The Gift

4

IHEM was tired of walking. Every day for what seemed like the past fifty years, he had slept on the ground, woken cold and stiff with the first light of dawn, and then spent all day walking. It wasn't just ordinary walking, either: he and his companions, Saliman of Turbansk and Soron of Til Amon, stumbled through a rough, marshy landscape, and they were constantly weaving charms - shadowmazes, shields - to help keep them hidden from any Black Army scouts or patrols. It was exhausting, skulking like this. He was tired of eating dried nuts and fruits and salted meat. He was tired of everything.
When we get to Til Amon, he told Irc, the white crow perched on his shoulder, I am going to sleep all day. No, first I will eat. A big, big meal. A lamb roasted on the spit, with all the juices dripping, and roasted turnips and carrots and onions. And some spiced apples. His mouth watered just thinking about it. And then I will sleep. And no one will wake me up until I want to wake up.
Irc cocked his head and fixed him with his yellow eye. You're lazy, he said. It's not so bad. Though some fresh meat would be good.
You had a squab yesterday, said Hem. And you didn't share it!
Irc looked unrepentent. You would have spoiled it by putting in the fire, he said. Anyway, it was very scrawny. There was only enough for me.
Oh, you wouldn't understand, said Hem. You're just a bloody crow. Go away. You're too heavy.
Irc ruffled his feathers, a sign of offence. I am a very clever crow, he said. I am the King's Messenger. I saved you from Dagra.
That doesn't stop you from being the most annoying bird I've ever met, said Hem.
Irc gave Hem a sharp nip on his ear and took off, soaring into the sky. Hem sighed impatiently, immediately regretting what he had said. I'm sorry! he called. I didn't mean it, Irc. I'm just tired, that's all.
Irc didn't answer. Hem followed him with his eyes until he was out of sight. He'd be back later, probably having done a little hunting, and might have forgiven Hem by then. Or not, depending.
"Have you offended that bird?" said Saliman, from behind him.
"He takes offence if you don't tell him every two minutes that he's a genius," said Hem irritably. "I wish every day that Ara-kin had never made him a messenger. I've paid for it ever since."
Saliman laughed. "You and every bird he meets," he said. "Mind you, life would be far more tedious if you didn't have Irc to squabble with. Be of good cheer, Hem. We're not so far from Til Amon." He pointed to a mountain rising before them. "A few days at most, I'd say, the Light willing. We've been lucky. I think we have far outstripped the Black Army, if they are indeed planning to march on South Annar."
Hem nodded. Saliman was right, he knew; they had been lucky. After he and Irc had stumbled out the Glandugir Hills to Sjug'hakar Im and met Saliman, exhausted and shocked from their journey across Den Raven, they had briefly returned (to Irc's deep displeasure) to the Bards in the caves at Nal-Ak-Burat. There Hem had endured an uncomfortable session with Hared, who - despite the outcome of his disobedience - was furious with him for disobeying his orders at Sjug'Hakar Im. After everything he had been through, Hem was in no mood to be told off.
"I found out things you wouldn't know otherwise," he said sullenly. "Even Saliman said he wouldn't dare enter Dagra. And I couldn't abandon Zelika. Perhaps you don't know what it means to have a friend."
Hared's face, hard at the best of times, had closed at that jibe, and he had said nothing more. After that, he treated Hem with a warier respect. A few days later, after several long and circular arguments, Hem, Soron and Saliman had left Nal-Ak-Burat, heading in the first instance for Til Amon. Soron was itching to return home, and Hem wouldn't be budged from his conviction that he had to find Maerad who, he was sure, was somewhere in Annar.
Hared wanted Saliman to stay in Nal-Ak-Burat with the other Bards of the resistance against the Black Army. "Saliman, I will be frank," he said, during one discussion. "Movement has been easier this past fortnight, I grant you, since Imank vanished and the Black Army has been in disarray. But once Sharma organises himself - which I foresee will not take long - those forces will no longer be divided. I have no doubt it will get much more difficult here, and the Light knows it is difficult enough. And to lose a Bard like you to a wild goose chase - it goes hard, Saliman. It goes hard."
