Light in the Darkness

by CJ Brightley

  When Mister Stone came in that evening, Mistress Prudence told him the whole story. He was outraged when she mentioned how the youths had threatened her.

  "If I'd been here..." he said, and scowled.

  "Well, we managed all right in the event," she said. "Two stepped in and defended me, and everyone came out of the houses and those cowards ran off, quick smart."

  "Two?" he asked.

  "Mister Sinter's nephew," she said. He looked blank.

  "The glassmaker's apprentice downstairs."

  "Oh," he said. He thought for a little, and then added, "Decent of him."

  "He's a nice boy," she said.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "Oh, yes, they never touched me."

  She was on her way to Amity Grocer's when Mister Sinter hurried up the stairs and intercepted her.

  "Mistrss Prudnce," he said, "do you have a momnt?" His accent was much lighter than his nephew's.

  "Of course, Mister Sinter."

  "I, uh," he cleared his throat, "I wondrd if you would like to come down to dinnr tomorrw."

  "Mister Sinter, that would be lovely. But I wanted to do something for you, to thank young Two for standing up for me like that."

  "Well, Mistrss," he said, "as I heard it you stood up for us first. And after all, we do owe you a couple of meals." He looked embarrassed, as far as she could tell through the beard. She smiled at him.

  "It would be my pleasure, Mister Sinter, though I do insist on bringing something. A loaf of bread, perhaps?"

  He hesitated, then nodded. "Thank you, Mistrss."

  "Oh, and I wonder," she said, "would I be able to bring my lodger, Mister Stone? I'd like him to meet you."

  THE END

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story, please check out the rest of Mike Reeves-McMillan’s writing on his website.

  Tilia Songbird

  Francesca Forrest

  “I have a song for you,” the girl said, appearing in Anj’s study unannounced. The two bluetails in the cage by the window trilled a welcome.

  Anj looked past the girl to the outer chamber. Where was Shen? He was supposed to keep things like this from happening.

  “Your servant is striking a bargain to get your roof repaired,” the girl said, joining Anj in looking into the outer room. Then she leaned across Anj’s desk, so the two were practically nose to nose. “He’ll probably overpay,” she said. She smelled of goat. Anj leaned back slightly, but then the girl herself pulled away and stood up straight.

  “Here’s my song,” she said. She clasped her hands together and began to sing, full voiced, as if she were out on a hillside, among the goats and the clouds, and not in a tiny room filled with the accoutrements of a civil servant from the Empire of Cinnabar.

  Anj considered herself fluent in the language of the tribes of the Cloud Mountains, but she couldn’t understand a word the girl was singing. The tune rose and then fell, fell, fell, turned and bounced like a mountain stream, fast and fresh. Was it the melody? The girl’s face as she sang? The knuckles of girl’s hands, white from the intensity with which one hand gripped the other? Whatever it was, it made Anj’s eyes sting with the threat of tears. She quickly turned her mind to the census and the requests from the commander of the Southwestern Army.

  The song was over. The girl stood silent in front of the desk, hands still clasped and eyes distant. Then those eyes met Anj’s own.

  Hastily, Anj pulled a couple of coins out of her jacket pocket, but the girl frowned. She took a step toward the window and reached up to the bluetails’ cage and opened the door. For a minute Anj thought the girl intended to free the birds, but no, now she was shutting the door again. She had taken from the bottom of the cage a feather whose bright blue hue matched her headscarf. She smoothed it, made it catch the light from the window, and smiled, then turned to go.

  “That was a lovely song,” Anj said.

  “I wanted you to know me,” the girl said, tracing the door jamb with the feather. “Now you know who I am.” Then she was gone.

  Anj heard the creak of the outer door, then laughter and men’s voices. Shen entered, followed by two of the locals, one tall and broad, with a thick beard, and the other smaller in all dimensions.

  “So Tilia Songbird paid you a visit,” said the larger man. “Sang for you, didn’t she.” Before Anj could respond, he continued, “It’s good luck when she does--not as good luck as some other things she does, though, eh Cousin Ezmah? That’s the real good luck.” He barked a laugh and gave the smaller man a clap on the back that ought to have made him stagger, but Ezmah didn’t budge, just clenched his jaw.

