The Singing

by Alison Croggon

  Maybe Zelika has found home, he thought. He thought of her as he had first seen her in Turbansk, an orphan who had fled the ruins of war in Baladh, desperate to revenge herself against the Dark. Maybe through the Gates she had found everything she desired. On this side, she had lost everything: her home, her family, hope ... maybe that was why she threw her life away.

  Thinking of Zelika opened a rift inside Hem that was so deep and raw he could barely comprehend it. He could see her delicate face and wild hair as clearly as if she stood in front of him. He still couldn't quite believe that she was dead, that he would never see her again: sometimes he still found himself expecting to see her at his shoulder, an ironic smile on her lips, and caught himself with a pang.

  Until he had lost her, he hadn't realized how deeply Zelika had wound herself into his heart. The knowledge of her death was still too recent: his body still bore the fading bruises from his hopeless, mad quest to save her, the terrible march through Den Raven to the dark city of Dagra, where he had witnessed things that frightened him more than his worst nightmares. He hadn't had much time to come to terms with what had happened to him in the past few months, but he knew that his failure to save Zelika hurt him more than anything else he had been through.

  Hem lay on his back looking up into the clear winter sky, where the stars burned cold and white in the darkness, and it was a long time before he slept. The wrenching ache in his breast persisted through his dreams that night, and colored his mood the following day. Hence, he thought, his argument with Irc.

  He hadn't seen Irc for some time now, and was feeling anxious: the bird wouldn't answer any of his summonings. He had clearly decided to punish Hem thoroughly. Hem sighed impatiently. If Irc disappeared for hours, he couldn't rid himself of his anxiety that something had happened to him; but still, it wasn't worth worrying unless Irc didn't turn up for dinner.

  Irc reappeared later, as the first edges of dusk began to draw over the land and the travelers were looking for a likely campsite. He dropped from the sky and landed heavily on Hem's shoulder with no forewarning, so that Hem jumped.

  The crow wiped his beak on Hem's shoulder and nipped his ear gently in greeting, as if they hadn't quarreled at all. Hem's hand automatically went up to tickle Irc's neck, even though he had sworn not long before that he would break his scrawny legs if he dared to show his beak again.

  There are humans, said Irc. Not far away.

  Hem halted in surprise. Humans?

  They don't seem like soldiers. Or spies. They are very strange. Hem could hear the curiosity in Irc's voice. They keep shouting at each other. They have swords, and they try to hit each other, and then they stop and begin to argue.

  Are they Bards or Hulls? asked Hem.

  Neither. Though at first I wasn't sure.

  Hem looked around, but he could see no sign of people. Where?

  Ahead of us, not far, said Irc. Hem knew that Irc had little idea of distance: not far could mean anything between a hundred spans and a league. They have horses and a big wagon.

  "Irc says there are people ahead of us," said Hem, turning to Saliman and Soron. "But he doesn't think they are soldiers or spies."

  "People?" Saliman's eyebrows shot up.

  "He says they are behaving very strangely. They seem to be fighting with each other. And he says that they have swords."

  Soron frowned. "The last thing we need is trouble," he said. "Anyone wandering through this forsaken land is bound to be trouble."

  "Like us, you mean?" Saliman said. He laughed. "Well, we shall just be cautious. It should be easy enough to avoid them."

  It became evident that night that the strangers were not, in fact, far away at all. They saw a campfire burning through the scrub, and were close enough to see dark figures passing in front of it. Whoever these people were, they were clearly enjoying themselves: the sound of conversation, laughter, and even singing drifted over the night air toward the three Bards.

  "Don't they know that the Black Army could be marching up this road any moment?" asked Hem in wonder as he lay sleepless in the cold, staring up at the bright winter stars.

  "Clearly not," said Soron. "I wonder who they are?"

  "Minstrels, by the sound of it," said Saliman sleepily.

