He went out into the street, hearing the music in a kind of panic, walking swiftly toward it, trying not to run, keeping himself from running only with great difficulty. As he approached the sound, he began to make out the words they were singing.
“Rise up, oh ye stones,” cried the tenors. “Rise up, ye great stones. Stand, oh, stand into the light.”
“Rise up,” boomed the basses. “Stand, oh, stand into the light.”
“Rise up,” trilled the girl’s voice. “Stand into the light.”
And there were Bombi and Volsa, sitting on the grass, listening, nodding in time to the music. “Not nice of you,” Shan snarled from just behind them. “Not nice of either of you.”
Bombi looked up to see him standing there, grinning a death’s-head grin.
“What were you two doing, sneaking off without me?” Shan asked. His voice was tight, near to screaming.
Bombi stared at him, not replying.
“I thought you were asleep,” said Volsa. “We’re just sightseeing.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Shan, seizing their arms and half-dragging them back the way they had come. “Out, quickly.”
“Shan, what’s the matter with you?” cried Volsa, tugging herself away from him.
“The noise,” he said. “The noise.”
“It’s only music, and lovely music,” she cried.
“In my head,” he muttered. “Something trying to get into my head. Swallow me.”
“Beauty,” she snapped. “Beauty trying to get into your head. It’s all right. We’re allowed to appreciate beauty.”
He shook his head at her, wildly. “More than that,” he hissed at her. “More than that. Get out of here.”
Bewildered, they followed him back to the guest quarters, where he shut the window against the sound of the distant choir.
“Don’t you hear it?” he cried at them. “The thing trying to get in?”
“Shan, go lie down,” his brother instructed. “You’re overtired. I hear nothing but music, lovely music, very nice voices, untrained but, in the mass, having a nice effect. I do not detect any threat against my religious sensibilities.”
“I’m not overtired,” Shan shouted. “Not!”
Volsa merely looked at him, thinking he had not acted like this since just after he had returned from Ninfadel. He met her eyes, flushed, and went into his own room, shutting the door behind him. He was quite sure he wasn’t mad. Though, at one time, among the Porsa and when he first got home, then he had thought he might be mad. This time he was quite sure he wasn’t. Quite, quite sure.
He sat down at his portable stage and began, very carefully, to compose a message to the Circle of Scrutators of the High Baidee. When he had done, he composed a quick, superficially innocent reminder to Howdabeen Churry. In essence, both of them said that Shan Damzel felt Zilia Makepeace had probably been right. Something dreadful was going on.
• Maire Girat received word that her nephew, one Ilion Girat, son of Phaed’s youngest brother, was on Hobbs Land and desired to see her. The last thing Maire wanted to do was see anyone from Voorstod, but on the other hand the boy could have something to say—about Phaed, perhaps. That he was sick, which she felt unlikely, or dead, which was always possible, given Phaed’s inclinations. If he were sick, or dead, she wanted to know. Silly, perhaps. Unreasonable, yes. But she wanted to know. However, there was this other possibility …
Maire went over to the brotherhouse and found Sam doing nothing much, which was a wonder in itself.
“I’ve a message your dad’s nephew is here on Hobbs Land,” she said.
“My dad’s nephew? My father …”
“Phaed Girat’s younger brother’s son.”
Sam went giddy. This would be it, a signal, an invitation. This would be the thing he had been waiting for. “So? Does he ask to meet us?”
“Me, he does. And I don’t want to.”
She looked so pitiful, he forgot to be angry with her, though he usually was when she got into all that nonsense about Voorstod. “Tell me,” he said.
“I’m afraid he’s here to bring me back to Phaed.”
Sam could not keep from saying in an exasperated voice, “Mam, that’s silly. He couldn’t bring you back to Phaed if he tried. And to think Phaed would send anyone, after all these years, it’s ridiculous. He might send for me, maybe, not for you.”
She ignored what he said, her fear overcoming her perception, not really hearing the words. “For me, maybe …”
“I know it sounds ridiculous,” she said, wiping her eyes, “but I’m still married to him.”
Sam did not want to speak of marriage. The idea of it shone in his mind. Lifelong commitment. He didn’t care what China called it, that’s what he wanted, and he dared not talk of it for fear those who scorned the idea would sully it for him.
“You didn’t get unmarried when you left Voorstod?” he asked.
“There’s no getting unmarried in Voorstod, Sammy. I’d made my vows to Phaed. I’d made them before a priest, as they do in Voorstod, and there’s no undoing of it. The men can undo it, but the women never. For women, vows made before the priest are sacred.”
“Not so sacred you didn’t just walk off and leave him, though,” said Sam, a hint of his buried anger coming through.
Maire gave him a shocked look. “Well of course, I didn’t just walk off and leave him. After Maechy died, I went to your dad and I told him I could not go on living there in Voorstod, and I begged him to come with me here to Hobbs Land. ‘You’ve riled your belly over the Gharm long enough,’ I told him. ‘Forget them and come with me. There’s no Abolitionists on Hobbs Land for you to pain your guts over, and there’s no slaves to get in a passion about, and no marriage there either, so you would
