Serzhen
J Simon
I
In distant Sa’bahr, divinely inspired lunatics spend their lives inscribing every story ever told upon the backs of giant tortoises. The lunatic Harakara, however, being somewhat less inspired than the others (it has been speculated that his incomprehensible prattle was due more to drunkenness than holiness) mostly copied whatever his neighbors were doing. Which, since he inevitably made mistakes, meant that he ended up inscribing every story which had never been told upon the backs of giant tortoises. Indeed, after becoming widely renowned as a story-crafter, he created and then awarded himself the ‘All-Everything-In-The-Universe Give Me My Money Now, No Really, This Isn’t the Name of the Award Any More You Fools’ award, which—he claimed—came with a vast desert’s dune of wealth. Well. What could be more valuable than the most inexplicable and obscure stories in the universe? His own tortoise was dropped on him and crushed him to death in what we must assume was a symmetrical and satisfying ending that delighted him completely.
There is value—and risk—in doing things your own way. We people of Serzhen know this well. Years ago, the missionaries of distant Majra swept across our land, conquering us for our own good, handing down rules and extracting their tribute of taxes. And why not? Serzhen is a harsh desert land, a land without gods, a land devoid of goodness and truth. What does it matter if devotion and care (and a dash of irrigation) can summon a surprising bounty from our lands? What does it matter if crazy drunken artists leave canvasses and paint-boards lying on the street, so that passers-by can dance into being the most singular paintings ever made? What does it matter if the cumulative inspiration of our crazy, sweaty, impossible lies approaches Reality more closely than a few flaccid words of mere Truth could ever imagine? We poor savages must be pacified. So we’ve been told: And I, for one, loving and cherishing our beloved conquerers as I do, would very much like to reward them with the same wealth that bore Harakara to his happy fate. If I ever find a heavy enough tortoise and a high enough cliff, perhaps that much-longed-for day will finally come.
There on the tortoises of distant Sa’bahr can be found a city that loved tales so much that its people became stories; the judge so wilfully blind that it took the grandest cheat of all to fool him into seeing the obvious truth; and the final trick that would shatter a city… or redeem it forever.
* * *
There can’t be another place in the world like Market Street. How can there be so many people wearing so many colors surging in so many directions as merchants chant, sing, and tale-tell the uniquely salacious histories of their startlingly valiant incense and spices, metal and stone? The river of humanity churns and spins and splits in a hundred directions as angelic-faced children run to give sticky-fingered hugs to their delighted victims… leaving both gummy handprints and assorted goods stuck to them, whereupon the childrens’ parents stagger around screaming ‘THIEF!!!’ in the hope that their victims might be startled into paying double the normal price. Acrobats contort. Jugglers juggle. Lovely veil-dancer girls also juggle, badly, until one of the blushing and nervous young men that surround them pays them to go back to their usual trade. Tailors offer death-throated tales of the clothes they stole from the gods themselves, which they now offer to you—practically for free! Tinkers shout-sing the many staggering benefits of owning magic talking glowing knives (which theirs most decidedly are not… but stop to point that out and you’re already talking to them, which is half the battle lost). Wizened grandmothers stir curries whose scents seize the very soul, confident that all the world must come to them, in time. As indeed they must, for who could resist a tale inscribed upon the very air by onion and garlic, saffron and salt?
Today, today was singular even by the standards of Market Street. The great wind, the bada-hava, was upon us, whistling down Market Street with blistering force, as it would for an unknown number of days to come. Most people just leaned over and walked with choppy little steps, but there were those who leapt shouting in the air to see how far they could fly. Inspired, I decided to try it myself… only to discover that I’d walked right into a trap. Every last one of those gleefully celebrating folk, it turned out, was a paid fake. The moment I tried to copy them, one of their confederates popped out and slapped a person-sized kite on my back. Catching the whistling wind, it carried me much farther than I’d intended. In fact, I didn’t stop until I smashed into a seller’s stand.
“Why, Aris!” cried the widow Essaffah, her eyes going wide with delight when she saw me. Malicious delight? No, she was genuinely happy to see me. I’ve known Essaffah for years, and I still look behind me to try and spot what has so delighted her when she greets me. I’ve also learned, with considerable effort, to hide my reaction to her rather extravagant beauty. Well, I thought I had. To judge by her self-satisfied smirk, I’m not so sure that I succeeded.
“You must buy my cakes!” she admonished me.
“I don’t have any money!” I cried reflexively.
“Oh? In that case, I’ll give you this basket. Take it!”
I hesitated. On the one hand, as merry and joyful as she is, Essaffah must be the greatest honey-drenched brigand in the world. I mean, she has to be. Anyone whose goods smelled more delicious than her dried honey spice-cakes would be at constant risk of being licked to death. On the other hand, the scent of those self-same cakes was not to be denied. I cautiously reached out my hand toward the basket, which contained a sizeable cloth bundle. Essaffah just smiled. I gripped the handle. She hummed to herself. I lifted the basket. It felt oddly heavy. Parting the cloth, I found myself looking not at cakes, but at a baby.
“LOOK!!! LOOK WHAT HE’S DOING!!!” Essaffah howled, jumping from foot to foot and pointing at me with both hands. “THIEF! MALEFACTOR! KIDNAPPER! HOW DARE YOU STEAL MY BABY!!!”
“All right, all right, I’ll buy some cakes!” I said, struggling to sound stern and displeased. Essaffah took the baby back, instantly her usual calm and merry self again. Was it her baby? Some folks might claim that Darshini was born to an overwhelmed and extremely young girl who wanted time to find her own way in life: The fact that Darshini was Essaffah’s daughter was agreed by everyone—including the mother—to be far more beautiful, and therefore true, than a few pitiful scraps of fact devised by such a haggard and uninspired author as Reality. I took three cakes, and sighed as I signed a promise to pay for them. Which I would. Somehow.
“Are you sure you want to get Darshini started on thievery so young?” I asked.
“You know, you’ve been noticeably slow to tell me I have the cutest baby of all time,” Essaffah said, taking Darshini in her arms and placidly bouncing her up and down.
“What?” I said, taken aback.
“Compliment my baby. Or else.” Essaffah’s smile grew slightly wider. She loved every part of the hunt, completely and totally, and there was no menace at all mixed in with her joy. Perhaps that was what made it so menacing.