  Hem sent out his listening, the acute hearing that was a special ability of Bards. He could hear a dulcimer and a flute, and maybe a lyre, but he didn't recognize any of the songs. They were singing in Annaren, he thought, and they sounded cheerful and unafraid. He was suddenly full of yearning for some plain good fellowship.

  "I think I'd like to talk to them," he said. "They don't sound dangerous at all."

  "Go to sleep," said Saliman.

  Hem sighed and huddled into his blanket. The ground seemed particularly hard tonight.

  The people in the wagon were moving northward as they were, and so they followed them at a judicious distance all the next day. Irc was beside himself with curiosity, and spent most of the day observing them and bringing back reports. It seemed that there were three, two men and a woman. He was quite sure that they were neither Bards nor Hulls. Most interestingly, to Irc anyway, their wagon was made of gold.

  Gold? said Hem.

  And they are carrying a great treasure. Hem could hear the acquisitive greed in Irc's voice. Jewels and golden things.

  You didn't go inside the wagon? asked Hem, aghast.

  Irc didn't answer the question, and he ignored Hem's worried warning to stay out of the wagon. Irc couldn't resist bright things: he had a particular weakness for spoons and in Turbansk Hem had to continually raid Irc's treasure stores to replenish the dining hall's supplies.

  Puzzled, Hem discussed Irc's observations with Saliman, who burst out laughing. "If the caravan is made of gold, I feel sorry for the horses," he said. "But I think Irc has discovered a group of players. The gold will be paint, and the jewels will be made of glass. Not that that would worry Irc. . . . The Light alone knows what they are doing wandering through the wilderness in the midst of war."

  "Players?" asked Hem. "What are they?"

  "Have you never seen them? Turbansk has some fine players ... I mean, it did . . ." Saliman paused for a moment. "They are people who tell stories. Plays."

  "I've heard storytellers," said Hem. While in Turbansk, he had once heard a legendary storyteller, Nakar, in the marketplace, who had enraptured him with a tale of the lost love of the first Ernani of Turbansk, who had been kidnapped by water Elementals. The crowd at his feet had been silent and breathless, hanging on his every word. Although Nakar was not a Bard, Hem had thought the powers he held were very like those of Barding, although he couldn't have said why.

  "No, these play out the story. They dress up as kings or lovers or villains and pretend they are the people in the legends. They travel from city to city, and make their living that way. There are some very good players in the Suderain, but mostly they are Annaren."

  Hem fell silent, trying to imagine it. "I'd like to see that," he said at last.

  "Perhaps, if our friends are heading for Til Amon, as seems likely, you will," said Saliman, grinning. "But you are not allowed to run away with them."

  "Why would I do that?" "People do," said Saliman.

  Irc was gone for a long time, and Hem began to fear that he had been stealing from the players and had been caught. But when he returned, he had very different news: from high up, he had seen dust on the South Road, many leagues in the distance. He had flown down the South Road as far as he dared, and had seen a great army moving north.

  How far did you fly? asked Hem, his heart plummeting into his feet.

  A long way. Very far through the marshes. Hem relayed the news to Saliman and Soron, who received it grimly.

  "I think they are marching for Til Amon," said Soron. "If they take it, they have a good base from which to attack South Annar. If Enkir too marches on my city, I do not like our chances."

  "Armies move slowly. We can at
least warn Til Amon and give them some time to prepare."

  "What about the players?" asked Hem. "If they don't hurry, they might be caught. We should warn them too."

  "You just want to see the wagon of gold," said Saliman, with a faint smile.

  "If they don't know, the army might catch up with them," said Hem. "Maybe they don't even know what's happened in the Suderain. And you know they would be killed."

  Saliman looked across at Hem and smiled. "It seems fair to warn them," he said. "So we shall. But we must make good speed now."

  "Tonight?"

  "Perhaps before. They are traveling slowly, and I think we must move as swiftly as possible."

