Captives of the Song

Chapter One: Torcal, Faby

Daybreak, and my eyes are opened. Gods who made the Song, hear us. Hear us, o gods. We sing unto thee.

[Devotions, Canto 7]

The Harp had begun to sing its wild song during the night, as the wind swept in from the coast and over the silver deserts of Quaere. Though the song of the Harp’s voice was attenuated by its travels through nearly half a kilometer of the catacomb tunnels, Torcal could hear it calling him, commanding him—

I’m going to be late, he said.

Faby reached out to Torcal and clutched at his Player’s smock. Just once, he said. Play it once! They’ll never notice. Don’t you care? Aren’t you curious?

Torcal glared at the younger man, and glared, too, at the ancient stele engraved with alien notation. Damn Faby, and damn everything about his secret! One inscription made sense. One Noachian inscription, one set of instructions, one Song. Two threatened to overset everything.

Meirion Harpmaster would notice, he said. And the gods would certainly notice.

Faby threw out his arms, knocking one hand against his jerry-rigged lamp. You actually believe that crap? The lamp swung, illuminating first the rough-hewn walls of the underground chamber, then Faby’s face as he rolled his eyes dramatically. Hell. For real? You really believe the Noachians were gods?

Torcal ripped himself free of Faby’s grip. You’re supposed to believe it, too, he said, and hurried away before Faby could answer.

Only a meter or so of the tunnel beyond the chamber was clear. Just three steps took Torcal to the base of the rockfall which had served to shield the second inscription from discovery. That is, until Faby had come poking and prodding, covertly exploring the catacombs, irreverently uncovering things that probably should have stayed secret. Torcal dropped to his belly as he reached the top. Pebbles shifted and slid as he squeezed up against the ceiling, and he prayed that there wouldn’t be another collapse. Not just now, anyway, please gods… Dust rose up around him, but since it wasn’t baylesite dust to shred his skin and steal the moisture of his blood, he could ignore it. He scrambled to his feet, ignored the flare of pain from his right knee, and slid down the other side in an ungraceful slalom.

Absolute darkness closed down around him as he left the faint glow of Faby’s light. He shuffled forward, cautiously feeling his way, following the illicit route through the tunnels that Faby had so painstakingly taught him. When he reached the human-made corridors, he broke into a trot. He hurried through the Guesthouse, and thanked the gods he’d donned his Player’s gear early this morning. Before he’d made the mistake of letting Faby persuade him down into the catacombs in the pre-dawn hours for yet another argument about the secret inscription. Why had he gone? Why? Both of them knew what the answer would, inevitably be—

An angry voice from the front desk echoed down the hallway. Despite the tearing hurry he was in, Torcal peeked around the corner. Nalan was missing from his post, and a guest was haranguing a young initiate who sat in Nalan’s place.

The guest leaned menacingly toward her. I told you I wanted a ride back to Chasm. Pronto!

Tears welled from the initiate’s eyes, and Torcal found himself stalking toward the desk. He interposed himself between the two, and pasted on a smile for the benefit of the guest. I must remind you that you should keep to your quarters during the windstorm, he said. He turned slightly toward the initiate. Where is Nalan?

She began a stammering reply, and the guest interrupted. Are you both idiots? Or just deaf? I said I want to return to Chasm!

Certainly, Mr. Kerrane, Torcal said, grimly keeping his smile in place. And how is your shoulder this morning?

It hurts, that’s what. What d’ya think?

This particular guest had broken his collarbone when his glider had rolled unexpectedly during his sand-ride yesterday. He’d made a rough landing, then proceeded to make everyone working the Guesthouse miserable with his complaints. Usually offworlders were easier to handle, but this guest had picked up the Quaeran contempt for the members of the Order of the Spirit Voices as though he’d been born to it.

