The Singing by Alison Croggon

  His window overlooked the Inner Circle. From this height, he could see the spiral patterns made by the different-colored paving stones, gray and black and white. It seemed fairly busy: he saw Librarians in their black robes hurrying out of the Library, a high, imposing building opposite Nadal's Bardhouse, and many other people crossing the Circle, hooded against the cold. Then he lifted his gaze over the slate roofs of the houses of Til Amon, which ran down to the lake. The face of the lake was very still, like a steel mirror. As he watched, a flight of swans landed on the water, flurries of foam leafing high in their wake, and the water's stillness dissolved in a crisscross maze of ripples. In the distance, faint in the mist, loomed the dark, snow-crowned peaks of the Osidh Am. It was, as Soron had said, a breathtaking sight, and he stayed there for some time, leaning his elbow on the windowsill, breathing in the silence.

  Then something caught his eye, moving in one of the streets close to the Circle: a gleam of gold. He leaned out of the window, trying to get a better look. Yes, it was Karim's caravan, pushing up one of the broad thoroughfares that led from the Circle. As he watched, the caravan lumbered into the center of the square, followed by a stream of people. Hem was amazed. Surely the Bards wouldn't permit them to camp there, right in the middle of the School? Perhaps they were not planning to camp. Perhaps they were about to perform a play! As soon as he was sure the caravan had stopped, he summoned Irc, rushed out of his room, and knocked on Saliman's door.

  Saliman came to the door draping a robe over his shoul­ders, and Hem realized that he had roused him from his bed.

  "Saliman! Karim's here, with the caravan, in the Circle!"

  Hem was pink with excitement. "They can't be camping there, surely. Would Nadal let them? Do you think they're doing a play? Can we go and see them?"

  "Well, young Hem, if you want to see Karim and the other players, I'm not stopping you," said Saliman. "But you'll have to excuse me; I am a little tired, and would rather take this opportunity, which comes my way seldom, to catch up on some sleep."

  Hem's conscience smote him as he saw that Saliman's face was bruised with weariness. No doubt he had been up late with Nadal, and perhaps he had had other duties. "Saliman, I'm sorry ..." he said.

  Saliman smiled and ruffled his hair. "I forgive you, Hem, even though I was just on the brink of delicious sleep when you dragged me out of it. Nothing can be a greater mark of my love for you. Now boy, go, and leave me to myself."

  Hem turned to go, and Saliman called out after him. "Don't forget that we have dinner with Nadal!"

  "I won't!" said Hem over his shoulder, and clattered down the stairs.

  Karim had halted the caravan in the exact center of the Circle, and already there was a crowd of interested onlookers. Hem paused at the door of the Bardhouse, momentarily taken aback by the festive air of the gathering: people seemed to be acting as if no danger threatened, no army marched on Til Amon, nothing hung in the balance. For the briefest of moments, a sudden, consuming rage blotted out his excitement at seeing the players. He understood how Soron had felt when they had first seen them, innocently practicing in front of the fire as if nothing were wrong. He, Soron, and Saliman had lost too much: Soron had lost his lover, Jerika, in the fall of Turbansk, Saliman his city and many of his dearest friends, and Hem . . . well, Hem had suffered his losses too.

  His anger ebbed as swiftly as it had risen; but as it van­ished, there flashed into his mind a foul memory from the nightmare march through the Glandugir Hills. He saw, as clearly as if it were now before him, the terror on the face of one of the snouts, the bewitched child soldiers with whom he had marched through the hills, as a monstrous vine wrapped itself around the child's feet and dragged him screaming into the trees. The memory was as vivid as if he were there: he could even smell the damp, sour earth. A wave of sickness rose through his body. Hem flinched, cowering against the doorpost, his heart hammering in his chest, dazedly telling himself that he was no longer a snout, no longer in that nightmare place, and that he need never return. He almost turned to go back inside, but shook himself sternly. Why shouldn't people enjoy themselves, even if others suffered? Was it entirely a bad thing? Perhaps, in such dark times, it was all the more important.

