SONGSPINNERS

What a strange creature she was, his little amanuensis – by turns eager to please, then wilful; shy, then acutely forthright. Not for the first time he found himself thinking that she was only a little younger than Fania would have been now, if she had lived – and not for the first time, found the thought so painful that he shut his mind to it. Fania, his beloved sister, dead of the smallpox at the tender age of twelve. Fania, his father’s treasure. Fania, so gifted, so pretty… Was that why he was so awkward with Orial, so abrupt? Because she remained him of Fania and the disintegration of his family? She did not deserve this brusqueness.

But then there was her gift. It disturbed him. How could she hear the music in his head? And if she could hear what was in his head, how could she simultaneously block out all the music emanating from other people’s minds, the repetitions, the scraps of tunes?

Yet here, on paper, painstakingly achieved, lay the first bars of the last act of the opera in short score, instruments sketched in… It had taken an hour to notate these thirty-one bars. She was slow, struggling still to sort out theoretical complexities which she had never had to contend with before. He found it hard to keep patient when he could not seize the pen from her fingers and show her how it should be done. Sometimes he could have bellowed aloud with frustration.

How long would it take before this blotted, untidy score could be handed to the copyists and work could begin on staging it?

He was so engrossed in thought that he did not hear the knock at the door. It was only as it opened and the visitor came in that he glanced up and saw Acir Korentan.

The sheets of music lay spread out on the table in front of him. He could not pick up a cloth to throw over them – or shuffle them hastily out of sight. He stood up and placed himself in front of them, hoping Acir would not notice.

‘I came to return the clothes that Sieur Jordelayne lent me. My landlady has washed and pressed them.’ Acir seemed all stiff courtesy once more. ‘But it appears that he is out.’ He placed the neat bundle of clothes on the couch.

‘Out arranging a recital at the Guildhall, I believe,’ Khassian said casually.

‘Illustre,’ he said, and there was a sudden urgency in his voice, quite unlike the earlier formal tone, ‘I must talk to you. Have you any idea of the danger you are in?’

‘I mean personal danger.’ He took a step nearer. ‘Have you ever encountered the Contesse Fiammis?’

‘The name is familiar.’ Khassian was thrown off-course; the conversation had not taken a direction he had anticipated at all. ‘I may have been introduced to her at court…’

Khassian slowly nodded his head, uncertain what new tactic Acir was employing to sway him.

‘Threaten? Oh, no. Whatever differences there may be between us, I would not stoop to threaten – or to shadow my adversary like some Enhirran assassin. That is not the honourable way. That is not the way of the Guerrior.’

There was an earnestness in that steel-blue regard that profoundly unsettled Khassian. Acir Korentan was no fanatic, seared by dark fires raging within. No, the young man displayed a quite disarming frankness that – and Khassian had grudgingly to admit this to himself – had they not found themselves on opposing sides – he could well have found sympathetic.

‘And the way of the Guerrior is to fight to defend the faith? It would have been so much easier for you if we could have settled this dispute, sword in hand, like men of honour.’ Khassian could not prevent a smile from twitching at the corners of his mouth. And to his surprise he caught the ghost of a smile flickering across the Captain’s stern face.

‘You would have made a more than worthy opponent, Illustre,’ he said, clicking his heels in a formal bow.

And, lacking real blades, Khassian thought, smiling too, I can still duel with words, Captain Korentan.

‘Humiliation would be more apt. Isn’t that closer to the truth, Captain? Girim nel Ghislain would like nothing better than to see me prostrate myself at his feet in the holy name of the Poet-Prophet Mhir.’

‘You misinterpret the doctrines of the Commanderie. Is it so hard to accept the teachings of Mhir? Are you so proud that you cannot accept a higher authority than your own?’

‘I’m not talking of pride. I’m talking of spiritual honesty. Would it not be more contemptible if I dissembled? If I cynically professed a faith in which I did not believe – just to save my skin?’

Acir Korentan did not reply. But Khassian could see from the shadow that had darkened the piercing blue of those eyes that he was winning. Triumphant in that knowledge, he began to press his advantage.

Acir Korentan was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his tone was pensive, as if he was still pondering Khassian’s question.

‘There has been no recorded miracle since the blood of the Rose restored the Beloved Elesstar to life. But a belief in miracles is an essential part of the doctrine.’