  The players must have quickened their own pace, because the Bards didn't catch up with the caravan until nightfall. The players had stopped in a hollow that protected them from a sharp wind that cut through the scrub of the plains, and had lit a fire, over which an iron pot suspended from a tripod bubbled promisingly. Hem, who had not had the luxury of hot food since they had left Nal-Ak-Burat, felt his mouth fill with water and Irc nipped his ear with excitement. Despite the bird's preference for raw meat, he had developed a taste for well-cooked food in his time with the Bards and was certainly not averse to eating it.

  The Bards hesitated outside the circle of firelight, looking in from the darkness: it seemed astounding to them that anybody could be traveling through the wilderness so casually. Not only had the players made no effort to conceal themselves, but no one was even keeping watch.

  The caravan was bigger than Hem had expected and it was indeed gold or, more accurately, a kind of shabby gilt: it had clearly seen better days, and in several places the paint had flaked off. A picture of heroic battle was painted rather crudely on its side, framed by much superfluous ornamentation, and a tattered crimson curtain hung over the door. Two hobbled horses cropped grass nearby, and a lean yellow dog was propped on its haunches by the fire, its nose twitching at the aromas from the pot. As soon as Saliman saw the dog, he told it silently to be quiet: he would rather announce himself when he chose.

  There were three people, clearly all Annarens, at the campsite. A fair-haired young woman was seated cross-legged by the fire and two men, one in his twenties, the other perhaps twenty years older, were practicing swordcraft. They were fighting with wooden swords, which made loud cracks when they connected, and were arguing hotly at the same time.

  "No, no, no, no!" cried the older man, stopping and leaning on his sword. "My dear Marich, what are you doing? You're supposed to be losing."

  "Yes, in the end," said the other. "But it's more exciting if I look as if I'm winning and then you overcome me. Then you look even more heroic."

  "You forget that you are the weak, evil villain," said the first. "And that I am the nobleman. The audience should be in no doubt of my strength and superiority. You should fall, here, and then wriggle out of the way—that's much better. The most important thing, my dear Marich, is the story."

  "The important thing is that everyone doesn't get bored and heave themselves to the nearest tavern. Honestly, Karim, the way you're playing it we'll be lucky if there are three people left at the end."

  "I think—" said the woman; but Hem, who had no idea what they were talking about and was following the argument with fascination, never heard what she thought, because at that moment Saliman stepped into the firelight. Hem started and followed him, with Soron at his shoulder.

  "Greetings, travelers," said Saliman, bowing courteously. The woman hastily stood up, and the two men, alarmed, dropped their wooden swords and drew knives from their belts.

  "What do you want?" asked the one called Karim. "We have no money here."

  Saliman spread out his hands to show he was not carrying a weapon (and to silence Hem, who was about to protest indignantly at the suggestion that they were bandits). "We do not wish you any harm," he said. "Like you, we travel in peace through Savitir. We simply wish to warn you to hurry."

  "Do you not know that you travel through a country that is threatened by war?" asked Soron abruptly, incredulity raw in his voice. "The Black Army marches on the South Road behind us even as we speak. Do you think wooden swords and toy daggers will protect you from the forces of Sharma himself?"

  "The Black Army?" asked the woman. "What do you mean?"

  Hem glanced at Soron and Saliman. Their faces were polite masks, sure signs that they thought the players were fools. The two men, looking a little embarrassed, put their knives back in their belts.

  "I cry you mercy for any discourtesy," said Karim, drawing himself up with dignity. "We have been long out of human contact. We made a wrong turn some way out of Eleve, and only lately found the South Road. It is long since we had any news."

  "Of anything," said the woman. She was looking narrowly at the three Bards. "Why should we believe you? We have seen no sign of war."

  "No reason," said Hem, who was still feeling offended at being mistaken for a bandit. "Except that it might save your lives."

  "I should have said who we are," said Saliman. "I am Saliman of Turbansk. With me are Soron of Til Amon and Hem of Turbansk. We travel urgently to Til Amon, to warn them that they are likely to face attack, and thought to let you know, since we have been aware of you for the past day, that you are in mortal peril unless you, too, hurry."

