"If I can help."
She regarded him with a calm, still expression, though her cheeks were wet. He had never seen a Sidhe or a Breed cry before. He filed the information away; perhaps it was because she was three-quarters human.
"I mean, anything I can do," he said awkwardly.
She shook her head and continued sweeping. As he turned to walk away, she said, "Michael."
"Yes?"
"I will take my rest later this day. May we visit then? I'll be better."
"Sure. I'll be back by my place at-"
"No. Away from the Crane Women."
That suited him. "I'll meet you here."
Though every muscle ached, it was the sort of pain he felt might be driven away by exercise. Once outside Halftown and on the road, he picked up his jogging pace, slowly increasing speed as ache gave way to exertion.
Twice now his life had been threatened. Such things seemed to be expected in the Realm. The Crane Women, each time, had treated his horrible experiences as just another minor hurdle. Michael couldn't accept that.
He wasn't sure he could trust the Crane Women to help him to his goal; he knew he couldn't trust Lamia. Even the humans had little altruistic interest in his fate; Savarin probably cared for Michael only so long as he gathered information. Only Eleuth accepted him for what he was, and desired his company. He ran even faster.
Whatever else he thought about them, one thing was obvious: the Crane Women were doing him no harm by training him. He felt better, stronger; on Earth, he might have been laid up for a week after nearly drowning and being roughed up.
Euterpe had come through the storm with little damage. Some of the walls were water-stained, and one or two had been shored up after the dissolution of a few bricks, but little more. Obviously, what Nare had said was true: the Umbrals and Riverines sought Breeds, not men.
Michael made his way through the streets, walking quickly to avoid curious onlookers. Even so, he was heckled a few times. He hunched his shoulders and felt the helpless anger build.
He shook his head to clear his thoughts and crossed a narrow, cheerless triangle adjacent to a large, low one-story ochre brick building.
There were no signs announcing the fact, but Michael supposed this was the dreaded Yard. He circled die building, found Savarin's school on the opposite side, a square, low-roofed structure with a clumsy steeple rising over one comer. As he climbed the brick steps, he heard a high-pitched warbling wail from the depths of the Yard and the muffled slam of a heavy door.
Savarin stood near a wicker lectern in the empty single classroom, leafing through a small pile of gray paper. The teacher looked up as Michael entered, his eyes widening at the bruises on his face and the state of the boy's clothing: muddy grass-stained pants, torn shirt and jacket. "You look more like a savage every day," Savarin said. "Was I right about last night - more man a storm?"
"A - what did you call it? - a raid."
Savarin nodded, circling Michael and touching his jacket solicitously. "Grazza, similar to the Arabic grazzu, you know. My God. I knew Halftown was hit-"
"Right in the middle of Kaeli," Michael said. "They took three Breeds, including the market manager. How often do these raids happen?"
"Often enough to make me suspect Alyons cares little for the Breeds, and that the Pact does not fully apply to them. Yet they follow Sidhe customs-"
"He doesn't give a damn for them," Michael said, surprised by his anger. "I'd like to kill that sonofabitch."
Savarin looked Michael over solemnly for a moment. "I hope your memory of the events was not affected."
"I remember well enough," Michael said. "The Crane Women even let me understand Cascar for a while."
Savarin's face betrayed almost comic envy. "Then tell," he said. "Do tell all."
For an hour and a half, Michael reconstructed the Kaeli and me events after. Savarin grabbed his sheaf of gray papers and scribbled notes frantically with a sharp stick of hardened charcoal. "Marvelous," he said several times throughout. "Names I've never heard before, connections made! Marvelous!"
When Michael finished, Savarin said, "I suspect Adonna would have done with us all, Breed and human. But it acts very slowly. A god's time must be different from ours. In its moment of hesitation, we might fit our entire history in the Realm."
"What happens to the Breeds they took?"
"I've heard the Umbrals and Riverines share them in their temples. Work magic with them. I know little beyond that. Perhaps some are taken to the Irall."
"What's the Irall?"
"Adonna's greatest temple, ruled by the Faer but accessible to all Sidhe. How many did you say were taken?"
"Three."
"Then it might not be an even split. Perhaps the raiders had a tiff of their own, dividing the captives."
Michael didn't like the word, divide. It sounded entirely too accurate.
"As for Kaeli songs, I've heard some outlines before but never so many details. You help me assemble many separate elements. A shame Lirg didn't have time to tell more about Elme. I suspect some very important history is connected with her." He put his notes on the lectern and sat beside Michael on the classroom's front bench. "Questions are going around town. Why are you here, and why are you with the Crane Women and not your own kind? The townspeople resent you because they fear Alyon's displeasure. Our position is precarious, and you introduce an element of uncertainty."
"Is there anything I can do?" Michael asked.
"Perhaps." Savarin smiled, then frowned as he inspected Michael's bruises. "You should be resting, not up and about."
