The Singers of Nevya (5 page)

“Thank you,” Magret said to Wil. She put her hand firmly under her junior’s elbow. “Come along, Sira, and I will show you the garden before the evening meal. Grigr and I had Cantoris hours this morning, and for now I am free.”

Sira, glad to escape Wil’s intense gaze, bowed goodbye to him, and went with Magret out of the Cantoris. She felt the Housekeeper’s eyes on her back as she walked away.

Just outside the Cantoris the wrinkled little Housewoman who had been on the steps with Rhia when Sira first arrived stepped up to Magret with a sketchy bow. “Cantrix Magret, Rhia wants you to come and warm the
ubanyix
for her.”

Sira drew breath to offer herself for the task, but Magret nodded to the Housewoman and turned down the hall toward the
ubanyix
. Sira opened her mind, but Magret sent nothing. Uncertainly, Sira followed her, expecting some instruction. The little Housewoman trotted busily in front of Magret. Sira sensed only resignation from her senior.

Still, this wasn’t proper. Sira called, “Cantrix Magret, please. Allow me this small task. You are senior now.”

Magret looked back in surprise. “That is very kind, Sira,” she said. “But it is better if I do it today. We will have our walk in the gardens later.” Her voice had gone rather flat, but her face gave no indication of her feelings. She hurried away, following the old Housewoman.

There was nothing Sira could do but turn and walk on alone, wondering. Magret had accepted a peremptory, even discourteous command, and she had complied without demur. Sira did not understand why a senior Cantrix, with her heavy responsibilities, should be treated in this way. Naturally, customs would differ here, but such disrespect surely should not be tolerated.

Sira wandered down the long, broad corridor. The intricate carvings that lined the walls reflected the yellow
quiru
light from curved and faceted surfaces. It was distracting. There was so much to look at, everywhere. It must have taken many summers to decorate every inch of Bariken in this way. Several people passed Sira. They bowed, but they did not speak. There were no voices in her mind. There were no friendly smiles.

A wide staircase opened up before her, with a carved banister that rippled and flowed like a slender river of wood. It was beautiful, and extravagant. She knew very little about
obis
carvers, but the ones who had made this banister had invested it with real artistry. It invited her hand to caress it as she climbed.

She wandered up the stairs, stopping to admire the wavy limeglass window above the first landing. The glassworkers also had much to be proud of.

On the floor above, the hallway was similarly wide, with apartment doors spaced far apart. Sira thought she must have come upon the Magister’s wing, where he and his staff would have the largest rooms. She heard the murmur of conversation and ongoing family life behind the doors she passed, a homely and familiar sound. Her fur boots whispered across the stone floor as she walked.

She was sure she must soon come to another stairwell that would return her to the first floor. As she paced the corridor, she heard a door open behind her.

“Cantrix Sira!” The voice resonated in the hall. It sounded, in fact, like the voice of a Singer, the soft palate lifted, the vowels open. Sira turned to see a plump, middle-aged woman in the dark tunic of the upper class, standing in the doorway of one of the largest apartments. A child called something behind her.

“Yes,” Sira said, wondering how this woman had known she was passing.

“I believe you have lost your way,” said the woman. She closed her door and came forward, a woman as ample in her proportions as Sira was spare. She bowed rather casually. “I’m Trude. May I show you back to your room?”

“It is not necessary. I will find it.”

“Very well. At the end of the corridor, turn right down the stairs and then right again.” Trude smiled, her expression reminding Sira of Wil’s odd one. “I enjoyed your
quirunha
today. Certainly a relief after listening to old Grigr’s wobble.”

Sira frowned. “I am sure he gave long and devoted service,” she said stiffly.

“Too long, Cantrix. You’re a refreshing change.” Trude looked Sira up and down. “You certainly look like a Singer. No danger of you going astray, is there?”

Sira’s eyebrows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”

Trude laughed, and Sira heard again the overtones of Conservatory in her voice. “Never mind, young Cantrix. I’ll leave you alone. If you really don’t want a guide, then—” She bowed again, still smiling.

“Thank you.” Sira spoke coldly, and made a deliberately shallow bow. She turned her back, and was some way down the hall before she heard Trude’s door close behind her.

