Redemption in Indigo

15

a lesson on chances and choices

On the night of the firestars, all at first was bliss. Alton felt certain that he was indeed a merchant prince, for never before had he taken so much from life's table. The comfort of riches, the sweetness of love, and the beauty of his poetry ravelling out, word by perfect word—it all pointed to a divine will that had blessed him completely. He went to sleep late, crafting couplets to the memory of Neila's kisses.

He awoke the next day in terror and confusion.

'It is only I, my lord.'

Bini approached the bed, breakfast tray held level as he glided smoothly over the thick carpets.

Alton sat up and stared at the vaulted canvas ceiling and the damasked and gilded hangings about his mattress. Had he always bedded down in such luxury? His memory struggled with the vague image of a meagre, dew-damp bedroll flung over small rocks and spiky, tufted grass. Then he raised his puzzled eyes to Bini's calm gaze, and the bothersome vision disappeared.

'Last night was truly a success, my lord. Already we have had several orders for firestars, tapestries, and carpets,’ Bini said, his voice as unemotional as ever.

Unable to find a response, Alton watched him set the tray on a low table and pour the breakfast chocolate. The hot liquid spluttered out of the narrow spout of the pot, releasing a welcome fragrance of sweet, cinnamon-rich cocoa. Alton reached out a hand to probe a napkin-lined basket and found warm rolls and pastries tucked inside. He broke off a morsel and ate. Bini finished pouring and stepped back very slightly, hovering with the air of someone anticipating a command. Alton looked at him worriedly.

'Bini,’ he asked. ‘Have I been ill?'

'Why do you ask, my lord?'

Alton rubbed his head experimentally. It didn't hurt. ‘I didn't drink too much last night, did I?'

'I don't know what you mean, my lord.'

'I mean,’ said Alton slowly, ‘that this all seems??nreal. I know I'm a poet. I've never had a talent for business. Why am I surrounded by prosperity?'

Bini's level gaze did seem to flicker at that point. ‘Has my lord forgotten the legacy inherited from his illustrious godfather?'

'N-o,’ Alton replied uncertainly.

'The excitement of the engagement has been too much for you. A little more rest?’ Bini suggested soothingly.

'Engagement! That memory is true and firm at least!’ He threw back the covers energetically, his face illuminated with joy, and came to his feet with a spring.

'My lord, do you have orders for me?’ Bini asked gently.

'Orders?'

'For the day's work, the week's operations, the month's pre-planning. Orders.'

Alton's spine lost some of its steely temper. ‘I??hat do I usually?'

'You usually have breakfast, freshen up, and dress, and then I tell you what new things require attention,’ Bini said kindly. There was a hint of a twinkle about his expression, which was very odd considering that his eyes appeared as dead as ever.

That was how Bini began to ease Alton into his new life. He lacked the puppeteer's power of his indigo counterpart, but he had something equally effective—that trickster knack, which was now turned to the benign task of fooling Alton into believing in himself. He mused at the irony; if he did his job well, Alton would never know how much he owed to chance. Illustrious godfather, indeed!

Paama was utterly confused.

They had landed on a hillside overlooking a town unknown to Paama, yet familiar enough in design and outlay that she felt she must be back in her own country, albeit in a province hours ahead of her own Makendha. Rather than murder or torture, the indigo lord's first action towards her was to hand over to her the entire sack of gold and order her to go down to the nearest town and buy for herself more suitable clothes, food, and other necessities.

She placed the coins into her bag beside the Stick, expecting that pickpockets might not find it so easily there, and set off down the road, leaving the djombi standing alone on the hill. Once in town, she found the hour too early for the shops to be open, but not too early for her to gain entry to a guest house. The bandit gold bought a spacious set of rooms with a balcony, a light meal of fruit, and, best of all, no questions. She bathed, ate, and finally, exhausted by travelling half the world in minutes, fell asleep. Remember, she had not slept since the night before.

She did not sleep well or long, for she did not know how long a time she would have before the djombi appeared again. As soon as she saw the first shutters opening, she flew down to the shops. First she bought strong sandals suitable for walking long distances, and then, remembering the snow, she also bought a pair of boots. Both sets of footwear looked ridiculous with her dress, so her next purchases were clothes for travelling, different suits for different climates. By then she was so tired that she returned to her room and fell asleep again.