But this morning, Torcal had no time to waste, even for offworld guests who were, presumably, rich. The shuttle will leave an hour after the Song ends, he said. I’ve already got you down as a passenger. They won’t leave without you, but please head for the cliff-elevator when you see us returning from the strings. He turned again to the initiate. Call Nalan back, and take yourself to the Listening Hall. He didn’t look back to see if she had obeyed, and as soon as he was out of sight, he broke into a run.

Cold morning air rasped in his chest as he exited out onto the flats. He hunched over and set his face mask in place, struggling to contain his irritation so he could breathe properly through the nose-filters. Glittering silver clouds of baylesite churned and swirled all about him, momentarily obscuring the rock formation that was his destination. But he would never mistake the towering stone spire that held his assigned harpstring for any of the others, even now, when he was the only Player still down below. All the others were already up on their strings, dark splotches against the pale stone pillars, ready and waiting for the signal to begin. Which, judging by the strength of the wind, would be any second now. A momentary lull, and he sprinted for his fret chair. He dove in, slid under the harness, and untethered it from the anchor rope in one practiced motion. Without bothering to fasten the safety straps, he heaved himself and the fret-chair skyward.

Normally, to pull himself and the chair hand-over-hand five meters up to his first note was a leisurely business. But normally he wasn’t late. He was still a meter shy when, all together in one grand moment, the sun breached the horizon, the gale intensified and the signal flared from the Harpmaster’s portico. Within a heartbeat, the thunderous cacophony of the Harp resolved into the opening notes of the Song... except for Torcal’s string. One lunging effort finally brought him to the proper height, and he reached out to snatch the string and bring it into contact with the stop on his chair.

And he was in tune at last. The song swelled around him, alien harmonies rising and falling with the strength of the wind. He was high enough that his string played a double note, deep bass sounding above his head, an eerie higher note from below, and the vibrations set his very bones rattling. Below him was the great oval bowl of the Valley, the multicolored baylesite sands stirred to lethal velocities by the winds; patterns of purple, red and silver forming and reforming in godlike harmony with the music of the Harp. The far-reaching shadows of the harpstring pillars flickered up and down on the surface of the roiling clouds, and in the hazy distance, the spire of Mount Coruscant loomed like an overseeing king.

Torcal looked up at the string soaring some twenty-five meters above him, preparing himself for the note change. His body knew what to do, of course, though his awareness was already half-drowned in the vastness of the music around him, and he was already climbing without his consciously planning it. But he scanned the pillar, searching out a certain symbol, a triangle with four lines beneath—Yes, there it was. The note that would begin the variation of the Song. Faby’s damnable secret variation, inscribed on a metal stele, just like the original Song. The variation that Faby was so eager for Torcal to play, convinced that some ineffable mystery would be plumbed.

Torcal slowed. Once, he would have done it without hesitation. Once, he would have sacrificed everything to decipher the mysteries of the Noachian Harp.

And now…?

His smooth motion on the rope faltered, but then he heard Merion Harpmaster’s voice in his head: What are human struggles, but petty trivialities? Give all that inner turmoil to the gods, and you will find peace. He reached out to capture the harpstring again, and effortlessly, all thoughts of Faby and the variation slipped away.

***

Faby followed Torcal through the catacombs, just far enough back that the Player wouldn’t hear his footsteps. He had a hard time restraining himself from rushing forward to add one more argument, but he could already hear the Harp’s voice rising to a fever-pitch. As soon as the wind reached a certain speed, the Harpmaster would give the signal and the Song would start—and Faby better be in the Listening Hall and Torcal out there on his string or there would be some major questions asked.

He didn’t follow Torcal to the Guesthouse exit. It was faster to go that way, but there were certain people there he would prefer to avoid. Instead, he squeezed himself through a barely navigable crack in the rock, one that led directly outside. Of course he’d stashed an emergency cloak here, but he didn’t bother with it for the short dash across to the next entrance.

The Song still hadn’t begun as he slid into the Listening Hall. A quick glance up to the Harpmaster’s balcony, and nope, she hadn’t emerged. He was late, but the skreeking of the wild song had everyone in enough of a fog that no one paid any mind. Faby eased past the bench of initiates in their pasty-gray smocks. The nearest arc of the bench immediately in front of them had enough room for him to sit without jostling anyone. He let his backbone relax—

Late again!

