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ruled the universe in indescribable glory!
    A few questions. A few directions. She found Ansset’s stall, identical to all the others except for a number on the door. Inside she could hear singing. It was conversation—she knew when it was songtalk. Esste was inside, then. Kya-Kya knocked.
    “Who?” came the answer—from the boy, not from the Songmaster.
    “Kya-Kya. With a message for Songmaster Esste.”
    The door opened. The boy, who was far smaller than Kya-Kya, let her in. Esste sat on the stool by the window. The room was bleak—bare wooden walls on three sides, a cot, a stool, a table, and the stone wall framing the single window that opened onto the courtyard. Every stall was interchangeable with any other. But Kya-Kya would once have given her soul to have a stall and all that it implied. The boy was six.
    “Your message?”
    Esste was as cold as ever; her robe swirled around her feet as she sat absolutely erect on the stool.
    “Esste, I have come from the High Room.”
    “He wants me?”
    “He is dead.” Esste’s face betrayed nothing. She had Control. “He is dead,” Kya-Kya said again. “And I hope you will take care of the funeral arrangements.”
    Esste sat in silence for a moment before she answered.
    “You found the body?”
    “Yes.”
    “You have done me no kindness,” Esste said, and she rose and left the room.
    What now? Kya-Kya wondered, as she stood near the door of Ansset’s stall. She had not thought beyond informing Esste. She had expected some reaction; expected at least to be told what to do. Instead she stood here in the stall with the boy who was the opposite of her, the epitome of success where she had met nothing but failure.
    He looked at her inquiringly. “What does this mean?”
    “It means,” said Kya-Kya, “that Esste is Songmaster in the High Room.”
    The boy showed no sign of response. Control, thought Kya-Kya. That damnable Control.
    “Doesn’t it mean anything to you?” she demanded.
    “What should it mean?” Ansset asked, and his voice was a web of innocence.
    “It should mean a little gloating, at least, boy,” Kya-Kya answered, with the contempt the hopelessly inferior can freely use when the superior is helpless. “Esste’s been pampering you every step of the way. Leading you up without having to go through the pain everyone goes through. And now she has all the power it takes. You’ll be a Songbird, little boy. You’ll sing for the greatest people in the galaxy. And then you’ll come home, and your Esste will see to it you never have to bother with being a friend or a tutor, you’ll just step right into teaching, or being a master, or perhaps—why not?—a high master right from the start, and before you’re twenty you’ll be a Songmaster. So why don’t you forget your Control and let it show? This is the best thing that’s ever happened to you!” Her voice was bitter and angry, with no hint of music in it, not even the dark music of rage.
    Ansset regarded her placidly, then opened his mouth, not to speak but to sing. At first she decided to leave immediately; soon she was incapable of deciding anything.
    Kya-Kya had heard many singers before, but no one had sung to her like this. There were words, but she did not hear words. Instead she heard kindness, and understanding, and encouragement. In Ansset’s song she was not a failure. She was, in fact, a wise woman who had done a great favor for the Songhouse, who had earned the love of all future generations. She felt proud. She felt that the Songhouse would send her out, not in shame, but as an emissary to the worlds outside. I will tell them of the music, she thought, and because of me the Songhouse will be held in even greater esteem by everyone who knows of it. For I am as much a product of the Songhouse as any singer or Songbird. She was bursting with joy, with pride. She had not been so happy in years. In her life. She embraced the boy and wept for several minutes.
    If this is what