Songmaster (15 page)

The palace had no music.

Ansset finally realized it with relief. Something had been nagging him since he arrived. It was not the impersonal search by the security guards or the casual way that he seemed to be fit into a machine and processed. He expected things to be different, and since everything was strange compared to life in the Songhouse, none of it should have felt “wrong.” He had a far from cosmopolitan outlook, but the Songhouse had never allowed him to think that the Songhouse way was “right” and all other ways were not. Rather the Songhouse was home, and this was merely a different place.

But the lack of music. Even Bog had had music, even lazy Step had its own songs. Here the artificial stone that was harder than steel carried little sound; the furniture was silent as it flowed to fit bodies; the servants went silently about their business, as did the guards; the only sounds were of machines, and even they were invariably muffled.

On his visit to Step and Bog, he had had Esste with him. Someone to whom he could sing and who would know the meanings of his songs. Someone whose voice was full of inflection carefully controlled. Here everyone was so coarse, so unrefined, so careless.

And Ansset felt homesick as he ran his fingers along the warm stone that was so unlike the cold rock of the walls of the Songhouse. He hummed in his throat, but these walls absorbed the sound, reflected nothing. Also, he was hot. That was wrong. He had been raised in a slightly chilly building since he was three. This place was warm enough that he could cast away his clothing and still be a little too warm. How can they be comfortable?

His unease was not helped by the fact that he had been alone ever since the obsequious servant had led him to a room and said, “This is yours.” No window, and the door had no device that Ansset could see for opening. So he waited and did not sing because he was not sure someone would not be listening—that much Riktors Ashen had warned him of. He sat alone in silence and listened to the utter lack of music in the palace, unwilling to make any of his own until he had met Mikal, and not knowing when that would be, or if it would happen at all, or if he would be left forever in a place where he might as well be deaf.

No.

That is also wrong.

There
is
music here, Ansset realized. But it was cacophony, not harmony, and so he had not recognized it. In Step and Bog the moods of the cities had been uniform. While individuals had had their own songs, they were only variations on a theme, and all had worked together to give the city a feeling of its own. Here there was no such harmony. Only fear and mistrust to such a degree that no two voices worked together. As if the very melding of speech patterns and thought patterns and ease of expression might somehow compromise a person dangerously, bring him close to death or darker terrors. That was the music, if he could call it music, of the palace.

What a dark place Mikal has made for himself. How can anyone live in such deafening silence and pain?

But perhaps it is not pain to them, Ansset thought. Perhaps this is the way of all the worlds. Perhaps only on Tew, which has the Songhouse, have voices learned to meet and mix harmoniously.

He thought of the billions of pinpoint stars, each with its planets and each of those with its people, and none of them knew how to sing or hear anyone else’s song.

It was a nightmare. He refused to think of it. Instead he thought of Esste, and at the thought of her felt again the wonder of what he held inside himself that she had finally compelled him to find. Remembering her, he could not really see her face—he had left her too recently to be able to conjure her like a ghost. Instead he heard her voice, heard the huskiness of her morning speech, the force in her normal expression. She would not have been made uneasy. She wouldn’t have let the silly Chamberlain force her into saying more than she ought. And if she were here, he thought, I would not feel so—

If she were here, she would not let herself feel any of these things. Some Songbirds had had difficult assignments before. Esste, whom he loved and trusted, had put him here. Therefore this was where he belonged. And so he would look for ways to survive, to put the palace to use in his songs, instead of wishing that he were in the Songhouse instead. For this he had been trained. He would give his service and then, when they came for him, he would return.

The door slid open and four security guards came in. They were in different uniforms from those men who had searched him before. They said little, only enough to direct Ansset to take off his clothing. “Why?” Ansset asked, but they only waited and waited until at last he turned his back and stripped. It was one thing to be naked among the other children in the toilets and showers, and something else again to be nude in front of adult men, all there for no other purpose than to watch. They searched every crevice of his body, and the search, while not overly rough, was also not pleasant. They were intimate with him as no one had ever been intimate before, and the man who fondled his genitals, searching for unfathomably arcane items—Ansset could think of nothing that could be hidden there—held and touched a little too long, a little too gently. He did not know what it meant, but knew that it was not good. The man’s face was outwardly calm, but as he spoke to the others, Ansset detected the trembling, the faint passion suppressed in the interstices of his brusque speech, and it made him afraid.