“She’s the most beautiful, wonderful, amazing, spectacular— OH NO, I CAN’T STOP SNEEZING!” I cried, and pretended to be blown away by the force of my facial eruptions. Which, to be fair, sent me staggering back into the wind, which very nearly blew me back into Essaffah again. Fortunately, she was too busy laughing at me to sell me another cake.
I opened my mouth to lavish Darshini with fresh praise, but stopped when I realized that Essaffah was staring at something over my shoulder. I hadn’t noticed it because of the howling winds, but Market Street had suddenly fallen silent. Did I say that there was no place in the world like Market Street? Evidently I was mistaken. I’ve been in grave-gardens that feel much the same.
I slowly turned. A pair of Majeri soldiers marched down the street, their white-painted armor clicking and clacking… and between them walked a man I hadn’t expected to see here. It was Dhrevos Scarb, Chief-Of-Mission for all Durbansq, his balding head beaded with sweat despite the howling wind. Lies, of course, are forbidden in the occupied city of Durbansq, which has much the same effect on haggling merchants and blustering storytellers that decapitation has on songbirds.
“Aris,” Scarb said smoothly. “I rather thought I’d find you here.”
“Whatever you mean to accuse him of… it was me!” Essaffah said, looking shocked at her own daring. “Take me into custody… not him!”
Scarb looked her up and down, not as he would look at a fellow person, but as he would look at an insect he found particularly interesting. My heart sank as if I’d made the classic mistake of swallowing tiny treasure maps which insisted there was gold in my feet.
“You,” Scarb said to her. “What man claims you?”
“I… just…” Essaffah held Darshini tight in her arms. “I don’t… it’s not…”
“I see. And by what right, then, do you claim that you are permitted to sell within the city? Be glad I don’t have time to correct you personally. Return to your home. Do not leave it without your husband’s permission. GO!”
Essaffah ran off. I glared at Scarb, but as he didn’t burst into flames, I think we can conclude that I haven’t yet cultivated a sufficiently vicious Eye of Death. Either that or I have, but it has cataracts. Hopefully I’ll someday meet a doctor who is in possession of a morally dubious scalpel.
“Come,” Scarb said, leading me back up Market Street. I followed, not sure what else I could do. “Look at that,” Scarb said derisively, inclining his head toward old Gudra Woodcarver, who had taken advantage of the wind by tying tiny, colorful kites to every part of his burnouse. “Poor lost savage.”
“You could stop and lecture him on how evil color and whimsy are,” I suggested innocently.
Scarb shot me an unfriendly look. “Logic—true understanding—comes last. First, we must induce correct behavior at the level of instinct. First, we must inculcate shame.”
We turned left, heading through the tangled back streets of Durbansq. Soon enough, we came to the Majeri compound, where a vast white-painted wall cut away half the world as clean as a knife, along with all the joy and wonder it might have contained. There used to be a beautiful, open park here, where children played and blushing young couples vanished into the bushes, which—it should be noted—were tended by certain notorious gossips and had convenient peep-holes groomed right into the sides. When the Majeri came, they ripped out all life, paved everything over, and slammed down their identical white-painted buildings with thudding regularity. I’m sure, somewhere in a world as vast and strange as ours, there exists a plant whose huge, white, rectangular flowers could teach me to see beauty even in the Majeri. Surely it’s a blight on my soul that I haven’t been able to find it myself.
“Well,” I said brightly, “since I’m not a lawbringer anymore, and don’t have permission to even enter the Majeri compound, I guess I’ll have to leave you now. What a shame!”
Scarb glared at me. “You will be permitted inside… this time. You are my guest.”
“But do I deserve to be?” I argued. “You’re as far beyond me as the sun is beyond the fireflies who worship him!”
“You can leave whenever you want,” Scarb said calmly. “By the way, Aris. Your parents. Do you think I could contrive to find anything amiss if I spent a few hours poring over their files?”
“I suddenly feel a vast desire to come with you,” I muttered. Scarb just nodded. A wonder-tale villain would scream his laughter to the skies after defeating his foe, but Scarb was just a grey little man doing his job. How could evil be so banal?
Guards opened the gate, and I followed Scarb into the Majeri compound. The cobbled courtyard was meticulous, each white-painted building marching off identical to the next. When I was a boy being taught arithmetic, I used to break down crying because math problems always came out the same way, no matter how much I wanted to make them dance around and join together into fun new stories. Now that I’m older, I know that there’s beauty in mathematics, too, but I still can’t see the value in people so insecure about their own souls that they’d grimly declare “one plus one!” a thousand times a thousand times, and refuse to let the discussion progress beyond that.
We crossed the courtyard and entered Justicemonger’s Hall. I hadn’t been there in a while, but some things don’t change… even if they should. It was still far too hot, humid enough to be stifling, and smelled more or less like wet dog. In the hallway, we passed one of my fellow lawbringers, Candle-Of-Truth Hameen, who stared at me as though there were flowers sprouting from my head. I didn’t feel to check. Sometimes, a possibility is more fun that the hard truth of reality.
We climbed a set of stairs and passed through the waiting room into Scarb’s own chambers. He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled as he gazed at me. I shifted from foot to foot, wondering what would come next.
“Keep in mind, Aris… I seek only the improvement of your people. To bring them salvation. To raise them up, that they might live proper and correct lives of harmony and joy,” Scarb said earnestly. “That you, Aris, remain so deeply, tragically mistaken is… unfortunate.” He glared at me. “You may be a lost cause, Aris, but your people are not. I will not permit you to selfishly blot all light from their eyes, just because it hurts yours.”
“Your wisdom, as ever, is beyond question,” I ventured. Naturally, he didn’t notice the insult: Wisdom that can’t be questioned is mere fanaticism, and is no wisdom at all.
“An Evaluation Team is coming from Majra to judge this place,” he said negligently. “That could be bad for both of us, Aris. We have not yet pacified the savages of Durbansq, which you’ll surely admit isn’t my fault. I just need more time! But the Evaluation Team… well, in me they’ll see…” His face spasmed. “…a failure. And in you Serzhi, they’ll see savages desperately in need of correction. They’ll summon a force ten times as vast to destroy you utterly and finish the job that I started. You know this to be true. You and your people face complete and utter ruin. Everything you know, everyone you love, will be destroyed. But it doesn’t have to be that way.”