Faby’s backbone stiffened right up again. I’m in time, Shan-kilin, sir. He took a quick peek to the side. The Harp Second was glaring at him, and behind him, Nalan gave an identical glare. It was almost funny, but Faby wisely didn’t crack a smile.

You missed the Devotions. And you have baylesite on your sleeve. What were you doing outside?

Faby looked down, and cursed. He’d cleaned himself with the sonic vacuum but had forgotten the arm that had been holding the vacuum. Shit! He reached under the bench and grabbed one of the towels kept there for just this sort of thing, and took his time swiping off the glittering silver shards, trying to think of some legitimate reason why he might have gone out. His mind was blank. Well, he began. Still blank. He gestured meaninglessly out towards the window where one Player was still shimmying up to his position, had to be Torcal of course, cutting it fine wasn’t he—

Shan-kilin took a menacing step forward. Faby cleared his throat, and the sound was lost in a sudden harmony as the Song began.

Faby blinked off the spell and looked up again. Nalan had already dazed out and wandered off to his position on the bench. Shan-kilin was fighting, but even as Faby watched, his eyes went unfocused and he sat down. He didn’t even notice when Faby got up to sit beside someone else.

It was crowded, but he found a spot to squeeze into, where he could still see string twenty-three. Never mind about Shan-kilin and his pet thug. This was the important thing right here: the Harp. Four hundred years since the first explorers had discovered the alien artifact, one hundred years since the Order of the Spirit Voices had made a religion out of it, and twenty days since Mr. Fabian James had found another inscription. No one knew how long it had been since the builders of the Harp had abandoned it, because they’d also abandoned this entire section of the galaxy. Ruins and traces had been found on a bunch of other planets around here, but the builders were dead and gone. Or at least gone. According to what his compies back on Mars had said, the strings on that harp might be as much as half a million years old! But the song was still fresh and new as a morning sunrise created by a five billion year old sun... and the song... the song... Faby fought for rational thought, for memory... Torcal, yes, Torcal and the inscription. Was the old guy going to play the variation? Or would he chicken out?

Faby pressed his hands onto the bench beneath his thighs, and leaned forward. Excitement thrummed in his veins, and that was good, because the mental trick that let him fight off the harp spell left him open for the other craving, and he wouldn’t have a chance to assuage that until later. Maybe even later than he could stand, if things began to happen... Not that Faby had a clue what to expect, but there were rumors of some marvelous thing that had happened to the first group that had played the first song all those years ago. Too bad he had to depend on holy-roller numb-and-dumb Torcal the Harpy.

Movement far to the left caught his eye, half screened by sheets of multicolored sand that surged and merged through the rock pillars of the Harp. It was a flock of poison-rats—wildlings. No good to him or any other, but oh man they were beautiful. They soared up higher and higher in the fierce gusts of wind, sporting and playing in the driving sand that would be deadly to any Earthborn creature.

Faby licked his lips and wrenched his attention back to the Harp. The variation should start just about now. He held his breath, straining to hear Torcal's string. It would be subtle, of course, one sound amidst all the rest. But string twenty-three was the longest of all, and usually you could hear it above all the others. And now a short mid-note should sound—

His breath whooshed out in bitter disappointment. Torcal had let him down. Didn’t the old fart have an ounce of curiosity in his carcass? Wasn’t he as eager as Faby to witness some ancient Noachian magic? Damn it. Damn it.

The Song itself lasted about forty-five minutes, not that anyone else in this place cared about anything as mundane as actual time, and they would repeat the thing for as long as the wind speed held steady. There was still a chance for Torcal to change his mind, so Faby figured he’d better stay. But holding his mind free of the harpsong seduction was tough, and it made the whole experience into an ordeal. The bench was uncomfortable, his left butt cheek was asleep, his shoulders were stiff, and he wanted a ratspit dose more than this airy fairy harpsong fix. Give him something solid to get off on—

Spiritual awakening can never be forced.

