Read Online Treason by Orson Scott Card - Free Book Online Page B

was surrounded by real walls, and I relaxed.
    “Go ahead and sit,” she said. “This is the room where we relax. Where we sleep at night. I’m sure Teacher showed off all the way up here—but we’re not immune to fear of heights. Everyone sleeps in a room like this. We don’t like the thought of rolling off in the middle of a dream.”
    She laughed, a rich, low laugh, but I didn’t join in. I just lay back and let my body tremble, releasing the stored-up tension of the climb.
    “My name is Mwabao Mawa,” she said. “And I should tell you who I am. You’ll doubtless hear stories about me. There are rumors that I have been the king’s mistress, and I do nothing to discourage them, since it gives me a great deal of petty power. There are also rumors that I am a murderess—and those are even more helpful. The truth is, of course, that I’m nothing but a consummate hostess and a great singer of songs. Perhaps the greatest who ever lived in a land of singers. I’m also vain,” she said, smiling. “But I believe that true humility consists of recognizing the truth about yourself.”
    I mumbled acquiescence, content to enjoy the warmth of her conversation and the security of the floor. She talked on, and sang me some songs. I remember almost nothing of the conversation. I remember even fewer details of the songs, but, although I understood no lyrics and detected no particular melody, the songs carried me off into my imagination, and I could almost see the things she sang of—though how I knew what she was singing of I don’t know. Though terrible things have happened since, and I myself silenced Mwabao’s music, I’d give up much to be able to hear those songs again.
    That night she lit a torch outside her main door and told me that guests would come. I later learned that a torch meant that a person was willing to receive guests, an open invitation to all who might see the glowing in the night. It was a measure of Mwabao Mawa’s power over other people (or, less cynically, their devotion to and delight in her) that whenever she put the torch outside, it was only a matter of an hour before her house was full, and she had to douse the outer light.
    The guests were mostly men—not uncommon, either, in Nkumai, since women rarely traveled at night, being generally burdened with the care of children, who didn’t have the balance for safe walking at night. The talk was mostly small, though by listening carefully I learned a bit. Unfortunately, Nkumai courtesy forced the guests to spend as much time talking to me as they spent talking to each other. It would have been nicer, I thought at the time, if they had shared Mueller’s custom of letting a guest sit in silence until he wished to join a conversation. Of course, Nkumai’s custom keeps a guest from learning as much; I was certainly kept from learning anything I thought significant that night.
    I learned only that all her guests were men of education—scientists of one kind or another. And I got the feeling from the way they talked and argued that these were men little concerned with science as Mueller used it, as a means to an end. Instead, science was the end in itself.
    “Good evening, Lady,” a small, softspoken man said. “I’m Teacher, and I’m eager to be of service to you.”
    A standard greeting, but at last I gave in to my curiosity and asked, “How can you be named Teacher, and also three other men in this room, and also the guide who led me here? How can you tell one another apart?”
    He laughed, with that superior laugh that already irritated me and which I soon learned was a national custom, and said, “Because I’m myself, and they are not.”
    “But when you talk about each other?”
    “Well,” he patiently explained, “I hope that when men talk about me, they call me Teacher Who Taught the Stars to Dance, because that’s what I did. The man who guided you here this morning—he’s Teacher of True Sight. That’s because he made