"Yes. He failed; you and he were separated. Once again you drifted into dealings with the Dukes—and when they realized who you were, they immediately desired your death, both Miguel and Winslow."
"Why? Why'd they turn on me like that?"
"For that," Daveen said, "the simplest answer involves the lifting of the first of the psychic blocks I laid upon you. Are you ready?"
"I've been waiting for this since you started talking."
Again Daveen chuckled melodiously. "In all your wanderings you've learned but little patience. Now you will begin to understand."
He held forth the object he had been holding. Kesley now saw that it was a musical instrument of some kind, fashioned of a dark-hued, glossy plastic. It had three hair-fine strings running its length; at the top, above the bridge, were three white buttons.
"My music-maker," Daveen said. "My constant companion always. It holds the keys to your mind, my friend."
"What do you mean?"
"Listen."
Daveen touched the three buttons lightly with his long fingers, and a tone appeared, shimmering delicately, followed by a second and a third. They hung in the air, meshing their subharmonics, quivering and blending. It was, thought Kesley, like no music he had ever heard.