He remembered that Karim had said he would be presenting one of his plays here, but there was no sign of the caravan. It would have been hard to miss, like a fabulous beast in the middle of the circle's austere symmetries. He supposed that the players hadn't yet arrived, and hoping that they hadn't run into any trouble, he followed Saliman through the high wooden doors that led into the Bardhouse and into Nadal's rooms.
Saliman ushered Hem into a pleasant sitting room, in which a fire at the far end flickered against the cold. Like the rooms of most Bards, it was decorated with an eye to both beauty and comfort. The walls were paneled with honey-colored wood polished to a soft glow, and covered with shelves that held the usual Bardic assortment of books, scrolls, curios, and instruments of various kinds. In the center, low couches covered in rough-woven silk dyed Thorold blue were arranged around a wide, low table. Soron was seated by the fire, talking earnestly to a tall, fair-haired Bard. They both rose when Hem and Saliman entered, and the Bard, who was of course Nadal, greeted them courteously, glancing in surprise at Hem.
"I'm surprised you're out of bed, considering how fevered you were last night," he said.
Hem bowed his head politely. "I think I'm quite tough," he said. "I feel fine this morning, anyway."
"There's nothing wrong with him, judging by his appetite," said Saliman. They sat down with the other two Bards, and his voice became brisk. "Now, Hem, I want you to show Nadal the tuning fork you took from Sharma while you were in Den Raven."
"Irc found it, really," said Hem. He felt a strange reluctance as he lifted the chain over his head; usually the tuning fork lay forgotten against his skin. He held it in his hand, feeling its weight: it was a simple object, made of brass, but he felt its veiled power as he touched it.
Nadal took the tuning fork curiously, and examined it closely. "It looks like nothing much," he said. "But that is often the way with magical objects. Those runes are very strange. I've never seen the like."
"I have," said Saliman. "As I told you. On Maerad's lyre. They clearly belong together. And the lyre is undoubtedly Dhyllic ware, made in the lost city of Afinil. I have wondered if Nelsor himself might have made these things. He was, after all, a master of scripts; those runes might be his own."
"From what Irc tells us, the Nameless One wore this about his very neck," said Soron. He was looking at the fork askance, as if it still held some trace of the Dark's presence. "And it seems very likely to me that it is something to do with the Spell of Binding that holds Sharma to this earth. Given what Hem has told us about his encounters with the Elidhu, Saliman's guess that all this is deeply to do with the magery of Elementals seems like a good one to me."
Nadal nodded, and handed the tuning fork back to Hem.
Hem quickly put it back on, hiding it beneath his clothes; he felt somehow that it was something that should not be looked at by the naked eye.
"These are deep waters indeed, and it's hard to find our way," said Nadal. "We know too little of the Elementals. For too long have our paths been sundered by mistrust. Your guesses seem good to me, but they are still only guesses."
"I agree there is too much we don't know," said Saliman. "Nevertheless, these are guesses informed by Knowing. You have not met Maerad—she has an unsettling power, Nadal, that is not Bardic."
"This boy's power is not so conventional, either." Hem caught Nadal's eye; there was an uncomfortable sharpness in his glance. "I felt it as soon as you walked in this room. You speak the Elidhu language, as your sister does?" Hem nodded. "We live in perilous times. How do we know that this power will serve us, and not some other necessity?"
Hem bridled, remembering the immense sadness of the Elidhu Nyanar as he spoke about his poisoned home, the hills of Glandugir that the Nameless One had marred beyond recognition. "The Elidhu serve their own ends," he said. "But they hate the Dark as much as we do. The Nameless One has destroyed their homes, too."
"Yes. Yes, you may well be right." Again Hem found himself subjected to Nadal's keen, searching glance. "Some wisdoms we have held dear as Bards might have to be put aside in this war. Perhaps they have been, indeed, blindnesses. Still, after all this time it seems strange to think of the Elidhu, who allied themselves with the Nameless before the Great Silence, as being on our side."