“What do you mean?”
Scarb winced, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant. “If it would be bad for both of us… well… what if we worked together, you and I, helping the Evaluation Team see what we wanted them to see? Namely, a Durbansq that appeared completely and totally pacified? I’d receive the time I needed… and you wouldn’t be forced to watch your city burn.”
I stared at Scarb, my mouth hanging open. He wanted me, his most despised foe, to work with him? To say that this was the last thing I’d expected… well, no, truthfully, I’d be very slightly more surprised if my left hand split into a dozen tiny copies of me that danced around singing catchy songs about how dumb my wrist looked without a hand on it in high-pitched twelve-part harmony… but this was a very close second.
“I, ah… need to think about this,” I hazarded.
Scarb scowled at me. “This isn’t complicated, Aris. Yes or no. If you refuse to join me, I’ll just have to find other Serzhi who might help. I’ve already arranged a meeting for later today. So you see, refusing me won’t help… but it could certainly hurt. If you said ‘no’… why, I’d have to make sure you couldn’t poison the minds of my other potential allies, wouldn’t I? I think you’re familiar with our prisons. How would you like to see them again?”
I grimaced. Aside from my general distrust of Scarb, I simply didn’t think that ‘pretending to be pacified’ would work. We Serzhi are not noted for being patient and obedient. Asking an entire city to act passively devout would be like dipping a thousand cats’ tails in paint, setting loose a thousand mice for them to chase, and asking them not to create the world’s most spectacular abstract painting. Besides, I had my own plan for taking on the Evaluation Team, unlikely though it was to work.
“No,” I said regretfully. “I will not do this.”
“I see,” Scarb said, his lips thin. “In that case, I remand you to the custody of…”
The door suddenly burst open. Candle-Of-Truth Hameen stormed inside, followed by his fellow lawbringers Ala the Stork and Gatma the Apothecary.
“We have writs!” Gatma cried, brandishing papers like a weapon. Candle-Of-Truth Hameen just took me by the elbow and started guiding me from the room. Given the scars shimmering on his bald head and the rather disturbing intensity of his bottomless black eyes (rumor claims that he once diced with Lady Death and ended up trading eyes with her; the great debate is whether he won or lost), well, I went without asking.
“What? What? What?” Scarb cried as Ala and Gatma continued waving papers in his face.
“Go,” Hameen whispered. “I will not say that our writs are less than perfectly accurate, but only because I am a warm and generous soul who never points out the deficiencies of others. By the way, your feet are too short and your face is the wrong shape. Fare well.”
I hurried through Justicemonger’s Hall, at one point passing through the great legal library. Vast numbers of lawbooks crammed the walls, causing my fingers to twitch—somewhere in that crazy, convoluted labyrinth of aborted legalisms and misguided logic might be the answer to our problems. If we could just tie their own laws around the Majeri’s throats until their faces turned a very special shade of orange, presumably a passing band of over-amorous apes would mistake them for mangos and pursue them forevermore. One can only hope.
I showed my passbook at the front door. The Majeri on guard allowed me to leave Justicemonger’s Hall, and a little later, I was allowed to leave the Majeri compound itself. Was I safe? Not necessarily. How long would it be before Scarb recovered from his shock and sent soldiers to capture me? Had he sent them already?
I hurried into the tangled back streets of Durbansq, hoping beyond hope that I wouldn’t get lost this time. It didn’t work. As long as I’ve lived in this city, there was still much that I didn’t know. Who had covered an entire house with pinwheels that spun madly in the wind, achieving reckless and impassioned heights of color and speed? Why were certain fruits painted with symbols of sacred goodness, while seemingly identical fruits on the other side of the same tree were painted with symbols of the evil and profane?
I unexpectedly reached Market Street. I quickly spun around, sure that my Majeri pursuers must be right behind me. They weren’t. I calmed a little. What had Scarb said? I’ve already arranged a meeting for later today. He was going to present his plan to the most important of my fellow Serzhi, then. But did they know him as well as I did? Perhaps I should be there, too, politely helping mute ghosts everywhere by rattling chains, moaning, and occasionally screaming ‘BEWAAAARE!’ Sure. But first, I had to find out where this meeting was going to be.
I spotted the rather large stand that the wealthy Sar Efrem had established for three of his daughters. It was packed so full of flowers that—from a distance—it looked like a cube of riotous, magnificent color. Sudha was tending the flowers with loving care. Dhira, looking bored, was using a slingshot to shoot dead flower-heads at potential customers. Varema alone stood ready to greet would-be patrons.
“It is and is not,” I said courteously, “but conventionally rich men merely have double chins. A man as spectacularly wealthy as Sar Efrem presumably grows entire extra heads. Which means that he needs me around, since every time I trip and fall, he laughs his fool head off until there’s only one left. Will you help me find him?”
“Would you like to look at this flower?” Varema said hopefully. “It can travel through time!”
Dhira perked up. “I’ll give you some free flowers for Eyla! Surely you admit that our sister deserves them?”
“They’re free?” I said hopefully. “Really?”
Her smile sharpening, she took the hardest, pointiest flowers she could find and used her slingshot to shoot them at me. I tried to catch them, but the bada-hava winds caused them to shoot off in unexpected directions. More often than not, they splatted into my left eye right before disappearing forever.
Sudha snorted, amused. “Lying rumor claims that Daddy rented out his manor and won’t be there today,” she told me. “I saw him heading toward the Banyan, though.”
“Many thanks!” I cried. Hurrying out of slingshot range, I made my way down Market Street, assiduously ignoring the suggestive stories and alluring tale-songs of the merchants I passed. Here and there I spotted “crimes” being committed: Everyday folk—wives and husbands, daughters and sons—stealing goods and “accidentally” dropping coin pouches in their place. A trick to evade the taxes of our beloved Majeri conquerors? Of course not! The Mutuality Sodality is a dread criminal cabal, not a mutual-aid society of regular, everyday citizens! Please feel free to assume that I used my fighting skills, such as they are, to try and kill them. Which, I think you’ll agree, wouldn’t actually hurt, but would force any truly polite person to immediately drop dead out of fear of offending me.
