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CHAPTER THREE

The Composer

Leovigild Ackenzal stared at the spear with a mixture of fear and annoyance.

The fear was entirely rational; the sharp end of the weapon was poised only inches from his throat, and the man holding the shaft was large, armored, and mounted on a ferocious-looking steed. His iron-gray eyes reminded Leoff of the pitiless waters of the Ice Sea, and it seemed to him that if this man killed him, he would not even remember him in the morning.

There was certainly nothing he could do to stop the fellow if murder was on his mind.

That he should also be annoyed was quite irrational, he supposed, but in truth it had little to do with the armored man. Days before'in the hill country'he'd heard a faint melody off in the distance. No doubt it had been some shepherd playing a pipe, but the tune had haunted him ever since, the worse because he'd never heard the end of it. His mind had completed it in a hundred ways, but none of them

were satisfactory.

This was unusual. Normally, Leoff could complete a melody without the slightest effort. The fact that this one continued to elude him made it more tantalizing than a beautiful, mysterious'but reluctant' lover.

The Composer

Then, this morning, he'd awoken with a glimmer of how it ought to go, but less than an hour on the road brought this rude interruption.

'I have little money,' Leoff told the man truthfully. His voice shook a bit as he said it.

The hard eyes narrowed. 'No? What's all that on your mule, then?'

Leoff glanced at his pack animal. 'Paper, ink, my clothes. The large case is a lute, the smaller a croth. Those smallest ones are various woodwinds.'

'Auy? Open them, then.'

'They won't be of any value to you.'

'Open them.'

Trying not to take his gaze off the man, Leoff complied, opening first the leather-bound case of the lute, which sounded faintly as the gourd-shaped back bumped against the ground. Then he proceeded to unpack the rest of his instruments; the eight-stringed rosewood croth inlaid with mother-of-pearl that Mestro DaPeica had given him years ago. A wooden flute with silver keys, an hautboy, six flageolets of graded sizes, and a dark red krummhorn.

The man watched this with little expression. 'You're a minstrel, then,' he said at last.

'No,' Leoff replied. 'No, I'm not.' He tried to stand taller, to make the most of his average height. He knew there was little intimidating about his hazel eyes, curly brown hair, and boyish face, but he could at least be dignified.

The fellow raised an eyebrow. 'Then what exactly are you?'

'I'm a composer.'

'And what does a composer do?' the man asked.

'He composes music.'

'I see. And how does that differ from what a minstrel does?'

'Well, for one thing''

'Play something,' the man interrupted.

'What?'

'You heard me.'

Leoff frowned, his annoyance growing. He looked around, hoping to find someone else, but the road stretched empty so far as the eye could see.

And here in Newland, where the terrain was as level as a sounding board, that was very far indeed.

Then why hadn't he seen the approach of the man on a horse?

But the answer to that lay in the melody he'd been puzzling over. When he heard music in his head, the rest of the world simply didn't matter.

He picked up the lute. It had gone out of tune, of course, but not badly, and it was only a moment's work to set it right again. He plucked out the melody line he'd been working on. 'That's not right,' he murmured.

'You can play, can't you?' the mounted man challenged. 'Don't interrupt me,'

Leoff said absently, closing his eyes. Yes, there it was, though he'd lost the end.

He started into it, a single line on the top string, rising in three notes, dropping into two, then tripping up the scale. He added a bass accompaniment, but something about it didn't fit. He stopped and started again. 'That's not very good,' the man said.

That was too much, spear or no. Leovigild turned his eyes on the fellow. 'It would be quite good if you hadn't interrupted me,' he said. 'I almost had this in my head, you know, perfect, and then along you come with your great long spear and' What do you want with me, anyway? Who are you?' He noticed distantly that his voice wasn't shaking anymore.

'Who are you?' the man asked placidly.

Leoff drew himself up straight. 'I am Leovigild Ackenzal,' he said.

'And why do you approach Eslen?'

'I have an appointment to the court of His Highness, William the Second, as a composer. The emperor has a better opinion of my music than you do, it seems.'

Bizarrely, the man actually smiled. 'Not anymore, he doesn't.'

