This is a fan translation of Envoy From the Heavens (Посланец небес) by Mikhail Akhmanov, currently only available in Russian and, because of the author's passing in 2019, unlikely to ever be published in English. This is the book in a series called Trevelyan's Mission (Миссия Тревельяна), which is a spin-off from the author's Arrivals from the Dark (Пришедшие из мрака) six-book series.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Chapter 16

Tilim

The sun rose and set, the Near Star was winking with its emerald eye, the wind, sometimes cool and sometimes hot, blew, pushing clouds across the sky, brief warm rains fell, and the road once again was speeding under Daut's hooves, sometimes as straight as a spear shaft, and sometimes winding among mountain screes, crossing rivers on bridges, hiding in gorges and tunnels, stretching like a gray stone ribbon from one city to another, where it invariably split into the lakes of squares, streams of streets, and the web of alleys. From Oninda-Ro Trevelyan traveled to an area called the Five Rivers, where five large slow rivers were flowing through a vast Western plain, merging across thousands of kilometers into a single giant river that carried its waters through the Upper and Middle Pons to Transstraight and the Shimmering Sea. But he didn't turn to Pons, instead heading southwest to the small nation of Shia, whose southern borders touched Tilim and Sotara. From the Five Rivers and Sotara it was separated by offshoots of the Ringed Ridge, which were a godsend for Shia; during the warlike pre-Imperial time, the mountains had protected them from enemy invasions, so Shia hadn't become a province of Sotara and hadn't gotten chewed up by the rulers of the Five Rivers, who hungered for other lands. Now these troubles and fears were in the distant past; the Empire, the guarantor of stability and inviolability of borders, maintained the same type of order here as in Etland, Hai-Ta, Peabal, and the other Eastern nations. Guard posts, signal towers, and military camps appeared with the same regularity, and between them stood pylons, and every other saying reminded the people about the punishment that awaited those who would violate the peace.

Shia traditionally had good-neighborly relations with Tilim, which lay between Sotara and the coastal Sho-Ing. It wasn't that the Tilimese were less warlike than the Sotarans; on the contrary, back in the day they'd sharpen their blades and axes for any reason, or even without a reason. But the border with Tilim had no natural obstacles like mountains or rivers, so the people of Shia had acted wisely by picking a prince from a younger branch of the Tilimese ruling family. His descendants, having become kings, remembered about the undefended border and the might of Tilim, which was ten times that of Shia, and only married Tilimese princesses in order to strengthen the throne and the dynasty with beneficial family ties. Now this was already a part of the past, as in Tilim, Shia, and the majority of the Western nations, perhaps even everywhere except for Sho-Ing, ruled half-breed kings, descended from the ancient lawful rulers and the highest nobles of the Seven Provinces. Their women were still beautiful, and as for the men, who sometimes bore Tilimese and sometimes Imperial names, all of them had sideburns, except theirs were blond or red rather than dark.

But Tilim was distinguished not only by the beauty of its women and the bravery of its men. Making use of terrestrial analogies, FDAC experts typically compared it to France in the final decades before the Hundred Years' War, when the nation of Louis the Saint and Philip the Handsome had been at the peak of its might. As for Tilim, it hadn't fought anyone in a long time, but was still the wealthiest, most enlightened, and most attractive of the Western nations. This was helped by the fertility of its lands, the luxury of its ancient cities, its lush, exquisite celebrations, its thriving arts, but mostly by its central location among the Western countries and the trade routes passing through Tilim. Merchants and wealthy townsfolk were respected her as much as the local aristocracy, and marriages between these classes weren't out of the ordinary. As for what was most notable about Tilim, it was the wine, which competed with Torvalian, jewelry and glassware, fabrics, tapestries and rugs, paintings on a special parchment, and the skill of its dancers. It was a class of its own, just like the geishas of Japan and courtesans of Rome, free women, skilled in lovemaking, who have gone through lengthy training and were frequently quite rich. They didn't merely brighten up the lives of men in Tilim itself, but were also an important export item.

But Trevelyan wasn't coming here to have fun; it was because a straight path to the Sho-Ing Principalities and the Shimmering Sea coast went through Tilim and its magnificent capital of Ferantin. At the coast he planned to hire a small vessel and sail out into the ocean to look for the Great Mentor's island. If the island really existed and wasn't a figment of Orri-Shan's imagination, he would find it! Trevelyan had no idea how exactly he was going to do that and wasn't trying to make any search plans, as the situation was unclear in one key detail: why this piece of land, surrounded by water, hadn't been picked up by the orbital satellites.