Khassian saw to his bitter satisfaction Acir Korentan’s expression betray first confusion – then anger; he had caught him off-guard.

‘I tell you, Captain Korentan, that I would only consider public conversion to your faith if a miracle cure was guaranteed.’

‘The Prince was miraculously cured of his wasting illness! Is that any different?’

‘When the Prince knelt before the Grand Maistre in the shrine and asked forgiveness of his past sins, he was truly repentant. And from his belief came the remission of suffering, the gradual healing that restored his health.’

‘You spoke earlier of cynicism. The Commanderie judged your opera an act of extreme cynicism, the work of a sick and amoral soul, deliberately designed to mislead and corrupt.’

‘Oh, and you saw my opera, I suppose?’ Khassian said, his voice crackling with sarcasm. ‘You read the score? You heard the music?’

‘You abused the one thing I hold most sacred. You twisted the holy texts to – entertain. I cannot condone that.’

‘So that’s what you believe?’ Khassian moved closer. That my intentions were to corrupt?’

‘Illustre? Is everything all right?’ Mistress Permay rattled the door handle. Both men tensed, glancing towards the door. A second later, the mob-capped head of the mistress of the house appeared.

‘I heard voices. Shouting. Old Lady Bartel in the apartments above has complained. I run a respectable establishment and I will not have my other guests upset.’

‘Please give my abject apologies to Lady Bartel,’ Khassian said with exaggerated courtesy. ‘We were rehearsing a scene from my opera and must have allowed ourselves to be quite carried away by the – emotion of the situation.’ He could not resist a malicious glance at the Captain as he delivered this coup de grâce.

‘I was just about to leave.’ Acir Korentan, all icy tact, gave a brusque nod of the head and retreated.

Khassian stood at the window and watched him stride hurriedly away along the curve of the Crescent. Korentan’s tensed shoulders, his brisk pace, all betrayed his frustration.

Acir Korentan turned abruptly aside from the Crescent and plunged into the grove of great trees that bordered the Wilderness Garden beyond.

He had gone to warn Khassian of the very real danger he was in – and Khassian had laughed in his face. He had baited him, he had mocked his beliefs! And yet…

And yet he sensed there was an essential integrity of spirit beneath the cynical veneer. And in one respect, he had to admit, Khassian was right. He had never read the opera libretto. Girim nel Ghislain had described it to him, had recited aloud one or two of the passages of holy scripture which Khassian had, the Grand Maistre alleged, portrayed in his score in a blasphemous manner.

He stood amidst ancient cedars in a dark, mossy glade. A marble dryad glimmered on the far side, pale in the gloom; spirit of the grove, haunting the Wilderness. The air was damp, tinged with the green smell of moss and creeping lichens.

The chronicle of Mhir’s death and transfiguration had been set down by an unknown disciple… though many, including Acir, believed that Elesstar the Beloved had written a substantial part of it. The ancient text was spare yet each incident was graven into Acir’s memory as vividly as if he had been a witness to the events.

He sat on a marble bench, stained with damp, and pulled his breviary from his jacket.

When she heard the words of the Prophet Mhir, Elesstar felt her heart burn with longing. She looked on his face and saw the true radiance of Iel. She arose and put aside the fine raiment and costly jewels that the Shultan Arizhar had given her.

She found Mhir at work with his disciples around him, labouring to rebuild the fallen Temple of Mhir, the Temple which Arizhar the Cruel had razed to the ground in his impiety.

And there in that holy place Mhir and the slavewoman Elesstar were united before Iel…

Amaru Khassian had chosen to interpret these words as literally as any sensation-seeking crowd-pleaser would have done. Girim had told Acir that the opera required Mhir and Elesstar to be seen to come together – physically – on the stage. Acir found the thought of the castrato – and another man – play-acting physical consummation utterly repellent. It reduced Mhir’s transcendent love – Acir’s inspiration and his life’s pattern – to a mere shudder of lust, contrived to titillate the jaded palates of the opera audience.

At the heart of the scripture was Elesstar: Elesstar the slave, the Shultan’s concubine, whose love for Mhir redeemed her of her past sins. Elesstar’s redemption was the essential metaphor illuminating the Thorny Path.

