A Song for the Sea

A Song for the Sea,

 

  A short story in The Singer's Crown universe

  by Elaine Isaak

  Copyright Elaine Isaak 2012

  "A Virgin, eh?" the balding man asked, his high voice gone a bit wheezy. "I thought the Virgins were all dead, myself the only exception, and not for long."

  Kattanan stood very still, at first wishing he had not been brought to the chief eunuch's attention, then suddenly knowing that all was not as it seemed. The man spoke Kattanan's native tongue with no accent, and his pale, fleshy face, too, marked him as a foreigner. Most of the local population had darker skin, almost olive, and slant-wise eyes that always made him feel as if he were being watched sidelong. This fellow, lounging in a robe of thick cotton embroidered all about with the Tikran's personal seal, ogled him in a way that made Kattanan feel he should have bathed himself better, or perhaps that he should simply escape before anything untoward happened. But the man claimed to be a Virgin, and that kept Kattanan in his place as much as the Tikran's guards outside the broad door. He traced the patterned wood that supported the chief eunuch's cushioned dais, noting the pits of seaworms and bits of dry weed that still poked out at one end. He wondered how long it had been left in the water and what great lady should have rested there. Every slat of wood in the Tikran's palace, every fixture, furnishing and wall once belonged to something else: legacies of a century of shipwrecks piling up on the cliffs below the Tikran's domain.

  "Well, come closer, boy. I want to have a look at you—and for pity's sake do look at me."

  Kattanan glanced up, swallowing hard as he faced the pudgy man who twirled his fingers in a gesture usually reserved for prostitutes summoning their next visitor—not that Kattanan had experience with such women (or, indeed, any women) but he tended to become invisible if he had not opened his mouth, so he witnessed a good many things he might rather have left unknown. He took a few steps forward, and gave another brief bow, resisting the urge to tug at the hem of his tunic. What could he hide from this man, who already knew the most terrible part of the truth? As he straightened, Kattanan met the watery blue gaze of the other eunuch and wondered if he were looking at his own future. Taller than the average, with a fringe of lank hair around his balding head, the chief eunuch smirked back at him, inviting a mutual examination. Not grossly overweight, he still seemed to slop about in his own flesh when he sat up, bringing his eyes to the level of his visitor's. His gaze tracked downward, resting a moment below the sash, down again to the felt boots Kattanan had acquired when his last pair fell apart.

  "A Virgin of the Lady," the man repeated.

  "Yes, my lord." Kattanan started to bow his head again, trying to fade away, but forced himself to straighten, flicking the golden curls off his brow. His own voice, honed by years of training, hung in the air, as high and clear as a crystal flute.

  The chief eunuch blinked a few times, as if the voice startled him, then he sighed. "You are a lovely lad, you know that, don't you? You are, what, sixteen? Already so tall, so fair. I'm surprised anyone would let you go."

  Kattanan's throat, still a bit achy from his latest concert, constricted a bit further. His eyes shifted toward the opposite door, an ornate affair barred heavily against the passage of men. Like all the arches and ceilings in the Tikran's palace, these were peaked at the top, their timbers dark with age, a few nails still protruding. Where the outsides were visible, barnacles clung, rough and ready to catch at one's clothing in casual contact. The doors themselves, cut of planking, showed the gouges of anchors or armaments, overlaid with recent carving that revealed a brighter core beneath the patina of the sea. Two doors, one guarded by armed soldiers, the other by this man, and by the women who lived beyond. Neither door offered any escape.

  The chief eunuch laughed again, more clearly this time. "Do they mean for you to take my place, when you can't sing anymore that is?" He coughed into his hands.

  "I don't think so, my lord, that is, I don't know." But he prayed not. He prayed hard that he would not spend even a month longer in this place, nor even a moment with this man, his brief curiosity outweighed by the tension that spread through his chest. "If it is all the same to you, my lord, I would like to find my bed and rest before the next concert."

  "What, no curiosity?"

  Kattanan's head jerked up again, his breath held. Was the man a wizard, to know his thoughts? But Kattanan had asked him no questions that might open a pathway to his mind. The wool boots began to feel stiflingly hot, the velvet tunic even more so.

  "Have you met so many of our kind that you dismiss me so lightly?"

  "No, my lord," said Kattanan, finding his voice, "It's only that I am so very tired."

  The man grunted, bobbing his head a little so that his double chin jiggled. "Then I shall not keep you long, although, no doubt, the ladies would like to hear you." He tipped his head toward the inner door then, beyond which Kattanan could make out a murmur of voices and the soft plucking of strings. "It's only. . ."he sighed again, and the pause made Kattanan narrow his eyes, curious in spite of his fears. "I would so like to hear you sing. We are not allowed to attend the court, you know, our brethren, if one can use such a word, and I would really like to hear you sing," he repeated. His eyes focused, his brow furrowed. He wet his lips and offered a smile, less leering than before, more hopeful than cajoling.

  Kattanan fingered his throat, weighing whether his agreement would free him from this interview any more quickly.

  The other eunuch pushed himself up and stepped forward, holding out a goblet. "How inconsiderate of me! My dear boy, do forgive me for not offering sooner."

  The contents of the goblet sloshed a little, the glow of the golden liquid redoubled by the gold of the goblet and that of the sunlight slanting through a row of high windows cut through the inverted hull that formed the ceiling above. The man caught at Kattanan's hand, pressing the stem of the goblet into his palm, his flesh slightly clammy. "Please," he murmured. "It's been so long since I heard anything from home. Something in Strelledor? I have so missed the Lady's tongue."

