Chapter Five
Cantoris hours began right after breakfast. Sira and Magret, fillas ready, seated themselves on carved armchairs at one end of the long room, and House members seeking healing lined up before them. Sira’s role would be mostly one of observation at first, but she was nervous just the same. This was the weakest part of her Gift. Only the small bumps and ailments of the dormitory had been within her scope. Maestro Nikei had been frustrated with her. Maestra Lu thought the skill would come, with practice. But Sira had practiced, and practiced hard, and the knack of sensing others’ discomforts still eluded her.
The first few patients were easy, a bruised elbow, two mild colds. One infant, held by a sweet-faced, tired young mother, had a toothache. Magret asked Sira to treat it while she watched, and supported her with her own psi. Sira closed her eyes, and sensed a new tooth making its slow way into the little one’s mouth. It was easy to slip past a baby’s unformed mind. She played a soothing melody, and the child stopped crying, distracted by the music. Encouraged, Sira extended the tune, and used the gentlest nudge of her psi to ease the gum tissue away from the little tooth. Magret showed her how to quiet the tiny nerves, and Sira followed closely. The baby sighed with relief. Sira did, too.
“Oh, thank you, young Cantrix,” the mother whispered. She was no more than four summers old, Sira was sure, but her eyes were smudged and swollen.
“You are welcome,” Sira said. “You need rest, Housewoman.”
The young mother shook her head. “You’ve never raised a baby,” she said tiredly.
Sira raised one eyebrow. Magret said sharply, “All right, Mari. You may go now.”
Mari blushed and put her hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a wary glance at Cantrix Magret’s stern face.
As Mari hurried off, Sira sent, I do not think she meant to offend, Cantrix.
We must discourage familiarity, Magret responded. It hampers our work.
Sira wondered why disrespect was tolerated from some and not from others, but others were waiting, and there was no time to ask. It would bear consideration, when she had time.
As Mari carried her baby from the Cantoris, Sira could see that it was sound asleep, and she felt a rush of satisfaction. She felt like an adult at that moment. She felt like a professional. She had much to learn about Bariken and its ways, but this first small success delighted her.
She sat back in her chair, her filla cradled in her long fingers, and found Wil watching her. Outrageously, he winked one narrow eye. Sira flushed, and looked away to the next patient. Surely the Housekeeper’s behavior could be called disrespectful. Something about him disturbed Sira, even offended her. She pressed her lips together. It was all very confusing.
A man with his arm in a sling was next in line, but a Housewoman stepped in front of him. Sira expected Magret to tell the woman to wait her turn, but the senior Cantrix only gave a long and audible sigh.
“Cantrix, Trude wants you to see her boy upstairs,” the woman said to Magret.
Sira turned to her senior in protest. Working Housemen and women were waiting, and in her experience, no House member received consideration above another. Magret, however, did not return her glance. She rose without comment to follow the Housewoman. Sira opened her mind, but Magret’s thoughts were firmly shielded.
A flood of exasperation at these mysteries brought Sira to her feet. Without stopping to consider, she said, “A senior Cantrix is not summoned like a cook or a stableman.” Her deep voice rang in the Cantoris with authority beyond her years, beyond even her own intent. The people in line looked up in surprise, and she sensed Wil’s sudden movement. But she could not stop now. “I am junior, and if the boy is too ill to come to the Cantoris, I will go to him.”
The Housewoman looked bewildered. “Trude said—Cantrix Magret,” she blurted.
Magret opened her mouth, but Sira forestalled her by stepping forward. “Let us go,” she said, “so that I can return to assist Cantrix Magret here. People are waiting.”
The Housewoman hesitated, looking about for guidance. There was a sibilant hissing of people whispering to each other. Sira strode from the Cantoris swiftly, before Magret could demur. As she passed him, Wil grinned, openly amused.
Sira knew where Trude’s apartment was. She turned in that direction, her long legs moving too fast for the fat Housewoman, who puffed as she hurried after her. Wil caught up with them at the foot of the stairwell.
“Cantrix,” he said, matching his own long steps to hers. “Are you sure about this?”
Sira did not look at him. She feared losing the sense of purpose that had carried her out of the Cantoris, and she was trying to hide her lack of confidence in her ability to heal the child. She used the energy of her irritation to quell dismay at her own rashness. “Of course I am sure. Cantrix Magret has great responsibilities.”
“But customs at Bariken—”
“Are different. So I have been told.” The fat Housewoman was far behind them now. “Some things never change. A senior Cantrix must be respected.”
