Songspinners

by Sarah Ash

  Ilsevir had always been seeking after the unattainable, Khassian saw it now so clearly. For years the Prince had pursued him, hoping perhaps that he might absorb a little of his beautiful boy’s genius by some mysterious, carnal alchemy…

  Maybe if he could have shown more kindness to his benefactor, maybe if he had not been so absorbed in his own musical projects, Ilsevir would not have turned his back on earthly pleasures – or have been so easily swayed by the visionary sermons of Girim nel Ghislain.

  But Ilsevir had wanted more than kindness from his protégé. He had wanted his heart, his soul. Unable to create his own compositions, Ilsevir had sought to gain control of Khassian’s music. This phrase was too angular, that modulation too unexpected, too harsh…

  Khassian shuddered, remembering disagreements, clashes, ugly scenes. Words that should never have been spoken; cruel, bitter words. Words that could not be unsaid. His head drooped slowly forward until his forehead rested on his updrawn knees.

  Ilsevir would not help him now… not unless he capitulated to all Girim’s demands.

  And he would not recant. He would never recant.

  Khassian’s cell door was flung open and two Guerriors came in. One grabbed his wrists and twisted them behind his back, forcing him to his knees. Khassian struggled. Another seized his head between his hands, twisting it sideways.

  Pincers bit into Khassian’s ear-lobe. He yelped aloud, outraged at the indignity. A metal tag was forced into his tender flesh and firmly clamped down with tongs. The metal tag, heavy and cold, grazed against his neck, pulling the torn lobe down. Blood spattered his grey tunic.

  His pierced ear on fire, he stared at his oppressors, speechless.

  ‘Now, move.’

  ‘Wh-where are you taking me?’

  ‘You can’t leave the Sanctuary without a tag.’

  In the yard outside, the daylight hurt his eyes. The Guerriors pushed him up a ramp into a wagon where they chained his wrists to the seat.

  The wagon left the Sanctuary and trundled away across the heath.

  Narrowing his eyes against the sunglare, he saw an extraordinary structure on the horizon, a monstrous unfinished building whose jagged walls were swarming with workers.

  At first he had not recognised them. And then, as face after face had slowly turned towards him, he had seen the flicker of recognition in their eyes – and he had known them.

  The unlucky ones. The ones who had not got away in time. His musicians. His singers, his orchestra. The cast of the ill-fated opera.

  Clad only in filthy overalls, they laboured to move the huge blocks of stone. They were covered in stone-dust, their hair and faces powdered.

  The air was thick with the choking dust; it dried Khassian’s throat, it settled on his lashes. He could see how their efforts to shift the stones had lacerated their hands; fingers which had once moved over strings and keys to produce sounds of delicacy and subtlety, were now bleeding, torn by the coarse stones.

  They did not dare to acknowledge him. He saw how their eyes slid away, avoiding contact, how their shoulders drooped as they turned from him back to their work.

  He wanted to cry out to them, ‘Don’t give up! Don’t let them break you!’ but the wagon moved on, taking the road into the city.

  The twilit avenue was filled with a sea of bobbing torches; a procession of citizens was winding down towards the Winter Palace. They were singing, chanting the Psalms of Mhir.

  ‘What is this? Why are they singing?’

  His guards still did not answer; the wagon followed the procession to the Winter Palace.

  On the torchlit balcony of the Grand Maistre’s apartments, Khassian saw the figure of a man, clad in a simple white robe. Girim nel Ghislain stood beside him, attended upon by several of the Commanderie.

  As the chanted psalm died away, Girim nel Ghislain lifted his arms to the crowd.

  ‘The unbeliever repents. Rejoice with me as yet another convert is born again into the Faith.’ He turned to the white-clad man beside him who dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of his robe. Girim nel Ghislain placed his hands upon his bowed head – and then raised the man to his feet again, embracing him.

  A cheer rose from the crowd and the chanting began again.

  ‘The moment is drawing nearer,’ Girim cried. ‘The time is almost upon us. But not until all have bowed to the name of Mhir will He know that His city is ready to receive Him again.’

