From what?
From Mikal. His capital planet, and they think that just a piece of a planet should be free of him. Riktors laughed.
Ansset was genuinely puzzled. But how can they divide it up? Can they lift a piece of the world up and put it in space? How can they be independent?
Out of the mouths of babes.
They rode in a flesket, of course, all transparent except for the view of the road beneath their feet, which would have made them sick to see. It was an hour from the port to the city, but now the palace was in view, a jumble of what seemed to be stone in an odd, intricate style that looked lacy and delicate and solid as the planet itself.
Most of it's underground, of course, Riktors said.
Ansset watched the building approach, saying nothing. It occurred to Riktors that perhaps the boy was nervous, afraid of the coming meeting. Do you want to know what he's like?
Ansset nodded.
Old. Few men in Mikal's business live to be old. There have been more than eight thousand plots against the emperor's life. Since he got here to Earth.
Ansset did not register emotion until a moment later,
and then he did it in a song, a short wordless song of amazement. Then he said, so Riktors could understand, A man that so many people want to die-he must be a monster!
Or a saint.
Eight thousand.
Fifty of them actually came close. Two of them succeeded in injuring the emperor. You'll understand the security arrangements that always surround him. People go to great lengths to try to kill him. Therefore we must go to great lengths to try to protect him.
How, Ansset asked, did such a man ever earn the right to have a Songbird?
The question surprised Riktors. Did Ansset really understand his own uniqueness in the universe right now? Was he so vain about being a Songbird that he marveled that the emperor should have one? No, Riktors decided. The boy was only just made a Songbird at the beginning of the flight that brought him here. He still thinks of Songbirds as other, as outside himself. Or does he?
Earn the right? Riktors repeated thoughtfully. He came to the Songhouse years and years ago, and asked. According to the story I heard, he asked for anything-a Songbird, a singer, anything at all. Because he had heard a Songbird once and couldn't live without the beauty of such music. And he talked to the old Songmaster, Nniv. And the new one, Esste. And they promised him a Songbird.
I wonder why.
He'd already done most of his killing. His reputation preceded him. I doubt that they were fooled about that. Perhaps they just saw something in him.
Of course they did, Ansset said, and his voice chided gently so that suddenly Riktors felt young and vaguely patronized by the child beside him. Esste wouldn't make a mistake.
Wouldn't she? Devil's advocate, Riktors thought. Why do I always play such opposite roles? There's more than a little grumbling throughout the empire, you know. That the Songhouse has been sold out, sending you to Mikal.
Sold out? For what price? Ansset asked mildly. And Riktors resented the scorn in the question.
Everything has a price. Mikal's paying more for you than for dozens of ships of the fleet. You came for a high price.
I came to sing, Ansset said. And if Mikal had been poor, but the Songhouse had decided he should have a Songbird, they would have paid him to take me.
Riktors raised an eyebrow.
It has happened, Ansset said.
Aren't you a bit young to know history? Riktors asked, amused.
What family doesn't know its own past?
For the first time Riktors realized that the Songhouse's isolation was not just a technique or a facade to raise respect. Ansset, and by extension all the singers, didn't really feel a. kinship with the rest of humanity. At least not a close kinship. They're everything to you, aren't they? Riktors asked.
Who? Ansset answered, and they arrived. It was just as well. Ansset's who was frigid and Riktors could not have pursued the questioning had he wanted to. The child was beautiful, especially now that the scars and bruises had healed completely. But he was not normal. He could not be touched as other children could be touched. Riktors had prided himself on being able to make friends with children easily. But Ansset, he decided, was not a child. Days together on the flight, and the only thing their relationship had disclosed to Riktors was the fact that they had no relationship. Riktors had seen Ansset with Esste, had seen love as loud as the roar of engines in atmosphere. But apparently the love had to be earned. Riktors had not earned it.
Riktors had been hated by many people. It had never bothered him before. But he knew that, more than any other thing, he wanted this boy to love him. As he had loved Esste.
Impossible. What am I wishing for? Riktors asked himself. But even as he asked himself, Ansset took his hand and they walked off the flesket together, walked into the gate, and Riktors felt what little closeness they had had slipping away from him. He might as well still be on Tew, Riktors decided. He's lightyears away, even holding my hand. The Songhouse has a hold on him that will never let go.
Why the hell am I jealous?
And Riktors shook himself inwardly, and condemned himself for having let the Songhouse and this Songbird weave their spells around him. The Songbird is trained to win love. Therefore, I will not love him. And, once decided, it became very nearly true.
2
The Chamberlain was a busy man. It was the most noticeable thing about him. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet when he stood; he leaned forward as he walked; so anxious was he to reach his destination that even his feet could not keep up with him. And while he was graceful and interminably slow during ceremonies, his normal conversation was quick, the words tumbling out so that you dared not let your attention flag for a moment or you would miss something, and to ask him to repeat himself-ah, he would fly into a rage and there would be your promotion for the year, utterly lost.
