The Singing (14 page)

"Saliman and I don't want to be trapped here, either," said Hem. A thought struck him. "Maybe we could travel with you? It might suit us all. Saliman is a great swordsman and we could help protect your caravan—we have ways of staying hidden. And for us, it would be a brilliant disguise. I'm sure Saliman could act, as well. ..." He had a sudden vision of Saliman on a stage; somehow he knew that he would be a great player.

Hekibel laughed. "Perhaps Saliman might have his own ideas about that," she said. "And what about your friend, Soron?"

"Til Amon is Soron's birth School," said Hem. "He won't be coming with us." He felt a sudden pang: he had traveled with Soron now for many weeks, and he would miss his steady, good-natured company. "Leaving tomorrow? That might suit us too. Do you think Karim would agree? I'll ask Saliman."

Hekibel gave Hem an amused glance. "If Saliman thinks it a good idea, I will try to persuade Karim," she said. "But I somehow doubt that a Bard would be enamored of the notion of traveling with players. And there's certainly no room in the caravan for two more bodies."

"Oh, we can manage," said Hem. "We've been traveling for weeks now without a caravan, remember." The longer he thought about it, the better his idea seemed to him; and it would be more fun to travel with others, for once. They certainly ate better than he was used to on the road. And he might even get a chance to be a player himself.

Later, after a pleasant hour in the market with Hekibel haggling over fruits and cheeses and vegetables, Hem checked where Irc was (he was, as Hem had guessed, happily boasting to the local birdlife) and returned to the Bardhouse. He was standing uncertainly in the entrance hall, wondering if he should go up to Saliman's room, or whether it would be rude to knock on Nadal's door, when Nadal himself entered the front door, accompanied by two women, both Bards.

"Greetings, Hem," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for Saliman," said Hem. "But he might be asleep."

"I think not. We planned to meet here at this time," said Nadal. "You are free to join us, if you will." His colleagues lifted their eyebrows in surprise that a mere boy should be so casually invited to important deliberations, but made no comment. Nadal, catching their exchanged glances, apologized and made introductions: they were two Bards of the First Circle of Til Amon, Mandil and Seonar.

"This is Saliman's student, Hem of Turbansk," he said, and Hem bowed gravely to both women. "From what I have heard, this boy has as much right to be present at this conference as anybody here. More, perhaps."

The women nodded, and studied Hem curiously as they passed into Nadal's chambers. Saliman was already there, with not a trace of sleepiness, as were Soron and a couple of other Bards. As he greeted them and was introduced to the others, Hem realized he was tired of war councils. How many had he attended in the past months? A year ago, he had never heard of such things. He sat down on one of the couches next to Saliman, hoping that perhaps he might be able to leave this one without being rude. Nadal had been very courteous, after all, to invite him; but he feared missing the play.

"Hello, Hem!" said Saliman, smiling. "Did you find your players?"

"Aye, I did," whispered Hem, as discussion between the Bards rose around them. "Do you think I could leave soon? They are going to do a play at the fourth bell."

"I'm sure, if you ask respectfully, Nadal will not be in the least put out."

"And I had an idea, Saliman. You know how we need to leave here swiftly? Hekibel told me that they plan to leave tomorrow, because they don't want to get trapped here. Why don't we travel with them? We could pretend to be players, too."

"Hem, we know nothing of these people," said Saliman, frowning. "For all we know, they could be spies of the Dark themselves."

"Hekibel said you'd say something like that," said Hem.

Saliman studied Hem, his lips twitching at the disappointment on the boy's face. "But, on the other hand, it's not such a bad idea, even though it's probably because you are bewitched by the idea of being a player," he said. "In any case, by my calculations we have three or four days in hand, judging by how the army was moving on the road. But hush, Nadal is going to speak. We can talk about this later."

Nadal had heard from his scouts, and his news was bad. The Black Army was, contrary to Saliman's guess, only two days' march from Til Amon. Hem gave Saliman an expressive glance; perhaps they really ought to leave the following day. The Bards began a long and complex discussion about their plans for the School, and Hem began to get a little restive, wondering how he might take his leave. Saliman unexpectedly rescued him.

