Trial of Intentions (64 page)

He had his own approach to Continuity, though: Resonance. He hoped it would be different enough from before that they would still support him. The outcome of the last Succession on Continuity, in which they all three had shared a part, had gone badly. It had to be different this time. And Tahn had to tell them why. He needed to make them understand his reason for coming here. If he was going to ask them to help with a Continuity argument, he owed them that. Because it would open that wound again: Nanjesho. Absent gods, he missed her, too.

He gave them each a sympathetic, reassuring look, and started to explain. Not by talking about armies of thousands who would be called to war. Or Wendra. Or Mira. Or his own choices about when he fired his bow. Not even by sharing the story of Devin or Alemdra, both of whom had died in a Scar created by the Quiet's stripping of the land ages ago.

“Before I came to the Grove, I lived in a place called the Scar.” Tahn gave a weak smile of remembrance. “It's a dry place. Broad and lifeless. Except for a house where a man watches over children who are left in his care when their parents can't be found. He teaches them to fight, because the world is cruel. He teaches them not to trust adults, because adults lie. He teaches them that the Quiet will return, because the Quiet want what we have. And when the Quiet come, he says, the Scar will grow. Maybe everything will become Scar.”

A few of the astronomers nodded, as though they'd heard of the place.

“I had friends there,” Tahn said, his smile this time more of fondness. “It was the only way to make it through the training and heat and bad food. We became a family. A strong family, I think, because of what we endured together.” Tahn paused a long moment, looking over these Succession helpmates. “So it was especially hard when one of us chose to leave.”

Rithy and Mother Polaema stood listening. Their expressions of apprehension had softened a little.

He swallowed hard, not really wanting to say this. But they needed to understand this was about more than the interests of kings and Sheason and big armies far away.

“No one ever left the Scar to find a new place to live,” Tahn added. “No one I knew, anyway.”

There were puzzled looks, a few of his listeners framing questions. Tahn held up his hand, begging their patience.

“The first time I found one who chose to leave, I was four.” He nodded, remembering more clearly now. “My job was to see if any sprouts had sprung up near a small stream that flowed whenever rain fell. It wasn't far. And everyone who can walk has jobs to do in the Scar. So that evening I walked out to the streambed, maybe three hundred strides east of the house.”

“Tahn,” Mother Polaema said softly. “You don't have to…”

“I'm all right,” he replied. “There were lots of brown shadows that night. Baked stone at dusk makes everything look brown. And most everything was stone or caked soil. Except the stream. It was trickling along from a storm that had passed through the day before. I remember liking that sound a lot. A trickling stream.

“In the dusk, I could see sprouts in the shallow water, which meant fresh greens that night for supper.” Tahn could taste them even now, pan fried and salted. “So I hurried down into the gulley and began to gather them in. I had a burlap bag to carry as much as I could pick.”

“I worked downstream until there was almost no sunlight left in the sky. The stars, I remember, looked watery and washed—not yet bright as they do when the sun is fully gone. That's why I didn't see her at first. Another dark shape on one side of the gully, like any mound of rocks. But I kept gathering, drawing closer. And eventually I saw the shape for what it was: my friend Tamara.”

Tahn could see realization blossoming in his listeners' faces. The end of the story wasn't hard to know.

Tahn stopped. The feeling in the discussion hall was tight, full. His own emotion had risen high in his throat, the old ache made new and now touching his voice. He swallowed again and pushed on.

“She was twelve. She told funny stories. She said her mom and dad weren't dead, but that they thought she'd be better off in another home. And so she wound up in the Scar.” Tahn shook his head, anger now accompanying his grief. “She did it with her work knife. She cut her veins lengthwise to make it fast. Her short note said that she didn't think her parents were alive after all, because if they were, they'd have come for her by now. She said that she couldn't take another day in the Scar. That she couldn't bear the thought of living with people again. And that she didn't want to be around when the Quiet came. And she said she was sorry.”