He turned. When he’d squished himself onto the bench, he hadn’t realized he’d sat right next to fat old Shellye. She must have been watching him for some reason instead of the Harp. How had she managed to free herself from the spell? He would have sworn she didn’t have enough mental wherewithal to do it. He glared at her. What the fuck did you say?

You looked so disappointed, she said, her bovine complacency unruffled. Everyone knows that harpsong is the way to discover the mysteries of the universe, but it won’t come instantly. Wait. Listen. Be patient.

Screw that, he muttered, and when Shellye went back to gawping at the Harp, he pushed himself to his feet. No one noticed.

He went off into the hallway that led to the crappy rooms they called cells. Cells was what they were, all right, and he’d been in enough of them on Mars to know. The only difference here was that there were no locks.

Halfway down the hall, he stopped. There was nothing in his cell to ease his disgruntlement. Not even an immersion jack to take his mind off this godforsaken place. He grinned at his own description. Godforsaken? If these numbnut religious freaks could read his mind they would toss him out on his ear. Damn, he was tense today. Usually he could keep it together better than this. Obviously, the disappointment Torcal had handed out had rattled him more than he’d expected. Yeah, what he needed was something to take the edge off. So, even though it would be a risk this time of day, he headed back into the catacombs.

He took the Guesthouse route, even though there might be an occasional wandering sand-rider he didn’t, for various reasons, care to meet up with. But Nalan had been in the Listening Hall, which meant he’d pawned off his desk-duty onto some hapless initiate, and if Faby couldn’t avoid one of them, he deserved to be kicked out.

The corridor beyond had no nicely polished floor tiles to cover the rock underfoot, and the rooms were nothing but echoing shells. Back maybe ten years ago, before Faby had come to the Harp anyway, the Guesthouse had been a lot fancier, and they’d even had a parcel of live-in servants. These days, no one around here had money to waste on such things as servants, and so this whole back section had been abandoned. The glow spots still worked, more or less, but their anemic glow didn’t illuminate much. Faby clicked on his flash, confident that no one would see it. In all the time since he’d discovered this route to access the Noachian catacombs, he’d never even seen any footprints other than his own... and Torcal’s, of course.

Torcal! Damn him. Damn him and his cowardice. Though that very cowardice was what had made Faby share his discovery with the man, confident that the Harpy was too much a drip to rat him out.

He reached a door frame that still had a door; in some forgotten yesteryear it had been a storage closet. The door was presumably supposed to be the end of the line, locked up solid. It was still locked, but the frame had loosened from its anchor in the rock walls and a good yank upward would pop it open. He ducked under the rack of shelves, and there was the naked rock of the cliff that the human buildings butted up against. A sharp turn around an outcropping, a bit of a scrape and a squeeze, and he left the human-made construction behind.

He took just a second to stop and savor the empty-smelling air of the alien tunnel. He could relax, down here. No need to worry about Nalan, now, or Shellye, or even Torcal. Down here, he could be himself.

He trotted down the tunnel until he reached the dogleg with its choice of routes. If you went right, you’d head back to the well-traveled parts of the catacombs. If you went left, you’d head deeper into the mysterious and unmapped parts.

He went left.

A long stairway down, steep enough that you had to really watch yourself. A long straight corridor, a series of ledges going up, another corridor so narrow you had to turn sideways to negotiate it, sixteen windows in the narrow space, all different sizes, one of which led to the conditioning pens and the main catacomb exit—oh, there were a myriad of routes in this crazy jungle-gym, and Faby knew more of them than anyone else—and finally into the chamber that was half-blocked by the rockfall.