  “Spirits move through Tilia Songbird,” Ezmah said, meeting Anj’s eyes briefly and then looking at his feet.

  Women didn’t hold positions of authority here among the mountain tribes, and the only way the mountain people could accept Anj was to view her as a man, a fiction that was more difficult for some than others. “It’s a blessing when the spirits walk among us,” he mumbled.

  “She blesses some more generously than others, that’s all I’m saying,” said the bigger man to Ezmah, and then it was his turn to meet Anj’s eyes, and he didn’t drop his gaze. “And now she’s honored you. But why, I wonder. You people from Cinnabar don’t even believe in the spirits.” With each sentence his voice grew louder; the last rang like an accusation.

  “Worthy Kehan and Worthy Ezmah will repair the roof,” intervened Shen. “We agreed on ten coppers each.”

  Whatever storm had been brewing in Kehan dissipated at those words. He blinked, then cleared his throat and said in an ordinary voice, “We’ll do it for you tomorrow. Have it finished by midday.”

  “Very good,” said Anj. She rose and took a small chest down from one of the shelves along the back wall. Inside the chest were copper and silver coins, but also small obsidian disks, each with the imperial star chiseled in the center. Anj took out the necessary coins and also two of the disks, which she held up for the men to see.

  “These are for your families. Any service rendered to a servant of Cinnabar is service rendered to the Empire of Cinnabar. These disks are tokens of imperial acknowledgement.”

  The men both bowed low, wished the spirits’ blessings upon Anj and the Empire of Cinnabar, and backed out of the inner room.

  “Hah! I can’t wait to see that son of a jackal Nilma’s face when I wave this in front of him,” Anj heard Kehan say, and then the outer door squeaked shut. Anj and Shen smiled at each other. Each obsidian disk represented an increase in Cinnabar’s influence here in the wilds.

  Shen paused by the inner door, and when he spoke, it wasn’t to mention the census or the arrival of a homing pigeon from the Western Capital or even to venture a comment on the roof repairs.

  “What was Tilia Songbird’s song like? Did you feel anything special?” he asked.

  “Her song? It was-- I couldn’t understand any of the words. I wonder if she was singing in some other dialect.”

  “She doesn’t sing in words. Just nonsense syllables. But the people here say--well, you heard what they say. So I was just wondering. . .”

  Anj thought back. The song. That liquid stream of sound. The tears they summoned to the gates of Anj’s eyes. But then there were Worthy Kehan’s insinuations.

  “I heard what they said. It’s shameful. The girl must be out of balance in the mind.”

  “Well, if spirits fill you, you may not behave like an ordinary person,” said Shen mildly.

  “’If spirits fill you’!” Anj scoffed. “You believe in spirits, now?”

  “Oh no, not me. I know the foreign service code, and I value my job. But if you think as the people here do, then--”

  “I don’t want to think as the people here do; I want to think as an effective adjunct gubernatorial undersecretary of the Cinnabar Empire, so I can get promoted to some place more civilized. So let’s put aside Tilia Songbird and spirits and turn to business. Any news this morning from the West
ern Capital? Anything from Commander Tak?”

  Shen shook his head. “Nothing this morning, but I-“ he paused, eyes on the scene outside the window.

  “What is it?” Anj asked. She glanced out the window. A stranger was talking with Ezmah.

  Shen sighed. “It looks as if we can’t turn away from Tilia Songbird just yet. Do you see that young man, the one talking with Worthy Ezmah? He’s from the Thunder Tribe, arrived yesterday. The chieftain himself is hosting him, and from what I understand, his business has to do with Tilia Songbird. I gather she’s from the Thunder Tribe originally, and this man wants to take her back with him.”

  Shen frowned. Voices floated in through the window. Worthy Ezmah was all evasions, head shaking, hands raised, and finally, he started moving off, leaving the stranger standing alone, glowering.

  “It appears the chieftain is reluctant to turn her over,” Shen continued. “So now this man from the Thunder Tribe is coming to you. To Cinnabar, as it were.”

  Anj raised her eyebrows. As far as she knew, neither of her predecessors had had any dealings with the Thunder Tribe. And now one of their people was coming to seek a favor? It was possibly the first positive development since Anj had taken up her post.