"It's not about sides," said Hem. He turned to Saliman. "The Elidhu were at Afinil, weren't they?"
Saliman nodded. "Yes, they weren't always distrusted by Bards. And it was only the Winterking and a couple of other renegade Elidhu who helped Sharma."
"I accept what you say, Saliman," said Nadal. "Still, there are many angles to this war, and they are not less important. We cannot let our hopes hang on such a slender thread. Let's not forget how desperate things are: Norloch has fallen to the Dark without a sword risen in defense. And now we hear that Nelac has been imprisoned by Enkir, and is charged with treachery."
Saliman looked up swiftly, his face anguished. "Alas, I feared that something of the kind might happen when we fled Norloch. But still, I am shocked that he dares to imprison a Bard as greatly loved as Nelac. He must think his arm strong indeed."
"As I told you last night, Enkir has raised soldiers from all over Annar. His garrison is now very strong. And the Schools are still divided. None save the Seven Kingdoms dare to stand openly against him, and some even now believe that he is their best bulwark against the armies of the Dark. The Fall of Turbansk was a great argument for Enkir: he drives with fear, and will use it as a cover for his own ends. And some Schools are already under attack; I heard that the Vale of Innail has been hard-pressed from the mountains in recent weeks, and there is civil war in Lukernil and Rhon, where bandits are roaming freely, by my guess under Enkir's blessing. Alas for Annar!"
"I wonder how closely Enkir works with the Dark," said Soron. "I can't but be surprised that he has sent no army marching on Til Amon; that is what everyone has been expecting."
"We have sent out scouts through Lauchomon, as far as the II Arunedh Road, and have seen no sign of an army. Yet. Unless he has found a way to make his soldiers invisible, or all our scouts are blind."
"I think Soron is correct," said Saliman. "If an army is already sent from the Suderain, why should Enkir attack Til Amon himself? Better by far to concentrate his forces on his other enemies."
"This makes it all the more likely, of course, that the Black Army will not pass us," said Nadal. "I am guessing that they hoped to surprise us. That advantage, at least, they have lost; we have been preparing for war since we had the emissary from Norloch, demanding our fealty. I wish I knew what forces are arraigned against us. Not all are human." He glanced at Irc, who had been sitting quietly on Hem's shoulder throughout the conversation. "I have some ravens here, birds of great wisdom, who offered their help; and they can fly more quickly than men can walk. I will hear something of what to expect today, I hope. But I judge that we can hold out against one army. We are protected by the lake on three sides, and our winter stores are deep enough to endure a long siege. I doubt theirs will be. They will get precious little pickings from Amon Fesse; our granaries and storehouses there have all been emptied and brought here, and our people are even now moving within our walls. They will not find us unprepared."
"The best news for us, Nadal, is that we hear that the Nameless One also marches on Car Amdridh," said Soron. "The full force of his fist will not fall on Til Amon."
"True," said Saliman. "He divides his strength and fights on two fronts, and that I judge is a risk. All the same, as I saw on the roads outside Dagra, he sends enormous strength out of Den Raven. He now reveals his full hand. It will not be a small army that moves on you now, Nadal; from here the whole of South Annar is open to him."
"Aye," said Nadal, but his voice was hard. "I do not cling to false hopes. But I would still place my wager on us."
The sun was nearing noon, and Nadal politely invited the three Bards to eat a midday meal with him. Although Hem had but lately finished breakfast, he assented enthusiasti
cally. Saliman made no comment; after all, they had had thin enough pickings for the past few weeks, and no doubt there would be hard times ahead. Then Hem was shown to his room, which was next door to Saliman's on the topmost floor of the Bardhouse. It was a pleasant chamber paneled in the same honey-colored woods as Nadal's rooms. A fire had been laid and lit shortly before, and there was a comfortable bed piled high with bright cushions in one corner.
When Saliman left, Hem kicked off his boots and curled his naked toes luxuriously in the thick red carpet that covered the stone floor. He felt very content. Then he padded over to the casement and opened his window to let Irc out. Irc leaped out from the sill, eager to play in the sky after a day spent mostly indoors, and Hem watched him idly.