It wasn’t long before I reached my turn and headed south, wincing as the scouring bada-hava winds abraded the skin of my face. The next time I meet a chest of drawers, you’d better believe I’ll ask it out to commiserate with me over a foaming mug of sura concerning the trying act of being sanded. And if an inanimate piece of furniture can’t actually go anywhere or drink anything? What do you know! Twice as much sura for me!
It is and is not, but there was once a man named Alash who was very poor, but who was happy nonetheless because he was so much in love. A fever tore through the land, though, and his pretty young wife died, and of course he went mad with grief. Alash decided that he must buy every lamp in the world, for one of them would surely contain a djinni, and he could wish his wife back to life. He spent the next thirty years becoming enormously rich, which involved a certain amount of lying and cheating, stealing and betraying, but what of it? He bought every lamp he could find and piled them into a vast soaring mountain of flickering, leaping lights that tricked many a firefly into falling madly in love.
One day, Alash was offered a lamp that actually contained a djinni—but the asking price was equal to his entire fortune. What should he do? ‘I don’t think she’d like the person I am now,’ he mused, ‘but look, I don’t even need her! She laughed at my jokes—but so what? A man as wealthy as me can hire people to laugh at him all the time!’ Alash kept half his wealth and used the other half to pay everyone in the world to laugh at him loudly, raucously, and continuously. Oddly enough, the few times when he forgot to pay them, they still kept laughing at him. Alash had reason to wonder, at the end, whether he’d truly done the right thing. He did finally buy the djinni lamp and wished for his wife’s life with his last dying breath, but he never got to see what did or didn’t happen as a result.
The streets and houses of Durbansq dropped away as I entered the Banyan. Ages ago, it’s said, the Banyan was but a single tree, but its hanging roots found earth and grew into new trunks, and it spread and spread and eventually claimed an eighth the area of Durbansq. Now, it’s a mighty and conquering all-tree, a forest of one. Is this true? Feel free to say ‘Of course not! The world isn’t wonderful at all!’, if you don’t mind being forced to live in a world that isn’t wonderful at all. Me? I know that it’s true. Every last word of it.
I followed a well-worn path through the Banyan. The canopy surged and swayed in the bada-hava winds, covering me with a twirling rain of shredded leaves, but it was otherwise fairly calm down below. I beheld gigantic millipedes the size of snakes twining away at a leisurely pace, and swarms of ants so dense that they covered parts of the earth at least ankle-deep, and tiny crazy monkeys spinning in place for no apparent reason. All the hanging roots and tiny straight trunks made it especially challenging to navigate, but I finally made my way to one of the larger galleries, where plenty of space was kept clear under the bent, gnarled old grandfather-trunks. Any number of people had gathered here to gossip or trade or pass the scorching-hot time of Midday. At the far side of the gallery was a man impressive in both bulk and stature. The world’s largest canyons, beholding his vast and mighty dignity, must surely sigh and settle down to wear themselves even deeper in hopes of one day matching his quiet power. When I first met him, he was the richest and most powerful man in Durbansq. Even now, with the wealth of the greatest shattered and reduced to merely mortal levels, it’s best to treat him with respect.
“Sar Efrem,” I said, bowing. “You look well. Too well! Assuming there aren’t words enough in the world to praise you as much as you deserve, please assume that I am praising you, I’ve just run out of words and come to the part where I flap my lips silently!”
“Aris,” he said, looking pained. “I know we’re friends now, I suppose, but ask yourself… is that truly something you want to do to me? Boring artists make paintings, merely, with paint. The truly great use people as their canvas, by speaking shocking or fearful or lascivious words that make the faces of their listeners—like you!—blush or blanch in an aesthetically pleasing way. Now I can’t do that to you. Ask yourself, Aris… is it truly fair that you’ve denied me my chosen canvas? Do you truly hate all art?”
“Abusing me is an art form?” I hesitantly asked.
“Do not ask the bird why she sings. Well, do, because it would make it especially easy to roll boulders at you while you were standing there patiently waiting for an answer.” Sar Efrem looked momentarily addled. “Which I would never do. Because, despite my deep and abiding love of the arts, I am, of course, your friend. No matter how lovely and colorful a splat your insides would make.”
“Many thanks,” I said dubiously. “Anyway, I’m glad I found you—”
I stopped as a boy of about twelve years came over, looking irritated. Sar Efrem’s son dressed just the same as him, and even tried to talk like him, which was kind of hilarious coming from such a squeaky, high-pitched voice. He may not be my most favorite person in the world, but… hold on, let me check and see if a flood has killed everyone in the universe but us two. No? Very well, then. As I was saying, he wasn’t my most favorite person in the world.
“There’s nothing here I want to buy,” he complained, then paused. “Because everything’s covered in magic wish-granting earwigs that only grant wishes related to pinching,” he hastily added, to make it a lie.
“Dayib,” I said distantly.
“Aris,” he said, then stood there fidgeting restlessly. “Don’t you think I’m old enough to join the Festival of the Nameless?” he said in a single breath. “I mean, I don’t care, but don’t you think I’m old enough? I mean, I’m not, obviously, which means I should be in it, right, because it would be just that funny?!”
I glanced at Sar Efrem. Every year, Durbansq holds a massive coming-of-age festival in which an entire year’s worth of young people win the right to call themselves men and women all at once. The festival’s true name is reportedly a word so vile, so obscene, so excessively offensive that no child can ever be allowed to hear it—hence, ‘the Festival of the Nameless’. Thirteen or fourteen was the more usual age to participate, but—
“Go find something to buy,” Sar Efrem said shortly.
“I don’t want to be in it!” Dayib insisted. “Didn’t I just say that? But it would help you, right, because I could get an apprenticeship or something. I’m just trying to help you!” He paused. “And also, I just swallowed a magic earwig that granted my wish to throw up on anyone who doesn’t let me into the Festival. It’s not my fault! Really!”
“Go find something to buy,” Sar Efrem repeated. Red-faced, Dayib tromped off into the Banyan. “You wanted something?” Efrem asked me.
“Some say that our beloved Majeri benefactors are up to something,” I said. I explained my run-in with Scarb, and the thought that Sar Efrem might know where to find the Majeri. “—but as for me, I want to stay right here and do nothing,” I said firmly. “Who cares where Dhrevos Scarb goes, or who he runs through with a sword made of ridiculous laws, which doesn’t cut so much as bristle with pens that write injunctions against being healthy all over its screaming victims? Sit here and do nothing! That’s what I say.” I glanced at Sar Efrem. “And do remember, friend, how very much you love defying me.”