So the Chamberlain's men were quick, too. Or rather, seemed to be quick. For it did not take long for those who worked for the Chamberlain to realize that his quickness was an illusion. His words were rapid, but his thoughts were slow, and he took five or six conversations to finally, get to a point that might have been said in a sentence. It was maddening, infuriating, so that his underlings went to infinite pains to avoid speaking to him.
Which was precisely what he wanted.
I am the Chamberlain, he said to Ansset, as soon as they were alone.
Ansset looked at him blankly. It took the Chamberlain a bit by surprise. There was usually some flicker of recognition, some half-smile that betrayed nervous awareness of his power and position. From the boy? Nothing.
You are aware, he went on without waiting any longer for a response, that I am administrator of this palace, and, by extension, this city. Nothing more. My authority does not extend any farther. Yet that authority includes you. Completely, utterly, without exception. You will do what I say.
Ansset looked at him unblinkingly.
Damn, but I hate dealing with children, the Chamberlain thought. They aren't even the same species.
You're a Songbird. You're incredibly valuable. Therefore you will not go outside without permission. My permission. You will be accompanied by two of my men at all times. You will follow the schedule prepared for you, which will include ample opportunity for recreation. I cannot have you out of my ken at any time. For the price paid for you, we could build another palace like this one and have room lefft over to outfit an army.
Nothing. No emotion at all.
Have you nothing to say?
Ansset smiled slightly. Chamberlain, I have my own schedules. Those are the ones I will keep. Or I cannot sing.
It was unheard of. The Chamberlain could say nothing, nothing at all as the boy smiled at him.
And as to your authority, Riktors Ashen already explained everything.
Did he? What did he explain?
You don't control everything, Chamberlain. You don't control th
e palace guard, which has its own Captain appointed by Mikal. You don't control any aspect of imperial government except palace administration and protocol. And no one, Chamberlain, controls me. Except me.
He had expected many things. But not to have a nine-year-old boy, however beautiful, speak with more command than an admiral of the fleet. Yet the boy's voice was an admirable lesson in strength. The Chamberlain, who was never confused, was thrown into confusion.
The Songhouse said nothing of this.
The Songhouse doesn't speak, Chamberlain. I must live in certain ways to be able to sing. If I can't live as I must, then I will go home.
This is impossible! There are schedules that must be followed!
Ansset ignored him. When do I meet Mikal?
When the schedule says so!
And when will that be?
When I say so. I make the schedule. I give access to Mikal or I deny access to Mikal!
Ansset only smiled and hummed soothingly. The Chamberlain felt very much relieved. Later he tried to think why, but couldn't.
That's better, the Chamberlain said. He was so relieved, in fact, that he sat down, the furniture flowing to fit him perfectly. Ansset, you have no idea what an incredible burden the office of Chamberlain is.
You have a lot to do. Riktors told me.
The Chamberlain had very good self-control. He prided himself on it. He would have been distressed to know that Ansset read the flickers of emotion in his voice and knew that the Chamberlain had little love for Riktors Ashen.
I wonder, the Chamberlain said. I wonder if perhaps you might just sing something now. Music soothes the savage breast, you know.
I would love to sing for you, Ansset said.
The Chamberlain waited a moment, then gazed questioningly at Ansset.
But, Chamberlain, said Ansset, I'm Mikal's Songbird. I can't sing for anyone until I've met him and he's given his consent.
There was just enough of mockery in the Songbird's voice that the Chamberlain went hot inside, embarrassed, as if he had tried to sleep with his master's wife and found that she was merely amused at him. The child was going to be a horror.
I'll speak to Mikal about you.
He knows I'm here. He was quite impatient to have me come, I heard.
I said that I would speak to Mikal!
The Chamberlain whirled and left, a quick, dramatic exit; but the drama was spoiled when Ansset's voice came gently after him, gently and yet exactly loud enough that it could have been whispering in his ear: Thank you. And the thank you was full of respect and gratitude so that the Chamberlain couldn't be angry, indeed could think of no reason for anger. The boy was obviously going to be compliant. Obviously.
The Chamberlain went straight to Mikal, something that only a few were allowed to do, and told him that the Songbird was there and eager to meet him, and was definitely a charming boy, if a bit stubborn, and Mikal said, Tonight at twenty-two, and the Chamberlain left and told his men what to do and when to do it and adjusted the schedules to fit that appointment and then realized:
He had done exactly what the boy had wanted. He had changed everything to fit the boy.
I have been outclassed, said the sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.
I hate the little bastard, said the hot flush in his cheeks a moment later.
The contract said he'd be here for six years. The Chamberlain thought of six years and they were long. Terribly, terribly long.
3
The palace had no music. Ansset finally realized it with relief. Something had been nagging him since he arrived. It was not the impersonal search by the security guards or the casual way that he seemed to be fit into a machine and processed. He expected things to be different, and since everything was strange compared to life in the Songhouse, none of it should have felt wrong. He had a far from cosmopolitan outlook, but the Songhouse had never allowed him to think that the Songhouse way was right and all other ways were not. Rather the Songhouse was home, and this was merely a different place.
But the lack of music. Even Bog had had music, even lazy Step had its own songs. Here the artificial stone that was harder than steel carried little sound; the furniture was silent as it flowed to fit bodies; the servants went silently about their business, as did the guards; the only sounds were of machines, and even they were invariably muffled.
