The Singers of Nevya (77 page)

The senior Cantor of Lamdon had no such doubts.

“Amric’s courier tells me I must address you as Cantor,” he said. They met for the first time in the Committee chamber, as the other Cantors and Committee members were gathering. Abram’s bow to Zakri implied both disdain and disapproval. He spoke aloud, as well, which Zakri knew was intended to be a deliberate insult. Abram demanded, “Why should the House of Amric need three Cantors, and one of them an itinerant? I fail to see it.”

“Do you, Cantor Abram?” Zakri blinked innocently and leaned toward the older man. Abram was plump and dark, and considerably shorter. Zakri gave his sweetest smile. “Shall I explain it to you, then? It is really quite a simple thing . . .”

Abram bristled like a
wezel
in the cold, but his response was interrupted by the arrival of Lamdon’s Magister and his entourage of Housemen and women. Everyone around the long table rose and bowed. Berk winked at Zakri from his place near the Committee members, and Zakri grinned and gave him a cheerful wave. He knew Abram was watching him, but he was surprised when he felt the exploratory tickle in his mind. The senior Cantor was listening to his thoughts! It was unbelievably rude, an utter breach of courtesy. It was, in fact, the same offense Zakri himself practiced whenever he deemed it necessary.

Zakri turned the probe aside. He had no doubt his shields were equal to those of any Conservatory-trained Singer. Sira had seen to that. But he wished he dared stretch out a playful finger of psi, perhaps tweak one of the flowers out of the elaborate arrangement in the center of the table, or flick all the
ferrel
quill pens onto the floor. Sira would have heard his thought, and raised her long forefinger, warning him to discipline himself. The image made him chuckle, and Abram frowned harder.

“Are we amusing you?”

Zakri looked into the Cantor’s eyes, and saw the anger and resentment that festered there. With insight born of his own miserable youth, he understood that Abram’s feelings arose from his fear, and he felt a twinge of sympathy. “I remembered something funny, Cantor Abram,” he murmured. “Nothing more.”

“I find nothing amusing in the present crisis,” Abram snapped.

“No, of course not,” Zakri said mildly. He glanced across the table, where Berk was shaking his head. Zakri lifted a deprecating shoulder, and sat down in his chair with his hands folded before him, the very picture of a dignified and mature Cantor. Abram sat next to him, across from the Magister.

All of Lamdon’s eight Singers were present, six Cantors and one Cantrix. The Committee members were also present. Magister Gowan gave a formal greeting, and the Cantors and Committee members sat down, with their Housemen and women standing behind them.

Zakri had never seen so fat a man as Magister Gowan, nor one so pale. Skin, hair, shining fingernails—he was white all over. His long hair was twisted into an intricate binding, and the skin of his neck spilled over the collar of his tunic to lie in folds against the black fabric. His eyes were the color of blue ice. They were almost lost in the thick flesh of his face.

“The courier from Amric,” the Magister began, “tells me there is a situation at Soren that must be addressed.” He nodded to Berk. “Apparently a number of itinerants have gathered there, and are causing a good deal of mischief.”

Zakri abruptly unfolded his hands. “Mischief?” he repeated in amazement.

“It can hardly be more than that, can it?” Cantor Abram asked. He waved a dismissive hand. “They are only itinerants, after all.”

Zakri drew breath to speak again, but Berk, sensing an explosion, forestalled him. He said, “You understand, Magister Gowan, that Cho is not an itinerant. He was a carver, who very nearly qualified for Conservatory . . .”

“Yes, yes, I remember that, Berk,” the Magister interrupted him. As he nodded his head, the flesh of his neck rippled. “Cantor Abram,” he went on, “I do think we’ll have to send a party to Soren. Sort this out as quickly as possible.”

Abram shifted uneasily in his chair. He opened his mouth, but then closed it again without speaking.

“Beware, Magister,” Berk said bluntly. “Cho’s a dangerous man, and he’s surrounded himself with itinerants who—”

“You needn’t worry,” Gowan said. “No doubt we can handle one rebellious carver.”

Zakri could restrain himself no longer. “You do not realize that Cho has killed several people, and rendered at least one mindless? That he imprisons the Cantrix of Soren in an attic?”

Magister Gowan’s pale eyes flicked toward Zakri and then to Abram. “I’m sure the senior Cantor will have the situation well in hand before the summer comes. Won’t you, Cantor?”