  As the man stepped away, Kattanan took a quick swallow of the sweet wine, the vapors curling up through his nose, the warmth unfurling down his throat. He drank again, more slowly, and chose a song, something simple, hardly even an exercise for an accomplished singer. Lowering the goblet, he sang. It took a verse to steady himself, another to give it even half of his power. No need to sing for a room here, but for a single man. He breathed carefully, the tones filling his skull, climbing toward the ceiling, winging into the beams of sunlight. The clarity of his voice slowly echoed in his mind, the world brightening as he sang in the Lady's sacred language. Even if the words meant little, the sound of them still filled his heart. He finished lighter than before, the tension evaporating from his chest, the warmth now growing from within.

  Beyond the inner wall, the plucking strings lay silent, as did the voices of the Tikran's concubines. Leather creaked outside the entrance, followed by a snort as if a soldier dismissed the trifle Kattanan had chosen. From the intended audience, he heard no sound at all.

  The chief eunuch perched on the edge of his dais, his bare feet dangling just shy of the floor, one hand pressed over his mouth. Tears streamed down from his eyes, trickling over his hand, dropping to be absorbed into his robe, each one briefly marring the symbol of the Tikran's power. His shoulders twitched with each smothered breath so that his body rocked on its precarious perch and Kattanan nearly put out his hand to steady the man and make sure he would not fall. But the blue eyes arrested his movement, the brows pinched upward so far.

  Instead, Kattanan held out the goblet, full of its curative draught,
and, after a moment, the other snatched it, uncovering his mouth to take a few long swallows until he had drained the liquid. He stared up into the tilted goblet, as if despairing of another drink, and lowered it quickly. Just as quickly, he stumbled to his feet, leaning in close.

  The wine tainted his breath, so that Kattanan shied away, only to find a fleshy hand closing about his wrist. "Don't move—we must talk!" The other shook his head fiercely. "Do not let them take that from you. Do not." He tugged on Kattanan's arm with each repetition, so that Kattanan nodded, hoping his acquiescence would free him. "The Tikran, he's a wizard—not like ours. His voice alone is enough to cast the spell!"

  "But he never speaks," Kattanan protested softly.

  "Beware—don't listen to him, if he does. His father taught him, and his father before, but the Tikran has no son—he is young yet, but dangerous." He let go at last, retreating, glancing over his shoulder like a beaten dog. "You are what I should have been," he murmured. "What I wished to be." Then he flicked his fingers in a gesture of dismissal. "Ta, then," he said, more loudly. "Sing well for our master!"

  Bewildered, Kattanan made a slight bow and let himself out through the main door, his head swimming from the wine and from the moment. Outside, his guard escort waited, languidly pushing off from the wall to bring him back to the dormitory he shared with the other musicians. The corridors of the palace had a strange rhythm of space and darkness, each inverted hull rising up along the keel and swelling out at the midsection, then narrowing down again and joining to another. He felt taller passing through the low, thick doorways connecting the ships, each arched opening formed from the prow of some smaller boat or a pair of salvaged ribs cut down to size. As the chamber rose up above, Kattanan felt himself shrink with the growing vastness, rare windows piercing the dim halls. The effect made him queasy, as if these ships still sailed the sea, rising and falling on the waves, instead of lying here upon the stone, their keels presented to the stars, their great beams curving over him like the ribcage of a resting monster that had just swallowed him whole.

  Thankfully, the palace's crazed builders constructed the musician's quarters from two forecastles cobbled together, one of the few rectangular spaces among the hundreds of scavenged hulls that formed the palace. Once inside, Kattanan lay on his cot, longing for sleep, but finding himself strangely haunted by the eunuch's tears, as if a stream run dry had suddenly sprung forth from the barren stone. At last, the incessant beat of the ocean outside the wall drew him down into murky dreams, only to be awakened with a jolt as someone lifted the end of his cot and thumped it down.

  A burly musician snickered at him, rattling off a torrent of the native tongue to the amusement of his companions. After a week in this country, Kattanan knew a variety of phrases, from the useful and polite, to the extremely rude, this conversation being mostly composed of the latter. Kattanan smiled faintly and stretched. "Is it time for the concert? I must have overslept."

  The big man laughed again, and muttered to his fellows. Catching every other word or so, Kattanan fought to keep the crimson from his face. The man proposed an obscene speculation about why he had been summoned to the chief eunuch, and what had kept him there so long. The more they thought him ignorant, the better off he'd be. Kattanan rose, smoothing down his tunic, and smiled again, blankly. One word kept repeating in his tormentor's monologue, "Rashi," and Kattanan determined this must be the eunuch's name. The Tikran and his court referred to most of their servants by position only, as if they had no names at all.

  "Singer!" someone barked from the door, and Kattanan trotted down the aisle between the cots to present himself with a bow.

  The tall, willowy figure of Master Shanjo awaited him, hands tucked high into long silk sleeves. The twisting shape of his hat nearly poked past the top of the doorway. "Accompany me. There are guests from Bernholt and the Tikran requires a song for their supper."

  "Yes, Master." He fell in behind the elegant sweep of the Master's robes and wondered if he, too, might be a wizard. The hat gave him a strange figure, like a mountain glimpsed from afar, with flaps curving down over his ears and neck.