This was as close as Hared came to begging, and Saliman knew it was a measure of his desperation.
"Hared," he said gently. "I understand, my friend. Believe me, I understand. And I cannot say that I am not torn...it was always possible that I am mistaken. I know it looks like madness to you. But I cannot go against my Knowing. I knew from the beginning that Hem had some part to play in this. So far, he has not proved me wrong. And it is very clear to me that we have to find his sister."
Hared heard the decision in Saliman's voice, and knew better than to argue, but he shook his head sadly. The following day, Hem, Soron and Saliman had left the safety of the caves of Nal-Ak-Burat, heading west through Nazar, and had crossed, at some peril to their lives, the Undara River into Savitir until they reached the edges of the Neera Marshes. There they turned north, keeping the Neera Marshes to their left.
In all this time they had seen no one else; Saliman guided them away from roads and tracks, and they avoided all villages. The landscape they crossed was lonely: at dusk they heard the melancholy cry of the curlew calling in the night. Occasionally they came across a burned byre or the remains of slaughtered goats or other signs of war, but these were all cold, remnants of a violence now well past, and there were few signs of sorcery. Still, they kept vigilant, and it seemed to Hem that the landscape watched them warily, as if eyes noted their presence and waited anxiously for them to pass. They travelled swiftly: aside from the urgency of their quest, the strange emptiness of the land gave them no desire to dawdle.
At last they reached the northern reaches of the Neera Marshes, and again turned west to meet the South Road. Here they doubled their precautions: if the Black Army had scouts or, worse, was marching northwards to South Annar, this was where they would most likely encounter problems. They travelled north with the road to their left, a good distance away, their passing muffled by shadowmazing and shields so they would be invisible to the naked eye. Irc investigated the road at regular intervals. Nothing, he said, moved on it, as far as his eye could see.
The worst that could be said of their journey was that it was dull. Soron perked up the closer they came to Til Amon, his birth home. He had lived in Turbansk for many years, and it had been a long time since he had last seen it.
"It is, of all Schools, the most beautiful," he told Hem one night as they huddled in their meagre blankets for warmth, having decided against lighting a fire.
"It has some rivals," said Saliman. Hem could hear the smile in Saliman's voice. "Have you travelled to Il Arundedh, the mountain of roses?"
"Aye, aye. And you remember, I lived in Turbansk for many years, and count it one of the fairest cities I have ever seen." He paused briefly, perhaps seeing in his mind's eye the ruin of Turbank's beauty. "But beauty, Saliman, is in the heart as well as the eye, and Til Amon will ever hold my love."
"One cannot argue with love," said Saliman gravely.
"You have to concur all the same that for the natural beauty that surrounds it, Til Amon cannot be surpassed. It stands, Hem, on the shores of the Lake of Til Amon, and its towers rise high over the waters. On still days you see the city reflected in the lake, rippling at its own feet. From its walls spread the gentle meads of Amon, orchards and groves and vineyards and fields, from which come some of the finest fruits and wines in all Edil-Amarandh. It is, Hem, a cook's dream.... And across the lake rise the Osidh Am, majestic and high."
"They are lovely mountains," said Hem. "Saliman and I rode through them on our way to Turbansk."
"That would have been somewhat south of us," Soron said. "Here the mountains are higher and harsher. They are not so easy to cross! But to wake in Til Amon on a still morning, and to see the white-tipped peaks before you, trembling in the blue lake - ah, that is a sight that takes your breath away."
"Why did you leave?" Hem rolled over to look at Soron's face, but it was hidden in the dark.
"Why did I leave? At first, I wanted to learn of the cooking of the Suderain. There was much I wished to know. And then I became the chief cook for the School. And, somehow, I stayed in Turbansk. I made many friends there, and I came to love the city. As I think you might understand, Hem: there was much to love about it. And so, after a while, you realise that many years have passed without your noticing. But Til Amon is still my home. I am sad that I haven't thought to travel there these past years, since my family died, and even as we come closer, my fear rises that it will already be ashes and rubble, trampled beneath Enkir's army."