'What do you mean?'

'He's dead, that's what I mean.'

Leoff blinked. 'I' I didn't know.'

The Composer

'Well, he is. Along with half the royal family.' He shifted in his saddle.

'Ackenzal. That's a Hanzish-sounding name.'

'It is not,' Leoff replied. 'My father was from Herilanz. I myself was born in Tremar.' He pursed his lips. 'You aren't a bandit, are you?'

'I never said I was,' the fellow replied. 'I haet Artwair.'

'You are a knight, Sir Artwair?'

Again, that ghost of a smile. 'Artwair will do. Do you have a letter proving your claim?'

'Ah, yes. Yes, I do.'

'I would very much like to see it.'

Wondering why Artwair should care, Leoff nevertheless rummaged through his saddle pack until he found a parchment with the royal seal. He handed it to the warrior, who examined it briefly.

'This looks in order,' he said. 'I'm returning to Eslen just now. I'll escort you there.'

Leoff felt the muscles of his neck unknotting. 'Very kind of you,' he said.

'Sorry if I gave you a fright. You shouldn't have been traveling alone, anyway'not in these times.'

By noon, the infant-eyed sky of morning was cataracted an oppressive gray. This did nothing to improve Leoff's mood. The landscape had changed; no longer totally flat, the road now ran alongside some sort of embankment or ridge of earth. It was so regular in shape, it seemed to him that it must be man-made. In the distance he could see similar ridges. The strangest things were the towers that stood on some of them. They looked as if they had huge wheels fixed to them, but with no rims, only four big spokes covered in what looked like sailcloth. They turned slowly in the breeze.

'What is that?' Leoff asked, gesturing at the nearest.

'First time in Newland, eh? It's a malend. The wind turns it.'

'Yes, I can see that. For what purpose?'

'That one pumps water. Some are used to grind grain.'

'It pumps water?'

'Auy. If it didn't, we'd be talking fishling right now.' Sir Artwair gestured broadly at the landscape. 'Why do you think they call this Newland? It used to be underwater. It would be now, but the malen-den keep pumping it out.'

He pointed to the top of the embankment. 'The water is up there. That's the great northern canal.'

'I should have known that,' Leoff said. 'I've heard of the canals, of course. I knew that Newland was below the level of the sea. I just' I suppose I thought I wasn't that far along yet. I thought it would be more obvious, somehow.'

He glanced at his companion. 'Does it ever make you nervous?' Sir Artwair nodded. 'Auy, a bit. Still, it's a wonder, and good protection against invasion.'

'How so?'

'We can always let the water out through the dikes, of course, so any army marching on Eslen would have to swim. Eslen itself is high and dry.'

'What about the people who live out here?'

'We'd tell them first. Everyone knows the way to the nearest safe birm, believe me.'

'Has it ever been done?'

'Auy. Four times.'

'And the armies were stopped?'

'Three of them were. The fourth was lead by a Dare, and his de-scendents sit yet in Eslen.'

'About that'about the king',' Leoff began. 'You're wondering if there's anyone left to sing to for your supper.'

'I'm not unconcerned with that,' Leoff admitted, 'but clearly I've missed a great deal of news while on the road. I'm not even sure of the date.'

'It's the Temnosenal. Tomorrow is the first of Novmen.'

'Then I've been on the road longer than I thought. I left in Seft-men.'

'The very month the king was killed.'

'It would be a kindness'' Leoff began, and then, 'Could you please tell me what happened to King William?'

The Composer

'Surely. He was set upon by assassins while on a hunting expedition. His entire party was slain.'

'Assassins? From where?'

'Sea reavers, they say. He was near the headland of Aenah.'

'And others of the royal house were slain with him?'

'Prince Robert, his brother, was slain there, as well. The princesses Fastia and Elseny were murdered at Cal Azroth.'

'I don't know that place,' Leoff said. 'Is it near to where the king was killed?'

'Not at all. It's more than a nineday's hard riding.'

'That seems a very strange coincidence.'

'It does, doesn't it? Nevertheless, it is the case, and it doesn't go well for those who suggest otherwise.'