  Karim opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, and then shut it. The woman glanced swiftly at the two men as if in annoyance, and stepped forward, holding her hand out in greeting.

  "I thank you for your kindness, then," she said. Her voice was beautiful, low and clear. "My name is Hekibel, daughter of Hirean, and with me are Karim of Lok and Marich, son of Marichan. Believe me, we have spoken to no stranger for the past two months, and have heard nothing of this; there was no news of it in Eleve when we left. What is the news?"

  "The Black Army has invaded the Suderain, and Turbansk and Baladh have fallen," said Hem. "Many have fled to Car Amdridh, which we hope to defend. Now the Nameless One is marching on South Annar. We think most likely they seek to lay siege to Til Amon."

  "Turbansk? Baladh? Fallen?" said Marich falteringly. "Is this true?"

  "Aye." Saliman's face was expressionless, but Hem knew the disbelief in the faces of the players made Saliman feel his grief anew, as if he himself had heard the news for the first time.

  "Well." Karim looked stunned. "Well. I had heard that times were black, but I didn't know ... Well."

  There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Saliman opened his mouth to take his leave, but Hekibel turned to Karim.

  "Perhaps we could invite our guests for a bite to eat?" said Hekibel. "That is, of course, if you have time, given the urgency of your errand."

  "Yes. Indeed. Friends, please, you are welcome to partake in our humble repast." Karim made a flourish with his hands, as if he were inviting them to a king's table. "It is the least we can offer, as our thanks."

  Hem looked pleadingly at Saliman, whom he saw was about to refuse, and Saliman hesitated. The stew smelled very inviting.

  "I thank you," said Saliman. "That is, if there is enough to share with three strangers. We need not stand on courtesy here: we are all poor travelers."

  "Oh, we've got plenty of supplies," said Hekibel. "And Marich caught a wild goat yesterday, so I've made a big pot."

  Soron, Hem saw, was not too pleased with the idea—he still seemed outraged, even angered, by the players' ignorance of the war—but Hem was delighted. After their cold fare of the past few days, a plate of stew seemed luxurious beyond comparison.

  The players turned out to be good company, and even Soron was soon mollified. Hekibel, seeing Hem's curiosity, had shown him inside the caravan. (Irc was on his shoulder, bristling with inquisitiveness, but was sternly told to behave himself.) Hem felt a sudden pang as he bent his head to enter: for a short time he had been taken in by a family of Pilanel, and he had vivid memories of their cozy caravans. They had been very kind to him. Bu
t that memory called up images he would rather forget.

  This caravan was very different from the Pilanels'. It was big enough to be divided into three sleeping compartments with thick red curtains, although they were now drawn back, lending the interior an air of faded splendor. Hekibel showed him how the whole of one side of the caravan could be let down and turned into a stage, using the red curtains as a backdrop. The opposite wall was lined with cupboards where robes, masks, and other props were neatly put away. The back of the caravan was basically a well-stocked larder: it included rice, pulses, spices, flour, various oils, nuts, dried fruits, and smoked meats.

  "It's beautiful," said Hem, enraptured.

  "Try living in it with Marich and Karim for a year," said Hekibel dryly. "It loses some of its charm."

  "And you just travel around, pretending to be people in stories?"

  Hekibel laughed. "Yes, I suppose that's exactly what we do." "And people pay you?"

  "They give us what they can. We had a good season in Eleve, but all the flour and the lentils came from a little village. They didn't have any coins."

  "I'd love to see something like that." Hem was flushed with enthusiasm. "I never have before."

  "Sometimes it can be magical," said Hekibel. "And sometimes it's just plain awful. I love it and I hate it at the same time. I can't say it's an easy life. But look, we had better go back to the others, or the stew will burn." They could hear Karim's voice raised outside, and she turned sharply. "And it's been a while since Karim has had an audience. I fear he might be boring your friends."