Pellinor: The Singing Part 7

"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 gra.s.s 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 n.o.bleman. The audience should be in no doubt of my strength and superiority. You should fall, here, and then wriggle out of the waya"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 thinka"" 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 embarra.s.sed, 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 ideaa"he still seemed outraged, even angered, by the players' ignorance of the wara"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. But 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."

Karim was standing silhouetted by the fire, his arms outstretched to the sky. He was declaiming a speech by a king who was dying of a mortal wound, having lost his kingdom, his children, and his life through his own folly and greed. It was, Hem thought as he listened, like a beautiful poem. Karim's voice rang out in the night air, caressing the words, and Hem, entranced, felt the king's regret and sorrow as if they were his own. Finally Karim clutched his breast, and fell to one knee, bowing his head in sorrow. There was a short silence, and then the others, including the players, started clapping. Karim's voice was as spellbinding as any Bard's.

"The great Lorica," said Karim, in a hushed voice. "It is always a privilege to speak her words."

"It is," said Hekibel. "But now, we should eat."

For most of the dinner, they avoided speaking about the Black Army or the war in the Suderain. Saliman had told Hem that they were to conceal that they were Bards; they were refugees from the south, fleeing north. Which, Hem thought privately, was not so far from the truth. The stew was delicious compared to the marching fare they had been eating since leaving Nal-Ak-Burat, and respectable even by Soron's standards; and Karim brought out some surprisingly good wine.

"Why stint oneself?" he said, as he gnawed the last morsels of meat off a bone. "We are like migratory birds, always on the wing: but should we suffer for that? It only takes a little organization. Admittedly, our stocks were getting low. It was a relief to find the road again."

"If we'd stuck to the road in the first place, we would never have got lost," said Hekibel, turning to Saliman. "Always these shortcuts."

"One never knows when one will find a lone village or isolated hamlet, eager for our art." Karim threw his bone away with another flourish.

Karim's gestures fascinated Hem: he had never seen anyone, even the stateliest courtiers in Turbansk, speak with so much decoration, and his voice was rich and full, like that of the best singers. Marich, in contrast, was plainspoken and tended to the taciturn, although soon he was deep in conversation with Soron about the pleasures of the table. Hem saw that Marich was shy, and he thought it strange that someone who performed in front of strangers would be shy. Irc approved of Marich and Hekibel at once, because they were generous with t.i.tbits.

"He's a charming pet," said Hekibel, laughing as Irc danced in front of her, begging for more food. "You've trained him very well. Where did you find him?"

Hem bit back his protest that Irc was not a pet, and told how he had rescued him from attack by some of his kin when he was a fledgling. "He's a white crow, usually," he said. "He looks a bit bedraggled at the moment because we had to dye him, and it hasn't quite come out of his feathers yet."

"Yes, I can see that he would be very handsome with white feathers," said Hekibel. Irc, conscious that he was being talked about, preened himself.

"He is very vain, I'm afraid," said Hem fondly. "But loyal and true, for all that."

Karim seemed to talk mostly about himself. Like the other two players, he was a fair-skinned Annaren, with a graying beard cropped close around his chin. He hailed originally, he told them, from northern Annar, but had traveled to Lok when he was a young man, where he had learned his craft. He had been working with Hekibel and Marich for the past year, and they had been making their way across South Annar. Now they were heading, like the Bards, for Til Amon.

"We formed the company in Lanorial, at last year's spring gathering," he said. "When I find raw talent, such as s.h.i.+nes in these two, I like to pa.s.s on the fruit of my rich experience in this craft, and, youthful though they are, they are grateful to sip from the chalice of age. I like to think that our humble company does not disgrace our profession."

"I'm certain that you represent it well," Saliman said politely. "It is an ancient and honorable art."

"Indeed," said Karim, looking narrowly at Saliman. "I see you are a man of culture. No doubt you were once a person of importance in Turbansk. Well," he said, and sighed with an air of tragic melancholy, "we have all seen better days."

Hekibel looked embarra.s.sed and hastily offered more wine, but Saliman refused. A full moon had risen over the plains, and Saliman and Soron wanted to move on while it was light enough to see. Even Hem felt anxious about how visible they must be, although he had enjoyed the feast and the conversation, which had lightened his heart. The Bards thanked their hosts and prepared to leave.

"If I were you, I'd move north as fast as you can," said Saliman. "And I'd light no more fires. It is unlikely that the army would overtake you, but there will be scouts and outriders along the road."

"I thank you for your advice," said Karim. "Perhaps we will meet you in Til Amon. As always, we will perform there in the Inner Circle."

"We'll keep an eye out," said Soron. "May the Light s.h.i.+ne on your path."

Karim bowed deeply. "And on yours, my good sirs."

