by Unknown
Girls came running. The dogs backed away from the gate. Mistress Binata, moving faster than Yama had ever seen her, swept through the crowd, smacking any obstructing bodies with her cane. She hauled open the gates and glared at Daraja.
"What in the name of the Lady of Swiftness is a boy doing on a banjooli, at my very gates?"
Daraja slid to the ground and stammered "Keela Yama!"
The Banjooli-Mistress' eyes narrowed. "You're saying that this is Yama's banjooli?"
"No, is her! Sweeper Suluwo…"
The thorn-dogs stretched and reformed into Sweeper Suluwo and Keela Safara. Safara looked disheveled and drained and cried without a sound. The young Riders screamed.
"Hush, boy," Suluwo muttered, and smiled when Daraja fell silent.
"You know every banjooli here as though it were your own child, O Binata the Wise, but not this one. This boy's trying to destroy my chance to get back into your good graces."
"That would take a lot, considering that you almost ruined Safara with your disgraceful behavior."
"What if I told you that this banjooli was once the man responsible for Safara's… distraction?"
"I'd laugh in your face," said Binata, not laughing. But she allowed Suluwo through the gate, shutting out the curious girls and putting a protective arm around Safara. "Come on, all of you."
* * * *
Yama walked close to Daraja's side, trying to look mindless and harmless whenever a Sweeper glanced her way. It was disturbingly easy. She found herself drawn to shiny bits of rock or a dangling tassel.
Even as a banjooli, Yama felt a sense of awe at entering into the forbidden territory of the Sweepers. At first she thought it looked disappointingly like the girls' dormitory: low whitewashed buildings with thatched roofs, patches of corn, groundnuts and beans, and a convenient well. Then they entered a small, innocuous-looking building. Smoke obscured the ceiling, but not the vast round object that squatted near one wall like an earthbound moon.
The heart-drum. It drew her eyes even before she noticed the half-dozen Soul-Sweepers staring at her little group.
"Do you want that banjooli turned into something that takes up less room, Binata?" said one.
"Suluwo, what are you doing here?" demanded another.
"He claims that this banjooli used to be Safara's real seducer, and that this boy stole it," said Binata with a sniff.
"Simple enough to prove," said the eldest Sweeper. "Link the bird and the young thief, and switch their bodies. You can have the thief for your flock, and we'll question the former banjooli."
Suluwo looked aghast. "You'd restore a dangerous criminal? Right here, where he could kill every Sweeper in the district at once?"
"What; you thought they'd believe everything you said just because you used to be one of them?" said Binata with a smirk. Yama chuckled to herself at his dismay, but then the Sweepers laid hold of Daraja. The boy's mouth opened in a voiceless scream. He thrashed and kicked until one Sweeper said, "Don't bother with the paint. He's unnerved enough already."
Yama went stiff with anger but didn't dare kick when they bound Daraja next to her. The sight of Binata leaning ever more heavily on her cane reminded her of what her kicks could do now. She held perfectly still so they wouldn't bother to hobble or enchant her.
The oldest Sweeper, muttering something about "maintaining standards around here," took his place behind the heart-drum and began to beat a steady, pulsing rhythm. Another Speaker stroked Yama's wing, and she felt a twinge. He spoke Words that her ears didn't hear, but her body did. It shrank and twisted, pulling, contorting, slowly reforming. Beside her, Daraja writhed on the floor. Fine down sprouted along his arms, and tears ran down his face.
Yama turned away, unable to watch, and caught sight of Suluwo.
He was smiling, a fierce, cruel smile. Whatever his fellow Sweepers might do to him afterward, for now he was enjoying his disobedient son's anguish.
Rage flared through Yama, burning away the pain of transformation. Still mostly banjooli, she strode forward and kicked with all her strength. The Sweepers screamed.
Everyone stared at the gaping hole in the heart-drum.
"Nah shange Darazha!" she shouted.
Binata peered at her more closely. "Yama, is that you?"
She nodded—and hissed as Suluwo transformed himself into a thorn-dog and hurled himself at her.
"Taxa!" Daraja shouted.
The thorn-dog froze in place. Daraja smiled sheepishly at her and rubbed his throat with a feathery hand. "I learn that Word from you, Keela Yama."
Mistress Binata was surveying the broken drum with a look of dismay. "Yama, you've trapped yourself in this shape. None of us knows how to do a singlehanded transformation like Suluwo did."
Yama poked her beak at Daraja. "Ee duz."
"If Keela Yama helps me remember words, I can," said the boy.
* * * *
This transformation hurt less, with the Sweepers assisting Daraja. When both Yama and Daraja were fully human again and the Sweepers had gone to free Suluwo's banjooli herd, Mistress Binata asked the question Yama had been dreading.
"Keela Yama, who is this boy?"
Yama looked at Safara. The Yellow Rider hadn't spoken up when the other Sweepers negated Suluwo's powers, trapping him in dog form. Now she shook her head and turned away.
Yama sighed and put an arm around Daraja. "He's one of my brothers, Mistress."
"You don't say. He's remarkably talented. The Sweepers will be overjoyed to have him."
"Please no, Mistress!" Daraja said in a panic. "I not want anything to do with magic now, ever!"
