These thoughts distressed the chief minstrel while the suspended city sucked him at great speed towards its beating heart, through the pneumatic tube nr. 18, his favorite. In his absolute ear, the suction resounded like a sweet minor A.

Taqrah was like an immense floating bagpipe that was breathing sounds of all kinds. That was what attracted him the most, in the beginning, but now, while he hustled across the narrow streets to reach the Main Hall, he was crushed by the sensation that the city was unceasingly ruminating and digesting those sounds, milling them in a shapeless mash.

The Council of Bards in full force was waiting for him in the Main Hall with its algid marble and its vertiginous seats. When he entered the Hall, everybody, even Balaen-Dar, leaned forward with an almost paroxysmal expectation.

The chief minstrel swallowed loudly and began in a tremulous voice to make his report. With his eyes he looked for some sign of the mysterious syrup: a little bottle protruding from a pocket, a sticky spot on the corner of a mouth ... but nothing.

As the songs he had collected were sung, his confidence increased.
Contrary to what he believed, the Council was finding them very interesting. Perhaps, after all, it was just paranoia, he told himself. The old Balaen-Dar almost choked with laughter when he sang Old Floppy Bag Blues, although it was a clear satire on the figure of the head of the council itself.

When the exhibition ended, there was a thunderous applause.
"Wonderful!" Balaen-Dar said. "I think, esteemed maestri, that given the peculiar spiciness of the collected material, this will be a full-bodied red syrup No. 7!"

The minstrel chilled suddenly, while a complex machinery, so far remained hidden in the ceiling, slid down on him with squeak of pulleys, like a condemnation.

"You proved to be one of the better chief minstrels we had on Taqrah since the foundation of the Council. The songs you collected in the world below will guarantee us many years of vital extension."

Balaen-Dar was very satisfied, while the machinery inserted roughly its tubes down the throath of the terrified man, starting to suck away all the songs. He couldn't resist to the inducted urge to sing again, but this time it was a forced, unnatural sing, at a nearly unbearable fast speed.

The Bards of the Council extracted their small, fancy bottles from the meanders of their brocade tunics, and merrily lined up to fill them at the other end of the machinery, where a dense vermilion syrup was distilled.

"Unfortunately, the process that give us immortal life is also destructive for the vocal cords of the donor. For that, it's customary to search for minstrel chiefs among the strangers. But don't worry! You will be relocated to Mime Island, where you can enjoy a lifetime annuity!"