Redemption in Indigo (12 page)

'Perhaps if I cut her hands off?’ he mused to himself.

Neila gave a low moan and Paama's breath choked off in the middle of her suddenly constricted throat.

Just when it seemed impossible to be any more shocked and terrified, a new thing happened. A bizarrely shaped figure loomed out of the stilled outside world and casually tore open their little bubble of time, holding the edges apart carefully with sharp-tipped, multiple, hairy legs.

'They're coming,’ it said.

It was half Bini, half the trickster spider. The dead human eyes remained as blank as any mere decoration, but the spider eyes glittered avidly with pure mischief. The indigo lord did not quite show surprise, but his eyes narrowed again and his lips pressed together angrily as if he were thinking,
I might have known.

'You'd better clear up this mess before you go,’ the spider continued with infuriating superiority.

The indigo lord looked as if he would have liked to snarl at the Trickster, but from the sudden shadow in his eyes, it was clear that another sense was warning him of the truth of the Trickster's words. He closed his eyes for a moment and looked at Neila and Alton, and then he glared at the Trickster.

'You helped start it; you can finish it off,’ he said, punctuating his curt words with an impatient gesture.

The bubble shrank, pulling swiftly away from the Trickster's snatching pincers, drawing smoothly past and through the tightly intertwined forms of Neila and Alton, and centring at last on Paama and the indigo lord. Far too late, she made a movement to dash away, but he looked at her with an expression of deep satisfaction and gently folded the bubble in with one last, lazy curl of his fingers.

It was as if some small piece of the world had silently imploded and extruded itself elsewhere, and the unseen breach had pinched off and healed itself over like a cell budding off from its parent. When it was done, the Trickster, Alton, and Neila stood staring at the empty space that had held Paama and the indigo lord. The Trickster sighed gently. He would have enjoyed the chase, but the indigo lord had been right. He was bound to help tidy up the loose ends.

Once more ordinary in his form of Bini the majordomo, he looked at Alton's memory, then at Neila's, and grinned at the excellent adjustment that the indigo lord had achieved in the brief seconds before his departure. It would truly be a pleasure to build on this tale.

'My lord, it appears that your disguise has been discovered.'

Alton frowned as if trying to recall something, and then nodded slowly as Neila gazed up at him.

'Are you disappointed in me, love? It was the only way I could get to know you without all this getting in the way.’ He swept his hand to indicate the gorgeous tent, the brilliant firestars, and his own princely attire.

Neila's eyes were adoring. ‘All the qualities I love are together in one man. How could I be disappointed?'

The Trickster smiled and withdrew??ut I am hearing some rumblings from my audience. You are distressed that I have spoiled the moving and romantic tale of how Love's Laureate courted his beautiful wife? You complain that I have turned it into a cobbled pastiche of happenstance, expediency, and the capricious tricks of the djombi? I bleed for your injured sentiments, but to dress the tale in vestments of saga and chivalry was never my intent. A sober and careful reading of history will teach you that both lesser and greater persons have been treated more roughly by fate. Be content. If it was only a djombi's vanity and aversion to human company that caused Alton to become a merchant prince for one night, if it was fear of discovery and capture that made that djombi flee, thus settling a lordly mantle on Alton for all time, how does that come to be my fault? I am only the one who tells the story.

So, while the young lovers kiss under a firestar-filled sky, while the Trickster glides among the guests—ever the discreet servant—and quietly adjusts memories that might contradict what is to become the official version of events, while all these reasonably amazing things are happening, there is something more out there in the night. A ripple, perhaps, in reality; an extra shiver that tingles along the spine that can be attributed to the firestars, or to kisses. Certainly there is nothing else to be seen.

The djombi are coming.

Bini straightens and stiffens as he feels the equivalent of someone tugging at his sleeve.

A voice inaudible to humans rings in his ear. ‘Where are they?'

He shrugs it off, murmurs softly, ‘I may be a trickster, but even I know better than to interfere in affairs of this kind.'