The yearning in Soron's voice pierced Hem's heart, and he asked no more questions. I don't have a home, Hem thought. I don't remember Pellinor at all, and will never feel that way about it. Turbansk might have been a home for me, but it all lies in ruins. Where will I make a home, once all this is over? If it ever is? Will I ever find Maerad again? Have I already lost her, or is she still alive, looking for me? He was convinced she was alive, although he had no good reason for it; some sense of her presence touched the edges of his mind and assured him, in quiet moments, that she was alive and thinking of him. But how could he trust his feelings, when he had been so wrong about Zelika?
Maybe Zelika is home, he thought. Maybe through the Gates she found everything she desired. On this side, she had lost everything: her home, her family, hope... maybe that was why she threw her life away...
Thinking of Zelika opened a rift inside Hem that was so deep and raw he could barely comprehend it. He could see her delicate face and wild hair as clearly as if she stood in front of him. He still couldn't quite believe that she was dead, that he would never see her again: sometimes he still found himself expecting to see her at his shoulder, an ironic smile on her lips, and caught himself with a pang.
Until he had lost her, he hadn't realised how deeply Zelika had wound herself into his heart. The knowledge of her death was still too recent: his body still bore the fading bruises from his hopeless, mad quest to save her, the terrible march through Den Raven to the dark city of Dagra, where he had witnessed things that frightened him more than his worst nightmares. He hadn't had much time to come to terms with what had happened to him in the past few months, but he knew that his failure to save Zelika hurt him more than anything else he had been through.
Hem lay on his back looking up into the clear winter sky, where the stars burned cold and white in the darkness, and it was a long time before he slept. The wrenching ache in his breast persisted through his dreams that night, and coloured his mood the following day. Hence, he thought, his argument with Irc. He hadn't seen Irc for some hours now, and was feeling anxious: the bird wouldn't answer any of his summonings. He had clearly decided to punish Hem thoroughly. Hem sighed impatiently. If Irc disappeared for hours, he couldn't rid himself of his anxiety that something had happened to him; but still, it wasn't worth worrying unless Irc didn't turn up for dinner.
Irc reappeared an hour or so later, as the first edges of dusk began to draw over the land and the travellers were looking for a likely camp site. The crow dropped from the sky and landed heavily on Hem's shoulder with no forewarning, so that Hem jumped out of his skin. The crow stropped his beak on Hem's shoulder and nipped his ear gently in greeting, as if they not quarrelled at all. Hem's hand automatically went up to tickle Irc's neck, even though he had sworn not long before that he would break his scrawny legs if he dared to show his beak again.
There are humans, said Irc. Not far away.
Hem halted in surprise. Humans?
They don't seem like soldiers. Or spies. They are very strange. Hem could hear the curiosity in Irc's voice. They keep shouting at each other. They have swords, and they try to hit each other, and then they stop and begin to argue.
Are they Bards or Hulls? asked Hem.
No. Though at first I wasn't sure.
Hem looked around, but he could see no sign of people. Where?
Ahead of us, not far, said Irc. Hem knew that Irc had little idea of distance: "not far" could mean anything between a hundred spans and a league. They have horses and a big wagon.
"Irc says there are people ahead of us," said Hem, turning to Saliman and Soron. "But he doesn't think they are soldiers or spies."
"People?" Saliman's eyebrows shot up.
"He says they are behaving very strangely. They seem to be fighting with each other. And he says that they have swords."
Soron frowned. "The last thing we need is trouble," he said. "Anyone wandering through this forsaken land is bound to be trouble."
"Like us, you mean?" Saliman laughed. "Well, we shall just be cautious. It should be easy enough to avoid them."
It became evident that night that the strangers were not, in fact, far away at all. That night a they saw a camp fire burning through the scrub, and were close enough to see dark figures passing in front of it. Whoever these people were, they were clearly enjoying themselves: the sound of conversation, laughter and even singing drifted over the night air towards the three Bards.
"Don't they know that the Black Army could be marching up this road any moment?" asked Hem in wonder, as he lay sleepless in the cold, staring up at the bright winter stars.
"Clearly not," said Soron. "I wonder who they are?"
"Minstrels, by the sound of it," said Saliman sleepily.