In principle, he could find a ship for such a trip in the trade cities of Transstraight, the Island Kingdom, and Udzeni itself, but not just any vessel would work, Trevelyan needed one he could control completely. A crew of no more than five, into whom he could instill respect with a whip and a fist in case of a mutiny; about the size of an ocean yacht, plus sizable holds, plus the necessary reliability to sail in the ocean, plus a square rig and speed. Such vessels could only be found in Sho-Ing; typically their owners made a living by smuggling or minor piracy in Transstraight, Tora, Pini-Pta, and other seaside countries. Also, the people of the Principalities were brave and, unlike other sailors, weren't afraid of being in the ocean.

But Tilim couldn't be avoided on the way to Sho-Ing, and one couldn't go past Ferantin after getting here. So one day Trevelyan approached the northern gate of the Tilimese capital, where pipes were blowing and flags were waving, probably because of some holiday. Unwilling to get stuck in traffic in front of the gate, he found an inn at the entrance to the city, grabbed a bite to eat, left Daut in the stable with some grain, placed Gray onto his shoulder, and went for a walk.

The inn was full of visitors, which seemed to be typical for Ferantin. Short swarthy people, fair-haired and quick, were unharnessing and feeding horses and, exchanging comments in their loud sonorous voices, were carrying their masters' luggage; their masters in bright tight-fitting clothes were drinking wine on the terrace, giving orders to the servants, and ogling the girls carrying trays and jugs. Among this bustle he particularly made out a couple dozen men from the East, coachmen and the merchant accompanying the cargo; their bulky carts, packed with dense gray bundles, stood in the corner of the courtyard, differing sharply from the passenger coaches and the dapper Tilimese carriages. Passing by, Trevelyan paused, threw a curious glance at the Eastern goods, and lifted his eyebrows. Whale bladder, it had to be! Six carts packed with whale bladder! Naturally, this wasn't the same caravan he'd encountered in Etland; enough time had passed since then to cross the continent twice over. So where were they taking this fish offal? And to whom? Perhaps the addressee was the same?

The merchant giving orders next to the carts gave him a polite reply to his bow. Like all the people of the East, he had bushy eyebrows and a sizable nose, drooping over his upper lip; among the Tilimese, he and his people seemed to be goblins who had ended up in an elven kingdom.

"Tell me, honored sir," Trevelyan said, "is your caravan heading to Sho-Ing? More specifically, to the very border of Sho-Ing and Tilim, to the estate of noble Kadmiamun?"

"Yes, rhapsod." The merchant was clearly surprised. "My lord Kadmiamun is from a family of wealthy nobles, but he engages in trade. Distant trade, with the Archipelago and Hai-Ta. I am Seylad, one of his assistants. Do you know my lord?"

"I've heard of him, Seylad. I even hope to pay him a visit, as I am on my way to Sho-Ing. Tell me, is he generous? Does he enjoy music and singing?"

Seylad shrugged, "His generosity is beyond measure, but as for singing, I have no idea. He's a man of science with various oddities about him. Maybe he likes songs, maybe not, but he would definitely like to get a close look at your critter. It's a rare beast!"

"A man of science then… Isn't it dangerous for him to live in Sho-Ing? I've heard that the coastal people are dangerous robbers."

"They're robbing at sea, giving my lord a wide birth. Do you know who his half-brother is?" Trevelyan leaned in, and Seylad whispered in his ear, "Kadmidaus, one of the rulers of the Shimmering Sea… a nobleman, a merchant, and... well, you know. So anyone who lays a finger on Kadmiamun will quickly find himself feeding the fishes."

Trevelyan nodded in understanding. Apparently the scientist Kadmiamun's brother was one of the princes of Sho-Ing, who made their living the same way as their Eastern colleagues in the Five-fingered Sea. He gave the carts another look and asked, "Do you know why your lord wants whale bladder? Does he have workshops for gluing nautical clothing?"

Seylad gave a sly smile, "He does have workshops, but you should ask my lord himself what's being glued in them. You're going there anyway, right? Well then, I wish you an easy journey! Maybe he'll like your songs."

Nodding in farewell, Trevelyan left the courtyard and headed for the city gate. At one point, Ferantin had been surrounded by genuine walls with towers and bastions, but with the arrival of the Imperial army, their upper portion was torn down, and the stones used to pave squares and streets. But the ancient foundation was still there, and the Tilimese were too practical a people to abandon such a monumental structure. Which was why the city was surrounded by a new wall, which included magnificent colonnades for taking a stroll, graceful observation towers, from which one could enjoy the view of the capital, terraces filled with trees, holy sites and temples, of which no two were alike, and entire alleys of monuments, where statues of local rulers stood next to fountains, mythical beasts, busts of emperors and the divine Tavan-Gez, who was casting down the evil spirits of the abyss. All that had been carved and built out of pink limestone, of which there was plenty in Tilim, and the city, whose buildings could be seen beyond the colonnades and green groves, was also pink, airy, and bright, as if it had been molded out of sunlit clouds.