"I'm fine. Tell me more about the Crane Women." Come on, teacher, he thought. Teach. "Why are they so old. and how old are they?"
"I'm not positive," Savarin said, "but I believe they date back to the time of Queen Elme herself. For all I've heard, they're Elme's daughters, but that hasn't been substantiated, and of course they'll never tell. Sometimes the Sidhe send their priest initiates, or their most promising young warriors, across the Blasted Plain to the Crane Women for training."
"Well, I'm no warrior and certainly no Sidhe. The Crane Women make me feel stupid. If the Sidhe hate humans and Breeds so much, why is Alyons supposed to be protecting us? Does he protect anybody, really?"
"Yes," Savarin said, scratching his nose between two fingers. "Somewhat. Things here would be much worse without him, much as I have a difficult time saying it. But he hates us. He makes sure we stay put, and between whatever protecting he does, he harasses. Makes life miserable."
"He wanted to kill me."
"I'm sure you go against everything he holds dear," Savarin said, chuckling. "You are being treated in a most unusual way - like a Sidhe in many respects."
Michael looked down at the hard-packed dirt floor. "I must have a million questions, and nobody knows the answers, or will tell me if they do."
"If the Crane Women haven't told you by now," Savarin said, "perhaps being ignorant is part of die training." He stood. "Ignorance loves company. I've someone I want you to meet. if you're free, that is."
"I'm free," Michael said with a touch too much defiance.
Chapter Twelve
"The last person to arrive in the Realm before you was - is - a young woman." Savarin led Michael down a narrow alley. Their feet squelched in the still-damp mud. "She's been here two years, counting by days - which is more reliable than counting by seasons. I've told her about you, and she wishes to meet you. She is from your country, the United States."
"Where in the United States?"
"New York."
"Savarin, how long have you been here?"
"Perhaps thirty, thirty-five years."
"You don't look old enough," Michael said, astonished.
"Here, we get old to a point, then no older. Our souls are aware there is no place for them to go, and so they take better care of our bodies. Aging stops, even for old Wolfer."
Michael was silent for a moment, letting that sink in. "What's her name?"
"Helena." Savarin turned left and waved for him to follow. At the end of an even narrower, T-shaped alley, a door was set into a mud-brick wall. The T's extensions branched to the right and left, ending in blind walls. Within the doorway a flight of steps led up into shadows. The feeble glow of a candle in a sconce at the top of the stairs lit their way as they climbed.
Savarin straightened Michael's coat collar and tugged his shirt collar out around it, shook his head at the hopeless task of making him presentable, then turned to a fabric-covered wicker door and lightly rapped it with his knuckles.
"Yes? Who is it?"
"I've brought a visitor," Savarin said, winking at Michael.
The door opened with a dry scrape and a young woman, not much older than Michael, stood in the frame. She smiled nervously and glanced at Savarin, smoothed the lower half of her blouse with her hands, and glanced at Michael. She wore a short skirt made of the same dun-colored cloth most of the human and breeds had to make do with. Her blouse, however, was white and cottony, cut short around her shoulders. Her face was broad, with generous black eyes and wide full lips. Her hair was dark brown with hints of red. She was well-formed, slightly plump, but as tall as Michael and able to carry her figure well.
"Helena Davies, this is Michael Perrin." Savarin waved his hand between them.
"Hello," Michael said, offering his hand. Helena took it - her fingers were warm and dry, slightly callused - and stepped back.
"Please come in. Savarin's told me about you."
The apartment was separated into two rooms by a plastered brick wall, the door between hung with curtains made of pieces of hollow twig strung on twine. Two chairs of woven cane stood in opposite corners, covered with tiny gray pillows. In another corner, a washbasin sat on a stand made of sticks, much like the one in the inn room Michael had first shared with Savarin.
"I'm brewing herb tea," Helena said, showing them to the seats. She pulled out a bedroll and went behind the curtain to retrieve a white ceramic pot and three mugs. She set them down on a second wicker stand and pulled the bedroll close to Michael's chair, then sat on it, serving the tea and handing them their mugs. She stood abruptly, her hands going this way and that as she searched for something with her eyes. She said, "Ah!" and walked briskly to a box on the window ledge, from which she withdrew honeycomb wrapped in waxed cloth. "Honey for your tea?"
"Please," Michael said. She broke off a bit of comb and handed it to him. He dropped it into his mug. Realizing his mistake, he started to fish out the melting bits of wax, then gave it up. Helena laughed, but not unkindly, and sat down again.
"I'm so nervous," Helena said to Savarin. "Henrik tells me you didn't come here the way the rest of us did." didn't want to repeat what was becoming, to him, a tiresome story. "How did you get here?" he asked.
"Helena was a budding concerto pianist," Savarin said. She shrugged with false modesty and held her mug to her lips, looking at Michael over the rim.