  Anj turned to Shen. “All right,” she said. “You go invite him in to the outer room. Have him wait there; serve him some of the best of the local tea but also break out some of the persimmon wine. That’s something he won’t have had before. And, hmmm . . . what else . . . I know: that palm sugar confection from the Jasmine Islands. Put that out too, and use the Broad River ceramics. When he’s had some tea, call me, and I’ll come in.”

  Shen hurried out. Anj gave her medallion of office a perfunctory polish with the edge of her jacket and glanced at herself in the circular mirror hanging near the shelving on the back wall.

  She was wearing local clothes, presents from the chieftain, men’s garments. The silky wool of the local goats had been woven into the fine, soft cloth from which her overshirt and trousers had been sewn; the goats’ hides, stitched together, made the long jacket. Strong yarn, brightly dyed, had been used to embroider geometric designs along the edges of the jacket--as much embroidery as on the chieftain’s jacket. In keeping with local custom, she wore a dagger in the sash at her waist, but a Cinnabar blade, not a local one.

  Men here wore their hair shoulder length and loose, so Anj did too, though hers fell smooth and straight, while theirs twisted and curled. Anj turned sideways. She was of a height to look most of the men in the eye, but even with the goatskin jacket, she was slight beside them. She threw back her shoulders. Never mind. She had Cinnabar’s treasury and its imperial authority behind her.

  Sometime later Shen opened the door and announced,

  “His Excellency Adjunct Gubernatorial Undersecretary Anj.”

  Anj entered the outer room and sat down on a cushion, local style, across a low table from the visitor. His eyebrows shot up when she had seated herself, and he looked over at Shen, standing by the door. Shen remained impassive and announced,

  “Worthy Siiar, from the Thunder Tribe, brings a petition, Your Excellency.”

  “Worthy Siiar. May your days be reigned by balance. How can this servant of Cinnabar help you?”

  At the sound of Anj’s voice, Siiar started. He stared openly at Anj for a moment, caught himself, shot another furtive glance at Shen, then dropped his gaze to the untouched sweet on his plate.

  The Thunder Tribe must not know that the new adjunct gubernatorial undersecretary is actually a woman, Anj thought. And no one here bothered to inform this young man. Were they hoping he’d make a fool of himself?

  Maybe the thought was occurring to Siiar, too; the visitor lifted his still sparsely bearded chin and spoke resolutely.

  “Your Excellency. May the spirits bless your days. I come on behalf of my brother, Chieftain Zara of the Thunder Tribe. There is one of our people here who needs to be brought home.”

  Anj took a tiny bite of her sweet and tried not to cough. The vagaries of a three-month journey from the coast had rendered a supposedly chewy delicacy chalklike. She took a quick sip of wine.

  “The one they call Tilia Songbird,” she said.

  “Tilia is her name, yes.”

  “And you have taken the matter up with Chieftain Rosan, have you not?”

  “I did, but Chieftain Rosan and Chieftain Zara are rivals. I didn’t expect satisfaction.”

  “Chieftain Rosan refuses to turn over Tilia because . . . he wishes the blessings of the spirits she hosts to remain with the Freshet Tribe?” hazarded Anj.

  “Blessings? It’s not spirit blessings that Chieftain Rosan or any of the others are after. It’s nothing more than-than the favors of a wanton vagabond.”

  “I see. So why expend effort to bring such a one back home with you?” asked Anj, lacing her fingers on the table between them.

  “Her behavior is a stain on my brother’s honor and a humiliation to the Thunder Tribe-- Chieftain Rosan and all the worthies of the Freshet tribe mock us through her! And so.” Siiar reached for his glass of wine and downed it in a gulp. “And so she needs to be brought home. And dealt with.” Shen silently refilled Siiar’s glass, and Siiar took another drink.

  Anj inclined her head. “Worthy Siiar, what are you asking of Cinnabar, exactly? You want me to compel Chieftain Rosan to turn the girl over to you?”

  “Yes. Your Excellency.”