Sira shrugged off her irritation as she went looking for the stairs. Someone, she thought, should teach the House members of Bariken how Singers should be addressed.

She took her
filhata
from under her arm and stroked its glowing surface, remembering the Houseman at Conservatory who had so painstakingly carved and polished and tuned it. She recalled the ceremony with which he had presented it to her. He would have disapproved of the manners of these people. Maestra Lu would have been furious.

Sira was always an early riser, preferring to put in an hour of work before the morning meal. On her third day at Bariken she rose even earlier than usual, and gently sought Magret with her mind, careful not to intrude. When she determined that her senior was still in her room, Sira hurried out. She carried her
filla
in her hand, and moved quickly among the few people who were in the halls at that hour. When she opened the door to the
ubanyix
, she saw with satisfaction that the big carved tub was empty. The air was redolent with the fragrance of herbs left to soak overnight.

Her little melody in the third mode, with its plaintive raised fourth degree, floated out across the water. She played until curls of steam rose from the surface into the yellowish light.

Magret came in just as she was about to leave. A Housewoman was behind her, carrying a stack of woven towels.

“Sira? Are you bathing so early?”

Sira bowed. “No. But a senior Cantrix should not have to perform this small task.”

“Ah. I see.” Magret’s cheeks curved with her smile, making her look younger than her seven summers. “Thank you.” She hesitated for a moment, her eyes half-closed, listening to something. The Housewoman was on the other side of the room, busy with towels and cakes of soap. Magret opened her mind briefly.

There are problems here
, she sent.
You are very thoughtful. But please be cautious.

Sira raised one eyebrow, and waited for an explanation, but Magret shook her head. “Let us go to the great room together.”

Sira inclined her head. She would follow her senior’s lead, of course.

On the point of leaving the
ubanyix
, Magret turned back.
Keep your thoughts shielded
, she sent briefly.
Always.

Sira’s eyes widened, but she nodded once again. It was strange advice. She followed Magret out into the corridor, wondering. She and all Singers learned in their early years to observe the courtesy of mental privacy. Shielding should not be necessary. She drummed her fingers against her
filla
 in frustration. Were these trivial things the lessons that could not be taught? They seemed a waste of a Singer’s time.

She ate in silence, with a healthy appetite for the nursery fruit and spicy
caeru
stew. She and Magret sat alone at a table, basking in the bright light from one of the tall windows. Mealtime at Conservatory had been a time of community. The great room here at Bariken, Although filled with people, seemed cold and foreign.

She wondered what Rollie would be doing on such a clear morning. Perhaps she was outside, riding after the
caeru
in the sunlit hills.

Chapter Five

Cantoris hours began right after breakfast. Sira and Magret,
fillas
ready, seated themselves on carved armchairs at one end of the long room, and House members seeking healing lined up before them. Sira’s role would be mostly one of observation at first, but she was nervous just the same. This was the weakest part of her Gift. Only the small bumps and ailments of the dormitory had been within her scope. Maestro Nikei had been frustrated with her. Maestra Lu thought the skill would come, with practice. But Sira had practiced, and practiced hard, and the knack of sensing others’ discomforts still eluded her.

The first few patients were easy, a bruised elbow, two mild colds. One infant, held by a sweet-faced, tired young mother, had a toothache. Magret asked Sira to treat it while she watched, and supported her with her own psi. Sira closed her eyes, and sensed a new tooth making its slow way into the little one’s mouth. It was easy to slip past a baby’s unformed mind. She played a soothing melody, and the child stopped crying, distracted by the music. Encouraged, Sira extended the tune, and used the gentlest nudge of her psi to ease the gum tissue away from the little tooth. Magret showed her how to quiet the tiny nerves, and Sira followed closely. The baby sighed with relief. Sira did, too.

“Oh, thank you, young Cantrix,” the mother whispered. She was no more than four summers old, Sira was sure, but her eyes were smudged and swollen.

“You are welcome,” Sira said. “You need rest, Housewoman.”

The young mother shook her head. “You’ve never raised a baby,” she said tiredly.

Sira raised one eyebrow. Magret said sharply, “All right, Mari. You may go now.”