  Khassian watched in growing fury.

  ‘Why insult my intelligence by forcing me to watch this charade? Who ordered me to be brought here?’

  ‘The Grand Maistre himself. He felt it would prove edifying.’

  That night as Khassian lay sleepless in his cell, he saw nothing but the musicians’ eyes – empty of accusation, empty of hope, empty of everything except exhaustion.

  So many fine musicians, sensitive, skilled performers, whose only crime had been to make music – his music – condemned to an endless misery of hard labour.

  ‘Next.’ Acir pretended to be examining the nib of his pen and did not even glance up as the two Guerriors brought Amaru Khassian into the chamber.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said. He would not look Khassian in the eyes, not in the presence of the Guerriors. He was too afraid he would betray their familiarity – and now everything hinged on his remaining aloof, preserving the appearance of the dedicated Commanderie officer.

  ‘I prefer to stand.’

  Acir flinched, hearing blatant defiance in Khassian’s voice. He looked up and saw what the ravages of Sanctuary life had done to the musician. Hair matted, unkempt, face grimy beneath a ragged growth of beard, Sanctuary overalls stained with slopped food. Only the eyes were recognisable – though now they stared wildly back at Acir, burning with an ungovernable fury.

  ‘Leave us,’ he said to the Guerriors.

  ‘The Sanctuaree could be violent, Captain.’

  Had they been given orders not to leave them alone together? Exactly what had Fiammis told Girim – and what had the Grand Maistre deduced from her report?

  Acir slowly turned around. He allowed his mouth to curve in an ironic smile.

  ‘I think I am well able to look after myself, confrère.’

  The two Guerriors released Khassian’s arms and stepped back, saluting. The door clicked shut behind them.

  Acir hastily came round the desk to Khassian, reaching out to him.

  Khassian raised his unkempt head and spat, hitting him in the face.

  Acir stopped.

  He felt the spittle trickling down his cheek.

  A riot of conflicting feelings burst in his heart – but he willed himself to betray no emotion. He reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief, slowly wiping Khassian’s spittle from his cheek.

  ‘Come on, Captain Korentan. Aren’t you going to hit me?’

  Acir put away his handkerchief, each movement deliberately slow and considered, taking time to regain his self-control. This was going to need as much skill as he could summon – and even then the risk of failure was great. At least there was no grille in the door through which they could spy on the interview.

  ‘I respected you. I came to believe you were different from the rest of your cursed Commanderie. Why don’t you just hand me over to those thugs outside and let them beat me senseless?’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ Acir said briskly.

  ‘No. The food’s inedible. I’m crawling with lice, I can’t even scratch –

  ‘Amar! For Mhir’s sake, listen to me!’ Acir wanted to grip him by the shoulders, to shake him until the bitter, incoherent stream of complaints ceased. ‘I want to help you. But you’ve got to trust me.’

  ‘Trust you!’ Khassian threw back his head and began to laugh. And then the laughter choked into sobs; his shoulders began to heave.

  Anguished, Acir could only stand lamely by and watch. After a while he began to speak; quietly, insistently, hoping the sound of his voice would eventually penetrate Khassian
’s grief.

  ‘You are going to have to call on all your theatrical skills. You are going to have to act the unwilling convert. Just as I will have to act the interrogator. We are going to play at priest and penitent. There is no other way I can get time alone with you – to relay messages to you, to plan your escape. Are you hearing what I’m saying? This is the only way no one will suspect.’

  Khassian wiped his streaming eyes and nose on the filthy sleeve of his tunic.

  ‘It’s just another game. Cat and mouse. You played this game with me in Sulien. I’m not playing this time.’

  ‘Maybe you saw it as a game in Sulien. Now there are others, many others, relying on you. But if you want to give up…’ Acir shrugged. ‘It’s your choice.’

  ‘Wait,’ Khassian said, voice still thick with tears. ‘Others? This is just another trap. I play along with you – implicate others – and then the Commanderie arrests us all. No promise of conversion this time. Conspiracy trial, and execution.’