A few of the astronomers sniffed. Mother Polaema had tears in her eyes. Rithy's head hung down.

“I found her there, because she liked to go to the stream when it was running, to see the sprouts. She loved the color green.” Tahn nodded to himself, just able to hold back his own tears. “She liked the smell of them, too. And that they had the bravery to come up, ignoring what would happen when the stream soon stopped flowing. That's where she wanted to be when she left the Scar.”

In a soft whisper, Rithy asked, “Why tell us this, Tahn?”

He didn't immediately answer, thinking about Tamara. She'd been the first ward Tahn had found dead. “Don't cry for Tamara,” he said. “She's no longer in any kind of pain. But that's why I'm here. Not Tamara, in particular. But because if we don't find a way to make the Veil strong, the Quiet will come … and there'll be many left alone like Tamara. And the only home for them will be an even wider, broader Scar.”

One of the astronomers spoke reverentially. “She shouldn't have done it.”

Tahn looked in the direction of the man. “I wish she hadn't,” he said. “But that's selfish of me. She escaped the Scar. In some ways, even then, I was a little jealous.”

He turned again to Rithy and Polaema. This topic of self-slaughter held an awful poignancy for them. For Tahn.

Nanjesho had had a unique warmth about her. She'd never divided her attention. If she was taking to Tahn, the world could do what it liked; she remained focused on what she and Tahn were talking about. He'd seen the kind of mother she'd been to Rithy—patient, encouraging. And he'd seen the unique love she and Polaema had shared. Since he'd never known his own mother, it was the first loving relationship he'd ever witnessed.

But Succession had taken its toll. And she'd walked into her own Scar.

Believing that his old friends now understood, Tahn meant to get started. “I understand the mercy of death. But wouldn't it be better if it was the last option?” With a firm voice, he began to declare what he wanted to do. “I want to prove Resonance is the unifying principle of Continuity. I want to use Succession to prove that principle is true. And once we've done that, I want to use it to strengthen the Veil. Keep the Quiet at bay.” He paused, softening his tone. “I want to help those like Tamara,”
and Nanjesho, and Devin … and Alemdra,
“believe there's a good reason to be here for tomorrow.”

The astronomy discourse theater came alive with a vibrant resolve Tahn could feel. They kept a silent respect for what he'd shared. But it was clear they wanted to help for new reasons. It was everything he'd hoped for. Gratitude filled him until he thought tears might come. These new friends would begin preparing for the astronomy argument—which would come last—as he went through the other colleges in succession.

When he looked over at Rithy and Mother Polaema, he could still see a hint of reservation. But it was different this time, from what he'd seen and sensed before. It wasn't about the past. Or, at least, about the past alone. The pressures of Succession were many. It wasn't only Nanjesho who'd felt its sting. The process had been known to cripple many of those who'd failed. Cripple them mentally. Emotionally. One tended to succeed at Succession only if he gave his whole self to it. Which came with a very real risk if the argument was lost. That was the concern he saw in his friends' eyes. It wasn't about Rithy's mother. It was about what it could do to Tahn.

But as the moment stretched on, their faces showed tentative smiles. They would support him. Despite the past. It was maybe the greatest act of faith he'd ever seen.

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

A Dangerous Endeavor

Unschooled Leiholan takes the stage, you see. Sings something in a tongue none of us has ever heard before. We understand the song, though. In our guts, we understand. And some hearts couldn't suffer it. Eighteen people drop dead in their pork stew. Don't tell me music isn't dangerous.

—Witness account suppressed by the League of Civility in its investigation of several simultaneous deaths reported by Rafters tavern patrons

E
vening in the Cathedral Quarter came on with raucous laughter, the shouts of men and women ready to gamble coin, and music wafting on the air like strains of a great, nightly symphony. Musicians of every stripe were either on their way to a venue, warming up, or currently performing. And tonight, in the company of Belamae, Wendra was in the Quarter to hear music.

