“Is that the piano?” whispered Simia, her eyes wide with excitement.
“No, it’s a gramophone,” whispered Sylas.
“I thought you said it was a piano.”
“It is, but—”
“What he means to say is that it is both, and neither,” said a sharp voice that resonated around the room.
A figure moved out of the shadows. The beams muddled around him, making it difficult to see him properly, but as he reached the centre of the room, a bluish light fell directly upon him.
He was not a large man, but the way he carried himself made him seem bigger than he was. He stood perfectly straight with one arm behind him and his shoulders pulled back. His chin was high and the little light that played across his face revealed strong, taut features with a heavy brow and striking high cheekbones. His eyes glinted as they passed swiftly over the two children, tracing their weary faces, their tired limbs, their dishevelled clothes. They lingered a while on Sylas’s wrist.
Sylas glanced down and saw that the Merisi Band was showing and instinctively covered it with his sleeve. A flicker of interest passed over the man’s face, but he quickly looked away.
“This,” he continued in his precise, clipped voice, “is the sound of a piano, which you are hearing through that machine, which is a gramophone. But these are the least interesting things about what you can hear, for in truth this–” he waved his finger in the air, as if pointing at the notes as they drifted across the room– “is the sound of moonlight. It is moonlight curling on a misty lake, sloping through a ruined church, caressing the dew-specked spider’s web. It is moonlight on barren hilltops and ragged cliffs; moonlight in sunken wrecks and forgotten graves. Moonlight captured in a sonata. And the captor, the great genius who thus captured the moon, was a man. He was Ludwig van Beethoven.”
He fell silent, as though to allow the full significance of these words to be discerned and understood.
They listened to the music for some moments, Sylas slowly realising for the first time that this was music of his own world; Simia struggling to understand how something called a piano could be heard through something called a gramophone and what that had to do with the moon.
“Beautiful, is it not?” said the man.
Sylas nodded. “Yes, yes, it is.”
“Of course it is!” snapped the man, as though Sylas was foolish for thinking he needed to answer. “Music is the language of the heavens, the voice of Nature herself! She speaks through such sonatas, such concertos and nocturnes.” He gazed dreamily towards the gramophone. “And in symphonies… well, in symphonies, She sings.”
He let out a long sigh as he listened to the final bars of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’.
The triplet of notes changed into a melody and in its place the low, sad chime took up a new triple beat, ending the piece in a mood of overwhelming melancholy. The final notes tumbled towards their conclusion and, when the gramophone fell silent, the arm of the needle trailed to the centre of the record, clicked, whirred and swung back on to its rest.
There was a brief silence. Suddenly the man turned and clapped his hands together, making them flinch.
“So! I take it that you know who I am; why else would you come to such a godforsaken place? What is far less clear is who – by the sun and the moon – are you?”
He took two quick steps to the rocking chair and flung himself into it, rubbing his hands together as though relishing the mystery. He reached over to the table at his side, picked up the wire-rimmed spectacles and placed them on his nose. The lenses were so thick that they contorted his features, making his quick eyes seem unnervingly large. He flicked them over the two children, squinting a little as though struggling to see. He bore an interested, quizzical expression, as though he was regarding a word that was misspelled or a sum that would not add up.
Both Sylas and Simia were about to answer, but to their surprise the Magruman began to answer his own question.
“You have not known each other for long – that much is quite obvious – and yet… you have experienced a good deal together… interesting, very interesting. I am certain that it is you, young man, who is responsible for the adventures you have undertaken together, for you are quite certainly in the wrong world and by the way you wear the Merisi Band I can see that life as a Bringer does not suit you well–” his eyes narrowed to slits– “if, indeed, you are a Bringer at all…”
Sylas shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he was really that transparent. He felt he should say something, but Paiscion’s magnified eyes had already shifted to Simia and were scrutinising her with interest.