“Perhaps I can smooth this over,” Wil said. Sira glanced at him. Clearly, he was enjoying himself. She wondered how bad it might be.
She slowed her walk a little. She had acted impulsively, but she knew she was in the right. Her doubts assailed her then, and she turned her filla over in her hands, looking down at it. “If I cannot heal the boy,” she said diffidently, “naturally I would call on Cantrix Magret.”
“Naturally.”
They reached the upper hall, and Wil stepped ahead of Sira to knock on Trude’s door. His smile vanished, though his eyes still gleamed. Trude opened the door, looking perfectly composed. Her eyes met Wil’s directly, as if they knew each other well.
“Is Denis ill?” asked Wil. “Your Housewoman said you needed one of the Cantrixes.”
Trude frowned as she caught sight of Sira. “I asked for Magret.”
Sira frowned, too, at the omission of Magret’s title. The Housewoman came panting up behind her.
“Cantoris hours were busy this morning,” Wil said easily. “Cantrix Sira offered to help.”
“A child to heal a child?” Trude turned back into her apartment, and Sira sensed a wave of anger from her. She wondered at the strength of it. Usually unGifted people did not broadcast their emotions so strongly.
She followed Wil into the apartment, where a boy of about two summers, perhaps nine or ten years, played on a caeru rug on the floor.
“Is this Denis?” Sira asked. She knelt beside the child, and he looked up at her suspiciously. Sira sensed Trude behind her, still angry. When she looked around for permission to proceed, she saw a glance pass between Trude and the Housekeeper. Wil gave a slight shake of his head.
Sira turned her attention back to the boy. “What is bothering you?”
“My ear hurts.” His face and voice were sullen now, though he had seemed happy enough when Sira came in. Her doubt receded. Earache had been a common complaint among the little ones in the dormitory.
“Please sit very still,” she told him. He looked up at his mother, then put down his wooden toy. Sira raised her filla to her lips and began to play.
The music carried her quickly out of herself. She could see Denis’s inner ear with her mind, the slight redness deep in the curving recesses, the swelling that was the cause of the pain. It was a matter of only moments, a melody in the healing third mode, a gentle probing of psi to release the congestion and diminish the swelling. From the pocket of her tunic she drew a scrap of soft cloth and fashioned a tiny cushion which she put in the boy’s ear.
“What’s that for?” he asked, curious in spite of himself. Sira smiled at him, and got a small, knowing smile in return.
“It is to keep the cold from your ear,” she told him. “Take it out when you think your ear is healed.”
She stood, her filla by her side, and spoke to Trude. “This was not serious. Denis could have come to the Cantoris.”
Trude’s temper grew, palpably filling the room with its energy. Sira felt it as surely as if Trude were one of her Gifted classmates. Wil’s face was still, but Sira saw laughter in his eyes once again.
“When we need healing, young Cantrix, the Singer comes to us,” Trude retorted, biting off the words. Her soft face looked older, harder, in her anger. “Denis is the Magister’s son, after all.”
Sira’s eyebrow arched in surprise, but she said nothing. When neither thanks nor explanation were forthcoming, she bowed the briefest of courtesy bows, and turned on her heel. The door shut with satisfying sharpness behind her, and she paced down the corridor as swiftly as she could.
Wil caught up with her at the top of the stairwell. She flashed him a look without stopping.
“Trude can be temperamental,” he said, grinning broadly now. Sira did not speak, but started down the stairs.
“She was Cantrix, you know,” Wil went on conversationally. “Before Denis’s birth.”
The revelation stopped Sira in midstride, one foot on the landing. “Her voice—”
“Yes,” Wil said. “She was Trude v’Conservatory. She came here as a girl of four summers.”
Sira couldn’t speak. A Cantrix . . . who had a child. She knew what that meant.
Wil nodded. “It was almost a disaster,” he said. “Cantor Grigr saw what was happening, of course, and Conservatory sent Cantrix Magret before it was too late.” He gestured with his long arm, and they resumed walking, more slowly now. “Perhaps you can understand that Trude is somewhat—sensitive.”
Sira shook her head with profound disapproval. “She, especially, should know better.”
Wil chuckled. “Ah. So young, and so sure. We’ll see, young Cantrix.” They reached the door of the Cantoris, and Wil bowed elegantly. “Well done, Cantrix Sira.” He straightened, and looked directly into her face. It was a look of challenge.
Sira felt the rising flush on her cheeks, and she stiffened. She was no Trude, to be dallied with and seduced. She was a full Cantrix, and she took her duty to heart. She turned her back on the Housekeeper, and tried to ignore his chuckle as she went through the door.