  Behind the desk Acir dug his nails into his palms. Damn the man! Was he always going to be this stubborn?

  ‘I heard them singing your song at the Fortress of Faith: “Freedom”. Until they were beaten into silence. But they won’t be silenced forever. You’ve given them hope. They’ll be singing “Freedom” again.’

  ‘Why are you doing this? Is this some kind of Commanderie power struggle? Perhaps you want to be Grand Maistre in Girim’s stead?’

  ‘Me – Grand Maistre!’ The preposterous suggestion incensed Acir.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Khassian gazed doubtingly into Acir’s face. ‘I thought you really believed it? When you spoke of your faith, you spoke from the heart.’

  The door opened and the two Guerriors appeared.

  ‘How dare you interrupt this interview?’ Acir cried.

  ‘Governor’s orders. Each Sanctuaree is entitled to a half-hour. No less, no more.’

  ‘And so you interrupt without even the courtesy of a knock at the door?’

  ‘We have our orders, Captain.’

  Had they overheard the last of the conversation? Were they well-trained at spying – or merely doing as they were ordered?

  ‘Very well. But when you are interrupting my interviews, you will knock at the door and you will wait for me to tell you to enter.’ He fixed each Guerrior in turn with his eyes, unblinking. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Understood, Captain!’ barked the elder of the two.

  ‘And bring me no more Sanctuarees until I have completed my reports for the Grand Maistre.’ Acir sat down again and drew out a clean piece of paper from the sheaf on his desk. When they made no move, he looked up again, feigning irritation. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Take this one away.’

  The Guerriors took hold of Khassian by the arms and hurried him out of the chamber. Acir listened as their footsteps died away into the distance, listened until all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart and the perpetual slow drip-drip of water.

  He exhaled slowly, raggedly. He picked up the pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and then saw that his hand was trembling so much that spots of black ink spattered down upon the clean page even before the nib had touched the paper.

  Khassian let the Guerriors manhandle him back to his cell. He was glad to rely on their rough strength as his head was light with hunger. There was a clean, scrubbed smell to them: even their sweat smelt of strong soap. He concentrated on the physical sensation, trying to forget what had just happened.

  But he could not forget. The shock of seeing those steel-blue eyes in the interrogation cell had quite unmanned him. Time had flickered about them and he had found himself back staring into those same eyes, as freezing riverwater cascaded from Acir’s hair on to his face.

  ‘You should have let me drown…’

  And the irony of the situation had suddenly seemed foolishly, crazily funny. When the laughter began, he just could not stop it. Painful, racking laughter that seemed to tear from his throat, convulsing his body until the tears started from his eyes.

  Of course he had not been crying. They were tears of laughter, scornful, defiant laughter.

  If it had been anyone but Acir Korentan –

  Now that he was alone, he began to recall fragments of the extraordinary interview.

  ‘You’ve got to trust me.’

  And had he imagined it – or had Acir Korentan really called him by his first name? How dare he be so familiar! And yet just remembering sent a shiver through him… a shiver of hope.

  No.

  It must be a deliberate ploy.

  He had heard of such tricks of interrogation. The interrogator would befriend the prisoner, win his trust… and then draw the information he needed from him by stealth.

  And yet Acir Korentan had never played him false. He had been open in all his dealings with him. Acir Korentan had even warned him of Fiammis – and he, like a fool, had laughed the warning aside.

  ‘Trust me…’

  How much he ached to trust him. To know there was one person in Bel’Esstar upon whom he could rely.

  Khassian drew his legs up to his chest, resting his chin on his knees, holding in the gnawing pain in his empty belly.

  At that moment he would have betrayed his own father for a loaf of fresh-baked bread.

  ‘Dr Magelonne – there’s something wrong with the water supply to the treatment pools.’

  Sister Crespine’s voice penetrated Jerame’s consciousness – but as if from a great distance away. All he could think about was Orial’s note.

  She was gone.

  ‘What are we to do? I shall have to send the patients away. Without spa water for the treatments –’

  ‘Mm? What’s that?’ He looked at her, blinking. He realised he had not heard a word she said.