  "This evening might well earn back the absurd sum that the Tikran paid for your presence. See you serve him well."

  "Yes, Master."

  The fortress sprawled over several acres of wide, door-less rooms. It was said that the Tikran would have no secrets kept in his home—except those reserved for himself: the concubines, the treasury, a large library with only one chair. On his first night here, Kattanan sang in that library, the Tikran seated while he poured over a scroll, acknowledging the end of each song—and occasionally interrupting the middle--with a repeated snapping of his out-thrust fingers meant to hurry the singer into starting something new. Kattanan, more used to performing in halls before an eager audience come solely to be entertained, found himself stammering over the words, trying to gauge his listener's interest to better select the next tune. The Tikran's impassive face revealed nothing, only the snapping of his fingers gave any hint of his mood.

  As they emerged into another, yet more vast chamber, Kattanan caught sight of a banner flying high, a shield-shaped cloth of wool, rather than the narrow silks used by the local tribes. Three stylized hills surmounted by a ring of gold: the royal arms of Bernholt. He remembered it still, after so many years. The leafy green banner of his own kingdom, neighboring Lochalyn, came to mind every time the seasons changed despite the fact that he was eight years gone from his home. Perhaps he made the connection only because Master Shanjo mentioned Bernholt. Whatever the cause, his heart beat faster, and his gaze flickered here and there among the party of strangers clad in tunics of chain mail, their clothing cut from blues and grays, not the bright colors favored by the local populace. Many of the soldiers in the company glared at the Tikran's men who guarded the weapons the visitors had been told to leave outside the court. The man in front, clearly their leader, rubbed a hand through his graying hair, then along the scar that stippled one cheek. Staring at the vast ship-hulls over his head, he acted bored, as if he had already been waiting for the Tikran's notice for a long time. Someone ought to have warned him that the Tikran had already noticed, and every groan of impatience merely heightened the Tikran's amusement.

  In reaction to these strangers from so near his home, Kattanan walked a little taller, drawing himself up, letting his hands hang loosely. If the opportunity arose, he might speak to one of the servants or footmen from Bernholt and offer some knowledge about the Tikran's expectations. For now, he followed the Master's robe swishing along the ground as they passed by the delegation and turned into the columned space where the Tikran held court. They walked not up the center aisle, but the right-hand one, the aisle reserved for requested guests. On a broad couch of brocaded silks--only slightly water-stained--the Tikran reclined, staring down, the fingers of one hand tapping gently against the surface of an engraved metal table. Small and light-boned, the Tikran might appear as a child but for the unmistakable flex of his well-honed muscles. While most of his courtiers wore long robes of cotton or silk, the Tikran himself went bare-shouldered, a simple vest draping his chest over full trousers. He had kicked off his pointed slippers and one lay in the center aisle a little distance off, reinforcing the image of the petulant child. The courtiers filling in on the left side all stood very still, and Kattanan felt that he had just missed a very tense moment.

  Master Shanjo executed an elaborate bow, hands raised to his forehead, his throat, his chest, and finally bending at the waist, remaining in that awkward pose until the Tikran shifted position, propping his cheek on the other hand. Kattanan, a mere servant at best, was not required to bow. Rather, it was hoped that he draw no attention to himself whatsoever until the Tikran commanded it. Kattanan preferred it that way.

  The Tikran glanced up, long lashes dipping over his eyes, then down again, the merest movement of his hand following the direction of his g
aze. Master Shanjo nodded, then he, too, looked down. Hidden from the Tikran's sight behind the rigid figure of the Master, Kattanan risked a glance, despite the fact that those around him stared carefully forward. A silvery surface interrupted the engraving on the small table, and shadowy figures moved there. The singer frowned, wondering at the nature of such a device. The only image he made out clearly was the banner of Bernholt. The corner of the Tikran's mouth lifted, then settled again into its familiar line. Something fluttered past and out one of the arches: a bat. The Tikran, without looking up, frowned as it passed nearby.

  Kattanan raised his eyes. On the ceiling above, a curved mirror hung just to the front of the Tikran's position. Kattanan nearly smiled. Far from magical surveillance, the Tikran used the most basic of methods, watching his guests fidget in the mirror above. All the more reason to whisper in their ear, otherwise, whatever Bernholt sought in this meeting, it would go sorely awry with no one to account for the reasons.

  The Tikran's gaze drifted toward him, and away, with a flick of his fingers. Master Shanjo gave a slight turn, in case Kattanan had not caught the signal, but the singer stepped forward, and began to sing. He would have wished for more to drink before the concert, and wondered what happened to the promised supper. Perhaps just another way to discomfit the foreigners. After one song, the hand rose again, a sign of dismissal, then waved toward the left. Kattanan fell silent and crossed swiftly before the Tikran's sight to stand at the back of the courtiers. The courtiers, all men, ignored him as studiously as they ignored all else. In the musicians' hall, rumor held that these men were chosen for their ability to remain silent and watchful for the correct sign from their master.

  As if catching the thought, the Tikran straightened himself, tucking his feet under him, laying his hands over his knees. Master Shanjo sprang into the center aisle and hurried down it, returning swiftly with the delegation from Bernholt following at his back, a party of some twenty men. The clink of their mail and the rough tread of their heavy boots provided the only sounds. They approached solemnly, the scar-faced man focused upon the Tikran. Along the center aisle—not a good sign. Kattanan winced.