At the gate, decorated with flags, wreaths, and flower garlands, there was a crowd of people of various standing, listening to the speeches of the heralds. In order to get everyone's attention, they were blowing into their pipes, and then the one with the loudest voice announced that the following day, the noble Supinulum, the sovereign of Tilim, friend and loyal ally to the ruler of the Seven Provinces, was going to sacrifice his blood in the temple of the Three Gods, in order to ensure the prosperity of all Tilimese cities and lands and for his people to be strong, produce plenty of offspring, and have a goatskin of wine in the left hand and a slab of ham in the right each day. The blood sacrifice was to happen at Dawn, followed by a carnival, where each would be permitted to drink, dance, be merry, and hide his face under a mask, and also to watch the performances of dancers, magicians, acrobats, and wrestlers. And it would last for three nights and three days.

After listening to the announcement, Trevelyan pushed his way through the mass of idlers and the curious, passed under the stone arch, stepped onto a wide city street, also decorated with flags and packed with people, and looked around, trying to choose his next route. But before he could even take a step, someone's hands grabbed onto his poncho and a loud young voice shouted right over his ear, "A rhapsod! A rhapsod, may I be eaten alive by the demons of the abyss! A rhapsod from the Seven Provinces! And one so handsome! Like Tavangour-Dash in the flesh! And with such an interesting critter!"

Trevelyan turned his head. In front of him stood a young comely herald in colorful clothing: tight-fitting blue pants, a sleeveless crimson shirt with silver embroidery, a short yellow cape with lace, white boots, and a tall chimney-like hat. A copper horn and a folded fan were stuffed into his belt. He didn't look strong, but his grip on Trevelyan's poncho was strong.

"I share your breath, young man. I really am a rhapsod, and with an interesting critter. Well, what do you want from the two of us?"

"And I yours." The boy quickly drew a circle over his heart. "I am Tukinul, assistant to the chief holiday and celebration organizer, who sits at the very feet of our sovereign. You see, we need a ninth rhapsod for the glorious Honey Butterfly Tournament. And if your voice is as pleasant as your appearance and clothing, you are exactly what we need."

"Thank you, but participating in a tournament is not on my list of things to do, Tukinul."

"Call me Tuki. What is your name, rhapsod? Ten-Urhi? Have you not heard about Honey Butterly?" The young herald's eyes grew wide. "The most famous, illustrious singers dream of taking part in this tournament! It's the centerpiece of any holiday in the capital, and the prize that—"

"Excuse me, Tuki," Trevelyan interrupted him, "but I'm not a famous singer."

"If you take part in this tournament, you'll immediately become famous and illustrious," the young man said, demonstrating a rational approach to this. Then he informed him in a secretive whisper, "I'll tell you everything about Honey Butterfly, but one doesn't speak of such things in a crowd. No, my words are only for the chosen ones. Spare a brief moment, Ten-Urhi, and let's go here… to this cozy tavern, whose owner I know, and I can swear that he does not dilute his wine… at least the wine he serves me. I see you're fresh from the road, so a goblet or two would be nice, wouldn't it? And me too, I've almost lost my voice after screaming at this cursed gate…"

Keeping Trevelyan's poncho in his left hand, he dragged him through the crowd, then pulled out his horn out of the belt and started hitting his fellow citizens on their heads and shoulders with it, while saying, "Give way, good people of Ferantin, give way to a servant of celebrations! Don't push, don't get in my way! I know, each of you wishes to get a look at me, but there's no need for pushing! Any who pushes me will spend the carnival having fun in a cage with patses! And instead of wine will be drinking their piss, I swear on the Protector Tavanna-Shihi!"

Look at that fopling! the Commodore offered his opinion. I've seen such morons among staff officers. Three days in the brig, after which sent them to clean the engines every day… After a month of this, all the foolishness would come right out!

Imagining Tuki cleaning engines, Trevelyan grinned, but followed him to the table and a jug with goblets without resisting. The young man was talkative but pleasant and probably knew half of the people in Ferantin, and those he didn't weren't worth mentioning. A valuable source of information!

After wetting his throat with the cool beverage, he said, "So you need a ninth rhapsod… I assume you already have eight?"

