Even a Songbird.

There was a fire (burning wood!) in a fireplace at one end of the room. By it, on the floor, lay Mikal. He was old, but his body was lithe. His face was sagging but his arms were firm, bare to the shoulder with no hint of the loss of muscle.

The eyes were deep, and they regarded Ansset steadily. The servant led Ansset partway into the room, and then left.

Ansset, said the emperor.

Ansset lowered his head in a gesture of respect.

Mikal rose from his lying position to sit on the floor. There was furniture in the room, but it was far back at the walls, and the floor was bare by the fire. Come, Mikal said.

Ansset walked toward him, stopped and stood still when he was only a meter or so away. The fire was warm. But, Ansset noticed, the room was otherwise cool. Mikal had said only two words, and Ansset did not know his songs, not from that little bit. Yet there had been kindness, and a feeling of awe. Awe, from the emperor of mankind toward a boy.

Would you like to sit? Mikal asked.

Ansset sat. The floor, which had felt rigid to his feet, softened when his weight was distributed over a larger area, and the floor was comfortable. Too comfortable- Ansset was not used to softness.

Have you been treated well?

For a moment Ansset did not answer. He was listening to Mikal's songs, and did not realize that a question had been asked, not until he had begun to understand a little of the reason a Songbird had been sent to a man who had killed so many millions of human beings.

Are you afraid to answer? Mikal asked. I assure you, if you've been mistreated in any way--

I don't know, Ansset said. I don't know what passes for good treatment here.

Mikal was amused, but showed it only warily. Ansset admired his control. Not Control, of course, but something akin to it, something that made him hard to hear. What passes for good treatment in the Songhouse?

No one ever searched me in the Songhouse, Ansset said. No one ever held my penis as if he wanted to own it,

Mikal did not answer for a moment, though the pause was the only sign of emotion Mikal let himself show. Who was it? Mikal asked calmly.

It was the tall one, with the silver stripe. Ansset felt a strange excitement in being able to name the man. What would Mikal do?

The emperor turned to a low table, and pressed a place on it. There was a tall guard, a sergeant, among those who searched the boy.

A moment of silence, and then a soft voice answering- the Captain's voice, Ansset realized, but muted somehow, all harshness sifted out and softened. Was it the machinery? Or did the Captain speak this tenderly to Mikal? Callowick, said the Captain. What did he do?

He found the boy tempting, Mikal said. Break him and get him off planet somewhere. Mikal took his hand from the table.

For a moment Ansset felt a thrill of delight. He did not really understand what the guard had done, this Callowick, except that he had not liked it. But Mikal refused to let it happen again, Mikal would punish those who offended him, Mikal would keep him as safe as he had been in the Songhouse. Safer, for in the Songhouse Ansset had been hurt, and here no one would dare hurt him for Mikal's sake. It was Ansset's first taste of the power of life and death, and it was delicious.

You have power, Ansset said aloud.

Do I? asked Mikal, looking at him intently.

Everyone knows that.

And do you? Mikal asked.

A kind of power, Ansset said, but there had been something in Mikal's question. Something else, a sort of plea, and Ansset searched in His memory of this new, strange voice, to hear what the question was really asking. A kind of power, but you see the end of it. It makes you afraid.

Mikal said nothing now. Just looked carefully at Ansset's face. Ansset was afraid for a moment. Surely this was not what Esste had urged him to do. You must make friends, she had said, because you understand so much more. Do I? Ansset wondered now. I understand some things, but this man has hidden places. This man is dangerous, too; he is not just my protector.

You have to say something now, Ansset said, outwardly calm. I can't know you if I don't hear your voice.

Mikal smiled, but his eyes were wary, and so was his voice. Then perhaps I would be wise to be silent.

It was enough of Mikal's voice, and held enough of the emperor's emotion that Ansset could reach a little further. I don't think it's the loss of your power that you fear, Ansset said. I think-I think-- And then words failed him, because he did not understand what he saw and heard in Mikal, not in a way he could express in words. So he sang. With some words, here and there, but the rest melodies and rhythms that spoke of Mikal's love of power. You don't love power like a hungry man loves food, the song seemed to say. You love power like a father loves his son. Ansset sang of power that was created, not found; created and increased until it filled the universe. And then Ansset sang of the room where Mikal lived, filled it to the wooden walls with his voice, and let the sound reverberate in the wood, let it dance and become lively and, though it distorted his tone, come back to add depth to the song.

And as he sang the songs he had just learned from Mikal, Ansset became more daring, and sang the hope of friendship, the offer of trust. He sang the love song.

And when he had finished, Mikal regarded him with his careful eyes. For a moment Ansset wondered if the song had had any effect. Then Mikal reached out a hand, and it trembled, and the trembling was not from age. Reached out a hand, and Ansset also held out a hand, and laid it in the old man's palm. Mikal's hand was large and strong, and Ansset felt that he could be swallowed up, seized and gathered into Mikal's fist and never be found. Yet when Mikal closed his thumb over Ansset's hand, the touch was gentle, the grip firm yet kind, and Mikal's voice was heavy with emotion when he said, You are. What I had hoped for.

Ansset leaned forward. Please don't be too satisfied yet, he said. Your songs are hard to sing, and I haven't learned them all yet.

My songs? I have no songs.

Yes you have. I sang them to you.

Mikal looked disturbed. Where did you get the idea that they were--

I heard them in your voice.

The idea surprised Mikal, took him off guard. But there was so much beauty in what you sang--

Sometimes, Ansset answered.

Yes. And so much-what, I don't know. Perhaps. Perhaps you found such songs in me. He looked doubtful. He sounded disappointed. Is this a trick you play? Is this all?

A trick?

To hear what's going on in your patron's voice and sing it back to him? No wonder I liked the song. But don't you have any songs of yourself?

Now it was Ansset's turn to be surprised. But what am I?

A good question, Mikal said. A beautiful nine-year-old boy. Is that what they were waiting for? A body that would make a polygamist regret ever having loved women, a face that mothers and fathers would follow for miles, coveting for their children. Did I want a catamite? I think not. Did I want a mirror? Perhaps when I met the Songmaster so many years ago he was not so wise as I thought. Or perhaps I've changed since then.

I'm sorry I disappointed you. Ansset let his real fear show in his voice. Again, it was what Esste had told him: Hide nothing from your patron. It had been easy, after the ordeal in the High Room, to open his heart to Esste. But here, now, with this strange man who had not liked the song even though it had moved him deeply-it took real effort to keep the walls down. Ansset felt as vulnerable as when the soldier had fondled him, and as ignorant of what it was he feared. Yet he showed the fear, because that was what Esste had told him to do, and he knew she would not be wrong.