Redemption in Indigo (16 page)

And so we return to a familiar scene—the spider-man sitting in a bar, observing and choosing his victims. If his seat was a little farther back in the darkness than usual, and if the bar was less cheerily lit than his previous haunts, we can understand why. He was a little nervous about having no disguise to fall back on.

The thought crossed his mind that he did not have to put up with this. Although he had long borne the spider shape, he could yet retire it and craft a less remarkable shadow. It would take a little time to do it, but the change might do him good. Perhaps??erhaps indeed it was time to put aside the legend of the Trickster with one last trick.

Then he relented. Better to start a straight trail with an honest deed.

Other honest deeds had been faithfully carried out. Alton's writings, the first part of a great work, had been sent by courier to an agent. Neila's orders for fabric and other wedding paraphernalia had been delivered to the appropriate stores, and the goods were being shipped directly to Makendha. Alton's household was being managed by a temporary majordomo, a junior looking for advancement hired from the chief's staff in Makendha. He thought it was temporary, but the Trickster knew that a permanent offer was just around the corner.

The Trickster sighed. All he needed was for one more thing to go right.

The first adventurer he approached with a free drink (alcohol definitely helped his situation), was a big man of middle years who had recently suffered an injury and was trying to return to full marketability. The spider-man recognised another trickster when he saw one, and this man was hiding the fact that he had lost his nerve after the accident that had nearly maimed him permanently. It was a common characteristic among the warriors—no fear of death, and only pride for their scars, but little thought of all that could happen in between those two extremes.

Then there were a few who were more brag than bravery, youngsters who had little or no experience who were travelling the world to find themselves. There were others who, having unfortunately found themselves, were seeking a way to get lost again. All these the Trickster turned away. He knew something about the business of tracking, and it required single-mindedness, not self-absorption.

Precious days were lost in this way, and he began to think that perhaps it was time to be less picky. Then, at last, the perfect tracker found him. He was a thin man of medium height, with light scars tracing his left cheek just below his eye. There was an expression of muted amusement on his face, as if he thought he was part of some grand joke and was glad of it. The Trickster found his face naggingly familiar, which was surprising, because he knew he had never met him before. But we have met this stranger, oh yes, a long trail back. More than mere coincidence had brought him to the Trickster. Certain information had come to him, making him realise that there was unfinished business on his karmic plate.

'You've been looking for me,’ he proclaimed to the spider-man who, as usual, had tucked himself discreetly into the darkest, farthest corner of the room.

Then he added audaciously, ‘Aren't you going to buy me a drink?'

'That depends,’ said the Trickster cautiously. ‘Who told you I was looking for you?'

The newcomer shrugged. ‘There are many answers to that. I could say that the word is out in Ahani that someone is sifting through the city's entire allotment of trackers to find the very best. In fact, I think that is the best answer for now.'

And he made a small, elegant gesture with his hand as if to say, ‘your play'.

'It is true that I am looking for a tracker, an excellent tracker. The assignment is no ordinary quarry,’ the Trickster murmured, signalling to the barman for an extra glass of spirits.

The tracker caught the barman's attention and signed for water instead. The Trickster didn't know whether to be impressed or worried.

'In what way is your quarry unusual?’ asked the tracker.

The Trickster's eyes gleamed with pleasure. This would be enjoyable.

'It leaves no trail. It can travel from one end of the earth to the other in the blink of an eye. Oh, and did I mention it has the powers of chaos at its side?'

'What does that mean, exactly?’ asked the tracker, as if only slightly curious.

'It means that if there is a chance of your getting lost, or run over by an omnibus, or hit by debris from a falling star??ell, you'd be surprised how easily those chances can get called up when your enemy has the right tool to hand.'

'So, it sounds as if I shall have to be careful that this quarry does not suspect I am following,’ mused the tracker.

'There is more,’ the Trickster snapped. ‘There are others on the trail?'

