All These Shiny Worlds

by Jefferson Smith

  “But why me? Why now?” Karsten sputtered. “I’m too old for this. Bloodkin are found as children, raised with a lifetime of training, and you would put that saber in the hands of a monkey. An old monkey. No good will come of it.”

  “You’ve seen what comes of the usual training,” she said. Xihara is known by his brother Advocates as ‘the Soft Baj.’ For what I intend, I chose a man, not a monkey—one of proven mettle—but sparking you was merely the first step. If you’ll abide it, I intend now to set an even greater sword in that hand. One that has been needed in this land for a very long time. But I must know now. Will you still take up the task, as you agreed before Xihara’s untimely intrusion?“

  Karsten was not fond of hasty decisions, but this required no decision. Even buffeted by all that was changing around him, he knew where his honor resided. “I’ve given my word,” he said. “It is no longer mine to retract, even if I wanted to.”

  “Spoken like a man of honor,” she said. “Now take Babette’s halter.”

  Karsten grabbed at the lead that trailed below the llama’s head. “So I’m supposed to bind her? How do I do that?”

  To his surprise, it was Babette who answered, letting loose with the growl-throated yawn that llamas save for only the funniest situations. The Dowager laughed with her.

  “Bind her?” she asked. “Are you really that dim?”

  Karsten just stared at her as he reached up to rub Babette’s muzzle with his free hand.

  “Why do you suppose a full-blooded mage like yourself was unable to bind even a glimmer bunny?” Meerah’s eyes twinkled with delight. “It was because you were already bound, and you have been for years. To her. It’s not the mage who does the binding, you know.”

  While Karsten was busy puzzling that out, the Dowager reached up to place one hand on him and the other on Babette, and the Song erupted once more in his head.

  “Hold fast now,” she said. “I don’t know what will happen when I do this.” Then she closed her eyes. A moment later, they flew open again and she threw back her head, stretched tight by some unseen power as the sky shot through with arcs of color behind her. Karsten could feel the ground melt beneath his feet and flow upward through him, entwining itself into his bowels and around the vessels of his heart and setting fire to his hair. For a moment, he could even feel it coursing through his hooves and tail.

  Then it was over. The colors faded from the sky, the roaring in his ears abated, and the tingling in his skin died away. With a solemn face, the Dowager released them both and stepped back.

  “I name you Karsten, and consecrate you Baj, 13th Advocate to the Emperor Marghul III, and Singer of His Divine Song.”

  Karsten could only gape. “Baj?” he sputtered. “That is the circuit you would have me ride? You name me Advocate in some mocking jape, to be flung into the teeth of the most powerful men in the Empire?”

  Even as he spoke the words though, he could feel the untruth of them. In the marrow of his bones and the fibers of his hair, something stirred. Not just a hum now, but a full-throated song. Rich and deep. Powerful.

  It was the Might of the Empire itself, stirring within him, and the bounty hunter was humbled by it.

  “I cannot do what you ask of me,” he said. “Surely there must be another…” But the Dowager shook her head.

  “It is done and done,” she replied. “You heard my offer and accepted, twice over. What has been given now cannot be undone. You will ride the land and bring justice to those who seek it. Wherever they might be and against whatever foe.”

  “Whose justice?”

  “Your own, of course, as was intended by the First Emperor himself.”

  Beside her, the pony whickered softly, and Meerah nodded. “Now you must go. My son will have felt this. His Advocates as well. They will be shocked for a time, uncomprehending, but by morning they will be here, and you must be gone.”

  Karsten gazed at her for a long beat, but eventually his shoulders slumped in submission. This was simply more than he could master. “Where would you have me go?”

  “For now, anywhere but here. You and Babette need time to explore what has been given you. But then? Wherever your conscience takes you. You are Karsten Baj. You answer to no one. Not even to me.”

  “Just the Emperor,” he said, but the Dowager shook her head.

  “Nor him either,” she replied, her eyes glittering with fervor. “I sparked you in the original way—not in the cowardly manner practiced by my son and his more recent fathers. In the days of the Empire’s beginning, Advocates were true circuit riders, selected by the Emperor, true, but empowered by the Empire itself, with power even over him, if need be. It was the failsafe conceived by the First Emperor to ensure that even a corruption in himself could be cut from the world by any of the twelve honorable men he had appointed. His later sons, it seems, were not so noble of spirit and they soon broke faith with his intent, creating their own Advocates in shallow mockery of their original stature.”

  Still unable to accept the scope of what had been done to him, Karsten turned to his one last hope. The llama. If anyone knew him, she did. Babette knew him for the wretch of a man he truly was, and not the “noble spirit” that the Dowager had woven into her dream of justice. If he could get the llama to testify to the truth, then perhaps the old woman would listen.

  “What about you then?” he said, looking at his fuzzy companion in the flickering light. “Stay or come, as you will.”

  Babette fixed him with her gaze and he thought she was getting ready to spit her opinion at him, but then, to his utter astonishment, she did the damnedest thing he had ever seen. Kneeling her forelegs low, she presented her flank to him.

  Babette was inviting him to ride.

