‘Your own language is far superior,’ Tasmin offered placatingly. ‘Truly.’
‘Oh, we know it is. More accurate. More specific.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Your language, on the other hand, has a lot of words we don’t have at all. It has more room in it.’
‘That’s true.’
‘That’s what the Great One says. The Great One says it is a good language for puzzles, because it can mean many things.’
‘The Great Ones like puzzles, do they?’
‘For millions of years they have done puzzles, Tasmin Ferrence. They have divided themselves into parts. What you would call teams. They have used us to carry puzzle moves from one part to another, so the other team would not know what move they are making. They made us for this, or so our Prime Song says. Now you are their new puzzle, Tasmin Ferrence. You and all the Loudsingers. We viggies think it will be interesting to watch them figure you out.’
‘I want them to speak Urthish for only one reason, Bondri Gesel.’
‘We know,’ said the troupe leader. ‘When they speak to your powerful ones, there must be no misunderstanding what they say.’
Now, Tasmin was dumbfounded. ‘They intend to speak to our “powerful ones”?’
‘They do, Tasmin Ferrence. As soon as you give them all the words in your language and tell them where these powerful ones are to be found.’
‘All the words?’
‘Are they not in the machine somewhere? The female, Clarin, said they were in the machine.’
‘The dictionary! In the translator, yes.’
‘Can this be played to the Great Ones?’
‘I suppose it can.’ The Presences themselves had thought of this? Well, it would certainly save the human voices. ‘I understood that recorded things were unacceptable to them.’
‘Irritating to the skins, yes, Tasmin Ferrence. But they can tolerate it if they are awake.’
Tasmin exchanged a wondering glance with Clarin, who said, ‘Before they speak to the powerful ones, Bondri Gesel, ask the Tower if they will speak, very quietly, to persons from the citadels of the Tripsingers?’
‘They will do this, even though they say your language is ugly, Clarin. It has some very bad sounds in it.’
‘Would they understand an apology?’
‘They already know. They say you are a young race that has not had time to smooth yourself. You are still very bumpy.’ Bondri made a smilelike face, fangs showing at the edges of his mouth, a trifle malicious, Tasmin thought, before continuing. ‘Your language is bumpy, and it is obvious some of your individual persons are also bumps that need to be smoothed away. Or eaten,perhaps.’ Bondri licked his lips, enjoying Clarin’s near success at hiding a shudder. ‘Undoubtedly you have other bumps as well. However, they find even that interesting. There is no end to the interest that the Great Ones have stored up.’
Jamieson could not travel. The giligees would not let him travel. Tasmin knelt beside him, his hand on the boy’s shoulder, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of eyelids, moving with the dream he was in.
The pressure of Tasmin’s hand brought him from sleep. ‘Master Ferrence,’ Jamieson said, wakening all at once.
‘Reb.’
‘I’m sorry to plop out on you this way.’
‘I shouldn’t have let you sing to the Tower.’
‘You and who else would’ve tried to stop me?’
‘There was a Tripsinger here a while ago from Deepsoil Five, Reb. They heard the Tower roaring and sent someone to find out what was going on. I’ve asked him to send some people out to be with you, and with the Tower. The giligees will stay with you at least until then….’
‘Have a good trip, Master Ferrence. Make it fast.’
‘We will. I’m sorry you can’t be there for the end of it, however it ends.’
‘It’ll end here, too, one way or the other.’ Jamieson grinned at him, then heaved a deep breath, as though it hurt him to do so. ‘Master Ferrence.’
‘Yes, Reb.’
‘Remember, once I told you there was a lot to Clarin, Sir. I told you she wanted to work with you.’
‘Well – she got her chance.’
‘More than that, Sir. Tasmin.’ That heaving breath again. ‘She loves you. I got it out of her. I wish you’d kind of remember that. As a favor to me.’
Tasmin could not think of anything to say. He clasped Jamieson’s shoulder in his hand once more and left him there.
A caravan moved from Deepsoil Five westward, laden with brou. It came to the Watchers. The Tripsinger put back his hood and rolled up his sleeves. In the Tripwagon, the backup man leaned forward to touch the synthesizer.
Trumpet sounds. A tap of drums.
‘Arndaff-du-roomavah,’ the Tripsinger sang.
‘Brother, brother, brother,’ replied the South Watcher. ‘Return to the citadel and tell the Master General this Presence is his brother and wishes to speak with him.’
The wagons halted.
The Tripsinger fell silent, amazed and dizzy, totally unbelieving.
Not a ’ling quivered. The ground was silent.
‘Are you deaf?’ the North Watcher rumbled. ‘Do what your brother says.’
Outside the Jut, a wagon train moved eastward along the ’Soilcoast road. It came to the Jammers. The Tripsingers readied themselves, a trifle nervously as every Tripsinger had done since the massacre. The ground was quiet, suspiciously quiet. They did not know what to make of that, and regarded each other with unease. The first notes sounded from the Tripwagon, only to be drowned by quite another music.
‘Brother, brother, brother,’ sang the Jammers in close harmony. ‘Return to your citadel and tell your Master General to check his armory and be ready for trouble. Also, tell him to keep quiet about it until he hears from us.’
At the Redfang Range, a lonely Tripsinger sat high within the firelike glimmer of the ranked pillars, awash in orange light. Night was coming, and he had caught no sight of anyone the Grand Master was interested in. Rumors were the Grand Master’s own daughter was in here somewhere, but if that were true, she wasn’t showing herself. Sighing, he put his
