Tasmin stood up and sang the story of the PEC, of human exploitation of many planets. He sang of the Prime Song of humans, and of the disobedience that many showed that Song. Beside him, Clarin – the viggies assumed she was his mate, they sang so alike and so well together – sang of greed and pride, things that the viggies understood to some extent. She sang of lying, which they did not understand but were willing to take on faith. Then together they sang of what they had learned, of the lies told about the Presences, of the great destruction that was sure to come.
At this point, the viggies joined the song, query and reply, antiphonally, circling, circling again, as it grew more and more true. ‘If,’ they sang, ‘then what?’ and Tasmin replied. ‘Then if,’ they sang, ‘what then?’ and Clarin told them.
They sang of the good guys, Jamieson who lay wounded with the giligees working on him, Thyle Vowe, Grand Master of the Tripsingers, who worshipped the truth – Clarin sang this, much to Tasmin’s surprise – of Tripsingers and Explorers, and those people of peace who tilled the soil and loved Jubal. These people would not be allowed to stay, they would go in any case, but they would not want Jubal destroyed behind them.
And lastly, they sang the names of villains. Spider Geroan, who had been healed of his affliction and then eaten. The Crystallites, who were liars. The troopers who blocked the way east. And finally, Harward Justin, Planetary Manager, who would destroy the Presences, very soon unless something was done.
And finished singing.
There was a long silence, unbroken. None of the members ventured song. At last it was the senior giligee, the one who carried Prime Priest Favel’s brain-bird, who called in a high, clear soprano that soared above them like a gyre-bird.
‘Come, Troupe leader. We must go to the Highmost Darkness, Lord of the Gyre-Birds, Smoke Master, the one the humans call Black Tower, and ask it what to do.’
17
They came to the Black Tower on the following day. Jamieson was unable to ride. Tasmin had held the boy before him on the saddle, cradling him like a baby while he slept.
The troupes of Bondri and Chowdri had come by their own paths, swifter trails than the one followed by the humans. When Donatella and Clarin arrived, some distance ahead of Tasmin, Jamieson, and the spare mules, they found the troupes already singing.
The humans made camp. None of them had eaten recently, and food, while uninteresting, was a necessity. The smell of heating rations woke even Jamieson.
‘I thought I was dead,’ he said wonderingly. ‘It came down on top of me.’
‘You probably would have been,’ Tasmin whispered, lifting the boy’s head to the cup. ‘Except for the giligees.’
‘Except for the what?’
A long explanation followed, which had not really ended when Bondri Gesel came into their campsite, shaking his head.
‘We sang to the Black Tower,’ he chanted in a weary monotone. ‘It did not want to listen. It is full of annoyance and irritation. It is worse than when we were at the one you call the Watcher. It is not the skin that speaks, nor the deep parts. It is some middle part that is new to us, a part full of questions and anger. Something has happened to make it very angry, Tasmin Ferrence. Presences have been bothered!’
‘Bothered?’ asked Tasmin, uncertain what the viggy meant.
‘To the north. Loudsingers came. They made noises and shattered the fingers of many Presences, passing through the air in the confusion. The Presences were slow to wake, but now they are wakening. On all the world, they are wakening.’
‘The people following us,’ said Don. ‘I wondered how they got onto us so fast. They came in by air!’
Bondri went on. ‘We have sung to the Highmost Darkness. We have told it everything we know. Then we sang everything you sang to us. It wants to sing to you.’
‘Me?’ Tasmin asked.
‘You. And the Explorer and the young female and this one. All of you.’
Jamieson heaved himself into a sitting position. ‘I’m not sure I’m up to singing.’ He was staring at the viggy in complete absorption, turning to Tasmin. ‘Who did you say this was?’
Tasmin introduced them. ‘Bondri, this is Jamieson, my friend. Bondri Gesel, leader of the viggies.’
The young human and the viggy nodded their heads precisely at the same moment and to the same angle. Evidently ceremony knew no species. Tasmin fought down a snort of bleak amusement.
‘Bring him anyhow,’ said the viggy. ‘The Black Tower wants to look at him.’
‘Look?’ faltered Jamieson. ‘They can see?’
‘Not with eyes,’ admitted Bondri. ‘But they see, yes. When they want to.’
‘And you’ve told them all about what’s happening, with BDL and all?’
‘We are not sure Highmost Darkness, Smoke Master, Lord of the Gyre-Birds understands, because we do not understand. That is why it wants to see you.’ And Bondri turned away, stamping his feet a little as he went, head high and throat sack half distended.
‘He’s miffed,’ said Jamieson in awe.
‘He is that,’ agreed Tasmin as he got to his feet and joined the others in a straggling procession toward the Black Tower, the music box with the translator program at the ready.
‘How is it,’ the Tower asked, after laborious introductions had taken place, ‘that you have not proclaimed (sung, announced) our sentience before – if you have known it (contained a concept for) as you say you have known it.’
Bondri translated this into Loudsinger language. They checked it against the translator. Viggy and machine were more or less in agreement. Bondri was waiting somewhat impatiently for a human response.
Tasmin looked helplessly toward Clarin. They were assembled so near the monstrous monolith that it actually seemed to bend above them. The sounds that came from it came from here,