'You interfered quite beautifully when you told him about Paama. Why stop now?'

'I have my orders. Sometimes I even carry them out. I can't stay a trickster forever, you know.'

The djombi swirl away, disappointed, and continue their hunt for their apostate comrade.

I am the last person in the world who should be speculating on the motives of the djombi and the reasons they have for acting as they do, but I cannot help contrasting the Trickster with the indigo lord. I have a suspicion that the Trickster began as tricksters do, delighting in the frailties of humans and exploiting those weaknesses for his own entertainment. The junior tricksters who led Ansige on his merry dance to ruin would have been impressed by some of his earlier exploits, and indeed many of these had become legend. However, of late he had become almost staid and boring. If I were to hazard a guess, I would say that he had unwittingly become fond of the creatures he was so accustomed to torturing, and tired of playing the same old practical jokes. He had gradually changed his modus operandi, taking up the greater challenge of turning people to situations of mutual benefit rather than merely gratifying his own sense of the ridiculous.

The indigo lord had come from the other direction. Assigned to the protection and improvement of humankind, he found himself dismayed and disillusioned by humans and their flaws. It was like being made to play with broken toys, and the moment a few were fixed to some degree of functionality, a fresh set of broken ones was pushed his way. First he grew proud, then contemptuous, and finally uncaring. His sense of honour would not permit him to do as the tricksters do, and either way he prided himself that his sense of humour was too sophisticated for him to be amused by the pratfalls and pie-faces of a pitifully lesser breed. Having lost common purpose with his colleagues, and unable to find common ground with his adversaries, he was content to isolate himself??nd would have continued to do only that if it had not been for the partial stripping of his powers.

I think that by strange chance the Trickster had risen even as the indigo lord had fallen. The Trickster was now tentatively taking on the ‘orders’ that the indigo lord was refusing to carry out. And yet even the Trickster had his version of pride??o admit that he was pushing his toe past the line was something that he was not yet prepared to do. So, trust him not, but do not believe that all his actions are intended for the ruin of those affected, human or djombi. I, too, shall have to wait until the tale is fully told before I can be sure which way he will turn.

One of the consequences of that night was that Paama's disappearance was not immediately noticed, because one of the memories that Bini chose to blur was Paama's attendance at the dinner. However, the heart of Semwe warned him that something did not feel right about what his mind was telling him. Baffled and concerned, he wrote a letter to the House of the Sisters.

Dear Sister Jani,

Please thank Sister Elen for her swift and excellent craftsmanship. I believe she will soon see more orders for similar furniture coming from our resident merchant prince.

Have you any word for me from Paama? I thought she was coming to the dinner, but perhaps she slipped away. I was a bit preoccupied at the time, so I may have missed what she was telling me about her future plans.

All the best to those in the House.

Semwe

A reply came back to Semwe with unusual swiftness, as if it had been penned and sent immediately with the postboy.

Dear Semwe

Do not worry about your elder daughter. Paama is away on an errand for us. We promise to look after her for you.

She may have left a cushion on her bed when she left. Please keep it safe for her. You and Tasi may find it a comfort to use it from time to time.

Congratulations on the engagement of your younger daughter. We understand that the gentleman in question is a talented poet and a wealthy businessman. You are very fortunate to be gaining a son-in-law of that calibre. There are so many tricksters about in this world.

Blessings from your friends at the House.

Jani, Elen, Deian and Carmis

Semwe found that this letter took away very little of his bafflement and concern, but he was at least reassured by their promise to look after Paama. It was the comment about his prospective son-in-law that made him uneasy. What he would do to avoid another son-in-law like Ansige!

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Paama stumbled forward and was instantly aware of icy cold hammering up through the soles of her thin slippers like bolts of frozen iron. She was standing on snow. She breathed in, and it felt like a thousand tiny spikes of ice in her nose, throat, and lungs. A cloud blew out of her nostrils as she exhaled. Her eyes prickled and watered in the cold, dry breeze. Everywhere was white.