'...?he nonexistent trail,’ the tracker interjected helpfully.

The Trickster glared at him. ‘Exactly so. There are others, as I was saying, and it is best that you do not try to get between them and the quarry.'

'When I do track down the quarry, assuming there is nothing stopping me from doing so, what am I to do then? Return it to you?'

The Trickster relaxed and leaned back. Here at last was the enjoyable bit. ‘That is not my concern. I have been instructed to hire the best tracker Ahani has to offer. More information on your duties will have to come directly from your employers.'

'My employers. So, I have got the job?'

The Trickster inclined his head in assent. ‘Why not? Time is short and I am tired of looking any further. Here is a ticket to Makendha. You will have to find your own way from there to the House of the Sisters, but you can hire a mule from anyone and go up the hill trail. But before you go?’ and here he gripped the tracker's hand just as it was reaching for the ticket, enjoying the sight of the slight swallow in the man's throat as he dealt with the experience of being manhandled by a giant spider, ‘...?hat other reasons would you have for thinking I was looking for you?'

'Why do you ask?’ The tracker's face was less cheerful now, more anxious.

'You do not discuss wages, or deadlines, or reasons for the assignment. You do not flinch at any of the strangeness in my words nor even my appearance, and I know this for a fact because I have long since lifted my pacifying influence from you, the mental sedative I use to keep humans from curiosity and wonder and fear. Who are you? What is your name? Who sent you?'

'I am a tracker,’ the man replied in a quiet voice. ‘My name is Kwame, and??nd I was sent by a dream.'

There was a small silence.

'A dream?’ said the Trickster, releasing his hand and letting him take the ticket. ‘Well, I wouldn't doubt it, with all the nonsense that's been happening lately. A dream. Why not. Anything to make my job easier, thank you, Sisters. Once I was the strangest thing around here, the Sultan of Weird, but now the humans are outpacing the weird ones. Such is life.'

'You must not let yourself become cynical,’ chided Kwame. ‘We only do what we can, and sometimes we are permitted to do even more than that, human or??therwise.'

The Trickster gave him a measuring look. ‘You are a philosopher, I see. And yet young. What has made you so wise before your time?'

Kwame shrugged. ‘I try to pay attention to life's lessons.'

The spider-man laughed. ‘So modest? Let me tell you, I have seen men who are trying to find themselves, and I have seen men who are trying to lose themselves, but rare indeed is the man who knows exactly who he is and where he is at. Kwame, I sense that you are that fortunate and rare man.'

'I thank you for the compliment, but in truth I am trying to find a part of myself, something that I lost on the way from childhood. My dream tells me that at the end of this quest is where I will find it.’ A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. ‘Finding out that someone like you is at the start of it is oddly encouraging.'

He drained his glass of water and stood up. ‘As you said, time is short. I will go to the House of the Sisters and do as they command me.'

The Trickster watched him go, relief spreading like a narcotic to his extremities, removing that unconscious tension that had burdened him since reading the Sisters’ note. He had done his duty, his conscience was clear.

Conscience?
he asked himself.
Have I really slipped that far?

He dropped some coins on the table, snapped himself briskly out of the bar with a click of his pincers, and went to visit a friend.

'I thought you might still be here. Not off chasing with the rest of the grand hunt?'

His friend, who wore the shadow of a woman, had made herself remarkable by the glowing silver of her hair. Otherwise, she appeared to be simply a woman. I can admit to you now that this is the senior djombi who sent the Stick to Paama. Her reply to his offhand salutation was calm, and cryptic.

'I find that sometimes if you just sit still, things have a way of finding you before you can find them.'

The Trickster tried to process this, shook his head, and returned to the issue of his inner struggle. ‘You have ruined my reputation, do you realise that?'

She looked at him affectionately. ‘You were ready for ruin, do you realise that?'

He shrugged, which can be a lovely thing to see when six out of eight shoulders are going at once. ‘Ruin has even less of a future for my kind than it does for yours. People are quick to believe in a fall, but how often do they acknowledge redemption?'

