She wasn't about to argue; she took the tray from the boy with a smile, and before she could even thank him, he had scampered away down hall to the staircase, nimble as a squirrel and just as lively.
Hmm. My first reward for a job well done? That could be; she wasn't going to press the point. She was hungry despite a few bites taken here and there during the breaks in performing. After all, she hadn't eaten since noon, and that was a long time ago!
She took the tray over to her bed, set it down, lifted the cover, and nearly fainted with delight.
There was quite enough there, in that "snack," to have fed her for two days if she'd been husbanding rations. A tall, corked bottle of something cold_water beaded the sides and slid down the dark glass enticingly_stood beside a plate holding a generous portion of rare roast meat, sliced thin and still steaming. Three perfect, crusty rolls, already buttered, shared the plate with the meat. Very few humans would have recognized the next dish, which resembled nothing so much as a purple rose, but she knew a steamed kanechei when she saw it, and her mouth watered. To conclude the meal, there was a plate of three nut-studded honeycakes.
Her stomach growled, and she fell to without a second thought. When she finished, there was nothing left but a few crumbs and a blissful memory.
Following Deliambren tradition, she took the tray to the door and left it next to the wall, just outside. As she looked up and down the hallway, she saw another tray or two, which meant that she had done the right thing. The shouting from below had died down somewhat, but it sounded rather as if the drummer for the musical group was having some kind of rhythmic fit, and the audience was clapping and stamping their feet in time. She closed the door again quickly.
Why is it that the drunker people become, the more drumming they want? Maybe the alcohol blunts their ability to enjoy anything subtle_like a melody.
She had intended to read some of her own notebooks of nonhuman songs_but after that wonderful meal, and especially the light, sweet wine that had accompanied it, she could hardly keep her eyes open. So instead, she slipped out of her gown and hung it up with a care for the delicate cutwork; drew her nightshirt on over her head, turned off the light and felt her way into bed. She hardly had time to settle herself comfortably, when sleep overtook her.
"Therefore, my friends and brothers," the young Priest said, earnestly, his brown eyes going from one face below him to the next, "Yes, and my sisters, too! You must surely see how all these things only prove the unity of everything in the Cosmos_how God has placed the warmth of His light in every heart, whether the outer form of that heart walk on two legs or four_be clad in skin, hide, scales, or feathers_whether the being call God by the Name that we know him, or by something else entirely! What matters is this, only: that a being, whatever form he wears, strive to shelter that Light, to make it shine the brighter, and not turn his face to the darkness!"
The homely young Priest signaled his musicians and stepped back with a painfully sincere smile. Nightingale slipped out of St. Brands Chapel just as the tiny_and obviously musically handicapped_choir began another hymn-song, slipping a coin into the offering box as she passed it. She stepped out into the busy street and blended into the traffic, squinting against the bright noon light.
This was the fourth Chapel she had attended in as many days, and it had her sorely puzzled. In the other three_all of them impressive structures in "good" neighborhoods_she had heard only what she had expected to hear. That only humans had souls; that nonhumans, having no soul to save, had no reason to be "good." That if they had no reason to be good, they must, therefore, be evil.
This wasn't the first time such an argument had been used against nonhumans; obviously one of the things that the Church absolutely needed in order to galvanize its followers was an enemy. It was difficult to organize opposition to an abstract evil_and even more difficult to get people to admit that there was evil inside themselves. That meant that the ideal enemy would be something outside the Church and outside the members of the Church, and as unlike the human followers of the Sacrificed God as possible.
Easy enough to point the finger at someone and say, "he doesn't look like you, he doesn't believe in what you believe, he must be evil_and your natural enemy," she thought cynically, as she settled her hat on her head and let the crowd carry her along toward Freehold. She had expected this; if the Church was snatching secular power away from the High King, Lyonarie would be the place where it would show its truest hand_and that would be the place where the Church officials would take a stand showing who they had selected to be the "Great Enemy."
What she had not expected was that here the Church was openly divided against itself.
When her patrons first began telling her about this, in discussions she had started during the breaks between her sets, she had at first dismissed it as being a trick of some kind. After all, why in the world would Priests openly preach against what was, supposedly, Church canon? She couldn't come up with a reason behind such a trick, unless it might be to lull the nonhumans into complacency_but what other reason could there be?
She decided to take to the Chapels herself to find out.
Thus far, she had discovered a pattern, at least. Chapels in certain districts_aggressively human-only_always held Priests who followed the canonical path. But Chapels elsewhere might just as often harbor Priests like Brother Brion back there; Priests who preached the brotherhood of all beings, and stressed the similarities among the most various of beings rather than their differences. They could have been operating the kind of trick she suspected_but they could not hide the feelings behind their words, not to her, not when she chose to follow the music of their emotions.
And the music was of a sweeter harmony than that sadly under-talented choir back there. These Priests truly, deeply, believed in what they were saying. And if the stories her patrons told her were true, there were just as many Priests of this radical line as there were who followed canon.
The crowd carried her up to the front door of Freehold, and she slipped out of the stream and onto the doorstep. One or two others followed her there, but she knew after a quick glance that these were patrons, not fellow staff, and she simply granted them a brief smile before opening the door and taking the other hallway to the right, the one that led to the back stairs rather than the stable. She really didn't want anyone to know that "Tanager"_her street-name_and "Lyrebird" were one and the same. Especially not customers.
But as she climbed the dimly lit back staircase to the top floor, she couldn't help thinking about the words of that so-earnest young Priest, and all the trouble those words must surely be causing him in certain circles.
And in her brief experience, Priests, no matter how well meaning and sincere, simply did not do or say things that would get them in trouble with their own superiors.
Except that here and now, they were.
What, in the name of the Gypsy Lady and the Sacrificed God, was going on here?