  The leader bowed, a brief Northern-style obeisance, and the Tikran's left eyebrow ticked up then down. The courtiers at Kattanan's side held their breath. It was a pantomime of trouble brewing, but the Berners didn't seem to notice.

  "Thank you for this meeting, my lord Tikran. King Gerrod of Bernholt sends his greetings. He bids me say to you--"

  The Tikran snapped his fingers.

  The scarred man blinked, glancing about, probably expecting a servant in answer to a summons. "He bids me say to you that he appreciates—"

  Another snap.

  Shifting his weight with a chink of metal, the scarred man frowned, then wet his lips as if about to begin again.

  Master Shanjo suddenly began to speak, quickly, his hands flashing through the air as if to illustrate whatever he said, and Kattanan realized he must have missed a signal: Shanjo would never speak without his master's blessing. He strained his ears, and caught a few words here and there. Whatever the message, the Tikran made his gesture of dismissal, then murmured toward the floor.

  His slipper lifted up and swung through the air to slide onto his extended foot. The second one followed, and the Tikran rose. Utterly disregarding his guests, he crossed to the left, and the courtiers froze as he passed behind them, each in turn. When he reached the end of the line, Master Shanjo hurried after, and the rest of the courtiers followed, one upon another, in the order of their rank. A few toward the middle suddenly nudged at one another, displacing this one and moving ahead. The man left behind opened his mouth, then shut it quickly and pushed himself back in line.

  Someone knocked into Kattanan from behind, stumbled back, and blinked up at him, a child in the livery of Bernholt. "Pardon, my lord. I must catch—"

  Kattanan seized the child's arm, and with it, his chance to convey some manners to the befuddled visitors. "They're going to dinner, now. Your leader should get as close as he can to the front of the line—quickly!"

  The boy's face registered shock, his mouth still open.

  "To the front—tell him! In the name of Finistrel!" He gave the boy a soft push toward the delegation. Adding the Lady's own name to his urgency made up the child's mind and he hurried back to his leader. The tall man bent down, his face already reddening as the page-boy pointed in Kattanan's direction. The other Berners shrugged and mumbled.

  Just then, another scuffle broke out in the line of courtiers, with the two nearest the end quickening their pace, each trying hard not to be last.

  Scrubbing a hand over his face, the scarred man set out at a jog, easily out-pacing the local nobility in their flowing robes. Kattanan fell in among the small group of servants. As they had each night since his arrival, they swept off immediately down a side archway, coming to the dining hall a few paces after the Tikran, and well before most of the court. They arrayed themselves, waiting their master's sign.

  The Berner nobleman trotted gamely up, slowing as he drew abreast of the lead courtier. The man's eyes flared, but he made no sound. Instead, as the foreigner took a half-step before him, he gracefully tucked his hands back into his robe, and bowed his head, allowing the Berner to take the front.

  The Tikran turned to take his seat, noticed the foreigner, and lifted his chin, the corner of his mouth giving a twitch as he settled. At the motion of a finger, Master Shanjo bowed the Berner to a seat of his own—on the right hand.

  Kattanan let out a breath, taking up his own post by a cluster of former masts which served as columns supporting a flat roof formed from miss-matched sections of decking. From there, he could see the Tikran and respond quickly if he must. The page appeared by his leader's elbow, listened, nodded, and scurried off, threading his way through the assembling nobles. After a moment, a tap on his elbow drew Kattanan's attention. While the Tikran supervised the pouring of wine, Kattanan eased behind the columns and squatted before the page-boy.

  "Ah, my lord, the baron sends his thanks, and wants to know what else he should know."

  Flicking a glance back toward the table, Kattanan satisfied himself that all attention lay elsewhere. He also took in the room for more mirrors. The columns provided an adequate blockade. "Don't let a shadow touch the Tikran. Friends and guests always approach from the right—don't be steered toward the middle, that's for criminals. Leave some food on the plate until someone insists three times that it be eaten. Beef is reserved for serious talk. If a platter of beef comes out, the baron should open the conversation." He hesitated. "That should—no, wait, when he snaps his fingers, he wants a different tune."

  The boy tipped his head, nibbling on his lip, then nodded. "A different tune, right. Thank you, my lord." He bobbed a bow and hurried off again.

  Straightening, Kattanan heard a soft, distinct tap, and looked back. The Tikran was looking away, but the dangling earrings he wore swayed gently back and forth, and his hand rested on the table. One long fingernail tapped again.

  Shanjo's head swiveled and he widened his eyes in Kattanan's direction. The singer swallowed and tried to compose himself, smoothing out his tunic and tugging the ends of his sash as he stepped away from the pillars. He caught himself starting to bow, and instead, trapped his hands before him, down low, and began to sing. He pitched his voice low and soft, music as an aid to digestion, rather than a focal point of the meal. After a long ballad in something similar to the local dialect, Kattanan embarked upon "Bernholt Hills", a love song highly popular with the citizens of that country. The baron blinked a few times at him, then patted his mouth with a cloth and settled back, a tiny ceramic cup dwarfed in his hand.

  The quiet murmur of conversation from the tables of the lesser nobles ebbed, and died away. At first, intent upon the song, Kattanan's heart rose: for only the second time in this Lady-less nation, he truly had an audience. Then
he caught the stillness of their faces, the flaring that hinted at the whites of their eyes. But the Tikran had not snapped, nor made the sign for silence. Instead, he, too, seemed as a statue, his profile sharp in the light of the hundred lanterns that had replaced the glow of twilight.