Faby scrambled up it, doing his usual hop-skip to avoid the bones that had been uncovered by their illicit coming and going. Not that he was superstitious or anything, but it was a little freaky to think about dying all alone in the dark of these alien tunnels. Torcal, who had a brain that worked all logically and everything, had told him that those bones, since they were human, meant that the rockfall couldn’t be any older than four hundred years old. Made sense, when he put it that way. Humans had only been on Quaere for that long.

But Faby didn’t really care about colonial history or rockfalls. What he cared about was right on the other side. His secret place.

His inscription, clean and pristine, shone smugly in the welcoming glow of the lamps he’d rigged up, but he ignored it for now. He went instead to his ratcage against the other wall.

His poison-rat purred a greeting at him from its cage, and pushed its head against the feeding slot. Not yet, you dumb thing, he said affectionately. Feeding poison-rats more often than once a day tended to make their venom too strong. He’d seen what overdoses could do.

So he ignored the bladebacks, rustling away in their box, opened the cage and rested his forearm on the top. The rat spread its wings and flapped up to the top, still making its little rasping sounds. It climbed up onto his left arm and wrapped its naked pink tail around his elbow. With one part of his mind, he knew he was being a fool. He risked his entire purpose for being here, just to get high...

With the rest of his mind, he concentrated on retrieving the honey jar from the stash beside the cage. He wasn’t quite sure why ratspit—kalaii, if you were in polite company—had started to be so important to him since he’d been at the Harp. In a lot of ways, it wasn’t as pleasurable as it had been back on Mars with his compies. Then, he’d been part of a group, and everyone knew doing ratspit in a group—dreamsharing—was amazing. You could feel the textures of everyone else’s thoughts, all that one-with-the-universe crap that, when you were in on it, didn’t seem like such crap after all.

So maybe he was just homesick, and that’s why he craved the simple high from a solitary spitlick.

He kind of understood, maybe, why ratspit was illegal, and everyone wanted you to do cuess instead. QS. Short for quaeresparteine. The distilled and purified essence of ratspit, with all the compounds that made it possible to feel other people’s thoughts removed. Lifeless stuff. He didn’t turn it down when the Voicers offered it up, of course, which they did with some frequency. But it was so tasteless. Generic. Impersonal. You were still… well, still stuck in your own self. Nothing fundamental felt changed. And maybe that was the reason they’d outlawed ratspit—not that it really stopped people from doing it—but maybe they didn’t like something they couldn’t control.

Whatever the reason, it had all gone down before Fabian James had appeared on the scene, but it had sure never stopped him from learning the ropes.

He opened the honey jar, and held it ready in his left hand. With his right, he carefully stroked the rat’s feathery back, making sure it had relaxed completely before pushing his thumb and forefinger gently into the corners of its jaw. Its eyes closed, and its mouth opened. Its fangs extended, with a glistening drop shivering at the tip of each one. Quickly, he pulled the spoon from the honey jar and touched it to each droplet. Then gave the rat a little shake, and while it obediently closed its mouth, he slowly licked the spoon.

He was so involved in the beauty of the initial rush that he ignored the sounds of digging coming from the rockfall chamber, and the scraping and scrabbling sounds that followed. No one ever came down here. No one would ever figure out that the chamber wasn’t a dead end. No one would shake off the spell of the Song.

Except that somehow there was a person standing in the doorway of his room, covered in dust and pointing an accusing finger at Faby. You see! A spitlicker like I always thought.

Chapter Two: Torcal, Faby

Seeker, Initiate, Listener, Player. Above this, the Octave: the six members of the Synod, the Harp Second, and finally, the Harpmaster. If it so happens that you are of the ones who cannot bear the Song, be assured, you are not valued less. The duties you perform in the Chasm offices are extremely necessary.

[Catechism for Seekers, fifth edition.]

An hour passed, and another, and Torcal's muscles were trembling with fatigue by the time the wind diminished to a level that allowed them to stop playing the Song.