On his visit to Step and Bog, he had had Esste with him. Someone to whom he could sing and who would know the meanings of his songs. Someone whose voice was full of inflection carefully controlled. Here everyone was so coarse, so unrefined, so careless.
And Ansset felt homesick as he ran his fingers along the warm stone that was so unlike the cold rock of the walls of the Songhouse. He hummed in his throat, but these walls absorbed the sound, reflected nothing. Also, he was hot. That was wrong. He had been raised in a slightly chilly building since he was three. This place was warm enough that he could cast away his clothing and still be a little too warm. How can they be comfortable?
His unease was not helped by the fact that he had been alone ever since the obsequious servant had led him to a room and said, This is yours. No window, and the door had no device that Ansset could see for opening. So he waited and did not sing because he was not sure someone would not be listening-that much Riktors Ashen had warned him of. He sat alone in silence and listened to the utter lack of music in the palace, unwilling to make any of his own until he had met Mikal, and not knowing when that would be, or if it would happen at all, or if he would be left forever in a place where he might as well be deaf.
No.
That is also wrong.
There is music here, Ansset realized. But it was cacophony, not harmony, and so he had not recognized it. In Step and Bog the moods of the cities had been uniform. While individuals had had their own songs, they were only variations on a theme, and all had worked together to give the city a feeling of its own. Here there was no such harmony. Only fear and mistrust to such a degree that no two voices worked together. As if the very melding of speech patterns and thought patterns and ease of expression might somehow compromise a person dangerously, bring him close to death or darker terrors. That was the music, if he could call it music, of the palace.
What a dark place Mikal has made for himself. How can anyone live in such deafening silence and pain?
But perhaps it is not pain to them, Ansset thought. Perhaps this is the way of all the worlds. Perhaps only on Tew, which has the Songhouse, have voices learned to meet and mix harmoniously.
He thought of the billions of pinpoint stars, each with its planets and each of those with their people, and none of them knew how to sing or hear anyone else's song.
It was a nightmare. He refused to think of it. Instead he thought of Esste, and at the thought of her felt again the wonder of what he held inside himself that she had finally compelled him to find. Remembering her, he could not really see her face-he had left her too recently to be able to conjure her like a ghost. Instead he heard her voice, heard the huskiness of her morning speech, the force in her normal expression. She would not have been made uneasy. She wouldn't have let the silly Chamberlain force her into saying more than she ought. And if she were here, he thought, I would not feel so--
If she were here, she would not let herself feel any of these things. Some Songbirds had had difficult assignments before. Esste, whom he loved and trusted, had put him here. Therefore this was where he belonged. And so he would look for ways to survive, to put the palace to use in his songs, instead of wishing that he were in the Song-house instead. For this he had been trained. He would give his service and then, when they came for him, he would return.
The door slid open and four security guards came in. They were in different uniforms from those men who had searched him before. They said little, only enough to direct Ansset to take off his clothing. Why? Ansset asked, but they only waited and waited until at last he turned his back and stripped. It was one thing to be naked among the other childre
n in the toilets and showers, and something else again to be nude in front of adult men, all there for no other purpose than to watch. They searched every crevice of his body, and the search, while not overly rough, was also not pleasant. They were intimate with him as no one had ever been intimate before, and the man who fondled his genitals, searching for unfathomably arcane items-Ansset could think of nothing that could be hidden there-held and touched a little too long, a little too gently. He did not know what it meant, but knew that it was not good. The man's face was outwardly calm, but as he spoke to the others, Ansset detected the trembling, the faint passion suppressed in the interstices of his brusque speech, and it made him afraid.
But the moment passed, and the guards gave him back his clothes, and they led him out of the room. They were tall; they towered over him, and he felt awkward, unable to keep step with them and afraid of somehow getting under their feet, between their legs. The danger was more their anger if he tripped them up than any damage their legs might do to him. Ansset was still too hot, hotter now because he was moving fast and because he was tense. In the Songhouse his Control had been unshakable, except to Esste. But there he had been familiar with everything, able to cope with changes because everything but the change was everything he had known all his life. Here he began to realize that people acted for different reasons, that they followed different patterns or no patterns at all; and yet.
He had been able to control the Chamberlain. It had been crude, but it had worked. Human beings were still human beings. Even if they were large soldiers who trembled when they touched a naked little boy.
The guards touched the sides of doors, and the doors opened. Ansset wondered if his fingers, too, could open doors by touching them. Then the guards reached a door they could not open, or at least didn't try to open. Was Mikal on the other side?
No. The Chamberlain was, and the Captain of the guard, and a few other people, none of whom looked imperial. Not that Ansset had any clear idea of what an emperor would look like, but he knew almost immediately that none of these people was sure of power or enough in control of himself to rule on the strength of his own authority. In fact, Ansset had only met or seen one outsider who could-Riktors Ashen. And that was probably because Riktors was a starfleet commander who had bloodlessly quelled a rebellion. He knew what he could do. These palace-bound people did not know anything about themselves.
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