  ‘The patients, Doctor!’ Her voice was crisp with exasperation. ‘Do I send them away? I’ve called for the ingenieur to come and check the pipes.’

  ‘The water supply?’ Jerame began to take notice of what she was saying. ‘Have we a leaky pipe? A fault in the hydraulic system?’

  The first thing he noticed as they approached the treatment pools was the absence of humidity. His spectacle lenses did not steam over. The little hot bath and the exercise pool were almost empty, the tiles covered with a thin film of greenish water.

  ‘A crack beneath the tiles?’ He squatted on the edge of the pool to get a closer look.

  ‘Message for Doctor Magelonne!’ An errand boy appeared in the doorway, waving a paper.

  ‘What’s this?’ Jerame unfolded the paper. ‘“Unavoidable delay in answering your request for assistance.” This is unacceptable! I have patients waiting for treatment!’ He hadn’t the time to go chasing after ingenieurs, sorting out plumbing faults. He had to start looking for Orial.

  ‘It’s the same all over,’ stammered the boy.

  ‘What d’you mean, all over?’

  ‘All over the city, Doctor. All the baths, all the pools.’

  Jerame looked at Sister Crespine. She gave a perplexed little shrug.

  ‘Shoddy maintenance! Scrimping on essential works! I’ve been warning them about this for years. I trust the Mayor has been informed.’

  ‘They’re saying it’s bad luck ‘cause the dragonflies didn’t fly.’

  ‘Silly superstitions!’ snorted Jerame. He spun the boy a coin. ‘Go on, boy. Here’s for your pains. Tell your master I’ll be pleased to see him just as soon as he can get here.’

  ‘I’ve heard the self-same rumours,’ Sister Crespine said when the boy had pocketed his tip and gone. ‘It’s not just the Sanatorium. The Temple is closed. They say the sacred springs have dried to a trickle…’

  ‘Impossible,’ Jerame said. ‘We’ve had plentiful rain in the past years. Springs don’t just dry up overnight.’

  ‘Not without divine intervention…’

  ‘Oh, Crespine, I’d believed better of you! Don’t tell me you give credence to all this talk of the vengeance of t
he Goddess?’

  Sister Crespine opened her mouth – and then snapped it shut again.

  ‘We can offer manipulation today.’ Jerame turned and made for the stairs. ‘Any patient who can be treated without immersion or hot mud can still be seen.’

  ‘And if they want to see you?’ Sister Crespine called from the foot of the stairs.

  ‘I have to go to the Constabulary. Book them an appointment later…’

  A noisy crowd filled the street outside the Guildhall. Crudely painted banners proclaimed ‘Restore Our Hot Water’. Jerame hastily skirted around the edge of crowd, hoping no one would recognise him and ask him to join their protest. He had no time to spare in his search for Orial.

  But as he reached the Constabulary, he met the Commissaire coming down the steps in company with several of his constables.

  Jerame hailed him.

  ‘Any news of my daughter?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Doctor Magelonne, all my men have been busy investigating this business at the springs. Now there’s unrest outside the Guildhall. And as you have no proof of forced entry into your property – or abduction – there’s little I can do.’

  And the Commissaire walked on past him.

  ‘Damn!’ Jerame sat down on the Constabulary steps. Every trail he followed petered out. He had had posters put up about the city, offering a reward for information as to Orial’s whereabouts. But the disappearance of one girl seemed to matter little to a spa city whose water supply had suddenly, inexplicably, dried up.

  Acir reined his horse to a halt in the shade of a clump of silver-leaved poplars and dismounted.

  A thin stream trickled over gravel beneath the poplars; he led the bay to the water and let it drink. Swarms of black flies buzzed under the leaves; the horse swished its tail vigorously as it drank. Acir drew out his water-bottle and drank too. It was hot and humid, even in the shade of the fluttering leaves, but it was not the dry, intense heat of the desert which seared the skin and made the air taste of fire and dust. On balance, he thought, wiping the sweat from his face, he preferred that intense desert heat to this uncomfortable stickiness.