The Singing

by Alison Croggon

  "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. The 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!"

  As he announced the play, Marich and Hekibel came from behind the curtains. Their faces too were painted and they wore long, blue robes, signifying their youth and nobility. Hekibel launched into the opening speech, in which Alibredh tells of her first sight of Nalimbar, the son of a family with which her own family is in a bitter feud, and of her instant love for him. Hem was spellbound. He followed the tale with breathless interest: the evil Horas (played by Karim), the rich suitor determined to marry Alibredh against her wishes, in order to gain her inheritance; the secret trysts between the lovers and their doomed attempt to run away; the terrible fight between Nalimbar and Horas, in which Nalimbar is tricked and suffers a mortal wound and dies in Alibredh's arms.

  Hem was fascinated by the players' ability to make him believe in what they were doing, even though it was perfectly clear that they were pretending. Each player acted several roles, signifying the change by donning a new robe or a crown or a different hat. Bards, he thought, would have just used glimmer-spells to become the people they acted, but this illusion seemed to him somehow much more profound: he was enchanted by the art of the actors' voices and bodies, and the beauty of the language they spoke. When, in the final speech, Alibredh stabbed herself with her lover's dagger and fell across his corpse, Hem's face was wet with tears; somehow all the sadnesses in his own life flowered in his breast and found expression in Hekibel's poignant gestures, her beautiful, tragic words.

  There was a short silence, a kind of sigh, as if everyone had been holding their breath, and then the crowd burst into wild applause. Hem cheered with everyone else, and then turned to Saliman, anxiously asking him what he thought. Saliman had watched the whole play with complete attention, not moving a muscle, and Hem wasn't sure whether he had enjoyed it or not.

  "They are very good," said Saliman. "Very good indeed. I confess, I am surprised: I did not expect their work to be of that quality. You wouldn't see acting better than that even in the courts of Turbansk."

  Hem felt obscurely relieved and pleased, if as he were somehow responsible for the performance himself. At that point, Hekibel appeared with the basket, and Saliman, smiling up at her, made a generous donation.

  "Thank you," he said. "That was fine indeed!"

  To Hem's surprise, Hekibel blushed. "Thank you," she said. "I didn't expect that you would com
e."

  "Why not? It is a beautiful play, and you did it great justice. Is it possible that I could offer you all some wine after you have finished here?"

  Hekibel blushed again. Hem looked at her narrowly: she didn't seem the blushing type to him. "It would be an honor, kind sir," said Hekibel, staving off her embarrassment with playfulness. "I will ask Karim and Marich if they would be agreeable. We shouldn't be too long here." She smiled again, and passed on. The basket, Hem noticed, was getting very full.

  "Are you going to ask if we can travel with them?" asked Hem.

  "Perhaps," said Saliman. For some reason, his face was shadowed. "It may be that Karim will not like the idea. Perhaps, Hem, while we're waiting, you could take these cushions back where they belong."

  * * *

  Saliman had arranged to meet Soron that evening at a tavern that Soron claimed had the best onion soup he had ever tasted. "Miraculous, Saliman!" he had said. "It will make your palate sing for joy. You cannot leave Til Amon without tasting it!"

  "Perhaps the tavern has changed hands since last you were here," said Saliman, smiling.

  "I have already asked. They have the same cook still. It is famous throughout the Lauchomon, this tavern ..."

  "I presume they make more than soup?"

  "Yes, they have a few dishes, all justly admired," said Soron. "But the soup is the queen of them all. I shall never forgive you if do not try it."

  "That is a serious business, then," said Saliman gravely. "I will, of course, have soup for my dinner. I only fear that the wine will not match the incomparable cuisine. You know that I could never forgive such a solecism, myself."

  Soron grinned, and gave Saliman instructions on how to find the tavern. It wasn't far from the Circle, in a little side street that ran off one of the main thoroughfares of the School: a comfortable, friendly building, with accommodation upstairs and a motley collection of tables and chairs downstairs, gleaming warmly in the light of a huge open fire. Irc, who was always prompt when dinner was in the air, swooped down onto Hem's shoulder as they walked there.

  Where have you been? asked Hem.

  I've been busy with important business, said Irc. Are we eating? I am hungry.

  Hem smiled. Yes, if they let rude birds like you into the tavern. So you behave.

  Irc pulled Hem's hair, but otherwise seemed content to ride quietly on his shoulder.

  When Saliman and Hem entered with the players in tow it was almost empty; the people of Til Amon tended to dine late. Soron was not due for at least an hour. The few people there gazed curiously at Irc, and then turned back to their drinks. Hem and the others sat down and Saliman cross-examined the proprietor, a rotund, short man called Emil, on the contents of his cellars, at last ordering a jug of rich Turbanskian wine.

  "A good choice, my lord," said Emil, as he placed the jug and some goblets on their table. "But of course you would be familiar with the wines of that region. Alas, for the moment our stocks are limited, and it looks unlikely that we will have more in the near future."

  "Alas, indeed," said Saliman. "But that is not the least of our sorrows."

  "You're not wrong there," said Emil soberly. "And it seems new troubles follow hard on the heels of the last."

  "But while we can drink such wines, all is not lost," said Saliman, pouring out the wine. "You will have some yourself?"

  "I thank you, but it is early yet and I must attend to the kitchen," said Emil. "Else you might have cause for complaint, which would grieve me deeply." He departed smartly, and Saliman lifted his goblet.

  "I drink to the Light!" he said. "May it bless us all!"

