It's a proud place, Ansset said.

What, Earth? Riktors Ashen asked.

What have I seen of Earth?

The whole planet's like this. Mikal didn't design this city, you know: It was a gift to him.

The whole planet's like this? Beautiful?

No. Trimmed. With its nose in the air. People on Earth are very proud of their place as the 'heart of humanity.' Heart, hell. On the fringe, that's all they are, an Insane fringe, too, if you ask me. They cling to their petty national identities as if they were religions. Which they are, I think. Terrible place for a capital-this planet is more fragmented than the rest of the galaxy. There are even independence movements.

From what?

From Mikal. His capital planet, and they think that just a piece of a planet should be free of him. Riktors laughed.

Ansset was genuinely puzzled. But how can they divide it up? Can they lift a piece of the world up and put it in space? How can they be independent?

Out of the mouths of babes.

They rode in a flesket, of course, all transparent except for the view of the road beneath their feet, which would have made them sick to see. It was an hour from the port to the city, but now the palace was in view, a jumble of what seemed to be stone in an odd, intricate style that looked lacy and delicate and solid as the planet itself.

Most of it's underground, of course, Riktors said.

Ansset watched the building approach, saying nothing. It occurred to Riktors that perhaps the boy was nervous, afraid of the coming meeting. Do you want to know what he's like?

Ansset nodded.

Old. Few men in Mikal's business live to be old. There have been more than eight thousand plots against the emperor's life. Since he got here to Earth.

Ansset did not register emotion until a moment later,

and then he did it in a song, a short wordless song of amazement. Then he said, so Riktors could understand, A man that so many people want to die-he must be a monster!

Or a saint.

Eight thousand.

Fifty of them actually came close. Two of them succeeded in injuring the emperor. You'll understand the security arrangements that always surround him. People go to great lengths to try to kill him. Therefore we must go to great lengths to try to protect him.

How, Ansset asked, did such a man ever earn the right to have a Songbird?

The question surprised Riktors. Did Ansset really understand his own uniqueness in the universe right now? Was he so vain about being a Songbird that he marveled that the emperor should have one? No, Riktors decided. The boy was only just made a Songbird at the beginning of the flight that brought him here. He still thinks of Songbirds as other, as outside himself. Or does he?

Earn the right? Riktors repeated thoughtfully. He came to the Songhouse years and years ago, and asked. According to the story I heard, he asked for anything-a Songbird, a singer, anything at all. Because he had heard a Songbird once and couldn't live without the beauty of such music. And he talked to the old Songmaster, Nniv. And the new one, Esste. And they promised him a Songbird.

I wonder why.

He'd already done most of his killing. His reputation preceded him. I doubt that they were fooled about that. Perhaps they just saw something in him.

Of course they did, Ansset said, and his voice chided gently so that suddenly Riktors felt young and vaguely patronized by the child beside him. Esste wouldn't make a mistake.

Wouldn't she? Devil's advocate, Riktors thought. Why do I always play such opposite roles? There's more than a little grumbling throughout the empire, you know. That the Songhouse has been sold out, sending you to Mikal.

Sold out? For what price? Ansset asked mildly. And Riktors resented the scorn in the question.

Everything has a price. Mikal's paying more for you than for dozens of ships of the fleet. You came for a high price.

I came to sing, Ansset said. And if Mikal had been poor, but the Songhouse had decided he should have a Songbird, they would have paid him to take me.

Riktors raised an eyebrow.

It has happened, Ansset said.

Aren't you a bit young to know history? Riktors asked, amused.

What family doesn't know its own past?

For the first time Riktors realized that the Songhouse's isolation was not just a technique or a facade to raise respect. Ansset, and by extension all the singers, didn't really feel a. kinship with the rest of humanity. At least not a close kinship. They're everything to you, aren't they? Riktors asked.

Who? Ansset answered, and they arrived. It was just as well. Ansset's who was frigid and Riktors could not have pursued the questioning had he wanted to. The child was beautiful, especially now that the scars and bruises had healed completely. But he was not normal. He could not be touched as other children could be touched. Riktors had prided himself on being able to make friends with children easily. But Ansset, he decided, was not a child. Days together on the flight, and the only thing their relationship had disclosed to Riktors was the fact that they had no relationship. Riktors had seen Ansset with Esste, had seen love as loud as the roar of engines in atmosphere. But apparently the love had to be earned. Riktors had not earned it.

Riktors had been hated by many people. It had never bothered him before. But he knew that, more than any other thing, he wanted this boy to love him. As he had loved Esste.

Impossible. What am I wishing for? Riktors asked himself. But even as he asked himself, Ansset took his hand and they walked off the flesket together, walked into the gate, and Riktors felt what little closeness they had had slipping away from him. He might as well still be on Tew, Riktors decided. He's lightyears away, even holding my hand. The Songhouse has a hold on him that will never let go.

Why the hell am I jealous?

And Riktors shook himself inwardly, and condemned himself for having let the Songhouse and this Songbird weave their spells around him. The Songbird is trained to win love. Therefore, I will not love him. And, once decided, it became very nearly true.

2

The Chamberlain was a busy man. It was the most noticeable thing about him. He bounced slightly on the balls of his feet when he stood; he leaned forward as he walked; so anxious was he to reach his destination that even his feet could not keep up with him. And while he was graceful and interminably slow during ceremonies, his normal conversation was quick, the words tumbling out so that you dared not let your attention flag for a moment or you would miss something, and to ask him to repeat himself-ah, he would fly into a rage and there would be your promotion for the year, utterly lost.

So the Chamberlain's men were quick, too. Or rather, seemed to be quick. For it did not take long for those who worked for the Chamberlain to realize that his quickness was an illusion. His words were rapid, but his thoughts were slow, and he took five or six conversations to finally, get to a point that might have been said in a sentence. It was maddening, infuriating, so that his underlings went to infinite pains to avoid speaking to him.

Which was precisely what he wanted.

I am the Chamberlain, he said to Ansset, as soon as they were alone.

Ansset looked at him blankly. It took the Chamberlain a bit by surprise. There was usually some flicker of recognition, some half-smile that betrayed nervous awareness of his power and position. From the boy? Nothing.

You are aware, he went on without waiting any longer for a response, that I am administrator of this palace, and, by extension, this city. Nothing more. My authority does not extend any farther. Yet that authority includes you. Completely, utterly, without exception. You will do what I say.