As she came in, Magret looked up with a worried expression. Sira felt a fresh surge of resentment that a senior Cantrix in the midst of Cantoris duties should be bothered by trivial things.
But she calmed herself. There were still people who needed help. It was the work that mattered most, after all. Let Trude and Wil play their games. It meant nothing to her.
She sat once again beside her senior, and took up her filla.
Cantoris hours sped by, and Sira was surprised to find it was time for the midday meal. The quirunha, after the meal, filled the early afternoon. When it was completed, with no more House members attending than the day before, Sira addressed the problem of her room.
It was situated in the same wing as the Magister’s apartments, but on the lower level, close to the Cantoris. It would suit her well once the hangings and rugs had been removed.
The Houseman who came to take away the offending decorations was carefully formal. “What can I do for the young Cantrix?” He was far shorter than she, having to turn his brown, wrinkled face up to look at her.
Sira wondered briefly if the word “young” were to be forever attached to her title, but she thrust the thought aside as unimportant. “These hangings. They dampen the resonance.”
The Houseman nodded, though he looked blank. Still, he obediently pulled down the hangings and rolled up the rugs, piling them in the corridor. “Will there be anything else, Cantrix?”
Sira shook her head. He bowed from the doorway, and she realized that, besides herself, this Houseman was the only person who had been in her room since she arrived.
“Excuse me,” she said, before he could pull the door shut. “Do you know where Rollie might be today?”
The Houseman said, “If you need something else, Cantrix, I’ve been assigned to help you.”
“No. Never mind.” She could hardly tell him she only wished for company. It would be beneath her dignity. And worse, it might make Rollie uncomfortable if she asked to see her. “Thank you,” she said. “There is nothing else.”
When he had gone, she picked up her filhata and began to work.
She was deeply immersed in a melody combining the fourth and fifth modes, searching for the perfect modulation from one to the other, when there was a sharp knock on her door.
Automatically, she cast her mind out to discover who was there, but she did not recognize her caller. She went to the door, the filhata under arm, and found the petite, white-haired Housewoman who attended Rhia. Sira nodded to her. They had never been introduced.
“The Magister wants to see the young Cantrix,” the woman said. Her bow was much shallower than that of the Houseman, and executed as if it were an afterthought.
“Oh, certainly,” Sira said.
The Housewoman’s faded blue eyes sparkled with malice. “Trude’s been to see him,” she said with obvious satisfaction. “Something about you.”
Sira let this pass. She was about to meet her Magister at last. She put down her filhata and followed the Housewoman out, closing the door behind her.
The Housewoman cast her an upward glance. “Your hair?”
Sira put her hand to her head, and found that thick strands of hair had burst free of their binding. She tucked the errant locks back, and straightened her tunic. She shortened her steps to match those of the Housewoman.
“Do you know about Trude?” the woman asked.
“We have met.”
The woman cackled. “You want to be careful with her. Denis is the Magister’s only child.”
Sira, offended by the Housewoman’s intimate tone, disdained to ask if the Magister were angry about what she had done. It was not the first impression she had hoped to make, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
“Rhia has no children,” the woman prattled, as if Sira had expressed interest. “Not one.”
She grinned, making deeper wrinkles in her sunken cheeks. “Nice for Trude.”
Except for Rollie and Blane, Bariken had not impressed Sira. She was unaccustomed to secrets and rudeness, but she hardly knew how to reprimand the woman. She walked faster. The Housewoman had to trot to keep up, and breathlessness put an end to her gossip.
They went up the staircase with the intricately carved banister and the beautiful limeglass window. The glow of Bariken’s quiru shone beyond the glass, fading the sunshine. In the upper corridor, Sira let the Housewoman go ahead to show the way. They passed Trude’s apartment. At the next door, the Housewoman stopped, and opened it without knocking. She stood back to gesture Sira into a room with furs and tapestries everywhere–on the chairs, on the walls, on the floor. Sira had never seen a room so full of furniture and rugs and hangings. She had not known there were so many colors of thread for weaving, red and purple and blue and lavender all worked together.
“Magister?” the Housewoman called. Sira noticed that her tone was polite now.
“Here, Dulsy.” A stocky man of middle height with thick, graying hair and beard emerged from a back room. When he saw Sira, he grunted, and dropped into a big carved chair. She knew intuitively that her height bothered him; he sat so he wouldn’t have to stand looking up at her. Politely, she bowed. When Dulsy only stood to one side, watching her in silence, she introduced herself.