But the moment passed, and the guards gave him back his clothes, and they led him out of the room. They were tall; they towered over him, and he felt awkward, unable to keep step with them and afraid of somehow getting under their feet, between their legs. The danger was more their anger if he tripped them up than any damage their legs might do to him. Ansset was still too hot, hotter now because he was moving fast and because he was tense. In the Songhouse his Control had been unshakable, except to Esste. But there he had been familiar with everything, able to cope with changes because everything but the change was what he had known all his life. Here he began to realize that people acted for different reasons, that they followed different patterns or no patterns at all; and yet.

He had been able to control the Chamberlain. It had been crude, but it had worked. Human beings were still human beings. Even if they were large soldiers who trembled when they touched a naked little boy.

The guards touched the sides of doors, and the doors opened. Ansset wondered if his fingers, too, could open doors by touching them. Then the guards reached a door they could not open, or at least didn’t try to open. Was Mikal on the other side?

No. The Chamberlain was, and the Captain of the guard, and a few other people, none of whom looked imperial. Not that Ansset had any clear idea of what an emperor would look like, but he knew almost immediately that none of these people was sure of power or enough in control of himself to rule on the strength of his own authority. In fact, Ansset had only met or seen one outsider who could—Riktors Ashen. And that was probably because Riktors was a starfleet commander who had almost bloodlessly quelled a rebellion. He knew what he could do. These palace-bound people did not know anything about themselves.

They asked questions. Seemingly random questions. About his training at the Songhouse, his upbringing before he got to Tew, and dozens of questions that Ansset could not begin to understand, let alone answer.

How do you feel about the four freedoms?

Did they teach you in the Songhouse about the Discipline of Frey?

What about the heroes of Seawatch? The League of Cities of the Sea?

And, finally: “Didn’t they teach you
anything
at the Songhouse?”

“They taught me,” Ansset said, “how to sing.”

The questioners looked at each other. The Captain of the guard finally shrugged. “Hell, he’s a nine-year-old kid. How many nine-year-old kids know anything about history? How many of them have any political views?”

“It’s the Songhouse I’m worried about,” said a man whose voice sang death to Ansset.

“Maybe, just maybe,” said the Captain, and his voice was oiled with sarcasm, “the Songhouse is as apolitical as they claim.”

“Nobody’s apolitical.”

“They gave Mikal a Songbird,” the Captain pointed out. “It was a very unpopular thing to do, in the empire at large. I heard that some pompous ass on Prowk is returning his singer to them as a protest.”

The Chamberlain raised a finger. “They did not
give
Mikal a Songbird. They charged a great deal.”

“Which they didn’t need,” said the man whose voice sang death. “They have more money than any other institution in the empire except the empire itself. So the question remains—why did they send this boy to Mikal? I don’t trust them. It’s a plot.”

A quiet man with large, heavy eyes left the edges of the room and touched the Chamberlain on the shoulder. “Mikal is waiting,” he said softly, but his message seemed to settle gloom on everyone.

“I had begun to hope the Songhouse would actually delay long enough that—”

“That what?” asked the Captain of the guard, belligerently daring the Chamberlain to speak treason.

“That we wouldn’t have to put up with all this fuss.”

The man whose voice sang death came over to Ansset, who sat with a blank face, watching him. He looked Ansset coldly in the eyes. “I suppose,” he finally said, “you might just be what you seem to be.”

“What do I seem to be?” Ansset asked innocently.

The man paused before answering.

“Beautiful,” he finally said, and there were tremolos of regret in his voice. He turned away, turned away and left the room through the door Ansset had entered by. Everyone seemed to be relieved. “Well, that’s that,” said the Chamberlain, and the Captain of the guard visibly relaxed. “I’m supposed to command every starship in the fleet, and I spend an hour trying to get inside a child’s head.” He laughed.