Hem sent out his listening. He could hear a dulcimer and a flute, and maybe a lyre, but he didn't recognise any of the songs. They were singing in Annaren, he thought, and they sounded cheerful and unafraid. He was suddenly full of yearning for some plain good fellowship.
"I think I'd like to talk to them," he said. "They don't sound dangerous at all."
"Go to sleep," said Saliman.
Hem sighed and huddled into his blanket. The ground seemed particularly hard tonight.
The people in the wagon were moving northwards as they were, and so they followed them at a judicious distance all the following day. Irc was beside himself with curiosity, and spent most of the day observing them and bringing back reports. It seemed that there were three, two men and a woman. He was quite sure that they were neither Bards nor Hulls. Most interestingly, to Irc anyway, their wagon was made of gold.
Gold? said Hem.
And they are carrying a great treasure. Hem could hear the acquisitive greed in Irc's voice. Jewels and golden things.
You didn't go inside the wagon? asked Hem, aghast.
Irc didn't answer the question, and ignored Hem's worried warning to stay out of the wagon. Irc couldn't resist bright things: he had a particular weakness for spoons and in Turbansk Hem had continually to raid Irc's treasure stores to replenish the dining hall's supplies.
Puzzled, Hem discussed Irc's observations with Saliman, who burst out laughing. "If the wagon is made of gold, I feel sorry for the horses," he said. "But I think Irc has discovered a group of players. The gold will be paint, and the jewels will be made of glass. Not that that would worry Irc... The Light alone knows what they are doing wandering through the wilderness in the midst of war."
"Players?" asked Hem. "What are they?"
"Have you never seen them? Turbansk had some fine players...I mean, it did..." Saliman paused for a moment. "They are people who tell stories. Plays."
"I've heard storytellers," said Hem. While in Turbansk, he had once heard a legendary storyteller, Nakar, in the marketplace, who had enraptured him with a tale of of the lost love of the first Ernani of Turbansk, who had been kidnapped by water spirits. The crowd at his feet had been silent and breathless, hanging on his every word. Although Nakar was not a Bard, Hem had thought the powers he held was very like those of Barding, although he couldn't have said why.
"No, these play out the story. They dress up as kings or lovers or villains and pretend they are the people in the legends. They travel from city to city, and make their living that way. There are some very good players in the Suderain, but mostly they are Annaren."
Hem fell silent, trying to imagine it. "I'd like to see that," he said at last.
"Perhaps, if our friends are heading for Til Amon, as seems likely, you will," said Saliman, grinning. "But you are not allowed to run away with them."
"Why would I do that?"
"People do," said Saliman.
Irc was gone for a long time, and Hem began to fear that he had been stealing from the players and had been caught. But when he returned, he had very different news: from high up, he had seen dust on the South Road, many leagues in the distance. He had flown down the South Road as far as he dared, and had seen a great army moving north.
How far did you fly? asked Hem, his heart plummeting into his feet.
A long way. Very far through the marshes.
Hem relayed the news to Saliman and Soron, who received it grimly.
"I think they are marching for Til Amon," said Soron. "If they took it, they have a good base from which to attack South Annar. If Enkir too marches on my city, I do not like our chances."
"Armies move slowly. We can at least warn Til Amon and them some time to prepare."
"What about the players?" asked Hem. "If they don't hurry, they might be caught. We should warn them too."
"You just want to see the wagon of gold," said Saliman, with a faint smile.
"If they don't know, the army might catch them up," said Hem. "Maybe they don't even know what's happened in the Suderain. And you know they would be killed."
Saliman looked across at Hem and smiled. "It seems fair to warn them," he said. "So we shall. But we must make good speed now."
"Tonight?"
"Perhaps before. They are travelling slowly, and I think now we must move as swiftly as possible."
The players must have quickened their own pace, because the Bards didn't catch up with the caravan until nightfall. The players had stopped in a hollow that protected them from a sharp wind that cut through the scrub of the plains, and had lit a fire, over which an iron pot suspended from a tripod bubbled promisingly. Hem, who had not had the luxury of hot food since they had left Nal-Ak-Burat, felt his mouth fill with water and Irc nipped his ear with excitement. Despite the bird's preference for raw meat, he had developed a taste for well cooked food in his time with the Bards and was certainly not averse to eating it.