Abram’s dark eyes moved to the Magister, to Zakri, and away again. His voice trembled as he answered the Magister, “Of course.” There were nods of approval around the group.

Zakri sent urgently
, Cantor Abram, anyone who confronts Cho must have strong shielding! You must be on your guard every moment. His Gift is crude but powerful, and he—

Abram stiffened in his chair, and his face darkened.

“Cantor Zakri,” he snarled, with a nasty inflection on the title. “Were you not taught that you do not send to your seniors unless invited?” He held up his hands, and his voice rose to shrillness. “This is what comes of allowing half-trained Singers to step into the Cantoris! We must take steps, see that this sort of corruption does not happen again.”

“Cantor—” Berk began, but Abram ignored him.

“I urge the members of the Committee to take note, and when the present crisis is past, to seriously consider passing the laws we have proposed. That will settle the problem of the Gift and its training once and for all. Cantor Zakri, here—” again the emphasis on the title—”might possibly have become a very fine Cantor if he had had proper training. Conservatory training.”

Zakri sighed and rolled his eyes. He stood up slowly, and put his fists on the table, leaning forward to look down at Abram.

“Zakri!” Berk implored, without effect.

“With all respect, Cantor—” Zakri spoke the title lazily, drawing it out. “You know nothing of me or my work, or the need of the Cantoris I serve. More to the point, you are completely ignorant of what is happening at Soren, and how serious it is!”

Abram leaped to his feet. “Be silent!” he hissed. “I am the senior Cantor of Nevya! How dare you speak to me so?” He turned to the group at large. “Do you see? Do you see the kind of thing we have to deal with? There is no respect anymore, no discipline!”

Berk stood, too, and looked across the table from his great height. “Cantor Abram, Magister Gowan,” he said. “Whatever you may think of our arrangements at Amric, Cantor Zakri’s right. What’s happening at Soren is bad, for the House members there, and for all of us. They’ve gathered every itinerant on the Continent, willingly or unwillingly. Those they couldn’t persuade to join them they’ve killed. Singer Iban was one of those. “

Abram snapped, “Itinerants! Their shields are a mess, their control is sloppy. Have no doubt, Berk, we will send someone fully—” He glared at Zakri. “Fully qualified.”

Zakri folded his arms, and closed his mouth firmly.
And are you sure your shields are better, Cantor Abram?
he sent.

Of course they are,
the Cantor answered.

Zakri’s chin rose.
Then shield this.
His psi whipped out, a quick slash that separated the binding restraining Abram’s long hair. Abram gasped, feeling it snap apart. He reached back for it, but too late. His hair tumbled freely down his back, and the ruined binding fell to the floor.

How dare you?
he sent. His psi fluttered at Zakri, as if to answer in kind.

Zakri parried it effortlessly.
Do you see, Cantor Abram? When you go to meet Cho, you had better be ready!

He broke the contact, and became aware that around him angry voices were raised, fists thumping on the table and chairs scraping as men leaned forward to shout at him and at each other. Berk was begging for calm, for rational thought. No one listened.

Zakri cast one scornful glance around the table, at the well-fed and elegant people who sat in judgment on the business of the Continent. Cantor Abram was trying to retie his hair, snapping at his Houseman who was struggling to help him with the broken binding. Magister Gowan was barking commands that no one heard.

Zakri gave a short laugh. He would have better luck with the cooks at Soren, he thought. He turned his back and strode out of the Committee chamber. Only the faint, flashing glitter of the air showed where he had been standing. Soon it, too, faded.

Chapter Eleven

Mreen’s nimbus sparkled in the morning sunlight, setting her apart from her classmates. She glowed like a small sun among stars. Her hands expressed her every thought, and her eyes danced with them, making her a vivid, if silent, figure. The children around her were noisier, filling gaps in their sending with spoken words.

Mreen felt Theo’s gaze and turned to look across the great room, to find him where he sat with the Magister and Cathrin at the center table.
Is it today, Cantor Theo?

It is, Mreen.

The light around her dimmed. She nodded solemnly.

I will miss you.

And I will miss you,
Theo answered. He smiled at her.
We all will.

But Cantrix Sira is waiting for you. And Yve and Jule and Arry.