It had been long, this time. How many repetitions? Torcal had lost count. He had also forgotten about Faby, but as he slid down the anchor rope, checking his speed with practiced ease, he remembered. The anger that assailed him ruined his serenity. But… on sober reflection, should he really be blaming Faby? Faby was only just out of his initiate’s smock. Torcal, as the senior, should have taken charge. He should have reported everything to Meirion Harpmaster the first day that Faby had taken him to see the secret inscription. Even if the Harpmaster didn’t necessarily care about Faby’s spitlicking, surely she would want to know about his illicit contacts with offworlders. And of course, she’d want to know about the inscription.

The inscription was the important thing.

But he hadn’t told her. And now… well... he lacked the courage to tell her, now.

He merged with the rest of the Players as they headed for the dormitory. He stripped off his gloves, noting a frayed section on the left palm. He held the glove up to the light, but decided it wasn’t serious enough to warrant a visit to the quartermaster. Gloves were expensive, and it behooved all of them to be frugal in these times.

Instead of Shellye handing out the vials of cuess, it was Shan-kilin, the Harp Second. That was odd. Where was Shellye? But Torcal would never ask that question. He simply accepted his vial, and ducked out of Shan-kilin’s line of sight. No one else seemed to think Shellye’s absence was strange, and maybe it wasn’t… Maybe it was just the upsetting pattern Torcal had been forced into lately, which led him to notice things that would otherwise slip by. Things that probably weren’t significant. Things he should probably just ignore.

He found an empty corner of the common room, and cupped the smooth plastic vial of cuess in hands still sweaty and sore. The Order had special dispensation to keep and condition poison-rats, and to distill their own cuess. Presumably, there would be harsh penalties if a member of the Order was caught selling a conditioned rat, but what if someone did? What if he snuck down to the pens, took out a rat, and sold it to one of the offworlders that came to ride the sands? How much would he get for it? Enough to buy a new pair of gloves, certainly… He uncapped the vial and drank the contents down, and knew he would never do it.

The moment he finished, he caught sight of Nalan. Another surge of anger pierced through the peaceful beauty of the cuess. Nalan! Just because he was one of Shan-kilin’s friends, he felt he could shirk the unpopular segments of the duty rotations. Three strides took him to Nalan’s side. He grabbed the man’s elbow and jerked him around.

What are you doing here?

Nalan smirked. I told Gisa to run the Guesthouse. I didn’t want to miss the Listening. I missed it too many times this season.

Torcal shook him again, then abruptly dropped his arm and turned away toward the Guesthouse. It would do no good to take Nalan to task. None whatsoever. Not when Shan-kilin was there to excuse the most blatant breach of propriety. But someone needed to rescue the initiate, and even though Torcal was exhausted from the Playing, sometimes there were more important things than personal comfort.

Once inside the soundproofed walls, the sound of the Harp cut off abruptly. —Which was one reason Guesthouse duty was detested.

Torcal took a deep breath and let himself remember harpsong. It was easy to sink into the memory, and soon enough, the imaginary sound filled his head as thoroughly as the reality ever did.

He shooed Gisa away from the desk, then took just a moment more to indulge in harpsong memory—

About christing time you got done with that harp-playing crap.

—And that was the other reason they hated Guesthouse duty: the guests.

Torcal took a breath. Mr. Kerrane, if you would at least consent to an analgesic spray. I can promise you that it was manufactured in Port Oasis. Standard issue.

I just want to get the hell out of here.

Of course. Shingo will meet you at the cliff elevator. He is aware of your injury, and is already waiting. Why the idiot was averse to the painkiller, only the gods knew. But maybe Shingo would have more luck in administering it.

Torcal watched the guest leave, and tried to use the harpsong in his head to erase his antipathy toward the man. It wasn’t easy. Ten to one, the man would take his time getting to the cliff-elevator and the crawler would have to wait... but the crew would put up with it. And treat him like royalty into the bargain, no matter his antagonistic attitude. Whatever it took to preserve the Order’s only source of income.

Twenty-some years ago, before possession of poison-rats had been prohibited, the Order’s line of conditioned rats had commanded extravagant prices both domestically and offworld. Back then, no one had worried about such things as worn-out armor and appeasing hostile sand-riders.

