The Singers of Nevya by Louise Marley

Houseman said, “If you need something else, Cantrix, I’ve been assigned to help you.”
    “No. Never mind.” She could hardly tell him she only wished for company. It would be beneath her dignity. And worse, it might make Rollie uncomfortable if she asked to see her. “Thank you,” she said. “There is nothing else.”
    When he had gone, she picked up her filhata and began to work.
    She was deeply immersed in a melody combining the fourth and fifth modes, searching for the perfect modulation from one to the other, when there was a sharp knock on her door.
    Automatically, she cast her mind out to discover who was there, but she did not recognize her caller. She went to the door, the filhata under arm, and found the petite, white-haired Housewoman who attended Rhia. Sira nodded to her. They had never been introduced.
    “The Magister wants to see the young Cantrix,” the woman said. Her bow was much shallower than that of the Houseman, and executed as if it were an afterthought.
    “Oh, certainly,” Sira said.
    The Housewoman’s faded blue eyes sparkled with malice. “Trude’s been to see him,” she said with obvious satisfaction. “Something about you.”
    Sira let this pass. She was about to meet her Magister at last. She put down her filhata and followed the Housewoman out, closing the door behind her.
    The Housewoman cast her an upward glance. “Your hair?”
    Sira put her hand to her head, and found that thick strands of hair had burst free of their binding. She tucked the errant locks back, and straightened her tunic. She shortened her steps to match those of the Housewoman.
    “Do you know about Trude?” the woman asked.
    “We have met.”
    The woman cackled. “You want to be careful with her. Denis is the Magister’s only child.”
    Sira, offended by the Housewoman’s intimate tone, disdained to ask if the Magister were angry about what she had done. It was not the first impression she had hoped to make, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
    “Rhia has no children,” the woman prattled, as if Sira had expressed interest. “Not one.”
    She grinned, making deeper wrinkles in her sunken cheeks. “Nice for Trude.”
    Except for Rollie and Blane, Bariken had not impressed Sira. She was unaccustomed to secrets and rudeness, but she hardly knew how to reprimand the woman. She walked faster. The Housewoman had to trot to keep up, and breathlessness put an end to her gossip.
    They went up the staircase with the intricately carved banister and the beautiful limeglass window. The glow of Bariken’s quiru shone beyond the glass, fading the sunshine. In the upper corridor, Sira let the Housewoman go ahead to show the way. They passed Trude’s apartment. At the next door, the Housewoman stopped, and opened it without knocking. She stood back to gesture Sira into a room with furs and tapestries everywhere–on the chairs, on the walls, on the floor. Sira had never seen a room so full of furniture and rugs and hangings. She had not known there were so many colors of thread for weaving, red and purple and blue and lavender all worked together.
    “Magister?” the Housewoman called. Sira noticed that her tone was polite now.
    “Here, Dulsy.” A stocky man of middle height with thick, graying hair and beard emerged from a back room. When he saw Sira, he grunted, and dropped into a big carved chair. She knew intuitively that her height bothered him; he sat so he wouldn’t have to stand looking up at her. Politely, she bowed. When Dulsy only stood to one side, watching her in silence, she introduced herself.
    “Magister Shen. I am Cantrix Sira v’Conservatory.”
    Shen nodded a curt greeting, muttering, “Welcome,” or something like it. His face was ruddy and creased, and Sira remembered that he loved to hunt. He looked more like her father than he did Magister Mkel. He stared at her for a moment. “How old are you?”
    Sira was weary of the question. “Almost eighteen, and fully qualified as