"Hem and I have an appointment at the fourth bell," he said. "So regretfully, we must leave. We know the news that affects us, in any case. Soron, we'll see you for the evening meal."

Soron nodded absently. Hem had hardly seen him since they had arrived in Til Amon; already he seemed a little distant, his preoccupations now no longer the same as theirs. Again Hem felt a pang; he had become very fond of Soron. His plain, undemanding kindliness had meant a great deal to Hem, when he was lonely in Turbansk.

Hem and Saliman swiftly took their leave. When the door shut behind them, Saliman breathed out with relief. Hem gave him a surprised glance.

"I don't think I could stand another war conference," Saliman said, unwittingly echoing Hem's earlier thoughts. "I seem to have spent my life at these things. And this is a battle in which, I hope, I will have no part, although my anxieties and hopes lie with Til Amon. If the Black Army can be stopped here, South Annar has a chance."

"So you're coming to see the players with me?" asked Hem.

"Why not?" Saliman grinned. "In any case, I'm curious. What play are they doing?"

"I can't remember. Lorica, I think Karim said."

"Lorica? With three people? How will they manage? Well, she's always worth hearing. And Karim certainly knows how to speak her work. It's a shame, Hem, that you never saw the players in Turbansk—there were some fine artists there." For a moment a shadow crossed Saliman's face, and Hem knew he was wondering whether those players he knew had survived. Turbansk, even if it rose from the ashes, would never again be the city he had known and loved. They walked on in silence.

They were a little early, but already people were gathered in front of the caravan. The platform was empty, and the curtains remained resolutely shut. But the players were lucky with the weather: it was cold but clear, and the wind had dropped entirely. Saliman found a place near the front and sent Hem up to their chambers for cushions. "I don't feel like standing," he said. "And it will be most uncomfortable if we sit on the stone. I'll guard this place."

Hem grinned and ran off, returning shortly afterward with fat cushions for both of them. They sat down and made themselves comfortable, and Hem looked around curiously at the gathering crowd. It was very mixed indeed, and included people of all ages, town dwellers and farmers, Bards and artisans, and many children. Whole families arrived, armed with baskets of food and drink and blankets and cushions, and an excited hum of talk rose in the Circle. Word had clearly spread through all Til Amon.

"Hekibel said they were hoping for a lot of people," said Hem.

"Perhaps everyone here feels like we do," said Saliman. "That they need a respite from talk of war. The Light knows, things will be grim enough from now on ..."

Hem waited, burning with impatience. The fourth bell sounded from the Library tower, and still the curtains remained unparted. The caravan looked as if no one were inside. Then, for no reason that Hem could trace, a silence fell over the crowd, a feeling of pleasurable expectation. Hem looked around— what had they seen that he hadn't?—and was just turning to remark to Saliman when he saw a hand on the curtain, about to draw it back. He somehow knew it was Karim's hand from the way he grasped the material, flexing his fingers with just a trace of exaggeration. Hem held his breath, and Karim slowly emerged onto the stage. His face was painted so that his eyebrows were very black, his eyes outlined with kohl, and his skin very white. The audience cheered, and Karim gave one of his bows, with a great flourish, and cleared his throat. The crowd instantly fell silent again.

"Good people of Til Amon," he said, his voice ringing easily over the Circle. "We are proud and honored today to present to you the tale of Alibredh and Nalimbar, as it fell from the immortal pen of Lorica, the great Bard of Turbansk."

There was more cheering, and Karim held up his hand for silence. "I thank you, good people, I thank you. I ask you to take particular note that we will be passing around a basket when we are finished. If we have brought you any pleasure, I ask humbly that you donate whatever coin you can afford, to facilitate our humble art. Now, with no further ado, we present Alibredh and Nalimbar!"

As he announced the play, Marich and Hekibel came from behind the curtains. Their faces too were painted and they wore long, blue robes, signifying their youth and nobility. Hekibel launched into the opening speech, in which Alibredh tells of her first sight of Nalimbar, the son of a family with which her own family is in a bitter feud, and of her instant love for him. Hem was spellbound. He followed the tale with breathless interest: the evil Horas (played by Karim), the rich suitor determined to marry Alibredh against her wishes, in order to gain her inheritance; the secret trysts between the lovers and their doomed attempt to run away; the terrible fight between Nalimbar and Horas, in which Nalimbar is tricked and suffers a mortal wound and dies in Alibredh's arms.