'My poor friend. Are you really worried about what all your former comrades will say? Or do you think they will believe you are carrying out the ultimate Trick, to infiltrate the enemy?'

'Lies are impossible between us. They will believe it, and they will not be kind.’ He sighed and twiddled his pincers sadly. ‘Sometimes I wish I could simply disappear, and let only the legend remain.'

'What an excellent suggestion. Why don't you do just that?'

He gave her a baleful look. ‘If you have a bright idea, please do share it with me.'

She smiled, and did so. When she finished telling him, he was smiling too.

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It was early morning. there was a chilly precipitation somewhere between a very light rain and a heavy mist that muted the rich greens of the valley with a veil of grey. The djombi looked pensive as he led Paama through long, wet grass. As usual, he was completely dry.

'It must be nice, not to have to eat, or sleep, or get cold and wet,’ Paama complained, shaking the drizzle off her grey wrap.

'It must be nice,’ the djombi parroted in reply, ‘to taste, to dream, to feel the wind and the rain in your face.'

Paama gaped at him. It was the most complimentary thing she had ever heard him say about being human. ‘Do you really think so?’ she said in a small voice when she was finally able to speak.

'I am only pointing out that everything has its advantages and disadvantages,’ he said.

'And yet you can taste food??hen you choose,’ she pointed out.

'When I choose,’ he admitted.

'What are your disadvantages?'

He continued to walk smoothly through the grass, leaving a silvery trail for her to step into.

'Duty,’ he said at last, a single, glum word.

'We have duty, too,’ Paama countered.

'Not like ours. You're weak, and allowances are made for your weakness. There's forgiveness for you. Mercy. I don't see why, personally.'

'I know. You think we deserve to be left to perish in our own self-made misery,’ she accused.

He did not answer at first, but then he said, ‘I thought you wanted this time to be lighthearted. You're not making a very good start of it.'

She kept silent, kept her head down, and looked at the rain-silvered grass instead of at his back. In this way, the sight of the mansion came on her all at once, looming out of the grassy plain like a small citadel of pale stone. There was a tidy skirting of lawn around it, hemmed in by stone walls topped with wrought iron.

'Where and what is this place?’ she asked.

'We are near the capital of your own country. This is the country house of a wealthy statesman who retired to spend more time with his wife and young son. However, his wife often grows bored—it's very isolated here—so he takes her to more exciting places. They are visiting the capital right now.'

'And the boy?'

'Here, of course. There are servants enough to take care of him, but of course a servant is not a parent. He has too much of his own way.'

'He sounds like Ansige,’ muttered Paama.

The djombi turned to her, his eyebrows raised in query.

'My husband,’ she said, and was ashamed to have to say it. ‘Now we live apart, but when I was in his house??h??e had grown up spoilt and he wanted to continue spoilt. He almost drove me mad. I was ready to kill myself until my parents hinted to me that I still had a home to return to.'

He was staring at her so fixedly that she felt even more ashamed for having revealed this sordid part of her past.

'Never,’ he said flatly, ‘never speak so easily of killing yourself. You have no idea what that means.'

And he turned away from her and walked off, leaving her baffled and abashed at the stern rebuke.

Just then there was a shriek, and a side door opened so abruptly that it slammed against the wall and almost bounced itself closed again. A woman dressed in a simple servant's uniform came leaping over the threshold with a broom in her hands, vigorously swiping at some small and undesirable vermin which moved so quickly that it was a mere scuttle leaving a wake of shivering grass blades. She danced in fury and brandished the broom even as it fled.

Paama ducked down behind the wall and peeked through the iron bars at the scene. A little boy, about eight, came charging out from behind the servant with such speed that she spun in place like a panel of a revolving door.

'That's my mouse! Don't you dare kill him!’ he yelled at her, and flung himself on the lawn, trying in vain to grab the small creature.