The Bards hesitated outside the circle of firelight, looking in from the darkness: it seemed astounding to them that anybody could be travelling through the wilderness so casually. Not only had the the players made no effort to conceal themselves, no one was even keeping watch.
The caravan was bigger than Hem had expected and it was indeed gold or, more accurately, a kind of shabby gilt: it had clearly seen better days, and in several places the paint had flaked off. A picture of heroic battle was painted rather crudely on its side, framed by much superfluous ornamentation, and a tatty crimson curtain hung over the door. Two hobbled horses cropped grass nearby, and a lean yellow dog was propped on its haunches by the fire, its nose twitching at the aromas from the pot. As soon as Saliman saw the dog, he told it silently to be quiet: he would rather announce himself when he chose.
There were three people, clearly all Annarens, at the campsite. A dark-haired young woman was seated cross-legged by the fire and two men, one in his twenties, the other perhaps twenty years older, were practising swordcraft. They were fighting with wooden swords which made loud cracks when they connected, and were arguing hotly at the same time.
"No, no, no, no!" cried the older man, stopping and leaning on his sword. "My dear Marich, what are you doing? You're supposed to be losing."
"Yes, in the end," said the other. "But it's more exciting if I look as if I'm winning and then you overcome me. Then you look even more heroic."
"You forget that you are the weak, evil villain," said the first. "And that I am the nobleman. The audience should be in no doubt of my strength and superiority. You should fall, here, and then wriggle out of the way - that's much better. The most important thing, my dear Marich, is the story..."
"The important thing is that everyone doesn't get bored and heave themselves to the nearest tavern. Honestly, Karim, the way you're playing it we'll be lucky if there are three people left at the end."
"I think..." said the woman; but Hem, who had no idea what they were talking about and was following the argument with fascination, never heard what she thought, because at that moment Saliman stepped into the firelight. Hem started and followed him, with Soron at his shoulder.
"Greetings, travellers," said Saliman, bowing courteously. The woman hastily stood up, and the two men, alarmed, dropped their wooden swords and drew knives from their belts.
"What do you want?" asked the one called Karim. "We have no money here."
Saliman spread out his hands to show he was not carrying a weapon (and to silence Hem, who was about to protest indignantly at the suggestion that they were bandits). "We do not wish you any harm," he said. "Like you, we travel in peace through Savitir. We simply wish to warn you to hurry."
"Do you not know that you travel through a country that is threatened by war?" asked Soron abruptly, incredulity raw in his voice. "The Black Army marches on the South Road behind us even as we speak. Do you think wooden swords and toy daggers will protect you from the forces of Sharma himself?"
"The Black Army?" said the woman. "What do you mean?"
Hem glanced at Soron and Saliman. Their faces were polite masks, sure signs that they thought the players were fools. The two men, looking a little embarrassed, put their knives back in their belts.
"I cry you mercy for any discourtesy," said Karim, drawing himself up with dignity. "We have been long out of human contact. We made a wrong turn some way out of Elevé, and only lately found the South Road. It is long since we had any news."
"Of anything," said the woman. She was looking narrowly at the three Bards. "Why should we believe you? We have seen no sign of war."
"No reason," said Hem, who was still feeling offended at being mistaken for a bandit. "Except that it might save your lives."
"I should have said who we are," said Saliman. "I am Saliman of Turbansk. With me are Soron of Til Amon and Hem of Turbansk. We travel urgently to Til Amon, to warn them that they are likely to face attack, and thought to let you know, since we have been aware of you for the past day, that you are in mortal peril unless you too hurry."
Karim opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, and then shut it. The woman glanced swiftly at the two men as if in annoyance, and stepped forward, holding her hand out in greeting.
"I thank you for your kindness, then," she said. Her voice was beautiful, low and clear. "My name is Hekibel daughter of Hirean, and with me are Karim of Lok and Marich son of Marichan. Believe me, we have spoken to no stranger for the past two months, and have heard nothing of this; there was no news of it in Elevé when we left. What is the news?"