"Yes, and among them are Loud Strings Hiji-Dor from Mad-Tuss, which is in the Day Province, and Sweet-voiced Firidanum from Praa, which is in Sotara. Such great singers! Such tinned throats! And such fingers! They run across the strings faster than a snake chasing a tree rabbit! But," here Tuki leaned closer to Trevelyan and lowered his voice, "besides a throat and fingers one also needs a pleasant appearance and the gift of storytelling. Especially the gift, for each participant of the tournament sings three new songs: a love song, a war song, and a hymn to the beauty of nature."

"I've got a wagonload of new songs," Trevelyan informed him, "and I'm great on the lute. But I can't promise that my throat sounds sweetly."

"Let's test it out," Tuki offered, looking around the tavern. It was tiny, with only four tables, and the owner, probably out of respect to the servant of celebrations and his secret dealings, had cleared the territory of clientele and shut the door.

Trevelyan cleared his throat, took in a deep breath, produced a loud scream as an exercise, and sang Let's Get It Started. The glasses on the shelves shook, something poured down from the ceiling, either paint or stucco, while the deafened tavern owner was crouching and hiding behind the counter.

"Loud," Tuki stated. "Loud is good, your voice is going to fill the hall. You see, the Butterfly Tournament isn't taking place at an amphitheater, but in a closed room, where only the chosen are invited. This spectacle isn't for a wide audience, but for educated and understanding people. There will be the sovereign with his family, nobles of the higher sort, about fifty wealthy townsfolk, sages from our academy, rhapsods, and, of course, girls."

"What girls?" Trevelyan asked, starting to feel interest towards this matter.

"Tilimese dancers. You singers have your Brotherhood, and they have their Sisterhood. Well, there will be dancers from this Sisterhood, the best and most famous ones. I must say," Tuki shifted closer and whispered, "that even though the tournament is patronized by the sovereign himself, the noble Supinulum, the money comes from the Sisterhood, and the food, and all the prizes, to say nothing of the main prize. That's why they—"

"Wait, slow down," Trevelyan interrupted him. "What is the main prize? And why is the tournament called this way? Honey Butterfly and not, say, Ferantinian Bird or Tilim's Best Throat?"

"That's what I'm getting at! The tournament is being run by the Sisterhood of Dancers, and the third singer will get a hundred gold, the second gets two hundred, and the first…" Tuni's eyes rolled up in his head. "The first, meaning the winner, gets a night of pleasure with the beautiful Ariena, she's our current butterfly, and not even a dead man would refuse such a prize. The number of those willing to enter is huge, and a hundred and eighteen rhapsods have already showed up in Ferantin and are at this moment waiting at the door to my lord, the celebration organizer. And I'm sitting here and trying to talk you into it! With a voice like that, with your looks and new songs, you…" Tuki waved his hand and took a gulp from his goblet.

Trevelyan's hand touched his sideburns automatically. He tugged on the left, then the right one, almost pulling out the ribbons, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, and drawled, "I see… May I assume that the Honey Butterfly is a symbol of some kind? Which indicates bursts of carnal passion, the love of the beautiful woman that serves as the prize to the winner?"

"You may." The young herald finished his goblet and slammed it on the table. "More wine, keeper! By the way, my friend Ten-Urhi, starting tomorrow morning, butterfly mating season begins, which can be seen on all the nectar meadows. So the carnival and our tournament are timed to match their aerial marriages, and the sovereign himself will sacrifice his blood when the butterflies have their… what did you call it?.. oh yes, bursts of carnal passion. Beautiful words! That morning our noble Supinulum will prickle his finer with a dagger, not earlier and not later."

"I see that Ariena is a popular girl here," Trevelyan said. "After all, one hundred and eighteen applicants… And you couldn't find nine? Why not?"

"Because we have to keep her interests in mind, she's the one who has to fulfil the terms of the tournament! A rhapsod allowed into the tournament must be attractive and of a suitable age, and the majority of applicants are snot-nosed boys, far too old, or their mugs aren't that attractive. But you, Ten-Urhi, are definitely suitable! I should mention that the tournament is judged by Honey Butterfly herself, and the loudest voice isn't always the winner. She knows better… And you have a chance, by the Three Gods!"

"I'm flattered." Trevelyan bowed his head slightly. "I've almost agreed, Tuki. Now if something else were to be added to the prize… just a tiny bit… I'm sure that this 'almost' will disappear."

"What do you want? Money?"

"No. I'm heading to Sho-Ing, to the Shimmering Sea, and I need letters of recommendation. Preferably to the ruler Kadmidaus and his brother Kadmiamun. If your master, the celebration organizer, were to write them, or, even better, if the noble Supinulum himself were to do me this favor…"

"Sho-Ing! Demons of the abyss, Sho-Ing! What do you have to do in Sho-Ing, rhapsod? The people there are ignorant and rough, their lands are abandoned, and their cities—the ones near the sea coast—look more like a warehouse and a robber's lair."