Hem was fascinated by the players' ability to make him believe in what they were doing, even though it was perfectly clear that they were pretending. Each player acted several roles, signifying the change by donning a new robe or a crown or a different hat. Bards, he thought, would have just used glimmer-spells to become the people they acted, but this illusion seemed to him somehow much more profound: he was enchanted by the art of the actors' voices and bodies, and the beauty of the language they spoke. When, in the final speech, Alibredh stabbed herself with her lover's dagger and fell across his corpse, Hem's face was wet with tears; somehow all the sadnesses in his own life flowered in his breast and found expression in Hekibel's poignant gestures, her beautiful, tragic words.

There was a short silence, a kind of sigh, as if everyone had been holding their breath, and then the crowd burst into wild applause. Hem cheered with everyone else, and then turned to Saliman, anxiously asking him what he thought. Saliman had watched the whole play with complete attention, not moving a muscle, and Hem wasn't sure whether he had enjoyed it or not.

"They are very good," said Saliman. "Very good indeed. I confess, I am surprised: I did not expect their work to be of that quality. You wouldn't see acting better than that even in the courts of Turbansk."

Hem felt obscurely relieved and pleased, if as he were somehow responsible for the performance himself. At that point, Hekibel appeared with the basket, and Saliman, smiling up at her, made a generous donation.

"Thank you," he said. "That was fine indeed!"

To Hem's surprise, Hekibel blushed. "Thank you," she said. "I didn't expect that you would come."

"Why not? It is a beautiful play, and you did it great justice. Is it possible that I could offer you all some wine after you have finished here?"

Hekibel blushed again. Hem looked at her narrowly: she didn't seem the blushing type to him. "It would be an honor, kind sir," said Hekibel, staving off her embarrassment with playfulness. "I will ask Karim and Marich if they would be agreeable. We shouldn't be too long here." She smiled again, and passed on. The basket, Hem noticed, was getting very full.

"Are you going to ask if we can travel with them?" asked Hem.

"Perhaps," said Saliman. For some reason, his face was shadowed. "It may be that Karim will not like the idea. Perhaps, Hem, while we're waiting, you could take these cushions back where they belong."

* * *

Saliman had arranged to meet Soron that evening at a tavern that Soron claimed had the best onion soup he had ever tasted. "Miraculous, Saliman!" he had said. "It will make your palate sing for joy. You cannot leave Til Amon without tasting it!"

"Perhaps the tavern has changed hands since last you were here," said Saliman, smiling.

"I have already asked. They have the same cook still. It is famous throughout the Lauchomon, this tavern ..."

"I presume they make more than soup?"

"Yes, they have a few dishes, all justly admired," said Soron. "But the soup is the queen of them all. I shall never forgive you if do not try it."

"That is a serious business, then," said Saliman gravely. "I will, of course, have soup for my dinner. I only fear that the wine will not match the incomparable cuisine. You know that I could never forgive such a solecism, myself."

Soron grinned, and gave Saliman instructions on how to find the tavern. It wasn't far from the Circle, in a little side street that ran off one of the main thoroughfares of the School: a comfortable, friendly building, with accommodation upstairs and a motley collection of tables and chairs downstairs, gleaming warmly in the light of a huge open fire. Irc, who was always prompt when dinner was in the air, swooped down onto Hem's shoulder as they walked there.

Where have you been?
asked Hem.

I've been busy with important business,
said Irc.
Are we eating? I am hungry.

Hem smiled.
Yes, if they let rude birds like you into the tavern. So you behave.

Irc pulled Hem's hair, but otherwise seemed content to ride quietly on his shoulder.

When Saliman and Hem entered with the players in tow it was almost empty; the people of Til Amon tended to dine late. Soron was not due for at least an hour. The few people there gazed curiously at Irc, and then turned back to their drinks. Hem and the others sat down and Saliman cross-examined the proprietor, a rotund, short man called Emil, on the contents of his cellars, at last ordering a jug of rich Turbanskian wine.