Kuvoolds are pulling at your eyelids, I’d say you need a rest, as well.”
“I am rather tired,” Leoff realized.
“You’re welcome to stay until Artwair gets back, as I said. There’s another bed, on the next floor, for just such a purpose. Take it, if you’d like.”
“I think I shall, even if it’s only for a short nap.” He climbed the ladder to the next level and found the bed, just under a window. It was well dark now, but the moon was out, and up the canal some half a league he saw what must be Broogh, a collection of house-shaped shadows, a wall, and four towers of varying height. He saw no light, however, not even so much as he had made out in the far more distant—and probably smaller—villages.
With a sigh he lay on the rough mattress, listening to the wolf-wings and nighthawks singing, tired but not sleepy. Above, he could hear the gears Gilmer had mentioned clattering and clucking, and somewhere near, the trickling of water.
The end of the world, eh? That was just his luck. At the age of thirty-two he had a royal appointment in his grasp, and the world was going to end.
If he still had a royal appointment.
His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the sudden breathy voice of a recorder. It was so clear and beautiful, it might have been real, but he’d lived long enough with his gift to know it was in his head.
A melody began, and he smiled as his body relaxed and his mind went to work.
The malend was teaching him its song.
It came easily, first the alto recorder, the wind coming along from the east across green plains. And now the drum, as the wheel—saglwic?—began to turn, and croths—plucked here rather than bowed—began playing the melody in unison with the flute. Then joined the low strings of the bass croths, the vast waters beneath the earth responding, but still all melody, of course—and now water flowing into the canal, a merry trickling on a flageolet, as the malend became the union of air, earth, water, and craft.
Now the variations began, each element acquiring its own theme—the earth a slow pavane on the deep instruments, but on the pipes a mad, happy dance as the wind quickened, and the strings bowing nearly glissando arpeggios . . .
He blinked. His candle had gone out, and it was pitch-black. When had that happened?
But the concerto was finished, ready to go to paper. Unlike the melody in the hills, the dance of the malend had come to him whole.
Which was perhaps why he only now realized that someone was in the room below, talking.
Two voices, and neither belonged to Gilmer Oercsun.
“. . . don’t see why we had got picked to do
this
job,” a voice said. It was a tenor voice, scratchy.
“Don’t complain,” another said. This one was a booming baritone. “Especially don’t complain around
him
.”
“It’s just that I wanted to
see
,” the first replied. “Don’t you want to be there, when they bust through the dike, and the water goes all a-rushin’ out?”
“You’ll see it,” the baritone replied. “You’ll see it well enough. You’ll be lucky not to swim in it.”
“Yah, I suppose. Still.” A cheerful tone crept into his voice. “But won’t it be fun, rowing a boat over all of that down there? Over the roofs of the houses? I’m going to row right over . . . what was the town?”
“Where the girl said you had a nose like a turtle’s prickler?”
“That’s the one.”
“Reckhaem.”
“Right. Hey, a turtle’s prickler is the best she’ll be getting, after tonight.”
“Still better than yours, from what I’ve heard,” the baritone said. “Now let’s be done here. We’ve got to burn every malend for four leagues before morning.”
“Yah, but why?”
“So they can’t pump the water back up, you dumb sceat. Now, come on.”
Burn
? Leoff’s heart did a triple-quick-step.
The top of the stairway suddenly appeared, an orange rectangle, and he smelled burning oil.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Praifec
ASPAR WHITE
“I am rather tired,” Leoff realized.
“You’re welcome to stay until Artwair gets back, as I said. There’s another bed, on the next floor, for just such a purpose. Take it, if you’d like.”
“I think I shall, even if it’s only for a short nap.” He climbed the ladder to the next level and found the bed, just under a window. It was well dark now, but the moon was out, and up the canal some half a league he saw what must be Broogh, a collection of house-shaped shadows, a wall, and four towers of varying height. He saw no light, however, not even so much as he had made out in the far more distant—and probably smaller—villages.
With a sigh he lay on the rough mattress, listening to the wolf-wings and nighthawks singing, tired but not sleepy. Above, he could hear the gears Gilmer had mentioned clattering and clucking, and somewhere near, the trickling of water.
The end of the world, eh? That was just his luck. At the age of thirty-two he had a royal appointment in his grasp, and the world was going to end.
If he still had a royal appointment.
His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the sudden breathy voice of a recorder. It was so clear and beautiful, it might have been real, but he’d lived long enough with his gift to know it was in his head.
A melody began, and he smiled as his body relaxed and his mind went to work.
The malend was teaching him its song.
It came easily, first the alto recorder, the wind coming along from the east across green plains. And now the drum, as the wheel—saglwic?—began to turn, and croths—plucked here rather than bowed—began playing the melody in unison with the flute. Then joined the low strings of the bass croths, the vast waters beneath the earth responding, but still all melody, of course—and now water flowing into the canal, a merry trickling on a flageolet, as the malend became the union of air, earth, water, and craft.
Now the variations began, each element acquiring its own theme—the earth a slow pavane on the deep instruments, but on the pipes a mad, happy dance as the wind quickened, and the strings bowing nearly glissando arpeggios . . .
He blinked. His candle had gone out, and it was pitch-black. When had that happened?
But the concerto was finished, ready to go to paper. Unlike the melody in the hills, the dance of the malend had come to him whole.
Which was perhaps why he only now realized that someone was in the room below, talking.
Two voices, and neither belonged to Gilmer Oercsun.
“. . . don’t see why we had got picked to do
this
job,” a voice said. It was a tenor voice, scratchy.
“Don’t complain,” another said. This one was a booming baritone. “Especially don’t complain around
him
.”
“It’s just that I wanted to
see
,” the first replied. “Don’t you want to be there, when they bust through the dike, and the water goes all a-rushin’ out?”
“You’ll see it,” the baritone replied. “You’ll see it well enough. You’ll be lucky not to swim in it.”
“Yah, I suppose. Still.” A cheerful tone crept into his voice. “But won’t it be fun, rowing a boat over all of that down there? Over the roofs of the houses? I’m going to row right over . . . what was the town?”
“Where the girl said you had a nose like a turtle’s prickler?”
“That’s the one.”
“Reckhaem.”
“Right. Hey, a turtle’s prickler is the best she’ll be getting, after tonight.”
“Still better than yours, from what I’ve heard,” the baritone said. “Now let’s be done here. We’ve got to burn every malend for four leagues before morning.”
“Yah, but why?”
“So they can’t pump the water back up, you dumb sceat. Now, come on.”
Burn
? Leoff’s heart did a triple-quick-step.
The top of the stairway suddenly appeared, an orange rectangle, and he smelled burning oil.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Praifec
ASPAR WHITE
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