  Karsten was utterly undone by the gesture and knew at last that he had been beaten. By both of them. There was simply no fight left within him. Unsure what else to do, he stepped forward and threw a leg over Babette’s back, clenching his fists into her coarse wool to steady himself as she rose up. Even if he didn’t agree with what had been done to him, the old woman was right about one thing. The Emperor and his Advocates could not have mistaken the ripple of what she had done here this night, and they would arrive by first light. Perhaps sooner. Along with half a dozen generals and no telling how many companies of Imperial Guards. Karsten no longer cared much for his own neck, but if the stupid llama was to survive the coming day, he would have to get her as far away from this place as he could.

  Despair bubbled up within him as he looked down at the Dowager, her face shining up at him with a hope he did not share. “What have you done to me, you crazy old witch?”

  The Dowager shook her head. “It is not what I’ve done to that matters,” she replied. “It’s what I’ve done for. For the people. For the future. For the Empire. In time, you will understand this. I hope.” Then she stepped aside and Babette lurched forward, away from the campfire and its ring of protective stones, and carried them both out into the dark unknown.

  The last sound Karsten heard behind him was a whicker from the sway-backed pony, to which Babette called back a curious reply—a sound that he had never heard her make in all the years they had been together.

  It sounded like gratitude.

  About The Author

  Jefferson Smith is a liar of the first order. He has lied to kings and queens; he has lied to hobos and urchins. He has lied to the mightiest of the mighty and to the lowest of the low. He is probably lying to you now. But in every lie there is a grain of truth, and in every telling a bewitchment. So it should come as no surprise that Jefferson bends his talents to the one craft that reveres both the liar and the lie, weaving entire worlds out of falsity and invention, raveled up in strands of guile. He is an author, and you will not find his equal in any other sphere. Of course, that may be a lie as well.

  But who really cares about Jefferson? If you've read this far, you probably want to know more about Karsten and Babette. Well, in response to popular demand
(mostly letters written by Babette) their story now continues in an episodic serial of stand-alone novellas. We don't know what that is either, but it's called The 13th Advocate and you can learn more about it at http://creativityhacker.ca/the-13th-advocate.

  Theriac

  Becca Mills

  Editor’s Note: Genre fiction often presents us with big evil and climactic confrontations, but in real life, the hardest battles are often the ones we fight with ourselves against our own beliefs and prejudices.

  Callie wanted to wipe away the drip on the end of her nose, but Suzanne was right there—only two steps away. If Callie wiped, Suzanne would see. If she didn’t wipe, Suzanne might not notice. Surely she was talking too fast to notice.

  “Now, you may not know that Archie Davidman’s been plowing Pastor Ezra’s driveway since before Kingston was born,” Suzanne was saying. “As a courtesy, you understand—Archie never would take a cent for it. But now that Kingston has the new business, Pastor Ezra says we should all be supporting him. He told the Interfaith Reading Group—d’you go to that? No? Well, he told them they should all be supporting Kingston. But here’s the thing, the pastor himself never…”

  The drip fell. There was no break in Suzanne’s rapid-fire patter, but Callie saw her eyes dart down, following its progress.

  “But then again,” Suzanne continued, “there’s the baby to consider. I know the pastor…”

  Callie’s eyes suddenly felt wet, despite the dry air. She blinked hard. How silly to cry over such a small embarrassment.

  I’m just tired, she thought.

  She went ahead and wiped her nose on the back of one of her thick wool gloves. That was better.

  “And do you know,” Suzanne was saying, “that Carly never stopped smoking the entire time? Why, in this day and age…”

  Callie saw movement behind Suzanne. It was Twanda Sullivan, and she was headed toward the movie return slot. Callie murmured an apology to Suzanne and hurried over to intercept the other woman.

  “Hi, Twanda.”

  Twanda startled. “Oh. Callie. Hi.” She stopped, but her eyes strayed over Callie’s left shoulder. She wanted that return slot.

  Callie glanced down at the DVD box Twanda was holding. Bride Wars. She hadn’t seen it, but that was no surprise. Most of the movies she watched were older ones.

  She nodded at the box. “Did you like it?”

  Twanda shrugged. “It was okay. Hey, listen Callie—”

  “I know Big Screen is a great resource for the community,” Callie cut in, “with a lot of great movies like Bride Wars, but I really think they should be a little more selective about the movies they carry. Don’t you?”

  “I guess, but—”

  “People bring their children here. I don’t think there should be smut on the shelves where children might pick it up.”

  “Well, sure, but—”

  Twanda’s body language was now trending significantly to the left. Callie could tell the other woman was about to make a break for the slot, so she rushed through the end of her spiel.

  “I think the community should send a clear message that pornographic movies are not welcome in Dorf. Would you please consider signing this postcard and sending it to the owner? It says you’ll boycott the store until they stop carrying unrated and restricted movies.”

  “Sure Callie, I’ll take a look at that,” Twanda said, stuffing the postcard in her pocket. “You have a nice day, now.”

  She edged around Callie to the return slot, then headed back to her car.

  “Thanks for standing up for our community, Twanda!” Callie called after her.