"Good-bye," said Hekibel, smiling. "I hope our paths cross again. I should like to use your crow in our plays; I'm sure we could find a part for him."

Irc squawked a faint farewell from Hem's shoulder. He was stuffed full of food and was half asleep.

"I hope they're all right," said Hem, when they were out of earshot. "I should hate anything to happen to them."

"Somehow I think they will be," said Soron. "Hekibel seems like a very sensible woman. In any case, we have done what we can."

Chapter VI.

TIL AMON.

THE next few days pa.s.sed in a blur of tiredness. Whereas before they had been moving cautiously and steadily now they relied on heavy glimveils for concealment, and stayed as close to the road as they dared. They began before light and stopped well after dark, keeping up a punis.h.i.+ng pace.

Irc flew back along the road to check the Black Army morning and evening. He reported that it was falling farther behind them. By the time they had reached the fork in the road that led to Til Amon, curving back southward around the Osidh Am Mountains, the Black Army was only just past the Neera Marshes. The clear winter days had given way, and now they strode on through heavy rain. It pleased Salimana"he thought it would slow the Black Army even more, and it made the Bards less visible on the roada"but it was certainly miserable.

"The question now is, whether the army turns off toward Til Amon, or marches straight into South Annar," said Saliman, staring down the Til Amon Road. "I fear it makes most sense for them to take Til Amon, and make a base from which to attack South Annar through Lauch.o.m.on or Lukernil."

Soron looked grim. "It is my thought, too," he said. "And if Enkir marches also, Til Amon will be caught between the hammer and the anvil. Still, it is a hard place to take: the lake enfolds it. They will have to besiege the city." He sighed, remembering perhaps the siege of Turbansk and the slaughter and destruction that had followed, and the other two nodded in somber silence and pressed on.

It was about twenty leagues south to Til Amon from the fork in the South Road, and they covered it in three days. The mountains swept up to their left: gray, naked edges of rock, their peaks hidden in thick cloud. On the first day, they reached the Lake of Til Amon, a huge body of water stretching south before them, iron gray under the gray sky. The wind swept down the mountains and over the lake, so when it reached them, it was knifed with ice. Their nights were short and comfortless.

As Hem huddled under the inadequate shelter of a small fir or in the lee of an overhanging rock, exhausted and unable to sleep, he wondered if he had been this physically miserable even on the journey across Den Raven. That had definitely been a darker road than this: but this journey was probably more uncomfortable. The chill pierced to the very marrow of his bones and never went away. Thinking about warm beds or hot meals only made things worse, and yet he couldn't stop it. On the third day, to cap his misery completely, he developed a heavy cold, with a painful cough. Saliman, who was a famous healer, listened to his chest with deep concern and made a charm that helped slightly. Hem, who had healing skills himself, knew that the only real remedy was rest and a warm bed, both of which were impossible. They had no choice but to continue on.

They reached Til Amon well after dark that day. Its high gates seemed to loom quite suddenly out of the mist and darkness. There was a bell-chain beside the gate, for late travelers. When Soron gave it an imperious tug, they heard the bell sound deep inside the walls; they stood outside the gate, s.h.i.+vering in the rain, until a guard opened a slit in a small portal beside the main gate and demanded identification. After what seemed to Hem like an unreasonably long time, he let them in.

At last they were under shelter. Hem, cold, feverish, and soaked to the skin, was too tired and sick to care. Before he did anything else, Saliman swept Hem to a Bardhouse, where he was handed over to a no-nonsense healer who listened to his chest, clicked his tongue in concern, and gave Hem a draft of a black liquid that tasted so bitter it made him almost gag. Then Irc, who had been clinging to Hem's shoulder trying to hide in the hood of his cloak, was firmly removed and Hem was put into a hot bath and dressed in dry clothes. Irc, deeply suspicious of the healer, watched every move from the side of the bath; he had never understood the human predilection for wetting themselves all over. As for Hem, the pleasure of being warm all the way through was indescribable, and he collapsed blissfully into a soft, welcoming bed and slept as he had not slept for weeks.

He woke late the following morning, and then only because Irc was pulling his hair. Sleepily he fended him off, trying to crawl back into the delicious s.p.a.ce of dream, where he was still warm and comfortable. He had forgotten that he was in Til Amon, and expected that with wakefulness would come the dripping twigs, hard wet ground, and bone-aching cold that had been his lot for the past few days. But the warmth didn't disappear, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and sat up, instantly awake.

Food, said Irc irritably. I'm hungry.

Me too, said Hem. There was a yawning hole where his middle should have been. He jumped out of bed, and pulled on some of the clothes he had been given the night before. Where's Saliman? He'll know where the food is.

With Irc on his shoulder, he padded out of his room in bare feet and made his way downstairs. There he found the healer, who was shocked that Hem was out of bed.