Her dreams were troubled, filled with the anxieties of her recent experiences. She dreamed she was walking home to Makendha from a far country, and every time she came within sight of her house, the djombi appeared and whisked her back to the other side of the world with a flick of his fingers, forcing her to start the weary trek again and again. After the tenth repetition of this scene, she gave up in disgust and opened her eyes, feeling less rested than when she had first laid down her head.

She was sure she was still dreaming. There was the blue-skinned djombi on the other side of the room, sifting through her purchases with interest. To see an odd and inhuman being doing such an ordinary thing was so incongruous that she forgot to be afraid of him.

'So many things needed,’ he commented, knowing that she was awake without looking at her. ‘The sun scorches you, the rain drenches you, the rocks tear at your feet, and the wind scours your face. Who would be human?'

He gently threw aside a handful of clothing and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘I have figured it out. I cannot take the power of chaos from you, because in your secret heart you believe it is better entrusted to your hands than mine. I cannot blame you. I came to you in disguise, I tried to take it from you by violence, and you judged me by those deeds. I was wrong. I did foolish things because I feared the interference of those who unjustly stole my power. So, let us begin again.'

Paama sat up slowly, moving as cautiously as if facing a lion who had just declared his intention not to pounce, but to have a friendly chat instead.

'Put on your boots and gather your things together. We are leaving. They will be after us soon, but I want enough time to present my case to you fairly.'

'Where are we going?’ Paama asked with renewed anxiety in her voice.

'For now? Just a place,’ he replied indifferently. ‘Damp, slightly cold this time of year. We will not be there long. We must keep moving.'

Paama packed her new clothes into a neat bundle, all except for the boots and a grey woollen wrap. Those she put on, and, after leaving a few coins on the bed for the housekeeper, she stood nervously beside the indigo lord.

'What about you?’ she asked as she examined his linen tunic and blue skin with doubt.

'No-one will see me if I choose not to be seen,’ he said.

The feeling of moving from one space to another was almost pleasantly familiar by now. Paama watched his hand as he did it and wondered how it was accomplished. Then the sight of their destination drew away her attention once more. A light but persistent drizzle was falling when they arrived, giving a sense of overwhelming greyness to the land, sky, and everything in between. They were standing in the middle of a narrow, muddy street in a town. On either side, the buildings were fairly tall but irregular in their architecture and alignment. There was an uncanny quietness and a feeling of midafternoon in the featureless light.

'What is the name of this place?’ Paama asked, squinting against the raindrops and pulling the wrap over her head.

The indigo lord, who was managing to keep himself and his clothes dry with his usual effortless power, paused before replying. ‘Names are very important for humans, aren't they? How do I translate for you the name of this town as it seems to me, the true name that tells of its history and people and lands and weather and??verything? Names have some meaning to humans, but names are all meaning for us, and we cannot translate them in a way that you will understand.'

'Do you have a name I could understand?’ she asked and was surprised to hear the snappish irreverence in her tone.

It seemed to surprise him, too, but he rallied.

'No, I do not,’ he replied haughtily. ‘I will know when you are speaking to me, and you will have no reason to speak to anyone about me, so no name will be needed.'

'Then, O nameless one, tell me why you have brought me here.’ She was beginning to understand why she was speaking so carelessly; she was tired of being frightened and growing increasingly angry that he had kidnapped her and was keeping her from her home.

He looked even more morose than usual. ‘There is a plague in this town. That is why it is so quiet; this is a quarantined area. Only those who are dying remain here.'

Paama found fear again, and it silenced her. She barely heard him as he continued to explain.

'I want you to see why chaos is not a power that should be taken up lightly. You were proud of yourself that you saved a boy from drowning. Now see if you can help anyone here. Do you hear that sound?'

She strained and heard it. It was a man weeping loudly, certain there was no one to hear, his angry words mingling with wretched sobs. Almost absently, she began to walk in the direction of the sound until she came to a dark doorway with a door standing ajar. A stale, dank odour wafted out from the shadows into the fresher, rain-washed air of the street. It smelled as if someone inside had been sick and uncared-for for a long time.