  Twanda didn’t seem to hear.

  Callie hoped Suzanne might’ve gotten bored and left, but the older woman was still standing there. Worse yet, she was quiet. A quiet Suzanne generally meant some advice was about to come your way.

  “Callie,” she said, “how much longer you gonna keep this up? You’ve been out here for months.”

  Callie shrugged, uncomfortable.

  “Are you going to picket all winter long? It’s gonna get mighty cold out here.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe so. The Lord’s work takes time.”

  “That it does, that it does,” Suzanne said, nodding.

  Callie knew her to be a person of faith. She’d sent her postcard in right away.

  “But Callie, no one wants to see you get frostbitten over this,” Suzanne said. “It’s all well and fine to worry about others, but when it comes right down to it, it’s their responsibility what movies they rent. If they want trash, they’re going to get their hands on it one way or another, what with everything on the internet.”

  Callie shrugged again and looked down at her boots. They were all slushy, so she stamped them on the sidewalk.

  She didn’t want to get in an argument with Suzanne, but she just didn’t agree. Maybe most people could make good decisions for themselves. Or make bad ones and be held accountable for them. But there were those who were vulnerable, who needed help. They should be protected. You don’t turn your back on people like that. They’re asking you for help, even if they don’t know they’re doing it.

  Suzanne sighed. “Well, you take care, Callie. Bring some cocoa with you tomorrow, okay? It’ll keep you warm, maybe put some meat on those bones.”

  “Good idea, Suzanne. I’ll do that.”

  Suzanne smiled and headed into the CVS drugstore next door.

  Callie watched her go, then turned. Another person was approaching Big Screen Video.

  “Hi there, Mr. Cooper! Have you had a chance to look at that literature I gave you last week?”

  Johnny Cooper shot her an annoyed look and hurried into the store.

  Callie sighed and turned back to her card table.

  I’ll give it one more hour, she thought. Then she’d need to start her patrol. The pale winter sun was already high overhead, and she preferred not to search for demons after dark.

  ***

  Callie spent the afternoon patrolling Frederick, which was the next town over to the west. She checked on the five demons she knew to be living in the area and managed to find three of them.

  She also kept her eyes peeled for any new arrivals. About halfway through her patrol, she found one. Its true form resembled an elephant, but tiny—no bigger than a Shetland pony. It had disguised itself as a short, fat man with a cigar and a big boxy suitcase. A salesman, maybe. The disguise was only a half-working, so she could see both it and the demon’s real body occupying the same space.

  Years and years ago, when she’d first started seeing through demons’ illusions, she’d found the double-vision disconcerting. She’d long since gotten used to it.

  How many years has it been?

  She watched the demon hurry down Frederick’s main street and into an Italian restaurant.

  More than a decade, certainly. Could it be as many as fifteen? Yes, she thought, counting back, fifteen years and four months. She remembered that first seeing-through all too well. It had been the beginning of a very bad time.

  Once the elephant-demon had disappeared from view, she drove by the place to get the address. Then she pulled over and texted Theo Duff the demon’s description and location.

  Maybe he’d send someone to kill it, maybe not.

  Callie never could quite understand why so many demons were allowed to walk the Earth for so long. Some of the ones in Frederick had been there for years. It didn’t seem right to her.

  She knew the organization didn’t have infinite resources. Only one in a hundred thousand people were like her—blessed with the sight—and most of the blessed weren’t fighters. That meant prioritizing. Making tough decisions.

  Theo’s predecessor, Graham, had explained this to her, and Theo said the same: sometimes there weren’t enough people to handle it all.

  Especially if there really was a war going on.

  She’d heard that rumor, but she was skeptical. Surely the Lord wouldn’t allow this precious world to be th
e demons’ battleground.

  Then again, the tsunami that hit the Gulf Coast—that had been strange. Very strange.

  Callie shook her head. At least Dorf was free of demons for the time being. That was something.

  ***

  The sun was setting by the time Callie turned left on Church Street and headed north toward her neighborhood. The shadow of St. Mary’s solid red-brick bulk lay across the road, and a flock of crows was coming to roost in the church cemetery’s biggest pine. Callie reached down to flip on her headlights.

  As she did so, something caught her eye.

  There was someone in the cemetery.

  She was immediately suspicious. Until recently, a demon had lived in that cemetery. It had been a particularly frightening one—huge and furry, with horns and claws and big, sharp teeth. She’d been reporting it for years. John Williams had finally taken care of it in the spring. But perhaps another had come to take over the empty spot.

  She slowed down a bit and studied the figure. It was at the north end of the church property, standing in the tall grass and small trees that separated the cemetery from Gil Jensen’s farm. The figure was small and dark, but she couldn’t make out more than that.

  Callie drove on past, then pulled over, placed her field guide to North American birds prominently on the dashboard, and raised her binoculars.

  It was a child. A child in an oversized dark coat.

  Callie lowered her binoculars, quite surprised. What was a child doing out in a cemetery at twilight? It didn’t seem right. She opened her senses. No sign of a working—whatever she was looking at, it hadn’t shape-shifted to disguise itself.