Sar Efrem sighed, brushing off his robes. They were vastly overdyed robes of burgundy, highlighted by weirdly-shaped plates of dusky old gold that didn’t look much like anything… until he moved into just the right position. They then combined into rearing horses and mountain-high djinn, dancing maidens and soaring rocs that shifted into new tales every time he moved his arms.
“I, ah… what?” I said intelligently.
“Aris…” Sar Efrem shook his head gravely. “Do you know why I’m here, in the Banyan, right now? Other than a passionate love of my fellow… LEAVE ME ALONE OR I’LL EAT YOUR EYEBALLS!” he bellowed at a seemingly legless beggar who promptly jumped up and ran away. “…people? Because, thanks to you, I can no longer afford to maintain my own manor and have to rent it out on disturbingly frequent occasions. Things change. People take on new positions in life.” He glanced at me. “You used to be a lawbringer. You used to have an income. It used to be your job to worry about things like this. No longer. Now, your official job, so far as I can tell, is to walk around being shat upon by birds. You certainly don’t seem to be doing much else. One might almost ask how you intend to buy my daughter the things she needs.”
“Eyla thrives on challenge,” I hazarded. “Loving her as I do, of course I have to make her life even harder. All good artists are starving artists, right? An inability to afford food, therefore, is a sadly necessary prerequisite to becoming the greatest artist of all time! I don’t want to be unemployed. I’m doing it for her!”
“Of course,” Sar Efrem said sourly. “But there are lawbringers, and city leaders, and criminal masters of the Mutuality Sodality whose job is to worry about the Majeri. Perhaps I spun my eyes around one too many times the last time I took them out for a cleaning, and I’m seeing you backwards, and you actually are a lawbringer. But maybe—just maybe!—this is none of your business and you should drop the whole thing.” He paused. “And also, they say that tragedy is the surest possible way to achieve greatness as an artist. Such as the death of a spouse!”
“Or a father,” I shot back.
“Oh, I don’t love my daughter at all,” Sar Efrem said cheerfully. “Whether you do, it seems, will soon be demonstrated by how quickly and thoroughly you contrive to fall down a well!” He paused. “Besides. I’ve been paid well to keep this particular secret. A man’s word is sacred, the heart of his honor. Believe me, I’ve tried squeezing the world’s most honorable dogs and juicing them for some nice, delicious integrity, but it just doesn’t work. I guess I have no choice but to keep my word.”
“Really—you won’t talk because you’ve been paid? Is wealth so much more important than love?” I asked. I told him the story of Alash and the mountain of lamps. Sar Efrem, sadly, didn’t seem much moved by it.
“No, Aris,” he said, his gaze piercing right through me. “I won’t tell you where to go. After all, I’ve been paid well to keep the secret of where the Majeri are. On this, the day when I’ve rented out my manor for… ah, someone… to use. Do you understand me?”
I slowly smiled. “If the words a man speaks are sacred,” I mused, “perhaps body language might tell a different story. One can hope, at least, that his friend has evil eyebrows.”
Sar Efrem shook his head, smiling despite himself. “We understand each other, I think. Rather better than I’d like, sometimes.”
Dayib came back, clutching a huge leaf wrapped around some foodstuffs. “You know, the chandler’s daughter is in the Festival of the Nameless this year,” he said carelessly, “and she’s younger than I am! I guess I shouldn’t have bet all that money on myself to beat her. Who needs the pulse-pounding, heart-grasping thrill of betting on a loved one when he could sit quietly and stare at dirt?” He paused. “I especially guess I shouldn’t have bet so much of your money on it.”
I hurried off, pursued by Dayib’s squeaking cries of “Wait! No! That was a lie! Wasn’t it funny?!”
As I wound my way through the Banyan, I came to a green-swarded alcove where many people clustered around, peering at something in evident amazement. I hastily took my place in line. Occasionally there arises an artist so insanely inspired that their works, though years—or even decades—in the making, are true miracles, and these people earn the name of ‘Shandiki’. This artwork, I saw, was a painting of an old woman. Just that. It was warm and wonderful and detailed, yes, but was it truly a work of genius? Then I drew closer, and I realized that what I’d taken for brushstrokes were actually tiny paintings of the stories that made up her life. The laugh-lines that crinkled her eyes until they almost disappeared were, in actuality, the tales from her life that delighted her most. Her weathered cheeks were bescripted with tales from her long life as a camel-driver, and clear in her eyes were the half-smiling man and the naughty little boy I took for her husband and son. I didn’t have a coin to pay for the privilege of having seen, but I gestured as if to offer one anyway. Hopefully the Universe understood.
I made my way back to Market Street, grimacing as the howling bada-hava winds did their best to knock me over, and headed toward Sar Efrem’s manor. About halfway there, a crazy-eyed young woman dropped from a tree and landed right in front me.
“ARRRG!” Eyla cried, seeming disappointed when I didn’t actually jump out of my skin. My wife may be small, but she’s a lot. Some of us are content to merely wait for whatever beauty the world chooses to show us: Not Eyla. When the world gives her lemons, she sets them on fire. Or throws them from the highest spire to splatter artistically all over the ground. Or spends an intense morning dissecting and rebuilding them into profoundly inefficient weapons of war with which she can fire stinging juice into her enemies’ eyes. On the theory that it’s safest to keep perilous people as close as possible, I’d gone and married her. One of these days, perhaps I’ll get around to regretting it.
“Give me your day!” Eyla demanded. So, of course, I did, throwing in dragons and wizards and princesses and other things that Reality no doubt meant to add like a spice to my otherwise flaccid tale, and would have, had it just a little more time. Eyla, thankfully, didn’t question my obviously true assertion that I’d defeated the Universe Dragon with three onions and a stuffed bat. As we headed up Market Street, Eyla darted here and there, finding wonderful things I just had to look at as I continued giving her my day. Her comments on my tale were keen and insightful, and she wouldn’t let me deceive myself about anything. Did she occasionally call me on the more impossible aspects of my tale? I had fun dancing the cliff’s edge figuring out new and ever-more convoluted ways to make them possible again. If you can find someone you like, that’s special. And if you like who you are even more when you’re around them, it’s time to run away as fast as you can. You’re liable to go crazy and spend your life buying lamps if anything ever happens to them.