'I see,' Leoff said. 'Then can you tell me'who rules in Eslen now?'

Artwair chuckled softly. 'That depends on whom you ask. There is a king'Charles, the son of William. But he is, as they say, touched by the saints. He must be advised, and there's no lack of advice available to him. The nobles of the Comven give it most freely and at every opportunity. The praifec of the Church has much to say, as well. And then there's William's widow, the mother of Charles.'

'Muriele Dare.'

'Ah, so you know something, at least,' Artwair said. 'Yes, if you had to pick one person to say rules Crotheny, she would be the best choice.'

'I see,' Leoff said.

'So you say you're worried about your position?' the knight said. 'Are positions for your sort rare?'

'There are other patrons who would have me,' Leoff admitted. 'I am not without reputation. I last served the Greft of Glastir. Still, a royal appointment'' He looked down. 'But that's a small thing, isn't it, in all this mess.'

'At least you have some sense, composer. But cheer up'you may have your position yet'the queen may honor it. Then you'll be right in the thick of things when the war starts.'

*

'War? War with whom?'

'Hansa'or Liery'or perhaps a civil war.'

'Are you joking with me?'

Artwair shrugged. 'I have a sense for these things. All is chaos, and it usually takes a war to sort things out.'

'Saint Bright, let's hope not.'

'You don't fancy marching songs?'

'I don't know any. Can you sing some?'

'Me, sing? When your mule is a warhorse.'

'Ah, well,' Leoff sighed. 'Just a thought.'

They traveled in silence for a time, and as evening came, a mist settled, made rosy by the waning sun. The lowing of cattle sounded in the distance. The air smelled like dried hay and rosemary, and the breeze was chill.

'Will we reach Eslen tonight?' Leoff asked.

'Only if we travel all night, which I don't fancy,' Sir Artwair replied. He seemed distracted, as if he were searching for something. 'There's a town where the road crosses the canal up here. I know an inn there. We'll take a room, and with an early start we'll be in Eslen by midday tomorrow.'

'Is something wrong?'

Artwair shrugged. 'I've an itchy feeling. It's likely nothing, as in your case.'

'Were you searching for anything in particular when we met?'

'Nothing in particular and everything out-of-place. You were out-of-place.'

'And what's out-of-place now?'

'Did I say anything was?'

'No, but something is'it shows in your face.'

'And what would a minstrel know about my face?' Leoff scratched his chin. 'I told you, I'm not a minstrel. I'm a composer. You asked what the difference was.

A minstrel'he goes from place to place, selling songs, playing for country dances, that sort

of thing.'

'And you do it for kings.'

THi

'There's more. You're from hereabouts? You've beei.

'Auy.'

'Minstrels might travel in a group as large as four. Two bo, the croth, one on a pipe, and another to play the hand-drum sing.'

'I'm with you so far.' /

'There's a tune''The Fine Maid of Dalwis.' Do you know it?'

Artwair looked a bit surprised. 'Yah. It's a favorite at the Fius-sanal.'

'Imagine it. One crother plays the melody, then another comes in, playing the same tune, but starting a bit after, so it makes a round. Then the third joins, and finally the singer. Four voices as it were, all at counterpoints to one another.'

'I don't know counterpoint, but I know the song.'

'Good. Now imagine ten croths, two pipes, a flute, an hautboy, a greatpipe, and every one playing something different.'

'I reckon it would sound like a barnyard full of animals.'

'Not if it's written right and the musicians perform it fair. Not if everything is in its place. I can hear such a piece, in my head. I can imagine it before it's ever been played. I have a fine sense for things like that, Sir Artwair, and I can see when someone else does, whether it's for music or not. There's something bothering you. The trick is, do you know what that thing is?'

The knight shook his head. 'You're a strange man, Leovigild Ackenzal. But, yes'this town I mentioned, Broogh'it's just ahead. But what do you hear, with those musician's ears of yours?'

Leoff concentrated for a moment. 'Sheep bleating, far away. Cows. Blackbirds.'