"The Black Army has invaded the Suderain, and Turbansk and Baladh have fallen," said Hem. "Many have fled to Car Amdridh, which we hope to defend. Now the Nameless One is marching on South Annar. We think most likely they seek to lay siege to Til Amon."
"Turbansk? Baladh? Fallen?" said Marich falteringly. "Is this true?"
"Aye." Saliman's face was expressionless, but Hem knew the disbelief in the faces of the players made him feel his grief anew, as if he himself had heard the news for the first time.
"Well." Karim looked stunned. "Well. I had heard that times were black, but I didn't know... Well."
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Saliman opened to his mouth to take his leave, but Hekibel turned to Karim.
"Perhaps we could invite our guests for a bite to eat?" said Hekibel. "That is, of course, if you have time, given the urgency of your errand."
"Yes. Indeed. Friends, please, you are welcome to partake in our humble repast." Karim made a flourish with his hands, as if he were inviting them to a king's table. "It is the least we can offer, as our thanks."
Hem looked pleadingly at Saliman, whom he saw was about to refuse, and Saliman hesitated. The stew smelt very inviting.
"I thank you," said Saliman. "That is, if there is enough to share with three strangers. We need not stand on courtesy here: we are all poor travellers."
"Oh, we've got plenty of supplies," said Hekibel. "And Marich caught a wild goat yesterday, so I've made a big pot."
Soron, Hem saw, was not too pleased with the idea - he still seemed outraged, even angered, by the players' ignorance of the war - but Hem was delighted. After their cold fare of the past few days, a plate of stew seemed luxurious beyond comparison.

The players turned out to be good company, and even Soron was soon mollified. Hekibel, seeing Hem's curiosity, had shown him inside the caravan (Irc was on his shoulder bristling with inquisitiveness, but was sternly told to behave himself). Hem felt a sudden pang as he bent his head to enter: for a short time he had been taken in by a family of Pilanel, and he had vivid memories of their cosy caravans. They had been very kind to him. But that memory called up images he would rather forget.
This caravan was very different from the Pilanel's. It was big enough to be divided into three sleeping compartments with thick red curtains, although they were now drawn back, lending the interior an air of tatty splendour. Hekibel showed him how the whole of one side of the caravan could be let down and turned into a stage, using the red curtains as a backdrop. The opposite wall was lined with cupboards where robes, masks and other props were neatly put away. The back of the caravan was basically a well-stocked larder: it included rice, pulses, spices, flour, various oils, nuts, dried fruits and smoked meats.
"It's beautiful," said Hem, enraptured.
"Try living in it with Marich and Karim for a year," said Hekibel dryly. "It loses some of its charm."
"And you just travel around, pretending to be people in stories?"
Hekibel laughed. "Yes, I suppose that's exactly what we do."
"And people pay you?"
"They give us what they can. We had a good season in Eleve, but all the flour and the lentils came from a little village. They didn't have any coins."
"I'd love to see something like that." Hem was flushed with enthusiasm. "I never have before."
"Sometimes it can be magical," said Hekibel. "And sometimes it's just plain awful. I love it and I hate it at the same time. I can't say it's an easy life. But look, we had better go back to the others, or the stew will burn." They could hear Karim's voice raised outside, and she turned sharply. "And it's been a while since Karim has had an audience. I fear he might be boring your friends."
Karim was standing silhouetted by the fire, his arms outstretched to the sky. He was declaiming a speech by a king who was dying of a mortal wound, having lost his kingdom, his children and his life through his own folly and greed. It was, Hem thought as he listened, like a beautiful poem. Karim's voice rang out in the night air, caressing the words, and Hem, entranced, felt the king's regret and sorrow as if they were his own. Finally Karim clutched his breast, and fell to one knee, bowing his head in sorrow. There was a short, pungent silence, and then the others, including the players, started clapping. Karim's voice was as spellbinding as any Bard's.
"The great Lorica," said Karim, in a hushed voice. "It is always a privilege to speak her words."
"It is," said Hekibel. "But now, we should eat."