Khassian had spoken disparagingly, cynically, of miracles. But then he had reduced the miracle of Elesstar’s resurrection to an acted charade, a mere theatrical device: a puff of smoke, a clap of a thunder board, a crash of the cymbals. He had robbed it of its mystery – and its meaning. Small wonder he could not begin to imagine the true power of the metaphor.

‘If the sinner Elesstar could be saved – transfigured – by the Blood of the Rose,’ Girim had cried to the assembled Commanderie, ‘then have faith that you too can be saved!’

The damp seemed to be seeping into Acir’s bones, oozing from dank cedar boughs. The darkness of the deserted glade only enhanced his morose mood; his task seemed impossible. Amaru Khassian was damaged in spirit as well as in body – yet too proud to ask for his help.

Maybe Fiammis was right. Maybe he should have let the composer drown. Maybe he should not have striven so hard to warm the limp body back to life with his own breath. Khassian had seemed so set on self-destruction. Maybe he should admit defeat, return to Bel’Esstar and let Fiammis finish the job for him –

‘No!’ Acir cried aloud. He sprang to his feet and began to pace the glade, feet squelching in the wet moss.

He did not like to acknowledge the fact but ever since he had breathed the life back into the half-drowned Khassian, he had felt in some intangible way… connected to the man.

Steam clouded the tiled walls of the Sanatorium pool, misting Orial’s lenses. Annoyed, she took off her spectacles and, for the third time that morning, wiped them on her apron. Blinking, she gazed around at the ceramic tiles: the familiar blue and green motifs of whorled shells and water-lilies were still blurred. She examined the spectacle lenses again – but they were clean, clear of the smudging moisture.

Is my sight deteriorating? Do I need stronger lenses? Maybe I should consult Papa.

But then he might ask her what she had been doing to strain her eyes, he might wonder what kind of close work would cause such a deterioration. Close work such as the intricate notation of music –

All morning, Orial fretted over her tasks in the Sanatorium, impatient to be away to the Crescent and to Amaru Khassian. But when she had finished, her hands were shrivelled and wrinkled with constant immersion in the hot spring water and with slapping on noisome mineral-mud.

As Orial was drying her damp fingers, Sister Crespine came bustling past and slipped something into her apron pocket.

‘Calendula balm. Marigolds. Keeps the hands nice and soft,’ Sister Crespine said and, to Orial’s surprise, gave her a wink. ‘Don’t you worry, dear, your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Thank you.’ Puzzled, Orial sniffed the white ointment; it gave off a scent of spring meadows, sweet as new-mown grass. What did Sister Crespine know? How much had her frequent absences been noticed – and remarked upon? Sister Crespine must believe she was keeping a tryst with a secret admirer.

Orial sighed and began to smooth a dab of the soft balm between her fingers. Amaru Khassian her admirer? The thought sent a strange shiver of warmth through her body. But theirs was no conventional friendship; she was the admirer, he the admired. On his side, the arrangement was one of obligation; she knew he would never have troubled to pay her the slightest attention if he had not needed her help.

She had read of an invisible thread of understanding discovered to link certain susceptible individuals. Was it possible that such a link existed between her and Amaru Khassian? Were they like two strings tuned to the same pitch; when one was plucked, the other vibrated too in sympathy?

Orial had devised a number of backstreet routes to reach the Crescent, each one designed to avoid recognition by any of her father’s medical colleagues. She cut through alleyways and hurried along mews, past dairies, laundries and stables where horses whinnied and stamped in their stalls.

She was hurrying along Paragon Mews when she almost ran headlong into a young woman in scarlet riding habit coming out of one of the stables.

‘Orial!’ cried the young woman, reaching out to kiss her on both cheeks. ‘It’s been simply ages. You’re looking a little peaky, my dear.’

‘Alizaeth?’ Orial said, stepping back. She and Alizaeth had been at the Academie for Young Ladies together. She had been dazzled by Alizaeth at school; with her glossy black curls and easy chatter, she had commanded the attention of a circle of admirers. But Orial had grown to realise they had little in common; Alizaeth’s interests lay in balls and gowns.

‘Congratulate you?’ Orial’s brain had been filled with music; now the shock of encountering Alizaeth had made her mind go blank.

‘I’m to be married!’ Alizaeth said with a squeal of self-satisfaction. ‘In four days’ time. There’s to be a banquet at the Rooms. I’d have asked you to be one of my maidens, but Alyn – that’s his name, he’s training to be an advocate – has so many sisters and female cousins…’

Orial nodded, smiling, starting to edge away. She must escape before Alizaeth started to tell her the wedding plans.

