The second was that she was humming it exactly in key, with perfect pitch.
“You heard that in here, didn’t you?”
She looked abashed. “Yes, please.”
“How many times?”
“Just once.”
“Once.” Interest went quicker in his chest. “Mery, would you play something on the hammarharp for me? Something you used to play when you came in here alone?”
“But you’re so much better.”
“But I’ve been playing longer, and I was trained. Have you ever had a lesson in music?” She shook her head.
“Play something, then. I’d like to hear it.”
“Very well,” she said. “But it won’t be good.” She settled onto the little stool and spread her tiny fingers on the keyboard and began to play. It was just a melody, a single line, but he knew it immediately as “The Fine Maid of Dalwis.”
“That’s really very good, Mery,” he said. He pulled up another stool next to her. “Play it again, and I’ll play with you.”
She started again, and he added only chords at first, then a walking bass line. Mery’s smile grew more and more delighted.
After they were done, she looked at him, her blue eyes glittering. “I wish I could play with both hands,” she said, “the way you do.”
“You could, Mery. I could teach you, if you would like.”
She opened her mouth, then hesitated. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“It would be my honor.”
“I’d like to learn.”
“Very well. But you must be serious. You must do what I say. You have an excellent ear, but the way you’re using your hands is wrong. You must place them thusly—”
Two bells passed almost without Leoff’s realizing it. Mery picked up the exercises quickly. Her mind and ear were quite amazing, and it delighted him to see her progress.
He certainly didn’t hear anyone approaching, not until they were rapping on the open door.
He swiveled in his chair. The queen, Muriele Dare, stood there. She wasn’t looking at him, but at Mery. The girl, for her part, hopped down quickly and bent her knee. Belatedly, Leoff overcame his surprise and tried to do the same, though his splint spoiled the effect.
“Mery,” the queen said in a soft, cold voice, “why don’t you run along?”
“Yes, Majesty,” she said, and started to scuttle off. But she turned and looked shyly at Leoff. “Thank you,” she said.
“Mery,” the queen said, a little more forcefully.
And the little girl was gone.
The queen turned an icy eye on Leoff then. “When did Lady Gramme commission you to teach her child music?” she asked.
“Majesty, I know no Lady Gramme,” Leoff said. “The child has been hiding here because she likes music. I discovered her today.”
The queen’s face seemed to relax a bit. Her voice softened incrementally. “I shall make certain she bothers you no more.”
“Majesty, I find the child delightful. She has an excellent ear, and is quick to learn. I would teach her without compensation.”
“Would you?” The chill was back, and Leoff suddenly began wondering who exactly Lady Gramme was.
“If it is permitted. Majesty, I know so little of this place. I do not even know, frankly, if I am employed here.”
“That is what I have come here to discuss.” She took a seat, and he stood watching her nervously, the crutches tight under his arms. In the hall, a guard stood at either side of the door.
“My husband did not mention hiring you, and the letter you had from him seems to have left your possession.”
“Majesty, if I may, the fire in the malend—”
“Yes, I know, and Duke Artwair saw the letter, and that is good enough for me. Still, in these days, I must take great care. I made inquires about you in various places, and that took some time.”
“Yes, Majesty. Of course I understand.”
“I do not know much about music,” the queen said, “but I am given to understand you have an unusual reputation, for a composer. The Church, for example, has censured your work on several occasions. There were even allegations of shinecraft.”
“I assure you, Majesty,” Leoff began quickly, “I have done nothing heretical, and am certainly no shinecrafter.”
“Yet that opinion comes from the clergy in Glastir. They said that your works were often indecently orchestrated.” She shrugged. “I do not know what that means. They also report that one of your concerts provoked violence.”
“That is true in only the most abstract way, Majesty. Two gentlemen began arguing about the worth of one of my compositions. They did come to blows over it, and they had—friends—who joined them.”
“So there was a brawl.”
Leoff sighed. “Yes, Majesty.”
“The attish of Glastir said your music had a corrupting influence on the crowd.”
“I do not believe that to be true, Majesty.”
She smiled faintly. “I think I understand why my husband offered you this position, though it went long unfilled. He was somewhat at odds with the Church, and especially with Praifec Hespero. I suppose he did this to devil him a bit.” The smile vanished. “Unfortunately, my son is not in the position my husband was. We cannot afford to provoke the Church—at least not much. On the other hand, you did prove yourself a friend to this kingdom, and Duke Artwair’s good word in your behalf is worth its measure in gold.” Her brow creased slightly. “Tell me what the Church dislikes about your music. Precisely.”
Leoff considered his words carefully. “Majesty, your last court composer—what was your favorite of his works?”
She blinked, and he suddenly felt cold, for presuming to answer her question with a question.
“I really cannot say,” she said. “I suppose it may have been one of his pavanes.”
“Can you hear it in your head? Can you hum it?”
Now she looked annoyed. “Is there a point to this?”
He balanced on the crutches so he could clasp his hands in front of him. “Majesty, music is a gift of the saints. It has the power to move the human soul. And yet for the most part it does not. For almost a hundred years, music has been written not with the heart, but with the mind, almost arithmetically. It has become sterile, an academic exercise.”
“A pavane should sound like a pavane, should it not?” the queen asked. “And a requiem like a requiem?”
“Those are forms, Majesty. Within those forms, such sublime things could be done—”
“I don’t understand. Why does the Church object to your philosophy?”
And now Leoff knew he must choose his words very carefully.
“Because some members of the clergy confuse habit with doctrine. There was a time before the invention of the hammarharp—it was hardly a hundred years old. Two hundred years ago, it was unheard-of for two voices to sing different parts, much less four, yet hymns in the Church are now routinely written in four parts. And yet, for whatever reason, for the last hundred years, music has changed not at all. It has inertia, and familiarity. Some people fear change—”
“I asked you to be specific.”
“Yes, Majesty. Forgive me. Take, for instance, the separation of instrumental and vocal music. The music of the Church is of the voice only. Instruments never accompany a requiem. A concerto, on the other hand, never has a human voice added to it.”
“Minstrels play and sing,” the queen said.
“Yes. And the Church mislikes it. Why? I have never been shown a written doctrine to explain it.”
“Then you want to compose for both the voice and instruments?”
“Yes! It was done in ancient times, before the reign of the Black Jester.”
“He banned it?”
“Well—no. He encouraged it, actually, but like everything else he touched, he corrupted the form. He made music a thing of terror—torturing singers to scream in unison, that sort of thing.”