  “I sympathize with your distress. The situation you describe is unpleasant, I agree. It does not, however, merit imperial intervention. Chieftain Rosan and the Freshet Tribe are Cinnabar’s hosts in this region. I’m afraid it would take an issue of somewhat greater significance to induce me to risk damaging the warm relations Cinnabar has established with the Freshet tribe.”

  Siiar started to speak, but Anj held up a hand.

  “But that’s not to say that I have nothing to offer by way of redress. I could, for example, perhaps arrange for the girl to be sent away somewhere where she would not cause any more harm to Chieftain Zara’s honor or the standing of the Thunder Tribe.”

  Siiar scowled.

  “No more harm? The damage is already done. She was my brother’s wife! And now, word comes back to us, how she carries on here . . . by rights I should find her and cut her down where she stands!”

  Anj thought of the narrow-shouldered girl, her song, the bluetail feather glinting in the sunlight. Cut down? She felt sick.

  “But if I do,” Siiar was saying, voice low, “my brother’s shame will be even more public. There won’t be a tribe in the Cloud Mountains that won’t have heard the story by winter’s end. So I have to take her out of here--which Chieftain Rosan won’t permit.” He turned the stem of his wine glass round and round between his thumb and fingers.

  “Cinnabar should stand for virtue, shouldn’t it? And justice?” Siiar asked, keeping his eyes on the wine glass.

  “Cinnabar does stand for virtue and justice, but also for power, Worthy Siiar, power based on judicious action. It’s by choosing the right action at the right time that Cinnabar makes itself invincible.”

  “Helping me is the right action at the right time,” insisted Siiar, looking up at Anj again. “You’re mistaken to put your faith in the Freshet Tribe and its allies.”

  Anj sighed inwardly. If Siiar only knew how little the Empire of Cinnabar cared about any of the tribes of the Cloud Mountains--which was why its adjunct gubernatorial undersecretary was left to while away her days in a tiny house with a leaky roof.

  “These eastern tribes are all Cinnabar facing,” Siiar was saying. “If you want to advance in the Cloud Mountains, you should align with the Thunder Tribe. My brother knows all the mountain passes. He’s led raiding parties into the Gate of the Mountain itself. What if your Southwestern Army knew about those passes? Forget sea battles--Cinnabar could sweep down on the Kingdom of the Plains from the mountains.”

  Anj stared at Siiar in astonishment. The sea war was beginning to seem like a s
talemate--did he know that? How did he know that? But not even Commander Tak thought seriously of advancing over the mountains; no pass was large enough. But many small passes? Could it be done?

  “So. Upon further consideration, is it maybe Cinnabar’s pleasure to help me?” Siiar’s tone was positively challenging. Anj bought a few precious seconds by taking a sip of her wine.

  “Possibly.” From the corner of her eye, she could see Shen stiffen, but she ignored him. She took another sip of wine.

  “I will consider the matter and return you an answer in two days. Please do not act before then.”

  Siiar bowed his head. “Thank you, Your Excellency.” His voice shook slightly. Relief? Anj gave a slight nod. The audience was over.

  “People here are full of boasts and big claims,” said Shen, clearing away the stale sweets and empty glasses once the two of them were alone again. “But reality is often smaller. I wouldn’t let yourself be dazzled by Worthy Siiar’s last-ditch offers. No one tribe controls all the passes, and he would have promised the moon if he thought it would incline you toward him.”

  He followed Anj into the back room; she could feel him hovering as she opened the chest that had the survey maps in it. She pulled out the lot of them and dumped them on the desk.

  “Did Bis make any overtures to the tribes in the west?” she asked. “Or Hum?”

  “Neither of your predecessors did. The western tribes were hostile to the survey teams. The eastern tribes were much more accommodating,” said Shen.

  Anj found the area, colored purple, indicating the wintering grounds and summer pastures of the Thunder Tribe, stretching west along the Cloud Mountains just north of the small kingdom called Gate of the Mountain. The Gate of the Mountain was the logical stepping stone to the Kingdom of the Plains; it was getting a force of any size as far as the Gate of the Mountain that posed the problem. But if the Thunder Tribe controlled even some of the passes Siiar claimed, if Chieftain Zara really had raided into the territory of the Gate of the Mountain . . .