‘I’d love to talk, but I’m late for an appointment. Some other time –’

As Orial darted away, she experienced a sudden moment of self-revelation. A few weeks ago, she would have felt hurt to learn that Alizaeth had not bothered to invite her to be her wedding-maiden. But since Cramoisy and Khassian had arrived, she had not once thought of Alizaeth or her schooldays. She had been transported into a world more magical, more dangerous, than anything she could have imagined. There was more to life than an orchid silk gown and a wedding banquet at the Assembly Rooms.

‘I was – unavoidably detained.’ Orial untied her cape and flung it over the couch.

‘I’ve been looking over what you wrote down yesterday.’ He seemed restless, irritable. ‘There are errors of notation.’

She checked the retort that had sprung to her lips for she could sense he was in pain. An echo of the dull ache in his damaged hands resonated in her own fingers.

She picked up her pen and had just opened the inkwell to check that it was full when she heard him speak again.

‘How dare he accuse me of such a thing? How dare he presume to know me, know my most intimate thoughts and intentions!’

‘I’m sorry?’ She was uncertain whether he was muttering to himself or to her.

She gazed quizzically up at him, wondering what had provoked this outburst. He seemed distressed, his face contorted with suppressed anger. It would be best to humour him. She lifted the sheets and began to scan them rapidly; in her mind the raw passion of Elesstar’s grief was reawakened, clothed in the sombre colours of Khassian’s twisted harmonies. The music was strong, impassioned, sincere – and, to her untrained ears, difficult.

‘You observe that I have twisted the holy texts, I have distorted their meaning.’

‘And so it should be! Did they want pretty, simpering little tunes? Inoffensive harmonies to blunt the ear? The whole point was to make the story relevant in a cynical, jaded age. To make Mhir and Elesstar live again.’

Orial stared down at the sheets. She could hear the aria clearly in her head – but was her handwriting really so smudged? She held the paper nearer, closing one eye and then the other. Close to, it looked less indistinct. The music sang on in her head even though she could no longer focus upon the notes. She took off her spectacles and pinched her eyelids closed. Jagged pinpricks of light shot across the darkness in rhythmic patterns that mirrored the music.

He gestured towards the crystal carafe which stood on a table beneath one of the gilt-swagged mirrors and went back to his habitual position by the window.

‘No. It can’t be…’ Orial heard him murmur to himself. Suddenly he called excitedly, ‘Cramoisy! Cramoisy!’

‘Miu Diu!’ cried Cramoisy, rushing into the hall. ‘They’ve escaped.’

Perplexed, Orial sat down again at the escritoire and took up her pen. But the babble of voices in the hall was too noisy to allow for concentration.

‘Even here. Come into the salon, come in. Cramoisy – what can we offer our guests? Tea? Wine?’

Orial laid down her pen as Khassian brought three strangers, shabbily dressed, into the salon.

‘This is my amanuensis – Demselle Magelonne. Orial – meet three of the most gifted musicians it has been my privilege to work with. Azare – my repetiteur, a genius on the keyboard. Philamon – the deepest, most velvety bass voice in all Allegonde. And Astrel – the principal of the Opera orchestra.’

Orial dipped a curtsey. She could see the ravages of hunger etched into the visitors’ hollow cheeks, weeks of neglect in their straggling beards and uncombed hair.

‘By spending weeks hidden in a damp cellar below the Conservatoire. They did not think to search in so obvious a place.’

Orial quietly began to tidy away the pens and pencils. Her presence, she sensed, was superfluous. Already the fugitives were pouring out the tale of their escape and Khassian’s attention was focussed solely on them.

The pendule clock on the mantlepiece struck the hour. Heavens, it was five! She had lost track of the time and she was late for tea – Papa would be waiting for her to join him. She would have to run all the way.

Jerame Magelonne checked his fob watch again. Late for tea. Where was she? This sudden interest in helping the Antiquarian at the Cabinet of Curiosities seemed excessive. And her behaviour of late had been erratic. She often seemed preoccupied, lost in thought, even distraite.

No! He instantly banished the thought, refusing to acknowledge it could be a possibility. He had done his utmost to protect her from the baneful influence of music. And yet he had heard her singing tunes of her own making. It must not happen again. He had been unable to save Iridial from the curse of her inheritance, but he would give his last drop of blood to save his daughter.