“Who was that man who left?” asked Ansset.

The Chamberlain glanced at the Captain before answering. “He’s called Ferret. He’s an outside expert.”

“Outside of what?”

“The palace,” answered the Captain.

“Why were you all so glad to have him leave?”

“Enough questions,” said the large-eyed man, his voice gentle and trustworthy. “Mikal is ready for you.”

So Ansset followed him to a door, which led to a small room where guards passed wands over their bodies and took samples of blood, then to another door which led to a small waiting room. And at last an old, gritty voice came over a speaker and said, “Now.”

A door slid upward in what looked like a section of wall, and they passed from the false stone to a room of real wood. Ansset did not yet know that this, of all things, was a mark of Mikal’s wealth and power. On Tew, forests were everywhere and wood was easy to get. On Earth, there was a law, punishable by death, against poaching wood from the forests, a law which had been made perhaps twenty thousand years before, when the forests had almost died. Only the poorest exempt peasants in Siberia could cut wood—and Mikal. Mikal could have wood. Mikal could have anything he wanted.

Even a Songbird.

There was a fire (
burning
wood!) in a fireplace at one end of the room. By it, on the floor, lay Mikal. He was old, but his body was lithe. His face was sagging but his arms were firm, bare to the shoulder with no hint of the loss of muscle.

The eyes were deep, and they regarded Ansset steadily. The servant led Ansset partway into the room, and then left.

“Ansset,” said the emperor.

Ansset lowered his head in a gesture of respect.

Mikal rose from his lying position to sit on the floor. There was furniture in the room, but it was far back at the walls, and the floor was bare by the fire. “Come,” Mikal said.

Ansset walked toward him, stopped and stood still when he was only a meter or so away. The fire was warm. But, Ansset noticed, the room was otherwise cool. Mikal had said only two words, and Ansset did not know his songs, not from that little bit. Yet there had been kindness, and a feeling of awe. Awe, from the emperor of mankind toward a boy.

“Would you like to sit?” Mikal asked.

Ansset sat. The floor, which had felt rigid to his feet, softened when his weight was distributed over a larger area, and the floor was comfortable. Too comfortable—Ansset was not used to softness.

“Have you been treated well?”

For a moment Ansset did not answer. He was listening to Mikal’s songs, and did not realize that a question had been asked, not until he had begun to understand a little of the reason a Songbird had been sent to a man who had killed so many millions of human beings.

“Are you afraid to answer?” Mikal asked. “I assure you, if you’ve been mistreated in any way—”

“I don’t know,” Ansset said. “I don’t know what passes for good treatment here.”

Mikal was amused, but showed it only warily. Ansset admired his control. Not Control, of course, but something akin to it, something that made him hard to hear. “What passes for good treatment in the Songhouse?”

“No one ever searched me in the Songhouse,” Ansset said. “No one ever held my penis as if he wanted to own it.

Mikal did not answer for a moment, though the pause was the only sign of emotion Mikal let himself show. “Who was it?” Mikal asked calmly.

“It was the tall one, with the silver stripe.” Ansset felt a strange excitement in being able to name the man. What would Mikal do?

The emperor turned to a low table, and pressed a place on it. “There was a tall guard, a sergeant, among those who searched the boy.”

A moment of silence, and then a soft voice answering—the Captain’s voice, Ansset realized, but muted somehow, all harshness sifted out and softened. Was it the machinery? Or did the Captain speak this tenderly to Mikal? “Callowick,” said the Captain. “What did he do?”

“He found the boy tempting,” Mikal said. “Break him and get him off planet somewhere.” Mikal took his hand from the table.

For a moment Ansset felt a thrill of delight. He did not really understand what the guard had done, this Callowick, except that he had not liked it. But Mikal refused to let it happen again, Mikal would punish those who offended him, Mikal would keep him as safe as he had been in the Songhouse. Safer, for in the Songhouse Ansset had been hurt, and here no one would dare hurt him for Mikal’s sake. It was Ansset’s first taste of the power of life and death, and it was delicious.