  Hem was not the only one taken aback by the unexpected seriousness of Saliman's toast, but he sipped obediently. Karim, he noticed, adopted an expression of extreme gravity, and sipped as if he were drinking from a sacred chalice. Hem wondered if he ever behaved like a normal human being; divested of the glamour of their roles, Marich and Hekibel seemed quite ordinary, jesting together in the afterglow of their performances, but Karim still seemed to be onstage. Perhaps, thought Hem, he was performing for Saliman; certainly his manner had changed since he had realized that Saliman was a Bard and not merely a ragged traveler.

  They spoke for a time about the performance, until Irc became impatient and demanded food. Emil politely brought a small bowl of raw minced goat meat over to their table, which Irc gobbled down. The players amused themselves by feeding Irc by hand, and he played up to their laughter, bobbing up and down on the table like a clown. At last Irc was stuffed full, and perched himself sleepily on Hem's shoulder, crooning with pleasure as Hem stroked his neck.

  Saliman then began to ask questions about the troupe's plans. They were leaving, as Hekibel had said, the following morning, as early as possible.

  "I fear being caught in a war that does not concern us," said Karim, frowning. "We hope that farther north we will find some safer havens."

  "I don't blame you for not wanting to be caught in a siege," Saliman answered. "Myself, I've had my lifetime's worth of sieges already. But I fear that you are misled if you think you will find anywhere in Annar that is at peace. Sadly, this war concerns everyone, whether they will or no."

  "Aye, but all the same, I would have nothing to do with it." Karim's bottom lip was pushed out aggressively, as if he felt that Saliman was recruiting him into battle.

  "Saliman was not saying that we should stay and fight," said Hekibel, laughing. "Merely that we will be lucky if we can avoid being affected by this war."

  "Indeed," said Saliman. "Hem and I are thinking that we must leave tomorrow as well. Like you, we have no wish to be trapped in Til Amon, and we wish to travel north through Annar." Hem glanced across at Saliman, a little bud of excitement blossoming in his chest, and Saliman dropped him a sly wink. "What say we travel together for a time? Hem and I wish to travel as unseen as possible, and it seems to us that we could pass as members of your troupe. For our part, we could offer protection. We have arts of concealment and combat that could keep you safer than if you traveled alone."

  Marich looked up, his face alight. "Karim, that's an excellent idea!" he said. "I confess, I am very worried about being attacked. The talk here is of civil war in Annar—bands of brigands or rogue soldiers are roaming the countryside, robbing and killing at will. It has almost made me think we might be safer here! But a Bard can stop a bunch of thieves with a wave of his hand!"

  Saliman smiled. "Not quite. Though it's true we have ways of defending ourselves that can be very useful in a pinch."

  "There's no extra room in the caravan," said Hekibel. "We're a tight fit as it is."

  "As far as sleeping arrangements, Hem and I know how to make shift for ourselves," said Saliman. "And of course we would bring our own supplies, although I'd be very grateful if we could store them in the caravan. Well, Karim, what you do think?"

  Karim drew his brows together in an attitude of deep contemplation. The others watched him breathlessly. "But," he said at last, "can you act?"

  "Hem has no skills in that area," said Saliman, deadpan. "I spent some time with players in Turbansk, and have performed in some few works."

  "Another actor would be very useful," said Karim. "And a boy—even if he can't speak—well, he can be a messenger, a herald, things like that. Those parts are a constant trouble for us. Yes, yes, I can see it working ..."

  Hem looked at Hekibel, his face alive with excitement.

  "Perhaps," she said, smiling at his transparent joy, "we could even find a part for Irc!"

  The conversation turned to practicalities—what Hem and Saliman should bring, where they should meet, what time they should leave, their direction. Then, although Saliman invited them to stay for a meal, the players took their leave, explaining they had a prior arrangement to dine.

  "I'd be grateful for your discretion," said Saliman, as the players stood to go. "These are difficult times, and the fewer people who know my plans, the happier I s
hall be."

  "Your secrets are safe with us," said Karim, making a deep bow. "We shall be as silent as stone."

  "It would be better so for all of us," said Saliman. There was a significance in his tone which made Hem glance at him, and Karim nodded gravely.

  Hem watched them leave, and then turned to Saliman. "I didn't know that you would do that!" he said.

  "Neither did I, Hem. But why not let our paths run together for a time? Your mad idea is not as mad as it sounds. I worry a little about loose tongues—I do not know these people—but it might be easier to travel unseen with players than on our own."

  "I trust them," said Hem. "Well, I trust Hekibel, anyway. And it would make a change."

  "It certainly would," Saliman said, grinning. "Well, you may get your wish, Hem, and be a player, after all."

  Shortly afterward, Soron entered, his face lighting up as he spotted Hem and Saliman at the far end of the room. The tavern was now getting quite crowded, and he wove his way across the room, sat down wearily, poured himself some wine, and took an appreciative sip. "Ah, from the vines of the Jiela Hills, surely?" he said. "This is a good vintage: I haven't tasted this for too long. Well, I have kept my part of the bargain, Saliman, and now it's your turn."

  "Onion soup it is," said Saliman, smiling. "Hem, what about you?"

  "I wouldn't dare order anything else," said Hem. "Anyway, I'm very hungry."

  "That's settled, then," said Soron, and waved Emil over, ordering another jug of wine as well as their meals. The soup was every bit as good as Soron had promised; it was fragrant and thick, topped with a layer of delicious melted cheese, and Hem ate slowly for once, savoring its delicate flavors. Soron ate his almost with reverence. "A masterpiece!" he said, wiping his mouth. "And a fit way to bless our parting, for I guess that our ways will now diverge. Am I right in thinking you'll be leaving tomorrow? There is not a lot of time."

  "Yes," said Saliman. "Early in the morning."