She ate her meals in the kitchens, in Erc’s company, and she bathed late, when most House members were in bed. It was a strange time, being in Conservatory but not part of it.

The weeks passed slowly. When Iban and Zakri returned to Conservatory, the three reunited like a family coming together. Zakri seemed bigger each time Sira saw him, and he grew brown and strong with the constant travel. They resumed his
filla
lessons each time he came back. Sira polished and refined his technique, working on his fingering and his tone. When he was away she slept long hours, more than she ever had in her life. She dreamed often of Theo, and when she woke it seemed as if they had really been together, and had only just parted at the moment of waking. She missed his presence at those times with a physical ache, assuaged only by taking up some heavy chore in the stables.

It was while Zakri and Iban were on their last journey together that the rumors from Amric reached Sira’s ears. Two kitchen workers, gossiping together, whispered their news, assuming none of the Gifted were about. Sira, finishing her mid-day meal at the table, froze in her place and listened. Her heart turned over at what she heard.

She left the kitchens to pace the halls, fretting, worrying. For the first time since coming to Conservatory she felt caged and useless. She could only thank the Spirit that Zakri and Iban were expected the next day.

Already six bits of metal rested in the leather pouch Erc kept tucked into a drawer in his workbench. Each time Zakri and Sira had turned over a little more of the agreed-upon price, Erc offered the
filhata
to them, but Sira firmly declined. This trip, however, should bring the last of it. Sira lay wakeful through the long hours of the night, and the next morning, she cast her mind out past the stable doors a hundred times, listening for the travelers’ return.

It was almost night before they rode up to the House, the Singers and their travelers weary and hungry, their
hruss
wet with falling snow, fetlocks and long ears clotted with ice. Sira had heard their approach half an hour before, and she and Erc were waiting. They led the animals into the stables while the traveling party made for the great room. Zakri and Iban, tired though they were, stayed in the stalls, brushing and rubbing the
hruss
with towels until all the beasts were clean and comfortable. Sira felt Zakri’s looks at her, sensing her anxiety and impatience.

At last the chores were done. Zakri and Iban wanted to eat something before going to the
ubanyor
. In the kitchens Sira spoke aloud, for Iban’s sake, but softly. “I heard something yesterday about the Cantoris at Amric. I do not know what is happening, but it is said the
quiru
there is weak, and fading badly at night.”

“And Cantrix Isbel?” Iban asked.

“I do not know. But I must go there, and quickly. I do not understand, if there is a problem, why Conservatory is not taking action.”

Zakri spoke even more quietly, and they both leaned closer to hear him. “I do not think they have anyone to spare.”

Sira stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“I hear things. When we have been here at Conservatory, and when we went to Lamdon the trip before last.”

Iban’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “I didn’t hear anything. How did you?”

Zakri looked down at the bowl of
keftet
he was working his way through.

Sira sighed. “You should not listen to others’ thoughts unless invited.” The tips of Zakri’s ears grew pink. He put a huge spoonful of grain and
caeru
meat in his mouth and chewed it, looking up at Sira with his cheeks bulging and his eyes round and innocent. She shook a finger at him in exasperation. “Perhaps in this case,” she muttered, “it is as well you did. But you must not make a habit of it.”

The men went on with their meal as Sira waited, drumming her fingers on the table and arranging and rearranging her long legs. When at last they were finished, Zakri reached into his pocket to pull out four shining bits of metal.

He held them out on his palm, where they flashed in the
quiru
light. “There you are, Singer Sira. The full price, with a little left over.”

She held out her own hand and Zakri poured the metal into it. He was grimy and tired, his hair matted and his eyes reddened from the glare of sun on snow, but smile was wide and white in his sunburned face. “I thank you, Singer Zakri,” Sira said. “A job well done.” She nodded to Iban. “And I thank you, as well. Your help has been beyond price.”

“And so what will you do now?” Iban asked.

Sira stroked her scarred eyebrow. “We must go to Amric. Zakri can begin his
filhata
studies as we travel.”

“I wish you good luck, then,” Iban said. “I hope all is well with Cantrix Isbel.”

Sira nodded, but she felt very little hope. If Zakri was right, the shortage of Singers was more urgent than she had guessed, certainly more serious than Conservatory and Lamdon would admit. She wished she could fly to Amric like a
ferrel
, erasing the days of riding that lay between her and Isbel. She looked down at her hands, flexing and curling her fingers. She would very soon hold the
filhata
in them again. It would be a comfort.

Iban bid them farewell with so many reminders of his instructions that Zakri was laughing and shaking his head as they rode away. Sira flashed him a look.