For most of the dinner, they avoided speaking about the Black Army or the war in the Suderain. Saliman had told Hem that they were to conceal that they were Bards; they were refugees from the south, fleeing north. Which, Hem thought privately, was not so far from the truth. The stew was delicious compared to the marching fare they had been eating since leaving Nal-Ak-Burat, and respectable even by Soron's standards; and Karim brought out some surprisingly good wine.
"Why stint oneself?" said Karim, as he gnawed the last morsels of meat off a bone. "We are like migratory birds, always on the wing: but should we suffer for that? It only takes a little organisation. Admittedly, our stocks were becoming a little low - it was a relief to find the road again - "
"If we'd stuck to the road in the first place, we would never have got lost," said Hekibel, turning to Saliman. "Always these short cuts."
"One never knows when one will find a lone village or isolated hamlet, eager for our art." Karim threw his bone away with another flourish.
Karim's gestures fascinated Hem: he had never seen anyone, even the stateliest courtiers in Turbansk, speak with so much decoration, and his voice was rich and full, like that of the best singers. Marich, in contrast, was plainspoken and tended to the taciturn, although soon he was deep in conversation with Soron about the pleasures of the table. Hem saw that Marich was shy, and he thought it strange that someone who performed in front of strangers would be shy. Irc approved of Marich and Hekibel at once, because they were generous with titbits.
"He's a charming pet," said Hekibel, laughing as Irc danced in front of her, begging for more food. "You've trained him very well. Where did you find him?"
Hem bit back his protest that Irc was not a pet, and told how he had rescued him from attack by some of his kin when he was a fledgling. "He's a white crow, usually," he said. "He looks a bit scruffy at the moment because we had to dye him, and it hasn't quite come out of his feathers yet."
"Yes, I can see that he would be very handsome with white feathers," said Hekibel. Irc, conscious that he was being talked about, preened himself.
"He is very vain, I'm afraid," said Hem fondly. "But loyal and true, for all that."
Karim seemed to talk mostly about himself. Like the other two players, he was a fairskinned Annaren, but while they were dark-haired, he was blond, with a greying beard cropped close around his chin. He hailed originally, he told them, from northern Annar, but had travelled to Lok when he was a young man, where he had learned his craft. He had been working with Hekibel and Marich for the past year, and had been working their way across South Annar. Now they were heading, like the Bards, for Til Amon.
"We formed the company in Lanorial, at last year's spring gathering," he said. "When I find raw talent, such as shines in these two, I like to pass on the fruit of my rich experience in this craft, and, youthful though they are, they are grateful to sip from the chalice of age. I like to think that our humble company does not disgrace our profession."
"I'm certain that you represent it well," Saliman said politely. "It is an ancient and honourable art."
"Indeed," said Karim, looking narrowly at Saliman. "I see you are a man of culture. No doubt you were once a person of importance in Turbansk. Well," he said, and sighed with an air of tragic melancholy, "we have all seen better days."
Hekibel looked embarrassed and hastily offered more wine, but Saliman refused. A full moon had risen over the plains, and Saliman and Soron wanted to move on while it was light enough to see. Even Hem felt anxious about how visible they must be, although he had enjoyed the feast and the conversation, which had lightened his heart. The Bards thanked their hosts and prepared to leave.
"If I were you, I'd move north as fast as you can," said Saliman. "And I'd light no more fires. It is unlikely that the army would overtake you, but there will be scouts and outriders along the road."
"I thank you for your advice," said Karim. "Perhaps we will meet you in Til Amon. As always, we will perform there in the inner Circle."
"We'll keep an eye out," said Soron. "May the Light shine on your path."
Karim bowed deeply. "And on yours, my good sirs."
"Goodbye," said Hekibel, smiling. "I hope our paths cross again. I should like to use your crow in our plays; I'm sure we could find a part for him."
Irc squawked a faint farewell from Hem's shoulder. He was stuffed full of food and was half asleep.
"I hope they're all right," said Hem, when they were out of earshot. "I should hate anything to happen to them."
"Somehow I think they will be," said Soron. "Hekibel seems like a very sensible woman. In any case, we have done what we can."

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