After the events on the docks the previous night, she'd gotten the women to safety and quietly slipped back into Descant. Those things played in her mind as they set out
this
night. But not for long. Belamae's excitement for their outing in the Quarter was infectious, and they were soon talking and walking as two friends with someplace to be.

“There are the main roads of the Quarter,” Belamae explained. “‘First stops,' the music jokesters like to say. Usually larger performance taverns. Lots of seats. Liquor bought in casks. Not bad for that, but it leaves less space for curated selections: what we call ‘music drinks.' Libations found only
deep
inside the Quarter.”

They moved at a leisurely pace through the crowds.

Belamae gestured here and there. “Recityv has thirteen other music ‘quarters.' And for the most part, you'll only find pay-to-play establishments in them. Musicians generally put up three plugs for fifteen minutes of stage time. The bigger places, where the crowds are larger, get four. Even field hands and butchers and farriers, who work ten days to earn three plugs to rub together, will buy time if they think they have the musical finesse to mount a stage.” He nodded in appreciation. “It's true, though, that a fine performance can earn back double what is paid to play. Performance tavern folk can be generous when they think the coin is earned.”

Then he paused a moment in the midst of the bustle, making sure she was listening to his next words. “Here in the Cathedral Quarter, musicians don't pay for stage time. And patrons come for more than entertainment and distraction. Folk here, they come to
hear
musicians play. Not just watch, or, by silent gods, ignore the music while they eat and look for bed company.”

Wendra suppressed a smile, and they started to stroll again.

Belamae continued as before, giving her this private tour. “And folk who come to
hear
musicians play, they understand false notes and poor rhyme. If your need is a tune to dance to, go somewhere else. Maylains perhaps. Or Scrodulan Street.” He raised a finger, as one clarifying a point. “But even the music in these districts is generally better than you'll find in other cities, save those with conservatories of their own.”

She wanted to ask about other conservatories, but didn't interrupt Belamae, who was lively tonight like she hadn't seen in a good long while.

“But, music in the other quarters of Recityv happens in formal establishments, where concerts are announced days or weeks in advance.” He shriveled his nose comically. “These concerts became
affairs,
events where people who can afford Hidan silk and the satins of Masson Gulf like to be seen. Vapid things,” Belamae said with a bit of distaste.

“The best thing the other quarters produce musicwise is musicians with enough salt to play here.” He raised a hand to indicate the Cathedral Quarter. “And that happens with enough frequency to make them tolerable.” He laughed.

Wendra looked around at the slum.

Belamae put an arm around her shoulder. “I see the way you look at it. Yes, it's the laborers' district. But it's the harbor for those who take care in the craft and consumption of music. And that's what counts.”

“No argument from me,” she said. “But, if I
were
to argue, what would I say?” she asked, and smiled.

“You'd say that in Recityv's musical heartbeat, musicians have largely one aim: to be asked, or have their petition accepted…” he paused, drawing it out, “to train at Descant. It isn't about coin. And it isn't about patrons, either. Those are worthy enough outcomes of solid musicianship. But those are to be had in other places. Not
the Quarter
. Here it's about the music. Here, about Descant.”

They strolled a few minutes more, walking unhurried through street after street, hearing instruments and voices carry through doors and windows. Wendra began to feel a sense of place, and folded her arm around the Maesteri's as they ambled along.

Belamae hadn't summoned her for another lesson during the day. Instead he'd waited until dusk, and then led her on this tour of the slum and music enclave to a place known as Rafters—another performance tavern. It sat back off the main streets. She began to look forward to quite an evening of music, and enjoyed the anticipation.

Out front sat two heavyset men on bar stools eyeing down those who wished to enter. They collected a copper plug from those who sought the opportunity.

Belamae paid the admission, and led Wendra through the crowd toward the stage. The Maesteri received several deferential nods, which he graciously returned. And more than a few eyed Wendra, wondering openly about her. There was a little jealousy in many of those who stared after her, several of whom held instruments. Though just as many showed a different spark of interest, like hope that she might be performing, given her companion.