The indigo lord studied her, his eyes bleakly distant. He walked a few paces away and sat on a snow-covered boulder, apparently immune to the cold, and continued to watch her.

'Put the Stick down by my feet,’ he commanded her.

Her half-frozen fingers were clenched tightly around the Stick, but Paama managed to ease her grip, step forward, and stiffly put the Stick down in the thin carpet of snow. He looked at her suspiciously as she edged away and then bent and picked it up.

Nothing happened.

He glared at it and then glared at her. ‘You are still holding it.'

'Well, I don't know how I could be, when I'm standing over here!’ she snapped at him, frustration overcoming fear. ‘And barely standing, at that, as my feet have gone numb. If you are going to kill me, do it now before the cold does it for you!'

He ignored her and turned the inert Stick over in his hands. Without warning, he raised it in both hands and brought it down hard over his leg. It did not break, though it seemed he could not feel pain. The bafflement and annoyance in his expression increased.

Paama began to shiver violently. ‘P-please,’ she begged, ‘let us get off this mountain—'

'We are not on a mountain,’ he corrected absently, still frowning at the Stick. ‘We have merely gone south ... very far south.'

'You are killing me,’ she whispered.

His answer was to throw the Stick back to her. She caught it clumsily with hands that felt like dead weights on the end of amputated stumps.

'Give it to me again,’ he ordered.

Almost vibrating with cold, she obeyed. This time, as he closed his hand over the Stick just above her gripping hand, a sudden squall of sleet drove between them and whipped up the scant covering of snow. The sun, which had been disappearing at intervals behind fast-scudding clouds, blazed out with a brightness magnified several times over by the reflecting snow, and the air sparkled with tiny rainbows.

Paama screamed, and he flung her away from him. As she fell into the wet snow, still holding the Stick, the sleet and wind vanished, the unnatural brightness of the sun diminished, and the rainbows and sparkles disappeared.

'What is that?’ he said very seriously, reaching out to touch the Stick again.

Immediately the squall returned in full force and the sun beat fiercely through the swirling whiteness. Paama cowered on the ground, overwhelmed, and waited to die. Then something unexpected and immensely comforting happened.

'Paama!'

It was Sister Deian's voice. Somehow, even at this distance, even after all the drama of recent events, the Sisters were still watching and aware. There was still hope that she could be found. The thought made her raise her head and boldly face her enemy.

'Stop! We cannot hold it together! You will kill us both!’ she screamed at him.

He pulled his hand away, bringing the weird weather to an abrupt end, and stared at her. From the look on his face, Paama guessed that he had never been at a loss before.

'I don't want to kill you. I simply want my power back. My power, my own, that which I was made to wield.'

'Then prove it to me,’ she panted. ‘Let us leave this terrible place before I freeze to death.'

He glanced down at her feet in their thin slippers, now soaked-through with melted snow, and finally understood. With that gesture that was now becoming familiar, he cast out his bubble of time and folded it in until they were somewhere else.

It was like being thrown into an oven. Paama crouched in agony, clasping her hands and pressing her feet as the blood returned painfully to her extremities. Squinting up into the brightness of a noonday sun, she saw the branches of a date palm and felt grass beneath her. Sand dunes curved artistically along the eastern horizon with the austere beauty of deadliness, and the bones of some ruined town stood brokenly on the western horizon.

'Wait here,’ the lord said abruptly.

'No!’ she shouted. ‘Don't leave me here!'

He said impatiently, ‘I have told you I am not going to kill you. I am going to get shoes and clothes for you, that is all.'

'Then let me come, too,’ she insisted, panicked at the thought of being abandoned.

He shrugged in annoyance and turned away. She got up slowly, teetering on swollen feet, and stumbled after him over the hot, hard-packed sand and gravel.

'Where is this place?’ she asked, not expecting to be answered.

'A desert east of the country you know,’ he replied vaguely. ‘There is treasure?’ he paused and thumped a foot down on the hard sand ‘...?own here.'