He looked anxiously out into the courtyard. Eleven minutes past five. Didn’t she know he would worry if she was late? Their afternoon tea ritual was something he cherished, looked forward to. When she was still at the Academie, she would come rushing in, cheeks flushed with excitement, to tell him the day’s news. Charming things, schoolgirls’ prattle, a distraction from the cares and worries of the Sanatorium.

‘Cook,’ said Jerame, hurrying after her, ‘is everything all right with her?’

‘So you’ve noticed at last!’ she said with a cackle. Then she tapped the side of her nose. ‘And about time too, I say. Head down in a book all the time – she’ll be left on the shelf.’

‘On the shelf?’ Jerame realised what Cook was implying. Orial was courting? No. Impossible. And yet it might explain the distant look in her eyes, the sudden starts, the vague manner…

He caught sight of his own reflection in the mirror; watchful, mistrustful eyes, lips compressed in disapproval. Was that how she saw him? The repressive, over-protective father?

He went into the morning room and, sitting down, mechanically lifted the pot to pour tea, a task Orial usually performed. He lifted the bowl to his lips, unthinking; the heat of the pale liquid stung his tongue. Surprised, he set the bowl down. He had not been thinking about what he was doing. He had been thinking of Orial. He swallowed hard. The mouthful of tea scalded his throat.

He had not realised till now how much he had been dreading this moment. It was the natural cycle of things, after all. You cared for children, watched them grow… but when the time came to let them go, did it have to be so hard?

Harder for him to let go than for others. For in Orial, the echo of Iridial still lived and breathed. It was not so much in her physical appearance… although of late even that had begun to change… but in her gestures, the expressions which glided across her face, clouds across sunlight…

He reached blindly for the tea again, gulped down the hot liquid, ignoring the burn. She was still not back and it was a quarter past the hour. What did one say in these situations? You are confined to your room? You must never leave the Sanatorium unchaperoned again? He was not sure how adept he would be at playing the stern papa. He had no wish to turn her against him… and yet, damn it all, she was late and he was worried!

If only Iridial – He checked the thought. No point in wishing. At moments like this, a mother’s subtle advice would be so much more appropriate. She would remember what it was like to be a girl of eighteen, to be young, admired…

And her secret admirer. Who was he? Some bespectacled student of Jolaine Tradescar’s, perhaps, or some Academie boy…

What hurt him most was that she had not confided in him. Perhaps – he stood up and began to pace the room – she was ashamed of what she had done. Dear Goddess! She was sensible. Surely she would not have –

‘Hallo, Papa, I’m so sorry I’m late!’ She came into the room, casting her cape down over a chair. Her face seemed flushed, a becoming, rosy tinge warming her usual delicate pallor.

‘I’m starving. What has Cook prepared today?’ She lifted the silver lid. ‘Toasted teacakes! And they’re still warm. Won’t you have one, Papa?’ She turned to him, holding out the teacake on a plate; a peace-offering.

‘More tea, then?’ she said a little plaintively. She must have sensed his anger.

Why wouldn’t she tell him the truth? As she sipped her tea, cupping in her fingers the delicate bowl with its pattern of green and black cranes, her eyes were averted, fixed on some distant point beyond the steam rising from the bowl.

‘I don’t think you’re being wholly truthful with me. I think you’re hiding something, keeping something back. Now – I know all young girls are flattered by the advances of young men, I know it’s spring, but –’

‘Oh, Papa.’ She went to him and put her arms around his neck, hugging him. She smelt clean and fresh, the pale fragrance of wild hyacinths. ‘You mustn’t worry about me. I won’t abandon you. No matter what happens.’

All his intentions were fast ebbing away, already he could see what an unreasonable tyrant he must seem to her… And yet at the same time, as she gently disengaged her arms, he felt the needling sense of unease return. Since Iridial’s death Orial had rarely lied to him… Though there had been the stray sable kitten, kept concealed in a basket in the laundry until it leapt playfully out at Sister Crespine, its tiny claws unsheathed… And the time she had been kept back after school for some schoolgirlish prank involving water, string and a loathed termagant of a needlework mistress… Trifles, really.

She had been such a biddable child, always eager to please. Which only made the present episode harder to understand.

CHAPTER 8