  Only the page-boy, hovering near his master's back, seemed truly enraptured. He swayed with the lilting rhythm, a grin breaking out across his face. Perhaps he was simply glad to be reminded of home.

  The Tikran brought both hands together before him, a gesture Kattanan had never seen. He faltered, his throat feeling suddenly dry. The hands at center, the Tikran tipped his head to look down at them, then he raised the left one and gave a brief ripple of the fingers.

  The courtiers subsided into their seats, again meeting one another's eyes. Kattanan kept singing, although the tension that knotted his shoulders began to affect his breathing in a way that he hoped no other would notice. The smell of roast beef wafted toward him as a platter went by, borne by two young boys. They laid it on the table before Master Shanjo, who undertook to slice the meat. The first slice he passed through the flames of the lanterns before him, then set aside to be burned at temple later. Holding one dangling sleeve pinched in the fingers of the other hand, he carefully offered the next slice to the baron.

  Stirring himself back to the table, the baron smiled, nodded, and then stared at the meat on his plate. He glanced back to Kattanan. "My lord Tikran, I think you know why we have come—"

  Snap. The Tikran accepted his own piece of meat, oblivious to the baron's open mouth, and delicately bit off a juicy morsel, chewing slowly, his head tipped to one side.

  Tossing back another mouthful from his tiny cup, the baron began again, "My lord Tikran, while we could respect a need to defend your borders or even—"

  Snap.

  The courtiers flinched, a brief crimping of silk.

  The baron's face turned a shade darker around the scar. "Perhaps, my lord Tikran, you would care to—"

  Snap.

  The Tikran took another bite of his meat and gazed this way and that around the room, as if tracking the flight of a bird no other could see.

  His face quite red now, the baron set down his cup with a thunk. "This piracy must stop, my lord. You must desist, or the army of Bernholt will tear this so-called fortress to the ground."

  After slowly chewing and swallowing his meat, the Tikran set down his fork. Still, he showed no reaction to the baron's outburst, nor to the fact that Kattanan had stopped singing, riveted as he was by the scene unfolding. The Tikran spoke, for the first time. "Dushek Ai-Malin."

  Kattanan shut his eyes as the voice wafted over him, a voice like none he had ever heard before, rich and gentle, with the timbre of an orator. A voice like that, he could listen to for hours, but he had never heard it until now. He blinked his eyes open again, waiting to see what the voice could do.

  From a lower table, a man rose, performing a very low bow, replete with gestures meant to cover the shaking of his hands. "Yes, Tikran."

  "Kill someone," said the miraculous voice of the Tikran, as he leaned back in his chair, signaling the servant to re-fill his cup.

  Ai-Malin's mouth popped open, then closed. His table-mates sat stiffly, but their bodies leaned subtly away from him as his wide eyes took them in, then swept the room.

  The Tikran spoke again, his demeanor unchanging. "Kammer Ai-Shakel."

  At an opposite table, a man sprang to his feet, mustaches a-quiver. "Yes, Tikran." He did not bow, as if he were nothing but a servant.

  "Kill someone."

  "Yes, Tikran." The man snatched up a knife from the platter before him and vaulted over the table. With a great lunge, he snatched Ai-Malin from his place and plunged the knife into his heart. He dragged the dying man's heels over the table, leaning down to deposit him on the floor, then straightened, eyes fixed ahead on the Tikran. At his feet, Ai-Malin clawed at the knife in his chest, his mouth flapping. No sound emerged, and Kattanan's own chest felt tight.

  Several of the Berners, including the baron himself, rose at the stabbing, their hands reaching for weapons they had been made to leave behind at the door. It was the baron whose gaze shifted next to the knife nearest the platter on his own table, then his eyes flitted from one to the next of his dining companions—strangers all.

  "An excellent choice, Ai-Shakel," said the Tikran. His voice remained thrilling, unchanged.

  The killer made no reply, but his lips twitched briefly into a smile as he bowed. He stepped over the body of his victim, now still, blood seeping from his mouth and chest, and walked slowly toward the front, keeping to the Tikran's right.

  "Have I not a singer?" the Tikran asked aloud.

  Hearing the voice addressed to himself, Kattanan jerked and straightened. He wet his lips, then launched into a somewhat breathless prayer to the Lady--the first thing that came to mind—hoping that the Tikran would not take this as insolence. Ai-Shekel looked at the high table, then approached the end of the next table down. He pulled out a chair occupied by an older man. The occupant gave a short squawk, then withdrew, striding a little too fast toward the vacant seat the killer left behind. Ai-Shekel sat down, sharing a nod with his new tablemates.

  The Tikran turned to his guest. "Pray continue."

  After a moment, and another drink, the baron obliged, describing in a low tone, a litany of ships attacked, crews murdered, cargoes looted—he gestured toward the ceiling and the walls. Kattanan expected at any moment the snap of the Tikran's impatience. Instead, the little man let his gaze wander, giving a slight nod now and then, as if satisfied with the truth of the baron's listing. When the older man had finally run out of robberies, he took a breath, shut his mouth, and nodded once as well, searching for some response.

  The Tikran yawned, patting his mouth, and gave a slight smile. He flicked a finger toward Shanjo, then rose and vanished. The courtiers immediately began babbling at one another in their own tongue, gesturing and crying out as if all their pent-up tension were released in the moment of the Tikran's departure. The Berners, left at a loss, rose more slowly, making their way toward the center where the baron met them, his big hands trembling until he knotted them into fists. Both natives and visitors avoided the dead man, and a few servants arrived shortly to bundle the corpse into a cloth and carry it away. Others started to clear the tables with a clash of silverware and a clatter of cups. The babble confused Kattanan's ears after so much silence. He shook his head to clear it, and took a step toward the Bernholt contingent.