"And yet I must get there, find a ship, and come out to sea. You see, Tuki, I had a mentor from these parts named… hmm… Hurliulum, and before he died he asked me not to throw his ashes into a river, but to lower them into sea waters, or better yet into the Western Ocean. His ashes are here," Trevelyan touched his sack. "There are many things he hadn't had time to finish in this world, so he is in a hurry to return from the Rim. And for that his ashes need to make it there faster."

Tuki drew a circle around his heart, "Your intentions are pious, Ten-Urhi… I will speak with my master, and he can probably give you a few parchment scrolls with the sovereign's seal. But do you agree to sing? Tomorrow, at Midday, at the Quick Legs and Flexible Hips Arena?"

A nice name, the Commodore commented. Very promising!

As for Trevelyan, he merely asked, "How do I get to that arena, Tuki?"

"Don't worry, Ten-Urhi, I'll take you there. And now tell me what you want. From this moment you are an honored guest of Ferantin! What do you need, rhapsod?"

"A bath, a barber, and new clothes. But there's no need to hurry, Tuki... There's still wine left in the jug.

Trevelyan thought about stopping by the Ferantin home of the Brotherhood, to talk to the shelter giver, and to ask around about his competitors, but then decided not to take any chances. He'd gone to a lot of trouble to evade observation in the mountains of Oninda-Ro and on the roads of Shia and Peytakh, and he wasn't even sure he'd succeeded, since he still wasn't certain how they were watching him. In a situation like this it would be better to forget about the home, so that he didn't give himself up before he was ready. Since he was now going to sing at the Quick Legs Arena, everything ought to match its name: show up, sing, and leave. With the letters of recommendation, of course.

Tuki delivered the letters the following morning, and they looked impressive: three parchment scrolls with gold rope and seals, and not from resin, but silvered lead. Trevelyan packed them into his bag and followed the herald into the courtyard, noting that the Eastern caravan was gone — Clearly Seylad hadn't been enticed by the celebration and departed at Dawn. The servants had already harnessed Daut, so all he had to do was climb onto the chariot, snap his whip, and leave out the gate. Which was what he did.

The Quick Legs and Flexible Hips Arena was located outside the city, on the lands of the school, or maybe even an entire academy of the Sisterhood, where young dancers were being taught various skills. A suitable place in order to disappear after his performance, Trevelyan decided after examining the area. The school was located in a park with intertwined paths and thick growths, among which two dozen structures of various size were hiding. But the arena turned out to be a noticeable building, sticking out over the treetops; it was a tall and wide pavilion with a training hall and the chambers adjoining it, where one could rest, eat, and even take a bath. Besides dancing, they probably made use of other sciences, as there was a sizable bed in each room, which made one think of sinful thoughts. The chambers assigned to Trevelyan were trimmed with blue silk, and its deep cold hue had a calming effect.

He placed Gray on a soft pillow, then, after getting changed, grabbed his lute and followed Tuki to the hall. There, on an oval pad with a wooden floor, girls were already entertaining the guests by dancing; their swarthy flexible bodies were almost naked, their thin bare feet were pounding out the beat of a quick dance, their eyes were glinting, their hands were weaving an invisible tapestry in the air, their hair was dancing in red and golden waves. Trevelyan paused in amazement, but Tuki pushed him into his side and hissed, "You'll get your chance to look! Bow, rhapsod, bow! In this direction and that one!"

To the left, in the far end of the arena, stood a throne-like chair, and on it, surrounded by a retinue of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, sat an important-looking man, distinguished by his sizable obesity, the gleaming of his decorations, and the fair-haired sideburns, braided in the style of the Seven Provinces. The noble Supinulum, Trevelyan realized and, drawing a circle around his heart, bowed low; after all, the letters he'd received were worth these modest gestures of respect. Then he shifted his gaze to the right, jerked, and froze: at the other end of the Quick Legs Arena, on a low carpeted dais, sat a girl of an incredible, truly unearthly beauty. Her eyes were bright and blue, her lips were scarlet, her forehead was high and clear, her eyebrows were like a bird's wings, spread in flight, her nose was charmingly perky, slightly pointing up. All this beauty was framed by her light chestnut locks, upon which sat a tiara made of sea stone.