His window overlooked the Inner Circle. From this height, he could see the spiral patterns made by the different-colored paving stones, gray and black and white. It seemed fairly busy: he saw Librarians in their black robes hurrying out of the Library, a high, imposing building opposite Nadal's Bardhouse, and many other people crossing the Circle, hooded against the cold. Then he lifted his gaze over the slate roofs of the houses of Til Amon, which ran down to the lake. The face of the lake was very still, like a steel mirror. As he watched, a flight of swans landed on the water, flurries of foam leafing high in their wake, and the water's stillness dissolved in a crisscross maze of ripples. In the distance, faint in the mist, loomed the dark, snow-crowned peaks of the Osidh Am. It was, as Soron had said, a breathtaking sight, and he stayed there for some time, leaning his elbow on the windowsill, breathing in the silence.
Then something caught his eye, moving in one of the streets close to the Circle: a gleam of gold. He leaned out of the window, trying to get a better look. Yes, it was Karim's caravan, pushing up one of the broad thoroughfares that led from the Circle. As he watched, the caravan lumbered into the center of the square, followed by a stream of people. Hem was amazed. Surely the Bards wouldn't permit them to camp there, right in the middle of the School? Perhaps they were not planning to camp. Perhaps they were about to perform a play! As soon as he was sure the caravan had stopped, he summoned Irc, rushed out of his room, and knocked on Saliman's door.
Saliman came to the door draping a robe over his shoulders, and Hem realized that he had roused him from his bed.
"Saliman! Karim's here, with the caravan, in the Circle!"
Hem was pink with excitement. "They can't be camping there, surely. Would Nadal let them? Do you think they're doing a play? Can we go and see them?"
"Well, young Hem, if you want to see Karim and the other players, I'm not stopping you," said Saliman. "But you'll have to excuse me; I am a little tired, and would rather take this opportunity, which comes my way seldom, to catch up on some sleep."
Hem's conscience smote him as he saw that Saliman's face was bruised with weariness. No doubt he had been up late with Nadal, and perhaps he had had other duties. "Saliman, I'm sorry ..." he said.
Saliman smiled and ruffled his hair. "I forgive you, Hem, even though I was just on the brink of delicious sleep when you dragged me out of it. Nothing can be a greater mark of my love for you. Now boy, go, and leave me to myself."
Hem turned to go, and Saliman called out after him. "Don't forget that we have dinner with Nadal!"
"I won't!" said Hem over his shoulder, and clattered down the stairs.
Karim had halted the caravan in the exact center of the Circle, and already there was a crowd of interested onlookers. Hem paused at the door of the Bardhouse, momentarily taken aback by the festive air of the gathering: people seemed to be acting as if no danger threatened, no army marched on Til Amon, nothing hung in the balance. For the briefest of moments, a sudden, consuming rage blotted out his excitement at seeing the players. He understood how Soron had felt when they had first seen them, innocently practicing in front of the fire as if nothing were wrong. He, Soron, and Saliman had lost too much: Soron had lost his lover, Jerika, in the fall of Turbansk, Saliman his city and many of his dearest friends, and Hem . . . well, Hem had suffered his losses too.
His anger ebbed as swiftly as it had risen; but as it vanished, there flashed into his mind a foul memory from the nightmare march through the Glandugir Hills. He saw, as clearly as if it were now before him, the terror on the face of one of the snouts, the bewitched child soldiers with whom he had marched through the hills, as a monstrous vine wrapped itself around the child's feet and dragged him screaming into the trees. The memory was as vivid as if he were there: he could even smell the damp, sour earth. A wave of sickness rose through his body. Hem flinched, cowering against the doorpost, his heart hammering in his chest, dazedly telling himself that he was no longer a snout, no longer in that nightmare place, and that he need never return. He almost turned to go back inside, but shook himself sternly. Why shouldn't people enjoy themselves, even if others suffered? Was it entirely a bad thing? Perhaps, in such dark times, it was all the more important.