“You have been a good companion, I think… yes, I can see that in you: lively, pugnacious, plenty of spirit… but there’s more than that…” He adjusted his tie, which Sylas noticed for the first time was faded and heavily worn. “Yes… you share something, something important. A loss perhaps… Yes! You have both lost a loved one… a parent… Of course. And that is your father’s coat, for why else would it fit… so… poorly…”
His voice trailed off as he leaned forward to peer at Simia’s coat more closely. She retreated a little into the doorway, bewildered by Paiscion’s forensic scrutiny and by the startling accuracy of his pronouncements.
Suddenly his face softened a little and his lips parted.
“Daughter of Roskoroy, you are most welcome here.”
Simia gasped and stared at him, her mouth wide.
“Your father was a good man… a very good man.”
Simia seemed undone by the mention of her father, but then, slowly, her face brightened and she stepped further into the room.
“He was,” she said, beginning to smile. “I’m... I’m Simia.”
Paiscion sat back in his chair with a look of satisfaction, crossing his legs and gathering his threadbare smoking jacket about him.
“So, Simia Roskoroy, who is your friend?”
Simia placed a hand on Sylas’s shoulder.
“This is Sylas. Sylas Tate. Filimaya said that he should come to see—”
The Magruman uncrossed his legs and sat forward again.
“Filimaya sent you?”
“Yes – it was agreed at a Say-So. She said that—”
“She’s still at the mill?” asked the Magruman eagerly.
Simia hesitated, curling her hair round her finger. “No… we all had to leave. The Ghor came and we had to get out quickly.”
“Everyone?”
“Yes.”
“And Filimaya?” he demanded, a little anxiously. “The Valley of Outs?”
She nodded. There was a short silence. Paiscion reached for his glass of wine and swallowed the contents in one draught, seeming distracted.
“You were telling me who this young man is,” he said, settling back into the chair.
Simia stared at him blankly: “Well… what I was going to say was… I mean, that’s why we’re here. You see… we don’t really know.”
Paiscion frowned and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He looked from Simia to Sylas. “Well, that is no way to make an introduction! You are aware, no doubt, how strange that sounds?”
Sylas looked sympathetically at Simia and cleared his throat.
“We are,” he said. “Until a few days ago I thought I knew exactly who I was, where I was... but then I met Mr Zhi and everything changed.”
“Mr Zhi, you say?” said Paiscion, his interest piqued still further. He started rocking his chair slowly backwards and forwards and a smile passed over his gaunt features. “My! Haven’t you been keeping good company? Here’s a real mystery!”
He thought for a moment and then gestured to two crates next to the weathered rug. “Take a seat, Sylas of Questionable Descent,” he said with a gracious sweep of the hand, his magnified eyes glittering in the feeble light. “Tell me your story. Tell me from the very moment you met Mr Zhi. Tell me everything.”
Sylas and Simia looked at each other uncertainly and then sat down.
They were now close enough to see the Magruman properly: his meticulously combed dark hair greying at the sides and thick eyebrows flecked with white; his sallow, colourless cheeks and the black smudges under his glistening black eyes; the deep lines that criss-crossed his forehead and gathered around his eyes and mouth. It was a weary face, a face of care and worry. His clothes were on the one hand immaculate, with a white collar, a tie, tight-buttoned waistcoat and a smoking jacket, but they were all past their best: the collar had been re-sewn along one edge; the waistcoat had lost two of its brass buttons and the tie and jacket were faded. Thus, despite his proud, precise demeanour and his quick, lively features, he gave the impression of a man who had fallen from greatness; who was – if only a little – broken. He sat back in his seat, pushed on the worn heels of his scuffed shoes, and began to rock slowly backwards and forwards.
Sylas started to tell his story. Paiscion listened to this with some interest, and as he told it, the Magruman resumed his rocking, his thick eyebrows knitted tightly in concentration.
In a few moments Sylas had reached his first encounter with Espen. As soon as he started to explain that he was in fact Espasian, Paiscion exclaimed.