“…which, in a way, makes my insanity your fault!” I said, suddenly and happily inspired.
“Oh, come on!” Eyla said, looking offended. “You can’t blame me for that! So what if I’ve been whispering my demands into your ear while you sleep every night for the past four months?”
“What?” I said, startled.
“Nothing. Hey, look, the Garden Promenade!”
The Garden Promenade used to be a rather prominent road that meandered across much of Durbansq before it finally sliced across Market Street. Now? Well, keep in mind that Sar Dabran formerly held the irrigation channels of Durbansq in trust, and was one of the most spectacularly wealthy men in the city: He imported unique and special kinds of life from all around the world at considerable expense, and they were his great joy. When he recently found himself approaching the wealth limit again, he spent himself below it by buying an entire road. He then converted it into an elongated, winding garden, kept bright and green by the tiny irrigation creek running down its center. The Garden Promenade is full of birds and butterflies and every kind of flower and makes crossing from one side of Market Street to the other a particular challenge. Sure, some people just walk across, heedless of all the precious and beautiful things they could be looking at, but what fun is that?
“Majeri!” Eyla hissed, grabbing me and pulling me behind a flower-laden hedge. Following her point, I spotted two white-clad soldiers on the other side of the Promenade. Waiting for me? Hopefully not. They were probably there to escort their esteemed “guests” to Sar Efrem’s manor, where Scarb would tell them… what, exactly?
“I’m not curious at all,” I said ruefully. “Of course, the only things that aren’t curious at all are dead things. Maybe you married a weirdly mouthy pebble. Think about it!”
“Oh, I do,” Eyla assured me, amused, “but I fantasize about pumice when we’re together.”
“Eyla!!”
“More of them!” Eyla hissed and yanked me sideways. Following her gaze, I saw that there were two more soldiers coming up behind us. Could I get away without being seen? That might depend on how gullible they were, and how convincing Eyla was when she screamed ‘LOOK OVER THERE!!!’
“Come on!” Eyla said. In front of us were the kaleidoscope gardens, one of my favorites. Every color and kind of flower imaginable bloomed vigorously here, set in floating pots that meandered around their little pool forming endless fleeting new shapes and combinations of colors that would never occur again. Driven by the bada-hava winds, they spun around rather faster than intended. I don’t know. Would it be possible for flowers to take a man’s head off, depending on how fast they were moving?
“Let’s see if anyone noticed when I ‘improved’ Sar Dabran’s planning sketches,” Eyla muttered.
“What?”
Eyla kicked me in the back of the knee. I stumbled and stepped right into the pool. It should have been about a handspan deep, but instead I sank in past my knees… past my waist… past my shoulders. Alarmed, I raised my face straight up so I could still breathe while the water rose up past my ears. I finally hit solid ground and stopped sinking. Laughing triumphantly, Eyla ‘disguised’ me by draping a huge wet water-lily leaf over my face and setting a placid frog atop my forehead. I couldn’t even be mad at her, being rather distracted by the unique experience of being entombed in so… much… water! In a place as arid as Durbansq, water is nearly equivalent to wealth. Being completely surrounded by it was a little like bathing in pearls, which—according to tales—certain princesses habitually do. Which, if you think about it, wouldn’t get them clean… it would just make the pearls dirty and stinky. Maybe those particular princesses aren’t incredibly beautiful: Maybe their stench is so strong that it makes their suitors hallucinate and start babbling about an amazing beauty that isn’t actually there.
“Aris! Pay attention!” Eyla said, snapping her fingers.
“Uh? What?”
“Good enough,” she sighed, and strode toward the Majeri soldiers. Her performance was something to behold: She crept past them, eyes darting back and forth, her hands carefully concealing something. I’m not sure I’ve seen anything so suspicious in my life, and I’ve seen Eyla trying to explain how she’d managed to extract our latest set of wedding presents from her unsuspecting father. The Majeri soldiers swayed, obviously tempted to go after her, but they had their orders. Two stayed on the far side of the Garden Promenade, two on the near side. I didn’t dare try to help her: If I tried to gasp and flop my way out of the kaleidoscope gardens now, I had a feeling it would go about as well as marching right up to them and loudly proclaiming, ‘No, really—I’m a FLOWER, dammit!!’
Frustrated, Eyla pretended she’d dropped something and came back to get it. It was amazing, watching her risk everything to try and help me. My admiration grew slightly less when her frustration boiled over and she just started loudly swearing at them. One of the soldiers took a step toward her. His companion put a hand on his arm, solemnly shaking his head.
As I wondered what to do next, Ambika Breadsmith neared the Garden Promenade, apparently on her way to the meeting. She was impressive and then some: Given the way she devastates dough with her mighty fists, we need never fear attack by enemies who are made out of bread. It was amazing, watching Eyla pretend to taunt the Majeri in ways that just happened to put her in an increasingly frustrated Ambika’s way. She was trying to drive the woman to me, I realized, without the Majeri realizing what was going on.
Ambika reached the kaleidoscope gardens. Still buried past the neck in water and muck, surrounded by madly whirling pots of flowers that tried to take off my nose with disturbing frequency, I winked saucily at her. Ambika’s eyes bugged wide, but to her credit, she managed to stifle her shout and convert it into the world’s angriest yawn.
“If you reacted that powerfully to seeing me,” I murmured, “the shock of finding out who you’ve been summoned to meet may actually startle you into punching a camel so hard that it shoots flipping into the sky and becomes a new star! Which—if it offends (or pleases?) the gods—could solve our problems for us!”
“I know who we’re meeting,” Ambika mumbled, pretending to watch pretty flowers whirl about inscribing impossible tales of color and form upon her very eyes. “Bait the devil, but Dhrevos Scarb is going to propose that we work together to get past the Evaluation Team.”
Eyla came over and sat by the edge of the pool, trailing her hand in the water so she could occasionally caress my face. And, as I learned later, to stick sodden but vibrant petals to my forehead. “Yet you’re still going?” she said, careful to keep her lips from moving.
“No, no, I’d go, too,” I said cheerfully. “Who wouldn’t want to laugh at Scarb’s ridiculous proposal? There are few enough things of perfect hilarity in the world. The mountain may fall from laughing, but at least it collapses on Scarb.”