Curious, but cautious, she pushed the door open with her foot and stepped over the threshold. The rooms were large and well-furnished, but everything was filthy with dust and litter. She walked on, drawing closer to the source of the noise. Finally she found it. In a back room with a small high window, there was a man on his knees beside a bed, and in the bed a woman, stick-thin, covered with ghastly sores, her chest moving with shallow, convulsive breaths as she slowly and painfully approached her death.

'A little story,’ the indigo lord whispered in Paama's ear while the man kept up his loud wailing. ‘She is a servant of this house. She remained free of the plague for a long time but was forced to remain and care for the sick. Then came the quarantine, and those of the family who were still able to do so fled by way of bribes and secrecy. This man is engaged to her. He has been seeking her for many days, and only today did he find a way to get past the soldiers who patrol the barriers. Now he comes in time to see her die, and soon he shall die, too, for they will not let him cross over again.

'Now, human Paama, what do you think you will do with your Stick?'

'There??here is a chance that she might live, that they might both survive,’ she whispered.

'There is that chance,’ he acknowledged. ‘Is that what you will reach for?'

She glanced at him, suspecting a trick, but his face was mildly curious and nothing more. Breathing scant in the fetid air, she kept her mouth closed and nodded.

'Then do it,’ he said.

'Not as easy as it seems, hmm?'

'Leave me alone,’ Paama whispered.

Her voice was hoarse from hours of weeping. It had not moved him, nor had it irritated him. He had let her cry without a word, without even a glance of contempt, but with an unexpected patience.

'I have left you alone for some time,’ he said reasonably, ‘but now we have to go.'

Drenched in rain and miserable, Paama got up from the doorstep, keeping her back turned to the house with its two bodies and its broken mirror. She scrubbed wearily at her ears, feeling as if she would never rid them of the echoes of the woman's screams.

'I didn't think she was strong enough to stand, far less reach for the mirror,’ she mumbled, shuddering as her unrelenting memory stopped yet again at the moment when the woman used the shard of mirror glass to slice her own jugular.

Then her eyes widened in realisation and she turned on him with fresh energy.

'You knew. You could have told me,’ she accused.

'Could I? There were many outcomes. There was a chance—a very slender one, I grant you—that they could survive here until the plague died out and the quarantine was lifted. There was a chance that she would recover and he would die later—such twists may seem cruel, but they exist. There was even a chance that they would both live and find a way past the quarantine barrier into freedom. There were thousands of chances. How was I to know that the one chance you needed to know about was the chance that she would see her reflection in the mirror and prefer death to a life of disfigurement, and that he would prefer death to a life without her?'

'So, your lesson is that one should do nothing without the knowledge of every possibility?’ she asked bitterly.

'No. I only mean to show you that there are some chances that even the Stick cannot control—chances that involve the free will of a human soul.'

She thought about this for a while and then said sorrowfully, ‘Then I might as well have done nothing.'

He flexed his hands uncomfortably in a manner that she was beginning to recognise. There was something he was not telling her.

'Was there something I could have done? Is there something I can do now?’ she pressed.

He briefly clenched his hands into fists and then opened them in surrender. ‘Before I??etired?? was assigned to burn this town.'

'Burn it!’ Paama exclaimed.

He shook his head at her horrified look. ‘It is the only way to stop the plague. Otherwise so many will die that the survivors will be forced to abandon the town entirely.'

'Then let us do it!’ She did not even notice, in her enthusiasm, that she had said ‘us’ and not ‘me'.

He shook his head again. ‘It is too late. The rainy season has begun. Any fire I try to start will find sodden thatch above, soaked timbers and filled gutters below. It is too late.'

There was a strange expression on his face. It took her a few moments to identify it as guilt.

'Are you sorry that you did not do your duty?’ she asked gently.

His eyes narrowed coldly. ‘I am still not convinced that humanity is worth the effort at all.'

She looked hurt. Cold, wet, tearstained, she must have made a pitiable figure, for he looked away from her uncomfortably.

'We must go now.'

She stood and stared at him, knowing he would feel not only the look, but everything behind it. It did more than she expected. It wore him down.

'There might be a chance, if the weather were dry for a few days, that a fire might still work,’ he hinted.

'If I choose that chance, the chance of unseasonal weather, will you bring me back here in a few days?’ she asked tentatively.

He nodded and then frowned as if annoyed at himself. Seizing her wrist again, he made an impatient motion with his hand. They vanished, leaving the street of the tragic plague town empty once more.