Here, Trevelyan was thinking, was a wonder of nature, brief and fragile, before which, however, paled all the achievements of advanced civilization, all those robots, clones, computers and grav-flyers, quasiliving mechanisms, the contour drive, star liners and war cruisers, lasers and holoprojectors. FDAC theories and the experience of field agents confirmed that beauty and physical perfection were valued on all humanoid worlds, at all stages of cultural development; in fact, it was one of the borderline phenomena that separated a society of people, even if primitive, from a pack of animals. Humans perceived the beauty of other races that weren't truly alien normally, and that proved that technology and social progress did not affect the psyche as much as their distant ancestors had assumed at the dawn of the space age and later, in the era of expansion and the Dark Wars. Even after achieving godlike power, the people of Earth were still human, they hadn't turned into ugly dwarves with hypertrophied brains, hadn't become emotionless cyborgs or hive-minded insects. At that moment, staring at the beautiful Ariena, Trevelyan felt that especially strongly.

"Pick up your jaw and bow," Tuki's voice rustled. After that had been done, he led Trevelyan past the dancing girls to a bench, where eight rhapsods were sitting. Other benches surrounded the arena and were filled by the select public: nobles, townsfolk, singers who hadn't been fortunate enough to participate in the tournament; about three hundred people in total. Servants with trays dashed about between them, and the jingling of coins could be heart. The jingling grew louder at Trevelyan's arrival.

"Are they making bets?" he asked Tuki.

"You have no idea! That's the greatest appeal: to guess whom Ariena is going to take to her bed. Just look, there are already mountains of silver on the trays! And nothing but gold for those who take bets from the rich folks! By the way, one-seventh of the take goes to the Sisterhood."

"Not a bad business," Trevelyan noted upon reaching his colleagues/competitors. "Greetings, brothers. Your blood is my blood."

The rhapsods replied in unison and shifted to allow him to sit on the bench. Each and everyone one of them was a handsome young man: two from the Seven Provinces, one Northerner, and the rest were of the Western race, swarthy and fair-haired. They stared at Trevelyan with curiosity, but without hostility, while he had eyes only for the beautiful Ariena. At one moment their eyes met, and Trevelyan knew for certain that if he won the tournament, he wouldn't leave without his reward. This ruined his plans, but were they worth abandoning life's small pleasures?

The Commodore was of the same opinion. While the rhapsods were being introduced and the terms of the competition announced, he urged Trevelyan to defend Earth's honor and win both rounds: in the hall and in bed. Don't shame the family name, lad, he whispered soundlessly in his mind, A marine never gives up and never retreats! Sturm und drang! ¡No pasarán! Trevelyan told him to shut up, and at that moment Ariena waved her hand smoothly.

"First song!" the herald announced loudly, and a respectable silence fell over the hall. "A song of the beauty of flowers, the majesty of the sun-filled meadow, the silence and cool of the forest, the stern might of the mountains, and the gurgling of streams. The honored Fantaur of Lower Pons! We're listening to you."

Fantaur did not make an impression and was rewarded by occasional approving shouts. His music was decent, but his voice turned out to be weak, and his composition about honey butterflies on their mating flight felt a little cynical. As for his own singing, Trevelyan was confident. His creative supply included Scottish ballads and Russian romances, songs from China and France, Germany and India, African tunes, and the creations of twentieth-century bards. All this, carefully selected and translated into the local languages, adapted to Osieran musical traditions, had been imprinted into his mind by the hypnoemitter. At the drop of a hat, he could sing for Édith Piaf or Caruso, or even an entire band like the Beatles or Abba. Within the range of his vocal capability, of course.

He was the last in line, which allowed him to gauge the strengths of his fellow competitors. In the first seven, probably only Loud Strings Hiji-Dor presented a problem, but Trevelyan could rival him; Hiji-Dor played well, but his powerful bass seemed to be not very suitable for a gentle lyrical song. His appearance wasn't appropriate either; Hiji-Dor was muscular, with a mighty chest and a mane of dark unkempt hair, which was sticking out in every direction. He seemed to be accounting for that and sang of a storm over the Ringed Ridge, of rolling thunder, flashes of lightning, and the fury of the elements. He's hit the limit, the Commodore noted jealously. But not too bad in general. Almost like Chaliapin!

Sweet-voiced Firidanum of Praa went eighths, and when his powerful, loud baritone rose over the hall, it was clear who his main rival was. He was a worthy competitor, who possessed the mastery over the lute and the voice at least as well as of the chosen subject. Plus he was young and handsome: short, thin, with pleasant features and a waterfall of golden locks down to his shoulders. Trevelyan noted that Ariena was giving him an approving look and was smiling with her scarlet lips. It seemed that Honey Butterfly wouldn't mind to fly around with this handsome moth.