Mari blushed and put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a wary glance at Cantrix Magret’s stern face.

As Mari hurried off, Sira sent,
I do not think she meant to offend, Cantrix.

We must discourage familiarity
, Magret responded.
It hampers our work.

Sira wondered why disrespect was tolerated from some and not from others, but others were waiting, and there was no time to ask. It would bear consideration, when she had time.

As Mari carried her baby from the Cantoris, Sira could see that it was sound asleep, and she felt a rush of satisfaction. She felt like an adult at that moment. She felt like a professional. She had much to learn about Bariken and its ways, but this first small success delighted her.

She sat back in her chair, her
filla
cradled in her long fingers, and found Wil watching her. Outrageously, he winked one narrow eye. Sira flushed, and looked away to the next patient. Surely the Housekeeper’s behavior could be called disrespectful. Something about him disturbed Sira, even offended her. She pressed her lips together. It was all very confusing.

A man with his arm in a sling was next in line, but a Housewoman stepped in front of him. Sira expected Magret to tell the woman to wait her turn, but the senior Cantrix only gave a long and audible sigh.

“Cantrix, Trude wants you to see her boy upstairs,” the woman said to Magret.

Sira turned to her senior in protest. Working Housemen and women were waiting, and in her experience, no House member received consideration above another. Magret, however, did not return her glance. She rose without comment to follow the Housewoman. Sira opened her mind, but Magret’s thoughts were firmly shielded.

A flood of exasperation at these mysteries brought Sira to her feet. Without stopping to consider, she said, “A senior Cantrix is not summoned like a cook or a stableman.” Her deep voice rang in the Cantoris with authority beyond her years, beyond even her own intent. The people in line looked up in surprise, and she sensed Wil’s sudden movement. But she could not stop now. “I am junior, and if the boy is too ill to come to the Cantoris, I will go to him.”

The Housewoman looked bewildered. “Trude said—Cantrix Magret,” she blurted.

Magret opened her mouth, but Sira forestalled her by stepping forward. “Let us go,” she said, “so that I can return to assist Cantrix Magret here. People are waiting.”

The Housewoman hesitated, looking about for guidance. There was a sibilant hissing of people whispering to each other. Sira strode from the Cantoris swiftly, before Magret could demur. As she passed him, Wil grinned, openly amused.

Sira knew where Trude’s apartment was. She turned in that direction, her long legs moving too fast for the fat Housewoman, who puffed as she hurried after her. Wil caught up with them at the foot of the stairwell.

“Cantrix,” he said, matching his own long steps to hers. “Are you sure about this?”

Sira did not look at him. She feared losing the sense of purpose that had carried her out of the Cantoris, and she was trying to hide her lack of confidence in her ability to heal the child. She used the energy of her irritation to quell dismay at her own rashness. “Of course I am sure. Cantrix Magret has great responsibilities.”

“But customs at Bariken—”

“Are different. So I have been told.” The fat Housewoman was far behind them now. “Some things never change. A senior Cantrix must be respected.”

“Perhaps I can smooth this over,” Wil said. Sira glanced at him. Clearly, he was enjoying himself. She wondered how bad it might be.

She slowed her walk a little. She had acted impulsively, but she knew she was in the right. Her doubts assailed her then, and she turned her
filla
over in her hands, looking down at it. “If I cannot heal the boy,” she said diffidently, “naturally I would call on Cantrix Magret.”

“Naturally.”

They reached the upper hall, and Wil stepped ahead of Sira to knock on Trude’s door. His smile vanished, though his eyes still gleamed. Trude opened the door, looking perfectly composed. Her eyes met Wil’s directly, as if they knew each other well.

“Is Denis ill?” asked Wil. “Your Housewoman said you needed one of the Cantrixes.”

Trude frowned as she caught sight of Sira. “I asked for Magret.”

Sira frowned, too, at the omission of Magret’s title. The Housewoman came panting up behind her.

“Cantoris hours were busy this morning,” Wil said easily. “Cantrix Sira offered to help.”

“A child to heal a child?” Trude turned back into her apartment, and Sira sensed a wave of anger from her. She wondered at the strength of it. Usually unGifted people did not broadcast their emotions so strongly.