Ambika was silent for a moment. “Would voting to join him be so terrible?” she said quietly. “I mean, we could do things Aris’ way. Try to be declared Unsuitable For Redemption, fail, die. A wonderful plan! Couldn’t be more perfect, according to all the dogs that’ll get to gnaw on our bones after we’re dead. Or, well, we could do what we can do, even if it’s not perfect, you know?”
“But he’s Dhrevos Scarb!” Eyla protested.
“This is the world’s funniest joke,” I said faintly. “Ambika has reached the part where I gasp and gurgle and die, shocked by her assertion that she’s actually thinking about joining the Majeri. Because, you know, killing your audience is actually the same thing as being incredibly funny, since there’s no one left alive to describe how dismal you were!”
“It’s not just me,” Ambika said staunchly. “Let the devil dance with delight, but a significant portion of the City Assemblage is thinking about it.”
“Don’t go!” I said, inspired. “If there’s not enough for a quorum, everyone else’s votes will be like the Parrot Who Learned To Speak Dog… loud and impressive, sure, but will they actually matter?”
“I’m going,” Ambika said quietly. We paused as one of the Majeri soldiers passed nearby, curious to see what Eyla and Ambika were talking about. Ambika jumped up and started punching flowers off a nearby bush, drawing his attention, while Eyla took the opportunity to transfer a small, startled frog to the tip of my nose.
“I’m going,” Ambika repeated, and strode off. Buried as I was in the water, I could hardly chase after her and continue the conversation.
“What’s so bad about your risky, almost sure-death plan, anyway?” Eyla complained, pacing back and forth. “You know who likes dead people, who leave behind all those delicious, delicious bones? As Ambika said—dogs! You know who likes people still clad in flesh? Mosquitos! Find me one person, just one, who’d rather pet a mosquito than a dog.”
“What if you’d been bitten by a vampire who also happened to be a cat?” I hazarded. Eyla just rolled her eyes and sat down to resume pasting flower petals to my forehead.
I’d been shaken by what Ambika had said, I’ll admit. Was there a chance the whole City Assemblage would vote to join Scarb? Not that I needed to worry about it just yet. We Serzhi have been known to take our time making major decisions. Like when the Majeri were approaching, and we had to choose the wording of our official proclamation: ‘We WILL not bow to you!’ or ‘We SHALL not bow to you!’. Once we finally make our decision and deliver the missive in question, I’m sure it’ll make the Majeri feel pretty foolish about the past three years. What I’m saying is, I had time. Time to get some advice, at least.
The soldiers finally moved off, and Eyla helped me up out of the kaleidoscope gardens.
“Some would say that I have to go,” I said, trying to kiss Eyla. Of course she ducked and dodged and made me work for it, but that somehow made it twice as sweet when… well, did I capture her? I’m pretty sure she took pity on me and stopped trying to escape, but I find it more congenial to think that I won by being so pathetic that she stopped trying to fight me. One way or another, we both got what we wanted. Kissing my wife one last time, I headed toward the holy grove at a brisk walk.
* * *
In distant Saithan, all of the greatest philosophers in the world once gathered to decide who was most wise. The first of them proclaimed ‘Life is suffering, suffering is futile, and futility is funny, thus we can conclude that babies are HILARIOUS!’. Meanwhile, the sage Tarka made ready to leave his grove and go join them… but he was badly hung over and found it more congenial to stay where he was. He drank with strangers until they were his friends, swapped tales with his friends until they were his devotees, then made fun of his devotees until they avoided his eye and pretended to be strangers again. In distant Saithan, perhaps mighty great minds were calling down one sundering bolt of intellectual lightning after another: ‘Truth is beauty, thus, rubbing pearls on my face actually proves that I know everything!’ ‘Everyone knows that all men are mortal, but “everyone” includes an awful lot of fools. Who knows? Maybe the fools are wrong, and I’m going to live forever! Wheee!’ But Tarka stayed in his grove, eating well and drinking more, delighting in all who came to him and spinning stories that filled them with amazement and wonder and—perhaps unintentionally—the seeds of intriguing new thoughts. He never claimed to be the wisest man in the world, but then, given the sheer number of bellowing morons wasting their time in Saithan, it could hardly have been anyone else.
I carefully stepped over the ruined and colorful wall that separated the holy grove from the rest of Durbansq. This patch of forest could never be mistaken for the Banyan: Unlike the latter’s exuberant, explosive growth, the trees here were tall and silent, presumably starting with ‘I have sap, therefore I am a tree’ and deriving from that the existence of squirrels and birds and everything else of importance. The grove wasn’t as quiet as it usually was, on account of the bada-hava winds filling the canopy with movement and noise, but there was something pleasantly soothing about it, too. I finally arrived in the center of the grove, where a lone woman sat on a bench next to her crude hutch, middle-aged, moon-faced, and smiling. Is Gaja Safira the wisest woman in the world? I don’t think she’s ever made that claim, but given her love of food and drink and people and stories, well, I’m not sure anyone could call themselves wiser.
I sat down next to her. “Gaja Safira,” I said, “I wanted to ask about—”
Someone backed out of her hutch, carrying a small pot of curry that some well-wisher had brought for the Gaja. The scent was beyond wonderful… but I was too busy staring at her guest to give it the attention it deserved. It was none other than Sar Efrem.
“Esteemed Sar?” I asked, starting to stand up again.
“Of course you’re here,” he said tiredly. “Do you have any understanding of a man’s occasional desire for privacy? Of course not. I can only be grateful that you weren’t yet born when I got married, or you surely would have poked your head curiously in-between when I went to kiss my wife.” He paused, looking pained. “Ha-ha. I say as one friend to another.”
“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Gaja Safira asked me, smiling merrily. “Lying rumor claims that I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for you.”
“Bah! You’ve always been here, and I can prove it,” I said. “Your predecessor, Gaja Vidur, was the wisest man in the world. Assuming that like calls to like, he presumably had especially clever birds stuck to his burnouse at all times… and his wisdom no doubt sucked you to him like a magnet. You’ve been here all along. It wasn’t until Vidur left, though, that the brilliant light beaming from his forehead stopped dazzling our eyes (that was a thing, wasn’t it?) and we could finally see you.”