Finally it was his turn, and, lifting his lute, he stepped forward and stood near the dais. When the name Ten-Urhi, Singer With A Sherr On His Shoulder, there was movement among the spectating rhapsods; some whispered, bending low to the ear of his neighbor, some rose to get a better look at him, and some hurried to the exit. Probably went to report the news, Trevelyan decided, touching the strings with his fingers. He knew to whom, but how? The way to Orri-Shan's home in the Midday Province wasn't close, and the island off the coast of Udzeni was also some distance away… Or had the authorities in Ferantin already received instructions from the Great Mentor?

The lute came alive under his hand, sang, rumbled, moaned, and Trevelyan forgot about such trivialities. The repertoire selected for him by the Foundation experts was broad and had been to the necessary extent tied to the local realities; for instance, instead of the moon, songs mentions the Near Star, while the names of flowers, animals, and trees had been replaced by local analogs. But even this vivisection couldn't overcome the charming of a romance written to the poems of Yesenin, and Trevelyan was rewarded by the audience's stormy delight. They were screaming for as long and as loudly as after Firidanum's performance, and, after gauging the intensity of the noise, the Commodore informed him, You and that blonde guy are going nose-to-nose. Toss some coal into the reactor and pass him on a combat trajectory!

The advice was an apt one, as the next item on the agenda was a battle song. But here Trevelyan was met with some difficulty, as human military marches and other such compositions, of which there was a great and varied number, mentioned rifles and cannons, battalions that attacked under enemy barrages, cruisers, laser turrets, and combat robots. One couldn't simply throw out such words from a song and replace a rifle with a sword! Which was why he opted for an episode from the Iliad, the fight between Achilles and Hector, which the FDAC specialists had transitioned into the age of Urshu-Chag. Unfortunately, the makeup of none of the Osieran languages was adaptable to hexameter, Homer had ended up getting redone more than Yesenin, and, as a result, they'd thrown out the baby with the bathwater. While Trevelyan did get shouts of approval, this round was won by Hiji-Dor of the Day Province, whose powerful bass had sung of the taking of Sahas by the Imperial army, a long and bloody siege that had taken place either seventeen or sixteen centuries ago. An excellent ballad, a well-deserved success, Trevelyan had to admit silently, listening how his rival was being cheered on. The shouts lasted for a while, as Sahas was the capital of Sotara, with which the Tilimese were feuding.

"Don't feel down, this means nothing," Tuki whispered in his ear. "Empty shouting! The decision will be made by our beauty, and she couldn't care less about that Sahas! Besides," he added meaningfully, "I know for certain that Hiji-Dor has no chance."

"Why not?"

"He's too hairy. She," Tuki shot a glance at the beautiful Ariena, "doesn't like hairy men."

"But I'm also—" Trevelyan got worried, but the young herald patted his shoulder encouragingly, "You look great. Going to the barber yesterday was a smart move."

It was finally Day time, a break was announced, and the spectators left for the nearby chambers, to tables with inviting wines and snacks. The sovereign did not rise from his place, but no one could see Supinulum, as his courtiers had formed a tight circle around him, and only chomping and burping could be heard from behind this living wall. Honey Butterfly also remained on her dais, was gracefully eating fruit, smiling sweetly, and examining her moths, which were being served refreshments. Trevelyan noted that her gaze kept returning to him and the sweet-voiced Firidanum; it seemed that the decision about who would win and get the main prize was being made at this moment.

The girl knows what she wants, Trevelyan's ghostly Advisor noted. I think she likes you. That blonde lad is too puny.

But he's got a good voice.

A man's voice isn't as important as a brave appearance and a strong… A strong bearing, I mean.

My bearing is fine. It's hereditary, Trevelyan informed him, watching Ariena's pretty face.

So we're not going to Sho-Ing today? Spending the night here?

Maybe. We'll see.

The audience, showing off their decorations, started to return to their seats, servants once more started moving between the benches, and a loud hail of coins fell upon the trays. Watching their gleaming stream, Trevelyan decided that the Sisterhood had decent businesspersons; the whole thing smelled of sums in tens of thousands of gold, and entire fortunes were probably won and lost here. He was also reflecting on whether he ought to stay in Ferantin for the two remaining days of celebration, take part in the carnival parade, look at the wrestlers and the magicians, drink Tilimese wines, and—who knew?—maybe even come back to Ariena for a second and a third night. If he got the first one, of course.

"Hear ye, hear ye!" came the herald's loud voice. "The third and final song! A song of longing and tender passion, of feelings imbued into the souls of men and women by the gods, a song of love…" Here Ariena made some kind of unrecognizable gesture, and the herald added hurriedly, "But it has to be unrequited! A disastrous love that leads to death but overcoming it with the strength of its feelings!"

