So she just smiled when the only thing Pietro finally said was, “You just be sure to let me know when the mortar’s completely dry. You understand? And those tunnels over there. They were completed last night, is that true?”
The soldier grunted, and Melantha looked toward the already sealed-off corridors Pietro had indicated. She let her eyes follow the leather-bound tubes that had been built from them to the ceiling, to thrust through the stone floor behind the organ. She squeezed Pietro’s hand.
“I’m still not sure I quite understand all this either,” she whispered. “I know you’ve told me.”
Pietro smiled. “Remember last night? When we tested the first of those tubes with the bellows.”
“Yes. The whole church shook, it seemed like, until I realized it was only the floor vibrating. Yet the sound that came out was music.”
Pietro nodded. “These tunnels we’re blocking off. These are the pipes of my new bass register. Deeper even — more like a great bass, an octave or more below a true bass. So what you heard was a single ‘pipe,’ just using the blacksmith’s bellows for tuning. Imagine when we have the whole register — all the tunnels the soldiers are sealing — tuned together, playing with the smaller pipes of the higher registers, using the wind that comes out of the cistern...”
Melantha laughed, placing a finger on Pietro’s lips. “You’ve nearly lost me again, my husband. I mean with your details. I just know music — and how to dance to it — not how it’s created. But if I understand this much correctly, what you’ve done is to make the whole temple a part of your organ?”
Pietro nodded once again and led her upstairs, their work completed for that evening. The next morning, though, when they went back down, Melantha noticed that the tunnel where the old, hen’s-banelike smell was the strongest, now was guarded just like the one that led to the river. She didn’t say anything. Rather she concentrated on sewing the leather wrappings that would make the latest of the great-bass tubes airtight. Similarly in the days that followed, both she and Pietro kept their thoughts on the work they were doing.
Still, though, she wondered. She had not had time to tell her husband about the other kinds of hen’s-bane — the red and the black, the latter especially prized by sorcerers and never touched by white healers like her. That, she thought now, was why it smelled different and yet still familiar.
But that just added to the mystery. Black hen’s-bane, she knew, was used by some witches to give them their visions. Concentrated enough, it could drive a man mad for days, or even forever if it didn’t kill him. But hen’s-bane of any sort in the temple?
She found excuses to go to the cellar, even though the important work now had shifted to upstairs. Another week passed; there were only a few days left till the festival. But the work had advanced as well, and finally one evening Pietro told her that the hydraulikon itself was ready for testing.
“You mean now?” she whispered — she always whispered, even though Gant was standing right next to them where he could hear anything that was spoken. “You mean it’s ready?”
“Yes,” Pietro replied. “I don’t mean to test it all at once, mind you. I think, for tonight, I’ll leave the stop-keys in for the great bass, playing only the upper registers. That way—” he looked at Gant, leaning against the side of the windchest “—we’ll leave some surprises for the actual ceremony. Still, though, even with just the smaller pipes, I expect the chief priest would be well pleased.”
He motioned to Gant to stand at the altar where he would be with the other of the priest’s assistants during the service. Then he showed Melantha where the twin foot-pedals that worked the pistons for the hydraulikon thrust through the floor, just to the side of the great organ’s keyboard. “This railing,” he said, pointing to a lecternlike stand, “is for you to lean on. To rest your hands on so you won’t fall. Then put your feet there and pump up and down, just like you were walking.”
Melantha did as she was told. “Like this?” she asked. She heard a faint hiss of air beneath her, then a bubbling as the pistons under her feet forced air into the dome submerged inside the cistern.
“Good,” Pietro said. “You should find it easy at first, but as the pressure builds up, the going will start getting harder. Remember, the air you’re pumping in is being pushed back by the weight of the water of the cistern — the more air you pump, the more water it will force from the dome and, in turn, the more weight of water will push back against it.”
Melantha nodded. It was getting harder, like walking up a steepening hillside. “Will I have to pump the whole time you’re playing?”
“No,” Pietro said. “Once the pressure’s built, you can rest from time to time, as long as you make sure it doesn’t go down too far. Now, watch your footing — I’m pulling the first stop.”
He reached to a row of stirrup-shaped handles above the main keyboard and pulled the leftmost one out toward him, causing her to nearly slip as the pressure beneath her suddenly dropped. “Pump hard!” he shouted. She gripped the railing and did as he said. “It’s filling the windchest. And now the second stop—” he pulled a second stirrup out, and then a third “—treble register and the reed pipes.” He pulled a fourth out. “Now the main register. Are you ready?”
Melantha pumped for all she was worth, sweat starting to gather on her forehead. “Yes,” she shouted back — why were they shouting?
And then, when Pietro’s hands brushed the keyboard, Melantha knew.
She laughed. It was Gant who almost fell this time, surprised by the noise of just one bank of pipes. And then, one by one, Pietro added in the next three, one for each stop-key he’d pulled out in turn.
“Now,” he shouted, “can you hear me?”
“Yes,” she shouted back at him as loud as she could. “But only barely. The music drowns you out.” Then she laughed — she looked at Gant, still at the altar, realizing suddenly that this was one time she could be absolutely sure he was not hearing a word she was saying.
“Shall I try the rightmost stop now?” Pietro was laughing, too. “The one for the great bass? I know I said I didn’t want to, but shall we hear it? Or shall I try the echo register — those are the soft pipes?”
“Please, Pietro. Neither. Or, if you must, only add the soft ones. I’m getting frightened.” She was, too, she realized. Just as when he had tested the first bass pipe with the bellows, and she had thought the whole building was shaking. She would get used to this — she would have to if she was going to walk the pumps again during the festival. But she thought it would be best to get used to it slowly.
To her surprise, she saw Pietro nodding. She thought at first he would pull the last stops anyway, but now she saw he was pushing the others back in, one by one, his hands off the keyboard. And yet the organ continued playing.
“It’s the pressure,” he shouted to her, as if anticipating her question. “It keeps on playing because there’s enough wind to keep individual pipe-valves open. Until I close the whole bank with its stop-key. Like this—” he pushed the last one in, then let his voice sink down, too, to a whisper.
“I love you, Melantha.”
She almost didn’t hear him, this time because of the silence.