Yes. So they are
. Theo winked at Mreen, then rose from the table. “Cathrin,” he said with a bow, “and Magister Mkel. It is time once again to say farewell. I thank you for your hospitality these past days.”

Cathrin had to help Mkel struggle to his feet. The Housekeeper came to his aid, as well. Theo felt a painful twinge of premonition as he watched the Magister straighten, leaning heavily on the back of his chair. Mkel gestured to the Housekeeper, who in turn signalled a Houseman waiting by the doors of the great room.

“Cantor Theo,” Mkel said. “It has been a pleasure having you here again, even for so brief a visit. And now, there are some things we would like you to carry to Observatory for us.” The Houseman stepped forward to lay several neatly wrapped packages on the table before Theo.

Cathrin smiled warmly at him, and rested her hand on one of the bundles. “Here are some seeds, and root cuttings from our own gardens,” she said. “They’re for plants you may not have at Observatory. And there are a few small things—clothes, and one or two toys, and three
filla
—for the children. For the Gifted ones you and Cantrix Sira are teaching.”

It was like a benediction. In a way, it was Conservatory’s formal blessing of Observatory’s tiny school. Theo was overwhelmed with emotion. He thought of what these gifts would signify to Sira, the joy they would bring her, and he could have glowed like Mreen. He bowed again, deeply. “On behalf of my House, I thank you.”

The Housekeeper added, “When you come again, Cantor, if you will bring a
pukuru
, we will send other things, the bigger things you need, rolls of cloth and cooking pots. Perhaps you could bring a list.”

Mkel said, “In the meantime, with your permission . . . “ He held out a small pouch for Theo to accept. “We understand how remote Observatory is, and how difficult it must be for your House members to buy what they need.”

“Magister Mkel . . . this is very generous of you,” Theo said. He lifted the little leather bag in his palm, appreciating its weight. “Magister Pol will be grateful.”

What is that, Cantor Theo?

Mreen had crossed the great room and come to stand beside him. She gazed with intensity at the leather pouch. Theo put the bag in her hand.

Mreen’s eyes went wide. She did not open the bag at first, but she stared up at Theo.
Oh,
she sent,
it is metal. Many little pieces!

Yes, Mreen. This bag holds bits of metal for Observatory, to buy things like spoons and brushes, or perhaps a strong
pukuru
to haul things up the mountain.

Mreen opened the pouch and peered inside. She plunged in her hand, and pulled out a shining black oblong that glittered in her small palm. She gave the bag back to Theo, and examined the bit of metal, turning it over, tracing with her finger the mysterious marks that lay beneath its surface.

Theo smiled at Mkel and Cathrin. “Magister Mkel, you are most considerate, and Sira will be touched. There are many things—”

“Why, Theo, what is the matter with the child?” Cathrin exclaimed.

Theo looked down at Mreen to see that her eyes were glassy, fastened on some faraway point. The bit of metal was clutched in her fist, and the fist pressed to her cheek.

Mreen
? Theo sent.
Mreen, what is it? What do you see?

Now a small hand, Mreen’s free hand, crept into his.
Theo, the pictures are wonderful! The hands, and the stars, and the wind . . . It is beautiful.

It is not frightening this time?

Mreen sighed, and blinked, and turned her face up to Theo.
The piece is too small,
she sent pragmatically.
The big piece shows me more pictures.

Mkel was staring at the two of them.
The big piece?

Theo said aloud, for Cathrin’s sake, “Observatory has a very strange object, stowed away in a cupboard.”

Mkel and Cathrin exchanged a glance. Mkel’s expression was guarded as he looked back at Theo.
We will not speak of it aloud,
he sent carefully.

Theo stared at Mkel. He remembered Pol’s words, on that day in his apartment when he had unwrapped the metal slab to show them. They know, Pol had said, they have always known.

“But—” Theo began aloud, and then caught himself.
But why?
he finished.

Tell me first why the child knows of it,
Mkel sent carefully.
What does she mean when she talks of pictures?

Theo squeezed Mreen’s hand.
Mreen, can you explain to the Magister?

Mreen bit her lip, looking across the table at Magister Mkel. Around them, the morning meal went on, lively talk amid the clatter of ironwood dishes and cups. Cathrin stood close behind Mkel, forced to wait until he had the opportunity to explain to her what had happened. The Housekeeper also stood helplessly watching. Morys had come up beside him.