Trevelyan was rejoiced, while the faces of his competitors fell. They, of course, had been preparing to sing praises to the joys of love that began at first glance that pierced the heart and ended in bed. There might have been other options, but they were also probably positive ones, in which they praised Ariena's beauty, the glowing of her eyes, the tenderness of her lips, the flushing of her cheeks, and other niceties. Trevelyan already had a prepared romance, written by the great Darsonval to the words of Edgar Allan Poe, which had been translated extremely well, the song of Annabel Lee, as beautiful as it was tragic. And, more importantly, very suitable to the subject!

Doing his best not to show his triumph, he listened to his competitors' performance. They had to improvise and twist, and some looked pitiful at this task, while others put in a lot of effort; Hiji-Dor and Firidanur were at their best even here, having switched from major to minor incredibly quickly. Trevelyan was seventh in line this time, and the moment the strings of his lute rumbled, Ariena rose, stepped to the edge of the dais, and, tilting her head to her shoulder, lowered her gaze. The audience reacted to this sign of favor with a restrained hum, there was rustling of clothes, followed by more ringing of gold and silver, but the metal was no longer falling onto trays but into the coin purses of the lucky winners. Trevelyan heard none of this. He was singing, staring at the girl, repeating the refrain multiple times, "And neither the angels in Heaven above, nor the demons down under the sea can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee," and each chord, every word was so beautiful, that the noise died down on its own, the hall froze in amazement, and when the song had ended, silence fell over the arena for a moment.

Then it exploded in the pounding of feet, the enthusiastic cries, and the lengthy fanfare of the heralds' trumpets. Ariena stepped off the dais—no, not stepped, soared in the floating leap of a dancer—but her flight was brief and ended in Trevelyan's arms. It seemed that it was exactly where she'd been trying to end up. The girl's arms wove themselves around his neck, his cheek was scalded by her hot breathing, and he heard a tender whisper, "Take me to your bedchamber. Hurry! Night is almost here…"

Indeed it was, Trevelyan thought, noticing that lamps were already being lit in the hall. Picking up Ariena, he strode purposefully to the exit. Her lips were warm and sweet.

They were met by a bedchamber, covered in blue silk, a prepared bed, a jug of wine, fruit, and honey cakes. The cool evening air streamed through the open window, the Near Star was glowing in the darkening sky, and somewhere in the distance he could hear the neighing of horses and the squeaking of wheels, indicating the departing audience. The tension, which had been gripping Trevelyan so recently, was gone; he lowered his prize onto the bed, motioned for her to pour some wine, and went to the window. The fresh wind shifted his hair, cooled his flushed face.

Should he stay? Was it right? Did he really genuinely desire this girl, with whom he had barely exchanged a few words? Yes, she had a divine beauty, prettier than Kitty, Chareit-Dor, and Liana-Shihi, and he understood that he was enchanted by only her beauty. Enough to receive pleasure, but not enough for love… Had he not told the capricious princess Liana-Shihi that the affairs of men and women were not limited to acrobatics in bed? That in that case one lost the more pleasant and precious, the joy of a soul, which had found a kindred spirit? That…

Why are you delaying? the Commodore reminded of himself. The beauty's waiting, and you're hesitating and reflecting! You were bragging that your bearing is fine! In your place… any filthy sergeant… he'd—

I'm not any filthy sergeant, Trevelyan cut him off.

Whatever. I'm shutting off.

The ghostly voice fell silent, and at that same moment Ariena squealed. Spinning around, Trevelyan saw her shrining back on the bed, half-naked, while an entire crowd was pouring through the door: an Imperial nobleman with sideburns and weapons, four local guards, and five or six other individuals, wrapped in cloaks, under which glinted steel armor.

"Rhapsod Ten-Urhi?" the nobleman inquired imperiously. "Get your things, you son of a pats, you have a date elsewhere. You're coming with us!"

"I'll go," Trevelyan said almost with relief and bowed to the beautiful Ariena, "Forgive me, my beauty, it seems that fate is against us! But I'm never going to forget you. No way, no how! My heart, burned in the flame of passion, has become a charred ember, but you will breathe new life into it when I return to you. And I will return!"

"That's unlikely," the nobleman noted, giving the bedchamber a careful look. "Hurry, rhapsod! And don't try to jump out the window, our people are waiting there too!"

"No doubt." Trevelyan picked up his lute and blew the girl a kiss. "Actually, I'm ready. Where are we going?"

They led him through the now empty arena into the park, where twilight had already thickened under the trees. That was where the dire rat from planet Sella finally appeared to the guards. In the dim light, it looked especially impressive and frightening.