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Imre looked chagrined. "I don't see why you need so many words that all mean the same thing."
They do not, Eroico might have said, but the hour was young and the day hot, and a teaching song now would put an ending to his leisure.
"Why do you need three names?" He shrugged. "Some things simply are, peregrin."
"And some things are simply ridiculous," Imre said.
Some moments, Eroico imagined he might hear Imre's song; at others, he laughed at himself and his flights of fancy, to imagine any peregrin might truly sing with the Baremescre.
"Stop spoiling for a song. I'm trying to help you."
Imre sighed. "I know. You may be the only one."
Eroico shrugged. "Perhaps. In which case, it might behoove you to try and help yourself before complaining about others, eh?"
"How is he?" Cantiléna asked, her eagerness plain to any with ears, though Eroico had little doubt Imre would have missed it, as he missed so many things, and would miss many more.
Some defects might be fixed by the application of song - either to punish for failure or to gently teach what could not be put into words. Teaching a deaf man to sing though: as well teach a blind man to paint.
"Miserable," he said. "Pining for the company of a soft, gentle maiden who - " (She swung, mostly in jest; he ducked, laughing.) "Improving," he amended. "At admirable speed."
Cantiléna wrinkled her nose. She had others report to her on the subject of Imre, of course.
Eroico wondered if Imre knew how many fewer songs he might get to fight, were it not so widely known that Cantiléna looked upon him favorably. A peculiar mixture of jealousy and helpfulness, of wanting to punish and wanting to teach.
As the lady's sister, Eroico himself was above such things, it went without saying. If Cantiléna wished to have Imre, and he her, then all joy to them, and woe to anyone who might seek to add a third voice to their duets.
Until such day, Eroico was content to sit back and watch the melody unfold.
"He lacks both skill and discipline," Cantiléna stated. "He acts little as befits his position."
Then change it, sister dear. It would be an easy thing. Poetic justice, of a sort, for her to steal Imre's song after he had stolen hers - although, of course, one might argue it would be ill-done, given that Imre had agreed to offer payment in service and song, to make amends for his offense.
Still, it was not unheard of, among the clan, for one more skilled in song to trade one sort of kisses for another one. (See, peregrin? Eroico thought to himself. This is why more words are needed, rather than fewer. Right now, were she to offer, would you even know which to expect?)
"Would you be paying half as much attention to him if he meekly made his payment?"
"I might," stated Cantiléna, "have found cause to amend my first impression of him."
"Ah. The burden of being proven right every day." Eroico grinned.
"Beware your tongue, lest I decide to remind you of your place," Cantiléna said.
An easy enough parry, Eroico judged. "Beware my tongue, lest I remind you of yours, sister."
"Third Blade of the Baremescre." There was no pride in her voice. Why should there be? Their father was Second, their mother First; nothing could be more natural than for Cantiléna to be Third.
Of course, one might likewise argue Eroico ought to be Fourth, though he was not, nor had any intention of becoming so. What skill he had suited and pleased him: that was enough.
What skill would Imre-of-the-Three-Names need to develop to suit and please Cantiléna-Third-Blade-of-the-Baremescre: a question yet to be answered, though Eroico knew not when he might scrape together the imprudence to ask.
"There, then," he said, making his tone light like a summer's breeze. "No man could be worthy of your song. As well a peregrin as anyone. All must be as dust and dirt before you."
"All save my brother, who might be Third Blade if only he were permitted to sing with his tongue, rather than with his hymn." Cantiléna's tone sought to match his, falling somewhat short.
But then, being Third Blade was serious business. Eroico did not envy her her position, nor her choice of suitor. Joking aside, it would cause quite a stir were Cantiléna to permit one who was like a slave to lay claim to her time and at least some of her songs.
"Your brother, who toils day and night to teach your chosen one to speak and act as a true man," he said. "A sacrifice joyfully made for his beloved sister."
"You like him." Cantiléna sounded half-surprised, as if the thought had not occurred to her before.
"He is not so hard to dislike, I'll grant you," Eroico said. "Still. You know how contrary I am. The despair of our beloved parents. The terror of my siblings."
Cantiléna's gaze shifted sideways, as it ever did at the mention of family. The dead had no names, but their voices might linger awhile yet, after. Eroico had been too young to remember at the time; Cantiléna, too old to forget.
"Besides, he showed great creativity when he was insulting you. I was impressed," he added.
"You are saying that he dislikes me, then," Cantiléna said. "Intensely." She seemed cheered at the thought.
Who might hope to understand women? Or sisters, at any rate?
"As much as you dislike him, if not more, I'm sure," said Eroico, voice made solid with truth.
Imre exhaled out explosively, looking as if he was tempted to simply drop his hymn and let it fall where it might. Unthinkable behavior for one of the clan: an act as little considered as drawing breath for a peregrin.
Eroico tried to draw comfort from the fact that Imre's hymn remained in his hand, unblooded, but clean.
"I feel like I'm fighting blind-folded and with one hand tied behind my back," Imre said.
It wouldn't help. Eroico might fight him thus, and best him with as much as effort as he had expended just now. "I feel like you're fighting that way, too. An amazing coincidence, isn't it?"
Imre scowled. His amazing memory had helped him learn the language, Eroico reminded himself. It was not unreasonable for Imre to have expected improvement in his singing as well - except that one's song was not shaped by memory, but by being.
What Imre was, unfortunately, was a near-man. A not-quite-a-man. A trying-hard-but-not-getting-there man. Eroico knew nobody in the clan who had overcome such odds, nor anybody who had witnessed someone trying, but then, the dead had no names. Perhaps they had simply failed.
Perhaps he, too, would fail and be forgotten.
Eroico laughed. What need to fear anything, if nobody would blame you for it later?
"Do you think this is funny?" Imre asked, voice edged with anger.
Among the clan, feelings never rose to such a pitch. A song would solve things, clear the air, cleanse any relationship. A much better way to deal with things, Eroico judged, than the peregrins, who bottled it all up inside, gnawing on their emotions like a dog with an old bone.
"I wasn't mocking you, peregrin," he replied. "Only, perhaps, myself, a little."
Imre's expression turned to confusion, edged with frustration.
A hundred teaching songs, and you have learned nothing. A lesser man might have despaired. A man not born brother to the Third Blade of the Baremescre might have washed his hands and leave well enough alone.
A brother less well-versed in reading his sister's desires might have turned from teaching to punishment and ended the matter thus. A slave's life must, by necessity, be considered payment in full for any debt yet owed.
Eroico, being Eroico, offered a very slight bow, teacher to student. "You will achieve your song. You will sing with my sister in a manner that will bring glory to both of you. Upon my honor, I will make this happen."
"Or die trying?" A half-smile from a half-man.
"Or kill you trying," Eroico corrected, with a smirk to show he was not quite in earnest.
Imre groaned. "Why didn't I guess you were going to say that?"
Why weren't you able to hear my song, listen to the movements of my hymn?
An old question, with an as-old answer: because as of yet, you are deaf as well as mute. It was a tricky problem to solve, made no less tricky by the fact that sooner or later, Imre's service would end.
Still, if Cantiléna might lose her heart to a peregrin who had stolen her song and called her names, after, who was to say what other things judged impossible might yet prove themselves not so?