But nowadays, things were bad for everyone on Quaere. It wasn’t just the Order. Everyone was grubbing after tin in any way they could, fair or foul. There were seven glider companies in Chasm competing for the rare tourist money, which, on the face of it, would seem to be a good thing for the Order. All those companies had to pay rent to the Order for their shopfronts and for their glider platforms, and of course there were the landing fees and tow-back fees—it was a lot of tin, to be sure. But it wasn’t really enough to make the Order flush, and every secular resident of Chasm resented the chunk that went to the Order. That attitude rubbed off oh-so-easily onto the tourists, even the offworld ones who had no real reason to despise the Order.

But what was there to be done? Even back in the days of prosperity, Quaerans had loathed the Order of the Spirit Voices.

Torcal grimaced, and got to work. The schedule for incoming riders showed that six were expected in today. It was a good thing Kerrane and his broken collarbone had insisted on being taken back immediately, or someone would have had to double up tonight.

The front door hissed open. Torcal looked up in surprise. It was far too early for those incoming riders—

It was Faby. Torcal started to scowl automatically, but following Faby was—

Torcal sat up straight. He felt sick. Harpmaster.

Player Torcal. Meirion Harpmaster gave him a wintry smile. Do you have a minute? It wasn’t really a question.

Of course, he said. He looked wildly at Faby, but Faby’s blank face gave nothing away.

Nor did the Harpmaster’s. You have a degree in xenoarcheology, isn’t that correct?

Yes, it’s been years, of course, I haven’t kept up with the latest developments—

She gave a minute shake of her head, and he shut up. Will you come down to the catacombs with us now?

I, he said, and surged to his feet. He knocked over his desk statue, fumbled it upright, and reached out to turn off his computer screen. The catacombs? What—uh. Why? I mean—let me call someone to run the desk.

We won’t be long, Meirion said. But if you think it’s necessary, go ahead.

Torcal weighed the tempers of the tourists against the serene patience of the Harpmaster. He swallowed nervously, then flicked the screen back on and sent poor Gisa a hurried request.

***

Faby’s mouth fell open. It was that cow, Shellye, and right there too was the head bitch Meirion Harpmaster herself, and he was caught red-handed with the honeyspoon in one hand and the rat in the other.

Not content to receive the divine ambrosia as the gods intended—

Meirion cut Shellye off with just a look. Thank you, she said. Then she turned to Faby.

It was just this once, he said.

Her eyebrows raised, and her gaze swept over the chamber. Faby flushed. There was a whole bunch of empty honey jars in one corner, a pile of bladeback skeletons in another, and a bale of celandine in the middle.

Meirion saw the pedestal, though, before she had a chance to start in on him.

By the Song, she said, striding up close to peer at it.

Faby shrugged off his bad luck, ignored Shellye’s clacking, and squeezed up next to Meirion. Yeah, he said. Look. It’s different from the other one. See? String twenty-three is the only one that changes, but I figured it had to be another Song. A variation, you know.

Shellye gasped. A variation of the Song? How dare you even suggest—

Meirion froze her down again with that mild look. Faby envied that power. Then Meirion turned it on him. After a few seconds, he started to get uneasy, even with the ratspit high.

How do you know twenty-three is the only change?

See, I’m not ever going to be a Player, I knew that straight off, but I still wanted to learn the lingo, so I studied the inscription. The other one, I mean. The original one.

He drew his fingers down the smooth metallic surface. His compies, the ones that were paying him to suss out this place, were definitely top-shelf. Maybe even over the top-shelf, ever since they’d gotten in with some nabob here on Quaere that wanted them to do his smuggling for him. Maybe they didn’t make quite as much per, but the conditioned rats were always ready and waiting, and they’d been guaranteed, if not immunity, at least invisibility. Which meant they were rolling, and when they’d gotten curious about the Harp—the way Quaerans reviled it