“Magister Shen. I am Cantrix Sira v’Conservatory.”
Shen nodded a curt greeting, muttering, “Welcome,” or something like it. His face was ruddy and creased, and Sira remembered that he loved to hunt. He looked more like her father than he did Magister Mkel. He stared at her for a moment. “How old are you?”
Sira was weary of the question. “Almost eighteen, and fully qualified as Cantrix.”
“How many summers is that?”
“It will soon be four.” She met his eyes steadily, and after a moment he turned his gaze away.
“Well, young Cantrix,” he said. “I need peace in my House. I don’t want these women coming to me with their problems. Listen to Rhia. Don’t cross Trude. That’s all.”
“Is that all?” Sira said quietly. Her temper rose like a softwood blaze, and the air around her began to glow. He had not met her, had not bothered to hear her sing, and yet he called her here . . . ordered her here, just to scold her! Was she supposed to respect a man like this?
She put her hands behind her back to hide their clenching. “Do you suggest, Magister, that your mate should supervise your Cantrixes?”
Shen’s face darkened. “Now, listen,” he began.
Rhia forestalled his answer, walking gracefully into the room. “Magister,” she said, giving the title an odd, exaggerated inflection that made Sira’s psi tingle. “I didn’t know you had met our young Cantrix.”
“Trude complained about her,” was his curt answer.
Sira saw a flash of triumph brighten Rhia’s face, then die away as her fine features resumed their usual icy composure. “Trude interrupted Cantoris hours,” she said smoothly. “I think Cantrix Sira handled the situation very well.”
“Wouldn’t hurt Magret to go see Denis,” Shen said.
“Cantrix Magret is senior now,” said Rhia. “Cantrix Sira was perfectly able to take care of Denis.”
“Denis was not seriously ill,” Sira offered. She had meant it to be a reassuring remark, but she saw with alarm that the Magister’s face flushed a dark red. Dulsy stood watching with her arms folded, eyes bright with enjoyment. Rhia noticed her, too, and waved a dismissive hand. Dulsy obeyed without ceremony, banging the door shut behind her.
At the sound, Shen’s temper snapped. He smacked his fist against the arm of his chair, and shouted, “By the Six Stars, Rhia! Can’t you keep this women’s business out of my hair?”
“House business,” Rhia said, her voice low and even. She touched her glossy hair, briefly hiding her eyes with her hand.
“I’ll take care of House business,” the Magister roared. “Trude, and her boy . . . you take care of them! And these silly Cantrixes!’
Sira sucked in her breath as if she had been slapped. Her own temper made the air around her glitter with power. She struggled to control it, lest some ornament shatter under its force.
Shen, oblivious, sprang from his chair, his muscular vitality out of place in the ornate surroundings. He stamped out of the room, and another door banged shut.
Rhia stood frozen in her graceful posture. Her face was still, but when she lifted her eyes to Sira, they gleamed. “The Magister—” she began, then stopped. Sira watched her take control of her emotion, rein it in as if it were a rebellious hruss.
Rhia began a second time. “Magister Shen has no patience.”
Sira’s own temper subsided as she watched the other woman.
“He has no idea that he insulted you,” Rhia said. “Other things occupy his mind.”
The atmosphere in the apartment was charged with emotion. Sira felt it like waves of heat and freezing cold. Rhia’s words sounded as if they were meant to protect her mate, and yet beneath them there was something else, some perverse pleasure in the scene Shen had created. Sira’s disappointment at the Magister’s reaction to her was overridden by her wonderment at the strange relationships these people had.
“You may go now,” Rhia said.
Sira eyed her, wondering if Rhia realized her curtness was nearly as rude as the Magister’s careless insult. She asked, “And Trude?”
“I can handle Trude.” Rhia turned away. “You’ll find I am the one who handles it all.”
Sira folded her hands together, and bowed.
“I’ll call someone to show you back to your room,” Rhia said.
“It is not necessary. I know the way.”
Rhia nodded, and remembering herself at last, bowed. A muscle quivered in her jaw, marring its smooth line. Sira walked to the door, and opened it just in time to admit a Housewoman with a stack of ledgers in her arms. As Sira closed the door, she saw Rhia and the Housewoman sit down at a large desk with the thick books between them. If Rhia managed the inventories and the Cantoris, settled disputes and acted as intermediary for Shen, then what did the Magister do? It seemed that it was Rhia, indeed, who handled everything. Who did the Magister’s job.
Sira wished she could find it in herself to like her.