  Before his foot settled again on the tile floor, Shanjo whisked up before him. "The Tikran will offer his guest a woman. You will select her. Come with me."

  Shanjo turned sharply and began threading his way through the crowd. Kattanan stood there blinking after him, swaying slightly. He finally pushed himself into motion, hurrying to catch up with the Master, and relieved that he already knew the way to the concubines, or else he might not have caught up at all. Shanjo ushered him in to the chief eunuch's sanctum.

  "Rashi," Shanjo began sternly, startling the chief eunuch up from his bed. He pointed toward the inner door, with a wave of his hand to hurry the man along.

  "But, Master," Kattanan began around the tightness that swelled in his chest.

  Shanjo leveled a dark stare at him. "At supper you knew what the guest needed, did you not? And took upon yourself to tell him?"

  Kattanan's ears buzzed, but he let his gaze remain on the floor, the embroidered tips of Shanjo's slippers.

  "Then you shall know which lady the guest prefers. Be quick." He waved again.

  Rashi, recovering from confusions of his own, gave a tip of his head and smiled at Kattanan. He laid his hand gently on the singer's shoulder, propelling them both toward the door as he found his key with the other hand. "Have no fear, Singer, they are only women, after all." He chuckled, and Kattanan nearly felt that the moment of Rashi's tears had never ha
ppened. His skin itched beneath the other eunuch's touch and he took a half-step away to wait by the door. As Rashi bent to the lock, he murmured, "We are capable, you know, of being with a woman. Have you ever tried?"

  Kattanan's face burned and he concentrated on a place somewhere above Rashi's head. Rashi merely chuckled again, and swung open the door. This action caused a chime that lingered through the large room beyond. Two dozen or more women waited inside, putting down their embroidery or instruments; a small circle of them lowered playing cards with audible sighs. The chamber smelled of cinnamon and lamb, a well-picked platter resting on the low table at its center. The women's expectant faces turned from him to Rashi, a few smiling, or looking away. Their skin ranged from the palest hues of the north to the dark, rich browns of the far south.

  "Do you know this guest, what he might like?" Rashi inquired gesturing to take in the room full of women.

  Just looking at them made Kattanan feel dizzy. He shook his head, and finally said, "He wore no wedding bracelet, but if he is devoted to the Lady, he would likely refuse any of them."

  Rashi clucked his tongue. "Not good to refuse the Tikran's woman."

  "Where does he get them all?" Kattanan murmured, forcing himself to look at each in turn, some younger than he, some old enough to be his mother.

  "From the ships."

  Kattanan's gaze returned to those most pale, wondering if they might have come from Bernholt itself, or even Lochalyn. He could chose one of them, offering the baron a chance to interview a victim of piracy. But the Tikran already knew that he had shared information with the baron, and did not seem pleased by it. He might select a dark-skinned beauty who did not even speak the same language, and hope that the baron would be willing. That course seemed to lead straight to the rocks. "Have you any suggestions?"

  "Someone young and seductive, whom the guest cannot resist." He gestured toward a young woman giggling on the mats not far off.

  "No. He would send her away in a moment. I think this baron is not a man to be easily seduced." He scanned the women, already returning to their amusements. One of them tipped her head patiently toward a lute, tightening a string, plucking, tightening again. She was perhaps in her twenties, but carried an air of calm, and the lighter skin of a foreigner. "How about that one?"

  "Her? She's so. . . old." Rashi shivered. "She's been here for years. Still . . ."

  "What is it?"

  "She remains a favorite of the Tikran." He shrugged.

  Kattanan nodded. "She might maintain the baron's interest long enough not to be rejected."

  "Ah! You are more clever than one might think." Rashi bobbed his head a few times, and drifted over to the woman in question, summoning her from her lute. She glanced toward Kattanan with a lift of one eyebrow, then ignored him. From the wall beside the door, she took a long robe to drape her shoulders, then the three slipped back out into the anteroom. Master Shanjo looked them up and down, nodded, and waved them on, issuing a brief string of orders to Rashi.

  The chief eunuch lead the way, Kattanan trailing after the woman and her pair of guards. When they arrived at a curtained archway, Rashi made a great show of clearing his throat, drawing the sharp expressions of the baron's own guards. "State your business."

  "For the baron, a gift." Rashi bowed, ushering the woman past.

  Immediately, the bearded foreigner began to shake his head. "No, I don't think so. We're, ah, honored, but the baron's not the kind to. . ."he made a motion with his hand as if that gesture explained it all.

  "Please, allow him to be the judge, my lord." Rashi bowed again.

  The Berner frowned at Kattanan, and at the chief eunuch, then at the woman herself. Within, the baron's voice called out, "Well? What is it?"

  "Ah, it's a woman, Excellency—from the Tikran."

  "A spy, no doubt." The voice came nearer, and the baron pulled the curtain aside. The scarred man stood taller than those who faced him, taller even than the Tikran's soldiers who had escorted them this far. The page-boy peeked around the curtain at the other side, eyes wide.

  "No spy, Excellency." Kattanan bowed. "Or, at least, she's had no instructions." He swallowed. "It was I who chose her, just now."