'Raeht. By now we ought to hear children hollering, wives yelling at their men to lay off the ale and come home, bells and horns sounding in the field, workers. But there's none of that.' He sniffed the air. 'No smell of cooking, either, and we're downwind.'

'What could it mean?'

'I don't know. But I think we won't go in by the main road.' He cocked his head.

'What use are you if there's trouble? Can you use a sword or spear?'

'Saints, no.'

'Then you'll wait here, up at the malend. Tell the windsmith that Artwair said to look after you for a bell or so.'

'Do you think it's that serious?'

'Why would a whole town go silent?'

Leoff could think of a few reasons, all bad. 'As you say,' he sighed. 'I'd only be in the way if there's trouble.'

After ascending to the birm of the dike, Leoff stood for a moment, mazing at what a few feet in altitude did to transform Newland.

Mist collected in the low places like clouds, but from his heightened vantage he could see distant canals dissecting the landscape, coral ribbons that might have been cut from the dusky sky and laid on those amber fields by the saints themselves. Here and there he could even make out moving slivers that must be boats.

Lights were beginning to appear, as well, faint clusters of luminescence so pale, they might be the ephemeral dwellings of the Queer-folk rather than what they must be'the candlelit windows of distant towns and villages.

At his feet lay the great canal itself, broader than some rivers' but indeed, it must be a river, probably the Dew, caught here in walls built by human hands, kept here by ingenuity. It was indeed a wonder. Finally he studied the malend, wondering exactly how it worked. Its wheel was turning in the breeze, but he couldn't see how it was keeping the water from drowning the land below. It squeaked faintly as it rotated, a pleasant sound.

A cheerful yellow light shone through the open door of the malend, and the smell of burning wood and fish grilling wafted out. Leoff got down off his mule and rapped on the wood. 'Auy? Who is it?' a bright tenor voice asked. A moment later a face appeared, a small man with white hair sticking out at all angles. Age seemed to have collapsed his face, so wrinkled it was. His eyes shone, though, a pale blue, like lapis bezeled in leather.

'My name is Leovigild Ackenzal,' Leoff replied. 'Artwair said to kindly ask if I might rest here a bell or so.'

The Composer

'Artwair, eh?' The old man scratched his chin. 'Auy, Wilquamen. I haet Gilmer Oercsun. Be at my home.' He gestured a bit impatiently.

'That's very kind,' Leoff replied.

Inside, the lowest floor of the malend tower was a single cozy room. A hearth was set into one wall, where a cookfire crackled. An iron pot hung over the flame, as well as a spit that had two large perch skewered on it. A small bed was butted up against the opposite wall, and two three-legged stools sat nearer the fire. From the roofbeams hung nets of onions, a few bunches of herbs, a wicker basket, swingle-blades, hoes, and hatchets. A ladder led to the next floor.

In the center of the room, a large wooden shaft lifted in and out of a stone-lined hole in the floor, presumably driven somehow by the windwheel above.

'Unburden 'zuer poor mule,' the windsmith said. 'Haveth-yus huher?'

'I beg your pardon?' Artwair's dialect had been strange. The windsmith's was nearly unintelligible.

'Yu's an faerganger, eh?' His speech slowed a bit. 'Funny accent you have. I'll try to keep with the king's tongue. So. Have you eaten? You have hungry?'

'I don't want to inconvenience you,' Leoff said. 'My friend ought to be back soon.'

'That means you've hungry,' the old man said.

Leoff went back out and took his things off the mule, then let her roam on the top of the dike. He knew from experience that she wouldn't go far.

When he reentered the malend, he found one of the fish awaiting him on a wooden plate, along with a chunk of black bread and some boiled barley. The windsmith was already sitting on one of the stools, his plate on his knees.

'I don't have a board just now,' he apologized. 'I had to burn it. Wood from upriver has been a little spotty, these last few nine-days.'

'Again, thank you for your kindness,' Leoff said, picking at the crisp skin of the fish.

'Nay, think nothing of it. But where is Artwair gang, that you can't g'

'He's afraid something's wrong in Broogh.'

'Hm. Has been quiet there this even', that's sure. Was wonderin' about it minself.' He frowned. 'Like as so, don't think I even heard the vespers bell.'