He stepped out of the door and stumbled, almost falling over. He hadn't realized until that moment that his legs were shaking and that he had broken into a cold sweat. He took a deep breath, deciding to ignore his legs, and strode as steadily as he could across the Circle. Impatiently he wriggled his way through to the front of the crowd, so he could get a clear view of what was going on.
Karim, dressed in a long purple robe, was standing on the stage, which had been let down from the side of the caravan. He was in full flight, but it wasn't, as Hem had expected, a speech like that he had performed at their campsite. He was extolling his wares, like any pot seller in the marketplace. Hem was disappointed, but he listened anyway.
"From far Eleve, dear people, we have traveled through wasteland and wilderness to offer you our crafts and our skills," Karim was saying. "We have played to acclaim before in the great Schools of the East, in great cities and in small villages; we have pleased the rich man and the beggar, the Bard and the minstrel; we bring you the great works of the great poets, for your delectation and delight ..." And so on. Irc, bored, flew off to explore, and Hem noticed that the crowd was beginning to get a little restive. But Karim was far too experienced a performer not to notice this himself, and gave signs that he was finishing his speech.
"And so, at the fourth bell, dear people, and with the blessing of Nadal the First Bard himself, we bring to you one of Lorica's greatest tragedies: the timeless love story of Alibredh and Nalimbar of Jerr-Niken. And now, dear people, I hope to see you then. Bring your friends, your family, tell everyone you know—even people whom you don't know—for this is a rare treat indeed, and seldom played! And now I thank you for your time. Farewell!"
Karim bowed ceremoniously, with many hand flourishes, and vanished behind the red curtains. The show, for the moment, was over. There was some scattered clapping and a hum of conversation, and Hem overheard several people planning to meet up for the performance. It was well-timed: it would still be light, they could come before the evening meal, and by then most people would have finished their day's work.
Hem made his way around to the front of the caravan and patted the horses. He wanted very much to see Hekibel, but suddenly felt unaccountably shy. He was just about to leave when Hekibel herself stepped down from the caravan. She was cloaked and carried a basket, and looked as if she were about to go shopping; but she noticed Hem immediately and greeted him with an open smile. Hem at once lost his shyness, and grinned back.
"I didn't realize you were a Bard," she said. "You look quite different—I almost didn't recognize you."
Hem looked down at his tunic, borrowed from Edadh's house that morning. "It's not mine; I have to give it back," he said.
"But you're a Bard, all the same?" Hem nodded. "And your friends too?" Hem nodded again. Hekibel sighed, as if she regretted something. "I might have known. Ah well. And where's your bird?"
"He went off exploring," said Hem. "He'll be back later. There are some birds here that he hasn't bullied yet."
"He's a bully?"
/> "Well, not so much a bully as a braggart."
"I have heard tell that Bards can speak to beasts," said Hekibel. "Do you speak to your bird?"
"Yes, Irc and I are friends. He's not really a pet."
There was a short silence, and Hem wondered if he ought to take his leave. "They are all talking here about the Black Army marching on Til Amon," Hekibel said. "So you arrived in time. People here are very busy. And I thank you, too, for warning us—we could have been caught in a horrible situation!"
"But you still came here, to make your play" said Hem.
"Not for long." Hekibel gave Hem a cool look, as if she were sizing him up. "Now, young master, are you idle at this present moment? I need to find a market, and I could do with someone to carry my basket."
Hem politely took her basket, and they began to walk together out of the Circle. "I haven't been here long enough to work out where the market is," he confessed. "In any case, I thought you had lots of food."
"But precious little fresh. Are you coming to see the show this afternoon?"
"Yes," said Hem. "Yes, I'd like to."
"It's the only one we're doing. Karim is very alarmed, and wants to get out of here as soon as we're able. We plan to leave tomorrow. We're hoping to get a good crowd today. Karim fears that otherwise we'll be stuck here, in a besieged city. And for once, I agree with him."