  The baron rifled back his hair with one hand, regarding the woman. She did not smile, but met his gaze, utterly self-assured. "Not quite the picture of a heathen temptress," he muttered, and his man laughed.

  The woman ducked her head at that, but Kattanan caught the edge of laughter, and the baron noticed both. "You understand me? Hmm." He offered his arm and held aside the curtain, with a glance back at Kattanan. She accepted, and they moved inside, the curtain falling shut behind them, the page-boy, too, disappearing inside.

  Kattanan started to turn away, but Rashi and the guards settled themselves on the floor opposite the archway, as if entertained by the muffled conversations beyond, or purposefully putting the baron's guards on edge. "Take a seat, boy," said Rashi. "We wait until she comes out."

  "All night?"

  Rashi shrugged. "If it takes so long. My apprentice will be looking after the others. Come, sit. Tell me your tale." He patted the tile beside him.

  Slowly, Kattanan drew nearer, into the recess of a curved rib of wood, kneeling on the warm tiles, but making sure that more than an arm's length separated himself from the other eunuch.

  "Your tale?" Rashi prompted.

  Kattanan's tale, so preposterous that he often doubted it himself, did not come easily. Instead, he said, "I am an orphan, raised at a monastery and trained to sing."

  "Then who cut you?"

  Kattanan flinched, recalling his mother's death, his uncle's treachery--an aching memory thrust aside. "I don't know." All true, as far as it went.

  Leaning back, folding his arms, Rashi snorted. "You might at least put some imagination into the telling. Myself, I am the son of nobility!" He raised one hand toward the ceiling and the sky beyond. "Famed even to the stars—but laid low by an enemy. Wounded in the fighting, I taught myself to sing to make a new fortune and re-claim my family's worth." The echo of his former voice filled the hall. Then he let the voice fall low. "But of course, that which made me valuable, ruined me as the heir to my house."

  The story, so echoing his own, made his breath catch in his throat, and Kattanan glanced away. On the other side of him, the two guards faced each other, one of them turning up a handful of knucklebones which they proceeded to toss like dice. "I thought the Virgins were all from holy orders," Kattanan said.

  Rashi's arm slapped into his lap and he glared. "Have you never thought to be more than that? More than an orphan unmanned and abandoned? With such a fine voice, I thought you might have the dreams to match it."

  "Then you have mistaken me," Kattanan murmured. The floor tiles here made an intricate braid of earth tones, a few sparkling with flecks of gold in the light of hanging lanterns. The light shivered slightly, and he caught the soft slide of leather on tile. Across the hall, a small figure stood, dark and shadowed, but the head moved a little, and the twinkle of a silver earring gleamed in the darkness.

  Kattanan was already scrambling to his feet, ignoring Rashi's protests, when the Tikran revealed himself in the orange light. Almost, he bowed, then stopped himself as Rashi, too, leapt up, brushing at his robe. Neither acknowledged the Tikran's presence—that was an impertinence for which they could be severely punished. The baron's guards, flanking the curtain, stiffened, but the Tikran glided forward, staring directly at the eunuchs. Kattanan found himself longing to hear the Tikran's remarkable voice again, and yet terrified at what it might say, his temples throbbing as he held his breath.

  "Two of you together. Will you sing me no duet?"

  Rashi gave a sharp little snicker.

  The Tikran's own guards started to rise with a clatter of swords and armor, but the Tikran fluttered his hand toward the ground, and they hesitated, then slowly sat down again. After
a moment, the knucklebones rattled again, and one of the guards grumbled something. Coins clinked.

  "Who?" asked the Tikran, his gaze releasing Kattanan, who managed to breathe.

  "Caralyss, Master," the chief eunuch answered.

  The Tikran's smooth face flicked briefly to a smile. "Shall I command her?"

  "She is yours to command, Master."

  Kattanan's skin prickled and his shoulders felt knotted. He had heard that voice issue commands before, and a man died.

  "Here, your Highness," one of the Berner soldiers began, but the Tikran's voice overlaid his own, and he merely gaped.

  "Caralyss apGarrion," the Tikran said, softly, but distinctly. The single word sounded like music, a symphony upon a breath and Kattanan hung upon it, his years of training and his finely-tuned ears sought the skill of such tones. And there, an overtone that resonated strangely inside his skull.

  Rashi grabbed Kattanan's wrist. "Don't listen," he whimpered. "Don't."

  The Tikran opened his mouth again. "Kill—"

  And Kattanan sang. He sang a single note, low and sustaining, nearly out of his range, his head and chest humming. A single note, carefully—painfully—held off-key. The overtone vanished, broken into its disparate parts and the voice, just for an instant, was only a voice.

  Beyond the curtain, someone shouted and something fell. "Guards!" the baron shouted. "Hold them!"

  "Holy Mother!" Rashi yelped as the Tikran's men sprang to the attack. The page-boy darted out to one side, his pale face intent upon Kattanan's.

  The Tikran whirled, earrings spinning silver shards into the night. He slapped his hand over Kattanan's mouth, forcing him back against the wooden beam. Pressing his lips to Kattanan's ear, his breath stinging, the Tikran spoke. "Kattanan DuRhys," he snarled, "Follow me."

  The voice rang through Kattanan's skull and echoed in his bones. His resolve wilted with the trembling of his knees and tears streaked his face. The terror that started up with the slap of the hand against his mouth ebbed as soon as it had come. The voice urged him on, demanded him, and would not be denied. Shaking, and suddenly lost, Kattanan obeyed.