"Prokofiev," she said.
"Pardon?"
"I was playing Prokofiev. I'd been practicing the Piano Concerto Number Three for a month, preparing for a recital. I was very tired. Up in the morning with Bach, and around all afternoon with Prokofiev."
Michael waited for her to continue. She returned his gaze intently, then laughed and went on. "My hands felt all numb, so I decided to take a walk. The music was in my head. I could feel it. In my body, too, especially my chest and arms." She touched a spot above her right breast. Her breasts swung enticingly free beneath the blouse. "Like I was having a musical heart attack, you know?"
Michael shook his head.
"Perhaps not. Anyway, I was dizzy. I stood at the top of a flight of stairs in my apartment building, and at the bottom was nothing but a pool of mercury - you know, quicksilver - and I stumbled. Put my foot in it. Woke up here." She set her cup down and wiped her lips delicately with a forefinger. "I still don't like stairs, even living on an upper floor."
"That was two years ago?" Michael asked.
"Give or take. Now - how did you get here? I mean. Henrik explained, but I'd like to hear it from you."
All of Michael's confidence, built up (he had thought) during the weeks of training, dissolved in her presence. She was fresh, lively, young and completely human. He stumbled over his words, then bore down on memories and produced a passable re-telling of his experiences. When he had finished, Helena looked out the small curtained window, the subdued light from the alley softly dividing her face.
"We really don't understand anything about life, do we?" she said. "I thought this was like purgatory for those who spent too much time with music and too little time in church. At first, I mean. I was that naive."
"Many people feel a religious confusion when they first arrive," Savarin said. "I'm studying it."
"You study everything," Helena said, reaching out with a slender hand to touch Savarin's arm. Michael focused on the contact, with a twinge of jealousy. "Isn't he too much?"
"You're from New York?"
"Brooklyn. And you?"
"Los Angeles."
"Oh my gawd," she said, shaking her head. "A crazy Californian. I've never heard of Arno Walt.what's his name. Did he ever write serious music?"
"For movies," Michael said.
"Nothing else?"
"Well, the concerto."
"Funny, I've never heard of that, either."
"I think it was suppressed or something. It got him into a lot of trouble."
"Well, music's a big world. And I do suppose composers have a hard time, even harder than pianists. What are you doing now that you're here?"
"I'm training," Michael said before he had a chance to think.
"Training for what?"
"I don't know." He grinned sheepishly. Helena regarded him with apparent shocked surprise.
"You must know what you're training for," she said.
"To get my strength up, I suppose."
"You don't look particularly sick to me."
"Weak," he said. "I mean, I just never did much physical exercise."
"A bookworm like Henrik, I suppose," Helena said. "Well, then it's good for you there are so few books here."
"Michael brought one with him."
"Oh, did you? Can I see it?"
"I don't have it with me." He was surprised how touchy the subject was to him; he recalled Lamia's expression when he told her he had a book. "It's just a volume of poetry."
"More's the pity it's not a book of music. I'm terribly out of practice." She held up her hands and spread her fingers, crooking the pinkies slightly. 'Til bet you think musicians are terribly vain," she said, sighing. 'Talk too much."
"No, not at all."
"Most of the people here are older than me. Some have been here for a hundred years or more. Isn't that amazing? Yet most don't look any older than Henrik, and those who do, were older when they came here. I think it's all very profound."
"It is," Michael agreed, though he might have chosen a different word. He could hardly keep his eyes off of her. To his embarrassment, he was getting an erection. He held his hands in his lap and tried concentrating on other things - Alyons and his coursers, the Umbral.
"I wonder if we'll ever figure it all out," Helena continued. She seemed aware Michael's shyness - even of his predicament - and appeared to enjoy it. "Will you be staying with the Crane Women for long? I mean, will they let you live in town?"
"I don't know. I don't really know much of anything. I'm so ignorant, but." He wanted to just blurt everything out to her, bury his head in her - He raised his eyes from the blouse. "I have to go," he said. The thought of Alyons had made him presentable again. "They might need me for something. Maybe."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Helena said, standing. He glanced down at her knees, then at her eyes. No doubt about it. She was beautiful. He wondered what Savarin was to her - just a friend? "Can you come back? I'd like to talk some more - remember old times."
"I'll try," Michael said. "When w
ould. uh. be convenient?'
"I work early mornings doing laundry." She displayed her hands. "Ugly, aren't they?" she said, holding them up before his face again. "No labor-saving devices in the Realm. You can come in the afternoon. I'm usually here otherwise. Do call." She smiled radiantly.
"I have to go," Michael said to Savarin.
"Certainly," Savarin said. He accompanied Michael.
"Good-by, until later," Helena said.
"By," Michael said, waving awkwardly. At the end of the alley, Savarin chuckled.
Greg Bear - Songs of Earth 1 - Infinity Concerto Page 11