The Riddle - Alison Croggon [213]
If it was alive in an hour, he thought to himself, it would have a chance. In two hours, more of a chance. If it was alive tomorrow, it would definitely live.
It would need water. He had a jug and a cup on his worktable, but no dish to put water in for the bird. He could get one easily enough from the kitchen, but he didn’t dare leave his chamber; if Saliman arrived and Hem was not there, he would be even angrier with him. He would have to wait until Saliman turned up.
He sat and fidgeted on his bed, wondering how Saliman would punish him for his latest escapade. Would he be thrown out of the Bardhouse? Hem uneasily considered the possibility: in his mind, it seemed quite likely. When he thought about it, there weren’t many reasons for Saliman to keep him there; none of the other minor Bards liked Hem much; he was always getting into trouble, and he wasn’t exactly shining in his classes . . .
Within a short time, Hem’s fear had turned into a certainty. Where could he go, if he didn’t live with Saliman? He would have to live on the streets. Perhaps he could get work in the marketplace as a caller, carrying the goods for sale and telling of their virtues. He could be good at that . . . and then he remembered he couldn’t speak Suderain. He would have to be a thief, then. He was good at stealing things. Though it would be more difficult than when he was a small boy: he was tall now, and in Turbansk his paler skin meant that he had lost the ability to go unnoticed in a crowd. He would head north then, and find Maerad — he could steal things along the way to feed himself. The only thing was, he would miss Saliman.
And the other thing was Cadvan, Maerad’s mentor. Hem admired Cadvan as much as he did Saliman, but he found Cadvan more forbidding. He remembered very well how stern the Bard could be. If Hem did find Maerad, he would find Cadvan as well, and Cadvan would likely be very cross with him . . . but, on the other hand, Maerad would speak up for him. Then all three of them could go on an adventure together.
Hem brooded on his new future for a while, concocting an enjoyable fantasy in which his own heroic acts featured prominently, and then remembered the bird. It had been very quiet, and he was sure it must have died by now. When he opened the chest it was standing up, and it scuffled into a corner, trying to hide. Hem made some soothing noises, but didn’t attempt to speak to it or lift it up. He noted that its beak wasn’t gaping with thirst, which relieved his mind, and he gently shut the lid again.
It seemed ages before he heard steps in the corridor and a knock on the door. There was a pause, while Hem braced himself for a telling off and wondered why the door remained shut, and then Saliman said, “Hem? May I come in?”
Hem still wasn’t used to these courtesies. “Yes, yes, come in,” he said breathlessly, as he scrambled for the door and opened it.
Saliman stood in the corridor dressed in the red robes of a Turbansk Bard. His long black hair was tied back from his face in an intricate pattern of braids, and a golden brooch in the shape of a sunburst was pinned on his shoulder. He looked, Hem thought — glancing nervously at his dark face — not quite so cross as he might; surely that was the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. But maybe not . . .
Saliman was in fact looking in astonishment at the mess of clothes piled on Hem’s bed. “I hope, Hem, that you are not thinking of running away?” he said, picking up a blue tunic.
Hem gulped. “No,” he said. “I — I had to put the bird somewhere.”
Saliman turned to face him, his face expressionless. “Bird?” he said.
“It was hurt. And they need a dark place, so they’re not frightened. So I . . .” He faltered and stopped. Perhaps putting injured birds in clothes chests was not allowed in Bardhouses.
“Yes?”
“So I put it in the chest . . .” He gestured vaguely toward the other side of the room. “But I took all my clothes out first. So they wouldn’t be dirtied. I didn’t think it would be wrong,” he added hastily, putting on his most virtuous expression, although whether his