  He stepped out of the door and stumbled, almost falling over. He hadn't realized until that moment that his legs were shaking and that he had broken into a cold sweat. He took a deep breath, deciding to ignore his legs, and strode as steadily as he could across the Circle. Impatiently he wriggled his way through to the front of the crowd, so he could get a clear view of what was going on.

  Karim, dressed in a long purple robe, was standing on the stage, which had been let down from the side of the caravan. He was in full flight, but it wasn't, as Hem had expected, a speech like that he had performed at their campsite. He was extolling his wares, like any pot seller in the marketplace. Hem was dis­appointed, but he listened anyway.

  "From far Eleve, dear people, we have traveled through wasteland and wilderness to offer you our crafts and our skills," Karim was saying. "We have played to acclaim before in the great Schools of the East, in great cities and in small villages; we have pleased the rich man and the beggar, the Bard and the minstrel; we bring you the great works of the great poets, for your delectation and delight ..." And so on. Irc, bored, flew off to explore, and Hem noticed that the crowd was beginning to get a little restive. But Karim was far too experi­enced a performer not to notice this himself, and gave signs that he was finishing his speech.

  "And so, at the fourth bell, dear people, and with the bless­ing of Nadal the First Bard himself, we bring to you one of Lorica's greatest tragedies: the timeless love story of Alibredh and Nalimbar of Jerr-Niken. And now, dear people, I hope to see you then. Bring your friends, your family, tell everyone you know—even people whom you don't know—for this is a rare treat indeed, and seldom played! And now I thank you for your time. Farewell!"

  Karim bowed ceremoniously, with many hand flourishes, and vanished behind the red curtains. The show, for the moment, was over. There was some scattered clapping and a hum of conversation, and Hem overheard several people plan­ning to meet up for the performance. It was well-timed: it would still be light, they could come before the evening meal, and by then most people would have finished their day's work.

  Hem made his way around to the front of the caravan and patted the horses. He wanted very much to see Hekibel, but suddenly felt unaccountably shy. He was just about to leave when Hekibel herself stepped down from the caravan. She was cloaked and carried a basket, and looked as if she were about to go shopping; but she noticed Hem immediately and greeted him with an open smile. Hem at once lost his shyness, and grinned back.

  "I didn't realize you were a Bard," she said. "You look quite different—I almost didn't recognize you."

  Hem looked down at his tunic, borrowed from Edadh's house that morning. "It's not mine; I have to give it back," he said.

  "But you're a Bard, all the same?" Hem nodded. "And your friends too?" Hem nodded again. Hekibel sighed, as if she regretted something. "I might have known. Ah well. And where's your bird?"

  "He went off exploring," said Hem. "He'll be back later. There are some birds here that he hasn't bullied yet."

  "He's a bully?"

  "Well, not so much a bully as a braggart."

  "I have heard tell that Bards can speak to beasts," said Hekibel. "Do you speak to your bird?"

  "Yes, Irc and I are friends. He's not really a pet."

  There was a short silence, and Hem wondered if he ought to take his leave. "They are all talking here about the Black Army marching on Til Amon," Hekibel said. "So you arrived in time. People here are very busy. And I thank you, too, for warn­ing us—we could have been caught in a horrible situation!"

  "But you still came here, to make your play" said Hem.

  "Not for long." Hekibel gave Hem a cool look, as if she were sizing him up. "Now, young master, are you idle at this present moment? I need to find a market
, and I could do with someone to carry my basket."

  Hem politely took her basket, and they began to walk together out of the Circle. "I haven't been here long enough to work out where the market is," he confessed. "In any case, I thought you had lots of food."

  "But precious little fresh. Are you coming to see the show this afternoon?"

  "Yes," said Hem. "Yes, I'd like to."

  "It's the only one we're doing. Karim is very alarmed, and wants to get out of here as soon as we're able. We plan to leave tomorrow. We're hoping to get a good crowd today. Karim fears that otherwise we'll be stuck here, in a besieged city. And for once, I agree with him."

  "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. T
he 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!"