If that brought Gilmer any further thoughts, he didn't share them, but tucked into his meal. Leoff followed suit.

When the meal was done, Gilmer tossed the bones in the fire. 'Where've you come from, then?' he asked Leoff.

'Glastir, on the coast,' he replied.

'That's far, auy? Mikle far. And how do you know Artwair?'

'I met him on the road. He's escorting me to Eslen.'

'Oh, gang to the court? Dark times, there, since the night of the purple moon.

Dark times everywhere.'

'I saw that moon,' Leoff said. 'Very strange. It reminded me of a song.'

'An unhealthy song, I'll wager.'

'An old one, and puzzling.'

'Sing a bit of it?'

'Ah, well'' Leoff cleared his throat.

Riciar over fields did ride Beneath the mountains of the west And there the palest queen he spied In lilies fair taking her rest Her arms shone like the fullest moon Her eyes glimed like the dew

On her gown rang silver bells

Her hair with precious diamonds strewn All hail to thee, oh my great queen All hail to thee he cried For thou must be the greatest saint That ere a man has spied The Composer

Said she truly I am no saint I am no goddess bright But it's the queen of Alvish lands You've come upon tonight

Oh Riciar welcome to my fields Beneath the mountains of the west Come and take with me repose Of mortal knights I love thee best And I will show thee wonders three And what the future holds And I will share my wine with thee My arms wilt thou enfold And there beneath the western sky She showed him wonders three And in the after bye and bye She gave him Alvish eyes to see Oh Riciar stay with me awhile Keep here for an age or two Leave the lands of fate behind And sleep with oak and ash and yew Here's my gate of earth and mist Beyond my country fair Of all the knights upon the earth Thou art most welcome there I will not go with thee great queen I will not pass thy gate But will return unto my liege In the lands of Fate If thou wilt not stay with me If thou art bound to leave Then give to me a single kiss And I'll remember thee So he bent down to kiss her there Beneath the mountains of the west She pulled a knife out from her hair And stabbed it through his chest He rode back to his mother's home His heart's blood pouring true My son, my son, you are so pale What has become of you O mother I am wounded sore And I shall die today But I must tell you what I've seen Before I've gone away

A purple scythe shall reap the stars An unknown horn shall blow Where regal blood spills on the ground The blackbriar vines shall grow Leoff finished the song, Gihner listening in evident pleasure. 'You've a fine voice,' the old man said. 'I don't cann of this Riciar fellow, but all he said has come to pass.'

'How so?'

'Well, the purple scythe'that was the crescent moon that rose last month, as you said. And a horn was blown'it was heard everywhere. In Eslen, at the bay, out on the islands. And the royal blood was spilled, and then the brammel-briars.'

'Briars?'

'Auy. You aens't heard? They sprang up first at Cal Azroth, where the two princesses were slain. Sprouted right from their blood, it's The Composer

said, just as in your song. They grew so fast, they tore down the keep there, and they creep still. They spell the King's Forest is full of 'em, too.'

'I haven't heard that at all,' Leoff said. 'I've been on the road from Glastir.'

'Sure the news has been up the road by now,' Gilmer said. 'How did it miss you?'

Leoff shrugged. 'I traveled with a Sefry caravan, and they spoke to me very little. This past nineday I was alone, but I was preoccupied, I suppose.'

'Preoccupied? What with the end of the world coming, and all?'

'End of the world?'

Gilmer's voice lowered. 'Saints, man, don't you know anything? The Briar King has wakened. That's his brammels eating up the land. That was his horn you heard blaw.'

Leoff stroked his chin. 'Briar King?'

'An ancient demon of the forest. The last of the evil old gods, they say.'

'I've never'no, wait, there is a song about him.'

'You're right full of songs.'

Leoff shrugged. 'Songs are my trade, you might say.'

'You're a minstrel?'

Leoff sighed and smiled. 'Something like that. I take old songs and make them into new ones.'

'A songsmith, then. A smith, like me.'

'Yes, that's more the case.'