“Espasian? Alive? These are good tidings indeed! Continue! Please!”
Sylas lowered his eyes, wondering whether or not to mention Espen’s betrayal, but decided he could only tell the story just as it had happened.
Paiscion slowed his rocking as he heard of Fathray’s capture at the mill, and the fate of many in the boats. Some of the excitement drained from his face and a little of the weariness returned. He waved for Sylas to continue.
The story had reached their escape from the Ghor and Slithen at the bridge and Sylas mentioned his own part in calling upon the life of the river.
“And you did this?” asked Paiscion, with new excitement.
Sylas nodded, feeling a little proud. “It happened just as I imagined it.”
“Indeed!” muttered Paiscion, fingering his tie. “How illuminating! More! Tell me more!”
As Sylas reached the moment when he, Simia, Bayleon and Ash had parted from the others, Paiscion made a slight motion with one hand and suddenly there was a loud, startling rattle above their heads.
Sylas stopped mid-sentence.
Paiscion seemed a little irritated. “Go on!” he cried. “I must hear it all! For better or worse!”
So insistent was he that Sylas continued even as more curious things started to happen: first there was more clanking of chains on the deck and the distant screeches of rusted winches somewhere in the rigging, then the great old framework of the ship began to creak and moan. Finally the whole room heaved and tilted, making everyone reach for something to steady themselves. Sylas found it impossible to continue.
“What’s going on?” he asked, clinging on to the crate as the room lurched again.
Paiscion frowned. “We’re setting sail, of course!” he cried over the sound of a wave buffeting the side of the boat. “You seem to trail trouble wherever you go, and it would seem prudent to stay a little ahead of it. The Ghor will not be far away.”
Sylas looked up at the porthole and, sure enough, he saw the opposite bank of the river tilting out of view, then rising again a few moments later: they were on the move. He glanced up at the ceiling as there was another thump from above.
“Who’s up there?”
Paiscion gave an amused smile and lowered his spectacles on his nose.
“What need of rum-swilling swabbers, young man, when you have a ship as gallant and loyal as the Windrush!” he cried, patting one of the timbers at his side. “Now the rest of the story, if you please!”
Sylas gazed out of the porthole in wonder, then gathered himself and continued with the story, telling of Espen’s reappearance and the chase out on to the Barrens. Paiscion’s face became bright and animated at the mention of his fellow Magruman, and he clapped his hands and made a low whistle as he heard about the fate of the company of Ghor.
“You? Again?”
Sylas shrugged and nodded. The ship was rocking gently backwards and forwards now and he could hear the occasional thump of a wave striking the bow.
As he reached the part of the tale where Espen had betrayed them, Paiscion stopped his rocking altogether and stared at them. His cheeks were drained of colour.
“Is this true?” he asked quietly.
Simia shrugged her shoulders and nodded. “And… Scarpia was there too,” she said. “Espasian was talking to her.”
Paiscion walked to the chair and sank into it, clasping his hands in front of him, his eyes closed. He let out a long sigh. For a while they were all silent, listening to the heaving and creaking of the boat.
Finally Paiscion looked up. “That is hard to believe,” he said. “Espasian is a Magruman of the Suhl and a man of honour. A maverick, but a great man nevertheless.”
“I heard him,” retorted Simia. “I saw him with Scarpia!”
“Indeed you did,” said Paiscion. For some moments he closed his eyes, seeming to retreat into his thoughts.
Suddenly he drew a sharp breath, stood up and walked across the room to the porthole.
“Sylas, bring me the Samarok, if you please. And Mr Zhi’s note.”
Sylas reached into his bag for the Samarok. As he extended his arm, he felt a sharp, shooting pain in his wrist. He gasped and pulled it out, massaging around the Merisi Band.
Paiscion’s gaze shot to the bracelet. “The Merisi Band hurts?”
Sylas nodded. “It’s been hurting on and off since last night. Why, what does it mean?”