“That does make sense,” Gaja Safira mused.
“If I could ask my question?” Sar Efrem said, exasperated.
With many a twisted tale and fractured metaphor, he explained his question… which was very much like my own. Pursuant to my plan, should we try to be declared Unsuitable For Redemption, chasing a tiny chance of total victory… or should we join Dhrevos Scarb, and give away half of ourselves for a much better shot at appearing pacified?
Gaja Safira pondered what he’d said. “Being utterly apart from the world, I would never give you orders or tell you what to do politically…”
Sar Efrem smiled. “Of course.”
“…but I am reminded, in this case, of a story.”
She told the tale of the sage’s convention in Saithan, but went on to explain how a gang of bloodthirsty ghools—tired of being outsmarted at every turn—were actually behind the Saithanese convention as a way of drawing away all the world’s wisdom and leaving it undefended. Tarka was the only sage left. Should he attempt the vanishingly unlikely solution of weaving a mask for the sun itself, which would cast threateningly dog-shaped shadows upon the mountains and so scare all the ghools away… or should he more pragmatically order everyone to stay safely inside for a year? By the sound of it, she was unsure herself which was the better path, and wanted to distill the essence of the problem down to its simplest form so that all of the logical possibilities could be sifted, weighed, and considered.
“Yes, yes, that’s well and good,” I interrupted, “but consider what happened in distant Felendia…”
“No,” Safira said, amused, “I don’t think I will.”
“What?” I said, gobsmacked. “You don’t want to hear a story?”
“I don’t want to hear that story, one designed to punch me in the face with your perspective. I don’t often stick rocks in my ear: They’re notoriously stupid and rarely entertain. Why would I assault my ears with stories just as hard, born not of radiant possibility but of your singular determination to subjugate everyone in the universe to your will?”
I fidgeted. “As the Girl Who Spoke To Geodes could tell you, there are times when sticking rocks in your ear is right. What if my ideas are better than yours?”
“And who’s ever listened to someone, merely, because they were right?” Safira said, amused. “Go on. Tell Sar Efrem what to think. Tell him what to believe. Yell at him for not obeying the radiant wisdom that gushes spurting from your maw and see how far it gets you. There’s a reason the world’s wisest woman isn’t described as beating people with a club while screaming ‘STUPID FOOLS, I KNOW BETTER THAN YOU!! OBEY ME AT ONCE!!!’“
“I bet she could get away with it, if she only did it every three or four years,” I said speculatively.
Gaja Safira laughed. “I am going to challenge you, Aris. Do you think Sar Efrem will be very receptive if he knows you’re only trying to hammer your own thoughts into his head? Who knows—he might even assume the opposite position just to spite you! I challenge you to leave your political opinions aside and merely tell stories with me.”
“But what if it doesn’t work?” I cried. “What if he leaves here believing the wrong things?”
“Then I will, perforce, help you do things your way,” Gaja Safira said, amused. “When you tell Sar Efrem what to believe, bellow as loud as you can! Your words will presumably echo back from the distant hills of Akesh, where vast dunes of gold dust endlessly scour clean the grinning and gleeful skeletons of the misers who died there. Laden with gold dust, your ideas won’t be any better for being shouted louder, but they will at least be beautiful!”
“Knowing me, my words would come back laden with I-owe-you’s,” I said ruefully.
Gaja Safira grinned at me. “Instead of conquering your victims and tricking them into agreeing with you, perhaps you might condescend to merely tell stories with me. If you’re simply yourself, as true and as pure as possible, some aspect of who you are will inevitably color your words and influence your listeners. You can try and tell them what to think, and fail… or you can expose them to such glorious fun that it actually changes who they are. If you can write your thoughts into someone else’s mind any easier than that, I need to have a look at your pen.”
I spread my hands. “Stories it is, then.”
Sar Efrem raised his hand. “Would it help keep Aris honest if I hired people to continually pummel him with pillow-bound hammers labeled ‘politics’?”
“I trust him implicitly,” Safira said, settling in to listen. “On the other hand, hitting him with hammers sounds exceptionally amusing! Let me think about it.”
“As to the Sages of Saithan,” I hastily said, “keep in mind that choosing to do the ‘easy’ thing assumes that it really is easy. ‘Stay inside for a year’—doesn’t sound so bad, does it? Except that every farmer in the world would have to switch to growing mushrooms from a plot the size and shape of their bedroom. Every herder would have to bring their animals inside, nearly choke to death on the smell, and—in utter desperation—seal their livestock into chiming crystal spheres which the gods might accidentally suck up into the sky to become a really weird constellation of goat-shaped stars. Plus,” I said thoughtfully, “all children want to run outside and feel the Time of Rains pouring over their upturned faces. Their parents would have to make up for it by frequently spitting on them, which would lead to some really peculiar traditions in the generations to follow…”
Safira and I went back and forth, taking turns building the tale up and tearing it down, weaving in wizards and princesses and hat-wearing frogs. Sometimes working together, sometimes working apart, we challenged each other and defied each other and built on each other, spinning our edifice of story higher and higher until it was something both glorious and ridiculous, transcendent and atrocious. Did Sar Efrem come to share my views? I don’t think so… but perhaps he realized, as he hadn’t before, that ‘pretending to be pacified’ might not be the easy solution that some people thought it was.
“…and she wore a shiny cloak made of scales, which is why lizards and ants are no longer friends,” I concluded with a flourish.
Sar Efrem looked thoughtful. “Gaja Safira… many thanks, truly, more than I can give. I have much to think about.” He turned to me. “As for you, Aris…” He shook his head, a rueful look on his face. “And now, it seems, you’ve found yet another way to shame me. After a performance like that, I can’t even bring myself to insult you. Not many people could fence a Gaja word for word and show themselves her equal.”
“You don’t feel like insulting me?” I said, immediately concerned. “Are you well? Do you have a fever? Are fleas leaping from your head, screaming with terror as they burst into flames?”
“Not that you aren’t making it extremely tempting. Fare well, both of you. Fare well!”
Gaja Safira smiled to herself and puttered about, pretending to clean up but actually finding excuses to flick bits of trash and filth at me. I still hadn’t gotten any advice from her, not exactly, but I knew when I was being dismissed. My bow reflecting Efrem’s, I followed him toward Durbansq proper.