'Well, if it's a song about the Briar King, I don't want to hear it. He'll kill us all, soon enough. No need to trouble over him before it happens.'

Leoff wasn't sure how to react to that, but he felt sure that if the world were about to end, Artwair would probably have mentioned it. 'Very well,' he said at last, gesturing above. 'Your malend. May I ask, how does it work?'

Gilmer brightened. 'You saw the saglwic outside, auy? The wind spins it, which turns a shaft up there.' He pointed toward the roof. 'Then there's wooden cogs and gears, takes that turning and makes this shaft go up and down. That runs the pump, down under. I can show you tomorrow.'

'That's very nice of you, but I won't be here tomorrow.'

'You may be. Artwair has had time to gang and come from Broogh twice now, so something must be keeping him there. And I'm needin' min rest. And judging by the way the Kuvoolds are pulling at your eyelids, I'd say you need a rest, as well.'

'I am rather tired,' Leoff realized. 'You're welcome to stay until Artwair gets back, as I said. There's

another bed, on the next floor, for just such a purpose. Take it, if you'd like.'

'I think I shall, even if it's only for a short nap.' He climbed the ladder to the next level and found the bed, just under a window. It was well dark now, but the moon was out, and up the canal some half a league he saw what must be Broogh, a collection of house-shaped shadows, a wall, and four towers of varying height. He saw no light, however, not even so much as he had made out in the far more distant'and probably smaller'villages.

With a sigh he lay on the rough mattress, listening to the wolf-wings and nighthawks singing, tired but not sleepy. Above, he could hear the gears Gilmer had mentioned clattering and clucking, and somewhere near, the trickling of water.

The end of the world, eh? That was just his luck. At the age of thirty-two he had a royal appointment in his grasp, and the world was going to end.

If he still had a royal appointment.

His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the sudden breathy voice of a recorder. It was so clear and beautiful, it might have been real, but he'd lived long enough with his gift to know it was in his head.

A melody began, and he smiled as his body relaxed and his mind went to work.

The malend was teaching him its song.

It came easily, first the alto recorder, the wind coming along from the east across green plains. And now the drum, as the wheel'

The Composer

saglwic?'began to turn, and croths'plucked here rather than bowed'began playing the melody in unison with the flute. Then joined the low strings of the bass croths, the vast waters beneath the earth responding, but still all melody, of course'and now water flowing into the canal, a merry trickling on a flageolet, as the malend became the union of air, earth, water, and craft.

Now the variations began, each element acquiring its own theme'the earth a slow pavane on the deep instruments, but on the pipes a mad, happy dance as the wind quickened, and the strings bowing nearly glissando arpeggios'

He blinked. His candle had gone out, and it was pitch-black. When had that happened?

But the concerto was finished, ready to go to paper. Unlike the melody in the hills, the dance of the malend had come to him whole.

Which was perhaps why he only now realized that someone was in the room below, talking.

Two voices, and neither belonged to Gilmer Oercsun.

'' don't see why we had got picked to do this job,' a voice said. It was a tenor voice, scratchy.

'Don't complain,' another said. This one was a booming baritone. 'Especially don't complain around him.'

'It's just that I wanted to see,' the first replied. 'Don't you want to be there, when they bust through the dike, and the water goes all a rushin' out?'

'You'll see it,' the baritone replied. 'You'll see it well enough. You'll be lucky not to swim in it.'

'Yah, I suppose. Still.' A cheerful tone crept into his voice. 'But won't it be fun, rowing a boat over all of that down there? Over the roofs of the houses?

I'm going to row right over' what was the town?'

'Where the girl said you had a nose like a turtle's prickler?'

'That's the one.'

'Reckhaem.'

'Right. Hey, a turtles prickler is the best she'll be getting, after tonight.'

'Still better than yours, from what I've heard,' the baritone said. 'Now let's be done here. We've got to burn every malend for four leagues before morning.'

'Yah, but why?'

'So they can't pump the water back up, you dumb sceat. Now, come on.'

Burn? Leoff's heart did a triple-quick-step.

The top of the stairway suddenly appeared, an orange rectangle, and he smelled burning oil.