Paiscion simply held out his hand. “If you please,” he said.
Sylas reached into his bag with his other hand and felt for the rich leather of the Samarok. He pulled it out, brushed away a thick coating of grey dust and handed it to Paiscion. The Magruman looked at it with quiet admiration before taking it in his small pale hands.
“And the note?”
“Inside. At the page Fathray marked.”
Paiscion let the book fall open in his palm. There was a flurry of pages and it settled on the correct page. The piece of paper still lay tucked into the binding. His quick eyes scanned the lines of runes and a flicker of pleasure passed over his face. It was with some reluctance that he finally looked away at the piece of paper. He perused it for a moment and then nodded, as if to acknowledge that this was indeed the hand of Mr Zhi. His expert eyes moved briskly over the writing, then he frowned and started again at the beginning. He read it through again and looked searchingly at Sylas.
“This is the paper? The one that so interested Fathray?”
Sylas nodded. Paiscion turned his attention back to the tiny creased note and ran his eyes over it again, his face taut with concentration. As he reached a point about halfway down, he stopped and suddenly his eyes moved quickly over the text, dancing about the paragraph. He returned to the top of the scrawl and moved his eyes carefully over the lettering.
Suddenly he met Sylas’s eyes with a long, searching gaze. “What is it?” whispered Simia excitedly.
The Magruman blinked. “A message from the Merisi.” “What? What does it say?”
He looked from the paper to Sylas and back to the paper, as though struggling to believe what he had read. Then he drew in a long breath and said: “Sylas, you say you have read Merisu’s poem?”
Sylas thought back to the poem that Espen had showed him when they were on the Barrens. He nodded.
Paiscion handed him the Samarok. “Read it again for me.”
Sylas’s throat was dry and he swallowed nervously before turning his eyes to the page.
“Reach for the silvered glimmer on the lake,
Turn to the sun-streaked shadow in your wake,
Now, rise: fear not where none have gone…”
Paiscion nodded. “Good. And do you know why there is no rhyme in the final line?”
Sylas thought for a moment. “Espen said it was a fragment… that some of it was missing.�
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“Quite right!” cried Paiscion, almost speaking over him in his excitement. “For many years the ending was disputed and so it has never been recorded in the Samarok, but the Merisi believe that it should read:
“For then, at last, we may be one.”
Sylas looked blankly at Paiscion for a moment, but then tried to think back to the meaning of the rest of the poem. He turned it over and over in his mind: Reach for the silvered glimmer… what had Espen said that meant? “Turn to our own reflection… to another part of ourselves.” Fear not where none have gone… Slowly, hardly believing his own thoughts, he started to understand.
He opened his mouth to speak, but then hesitated. “Go on,” said the Magruman.
“Does it… does it mean that the two worlds… that they can come together?”
A new smile creased Paiscion’s face. “That is what the Merisi believe: that the worlds are two parts of a whole; two parts that perhaps, just perhaps, were never meant to be apart.” He leaned down and added in a whisper: “They believe that this is the natural conclusion of the Glimmer Myth. The conclusion that will one day prove that it was never myth at all, but an astounding, terrifying truth. Someday, somehow, the worlds will be brought together.”
There was a long silence. Simia frowned and shook her head. “What’s this got to do with Sylas?”
He turned to her and smiled. “It seems, daughter of Roskoroy, that this has everything to do with Sylas,” said the Magruman, turning his eyes slowly to the piece of paper.
Sylas and Simia followed his gaze.
“Mr Zhi’s note…” muttered Sylas under his breath.
“Take it,” said Paiscion, handing it to Sylas. He leaned down and peered over his shoulder. “Now do you see how the paper is smudged? How some letters are faded?”
Sylas looked again at the scrawl, his hands trembling. Sure enough, every now and again, a letter was blurred or discoloured.
He shook his head and looked up. “It got wet in the rain,” he said. “It’s just blotchy.”
The Bell Between Worlds Page 35