Louder, someone said, but Ansset ignored him, and soon the jokes and laughter died down as the men strained to hear.
The melody was a wandering one, passing through tones and quartertones easily, gracefully, still low in pitch, but rising and falling rhythmically. Unconsciously Ansset moved his hands in the strange gestures that had accompanied all his songs since he had opened his heart to Esste in the High Room. He was never aware of the movements -In fact, he had been puzzled by a notice in a Philadelphia newspaper that he had read in the palace library: To hear Mikal's Songbird is heavenly, but to watch his hands dance as he sings is nirvana. It was a prudent thing to write in the capital of Eastamerica, not two hundred kilometers from Mikal's palace. But it was the vision of Mikal's Songbird held by all those who thought of him at all, and Ansset did not understand, could not picture what they saw.
He only knew what he sang, and now he began to sing words. They were not words of recrimination, but rather the words of his captivity, and the melody became high, in the soft upper notes that opened his throat and tightened the muscles at the back of his head and tensed the muscles along the front of his thighs. The notes pierced, and as he slid up and down through haunting thirdtones, his words spoke of the dark, mysterious guilt he felt in the evenings in his dirty, shabby prison. His words spoke of his longing for Father Mikal (though he never spoke his name, not in front of these men), of dreams of the gardens along the Susquehanna River, and of lost, forgotten days that vanished from his memory before he awoke.
Most of all, though, he sang of his guilt.
At last he became tired, and the song drifted off into a whispered dorian scale that ended on the wrong note, on a dissonant note that faded into silence that sounded like part of the song.
Finally Ansset opened his eyes. Even when he sang for an audience he neither liked nor wanted to sing for, he could not help but give them what they wanted. All the men who were not weeping were watching him. None seemed willing to break the mood, until a youngish man down the table said in a thick accent, Ah but thet were better than hame and mitherma. His comment was greeted by sighs and chuckles of agreement, and the looks that met Ansset's eyes were no longer leering and lustful, but rather soft and kind. Ansset had never thought to see such looks in those coarse faces.
Will ye have some wine, boy? asked Master's voice behind him, and Husk poured. Ansset sipped the wine, and dipped a finger in it to cast a drop into the air in the graceful gesture he had learned in the palace. Thank you, he said, handing back the metal cup with the same grace he would have used with a goblet at court. He lowered his head, though it hurt him to use that gesture of respect to such men, and asked, May I leave now?
Do you have to? Can't you sing again? It was as if the men around the table had forgotten that Ansset was their prisoner. And he, in turn, refused them as if he were free to choose. I can't do it twice. I can never do it twice. Not for them, anyway. And for Mikal, all songs were different, and every one was new.
They lifted him off the table then, and Master's strong arms carried him back to his room. Ansset lay on the bed after the door locked shut, his Control easing, letting his body tremble. The last song he had sung before this had been for Mikal. A light and happy song, and Mikal had smiled the soft, melancholy smile that only touched his face when he was alone with his Songbird. And Ansset had touched Mikal's hand, and Mikal had touched Ansset's face, and then Ansset had left to walk along the river.
Ansset drifted off to sleep thinking of the songs in Mikal's gray eyes, humming of the firm hands that ruled an empire and yet could still stroke the forehead of a beautiful child and weep at a sorrowful song. Ah, sang Ansset in his mind, ah, the weeping of Mikal's sorrowful hands.
8
Ansset awoke walking down a street.
Out of the way, ya chark! shouted a harsh accent behind him, and Ansset dodged to the left as a cart zipped passed his right arm. Sausages, shouted a sign on the case behind the driver.
Then Ansset was seized by a terrible vertigo as he realized that he was not in the cell of his captivity, that he was fully dressed, though not in the clothing of the Songhouse. He was alive and free of his captors and the quick joy that realization brought was immediately soured by a rush of the old guilt, and the conflicting emotions and the suddenness of his liberation were too much for him, and for a moment too long he forgot to breathe, and the darkening ground slid sideways, tipped up, hit him-- Hey, boy, are you all right? Did the chark slam you, boy? I got the number of the cart. We can get him! He's comin' around and to. Ansset opened his eyes. Where is this place? he asked softly.
Why, this is Northet, they said.
How far is the palace? Ansset asked, vaguely remembering that he had heard of Northet as a suburb of Hisper.
The palace? What palace?
Mikal's palace-I must go to Mikal- Ansset tried to get up, but his head spun and he staggered. Hands held him up.
The kit's kinky, that's what. Mikal's palace. It's only sixty kilometer, boy, should I have 'em hold supper for you? The joke brought a burst of laughter, but Ansset had regained Control and he pulled away from the hands holding him and stood alone. Whatever drug had kept him unconscious was now nearly worked out of his system. Find me a policeman, Ansset said. Mikal will want to see me immediately.
Some still laughed, but others looked carefully at Ansset, perhaps noticing that he spoke without an Eastamerican accent, that his bearing was not that of a streetchild. Who are you, boy? one asked.
I'm Ansset, Mikal's Songbird.
They looked, realized that the face was the one pictured in the papers; half of them ran off to find authorities who could handle the situation, while the other half stayed to look at his face, to realize how beautiful his eyes were, to hold the moment so they could tell about it to their children and grandchildren. I saw Ansset himself, Mikal's Songbird, they would say, and when their children asked , What was Mikal's Songbird? they would answer, ah, he was beautiful, he was the most valuable of all the treasures of Mikal the Terrible, the sweetest face you ever saw, and songs that could bring rain out of the sky or a flower from the deep of the snow.
They reached out, and he touched their hands, and smiled at them, and wondered how they wanted him to act-embarrassed at their awe, or accustomed to it? He read the songs in their voices as they murmured, Songbird, and Thank you, and Lovely. And decided that they wanted him to be poised, to be beautiful and gracious and distant so their worship would be uninterrupted. Thank you, Ansset said, thank you. You've all helped me. Thank you.
The policemen came, apologizing effusively for how dirty their flesket was, that it was the only one in the station, and please take a seat. They did not take him to the station; rather they took him to a pad where a flit from the palace waited. The Chamberlain got out. Yes, it's him, he said to the police, and then reached for Ansset's hand. Are you all right? he asked.
I think so, Ansset said, suddenly aware that something might be wrong with him. He was inside the flit; the doors closed; the ground seemed to push up on him and he was airborne, heading for the palace. For Mikal.
9
The child is becoming impatient, said the Captain, I really don't give a damn, said the Chamberlain. And Mikal is also impatient. The Chamberlain said nothing, Just stared back at the Captain.