  "Don't listen," Rashi wailed behind him, but Kattanan had not the power to turn, nor the reason to see why he should. The Tikran's voice was angry with him. He had defied the sound, the very music he lived for, betraying the song of another.

  He followed the Tikran down a crooked path of corridors and vacant chambers. The ships overhead grew smaller, older, their wood dark and ancient. At every step, the sound of the sea grew louder, as if it called out to its lost playmates. Listening, Kattanan almost forgot the sound of the Tikran's voice, and glanced aside, thinking for a moment, he might flee.

  "Where will you go, Singer?" the Tikran asked, neither slowing nor breaking his stride. That overtone was absent from his voice, and Kattanan's steps dragged with sudden sorrow. "Will you go to this stranger? Will he have you, after the woman you chose would kill him?"

  A chill breeze stung his face, and Kattanan raised his eyes. They emerged onto the headland above the sea. A string of lanterns swung to and fro, leading the way down a long path to where the lights became mere pin-pricks on the distant beach, the lanterns and torches of the town below. The ocean's call strengthened, its beat against the cliffs throbbing with Kattanan's own heart. Below, the baron's ship lay at anchor among a dozen smaller vessels rising and falling, glimpsed briefly in the light of the slender moon, then vanishing again. Further out, another large ship-shadow rose and fell, obscuring the whitecaps of the ocean, its furled sails catching the moonlight, the banner of Bernholt snapping in the wind.

  "Would you sing with me?" the Tikran asked.

  Kattanan drew his gaze back from the sea. He had no answers. The ocean sang out to him, urging him to throw himself down, and he shifted back from the brink.

  "Would you sing with me?" the Tikran repeated, but this time, the voice stirred deeper, summoning notes of awe.

  Catching his breath, the salt burning his aching throat, Kattanan breathed, "Yes."

  And the Tikran sang. He sang no words that Kattanan could discern, but it mattered not at all, for his heart was in the singing. The overtones returned, low and wonderful, and Kattanan longed to find those notes within himself, but it could not be. Tears seeped from his eyes and he faced the wind, hoping to blame the wind alone for his weakness. Sing with the Tikran? He dare not even call himself a singer.

  Out at sea, the boat rode low, lifting and falling with the waves. The Tikran's song swirled upon the wind. Kattanan's throat constricted. The order lay upon him, he knew, to sing or risk the Tikran's wrath, but there was no song in him like this one, and he must hear it, as surely as the sailor hears the ocean's call. A sail ran up the mast of the distant boat, then another and it swung about to face them, sails billowed full in the moonlight. The Tikran's song swelled as well, as if he himself filled those sails.

  The voice resonated in Kattanan's chest and he drew nearer, his feet dragging, closer toward the cliff, close up to where he could see the Tikran's lips shaping the sound, the Tikran's throat bobbing with music. A wizard, Rashi had claimed. A wizard indeed, if song alone could be magical.

  Some other noise broke Kattanan's concentration, a rattle from behind, a wretched breath, a muffled word. He blinked at the edge, so very near. His skin tingled with the cold, but his feet felt too hot still in their woolen boots. The ship raced on before the wind, ever nearer.

  The Tikran's song expanded to fill the sky, to fill the night and every star upon its breast. A wizard, or a pirate. The ship surged forward, rushing the cliffs as if it would climb straight up the treacherous slopes, or dash upon the rocks—

  Kattanan caught his breath, and again. Then he sang, loud and sharp, a devilish counterpoint. His throat ached, his chest tightened, and the relaxation that should come from singing never came. He sang in desperation, his eyes fixed on the ship that neared with every note. The Tikran's voice leapt higher, and Kattanan's followed, pursuing like a winded hound baying after a fox. He could catch it, he must. He drove himself onward, matching the Tikran note for note and trill for trill, twisting the tune to his own ends.

  The Tikran reached out, snatching Kattanan by the throat and forcing him down, his voice broke but he glimpsed the sails as they turned and heard the groaning of the ropes as the ship swung aside, heeling deep and racing now toward safety. The Tikran shook him, stopping the note inside his skull.

  But the music did not end. Behind in the darkness, a new voice rose, harsh at first, then growing steady, remembering the flights of song that once it knew.

  The Tikran's voice fell to a hiss and he tossed Kattanan down upon the dirt. "Rashi duRavon," he crooned. "Kill yourself."

  Rashi stumbled from the shadows, still singing. His voice wavered, cracked, but did not fail. He lurched as a man bereft of sight, staggered toward the cliff. Behind him, the head of the page-boy popped up, tears streaking his face, his hands clamped over his ears.

  Kattanan tried to sing, he tried to find a single note, but emitted only a whisper of sound, like the sigh of sorrow.

  The chief eunuch shuddered and turned, his profile silvered by the moon.

  "Die!" cried the marvelous voice, and Kattanan's own body tried to obey.

  Rashi staggered once more, and fell headlong, tripping over Kattanan, his outstretched arm sweeping the Tikran off his feet and plunging him down, down to the voice of the sea.

  Kattanan rolled and reached out, his lips parted in a silent cry, then Rashi, too, slid free and tumbled through the night. Rashi fell like a star, spiraling toward the stones. The ocean swallowed and merged with his song, but Rashi never stopped singing.

  If you enjoyed A Song for the Sea, look for:

  The Singer’s Crown