"What matters is what the Sweepers want."
"Mistress Binata, I don't think Daraja can do magic any more," Yama said. "I think that extraordinary feat burned it out of him."
"You don't say," said the Banjooli Mistress again, with a wry twist to her mouth. "Your duty is to the Sweepers, Keela Yama."
"I'm not a Keela without a banjooli, Mistress."
An expression crossed Binata's face too quickly for Yama to read. "You're a Keela until I release you from service. Which I will do, once you've done one last thing."
Yama cast a wistful glance toward the Riders' dormitory. "What's that, Mistress?"
"The Sweepers are going to be returning with a dozen or so frightened, confused children. I suspect the Sweepers wouldn't think twice about giving them a scrap of food and abandoning them to fend for themselves. And only the least self-absorbed would remember the scrap. You're going to convince your father that he needs several more pairs of hands around the house. Those hands should be conveniently showing up at his door any day now."
"A dozen? That would take a lot of convincing, Mistress."
Mistress Binata motioned for Yama to hold out her hands, and poured what looked like kernels of corn into them.
"I think a Rider of the Yellow Rank is up to the challenge. And consider: if Daraja looks like just another of a dozen farm-boys, any persistent Sweepers will be less likely to pick him out of the crowd. Now close your mouth and put those beads in your hair."
Yama did. "I don't think this is the message the Sweepers expected me to carry. Come on, Daraja." She bowed to the Banjooli-Mistress, turned her back on the Riders' Compound, and took her new brother home.
Truth in the Inward Parts
by Michael Spence and Elisabeth Waters
This story was written alternately between the interstate highway covering Indiana, Ohio, and Kentucky, where Michael drove a nightly truck route between factories, and a convent in upstate New York, where Elisabeth was spending Advent. Michael's original title was "Go Into Your Closet" (a reference to Jesus' instructions to his disciples about where to pray—see Matthew 6:6 in the King James Version of the Bible). Elisabeth's initial reaction was "I think if I found myself in a closet with a dead body, I'd be praying." When she returned to the outside world, however, she was reminded that this reference was probably not the first thing most people would think o
f when they heard that title. The current title comes, once again, from Psalms (51:6); Elisabeth has been mining the Psalms in the Daily Office used at the convent—which she also prays at home—for story titles for years.
Although it stands by itself, the story also follows logically from its predecessor, "Inquisition for Blood" in Sword & Sorceress 25—even though the two share only a single Guardian, and he's offstage for most of the action. "But," observes Michael, "once we had established the existence of a magical Key that can fasten or unfasten any lock or seal, what's the next step? Why, a locked-room mystery, of course." We leave it to you to determine how well this story takes that step.
Along with several stories in this series, Michael has written audio dramas, web columns (at http://michaelspence.us), sermons, grant proposals, press releases, and a theological dissertation on the stories of Harlan Ellison. He lives with his wife and canine Guardian in Indiana.
Hmm, now what can we do with a Guardian who is a canine?
#
The music that signalled an incoming call—"This particularly rapid unintelligible patter..." from Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore—matched April's mood. It was also an accurate description of most of the calls she got from students as part of her job as first assistant registrar. This call, however, was not from a student.
When she opened the cupboard containing the scrying mirror, the image in the frame was dim and obscured by a pattern of dark shapes. The voice belonged to her boss, the registrar of the University of Albion. His Colonial accent, from the Blue Ridge Mountains on the other side of the Atlantic, was unmistakable. He had come for graduate study in wizardry and, to everyone's surprise (especially his own), been chosen Guardian of one of the Great Treasures. This made him "Lord" Robert, but it also meant he was unlikely ever to see the land of his birth again.
As she listened to him, April realized that unless things changed quickly, he was unlikely ever to see anything again.
"How can you be locked in a closet?" she asked in bewilderment. "Don't you have the Key with you?" Lord Robert was the Guardian of the Key of Solomon, which could open any lock, and he carried it on his person at all times. "Did you drop it or something?"
"Um...no," Lord Robert replied, and April realized with embarrassment that the shapes obscuring his image were reversed Hebrew characters. He was using the polished surface of the Key, a bronze disc with Hebrew calligraphy, as a scrying surface, and it was transmitting the light from her office into wherever he was. "I can't find a lock for the Key to work on. This room is warded and spell-sealed: cool temperature and low humidity. It's perfect for records storage—but not for humans."
"How did you get locked in a records vault?" April scanned the office calendar. "You're supposed to be seeing your dentist."
"Unfortunately, I am," Lord Robert replied. "He's in here with me. I'm afraid he can't help, though. He's dead. Body temperature's dropping rapidly toward air temperature, so it's been a while. Now that I've got a little bit of light..." The image tilted downward to show a human form lying on a floor, and Lord Robert continued, "...livor mortis with blanching. That means less than four hours. Quite a bit less by the look of it."
"So you are at your dentist's office?"
"Yes. He wasn't here when I arrived, and his receptionist was at lunch, so I went looking for him. When I didn't find him anywhere else I tried Records, and somehow I got pulled inside. I can't imagine how anyone does filing in here—there's no source of light." April noticed with concern that he was speaking more slowly than usual. "Also, the air smells...off, somehow. There could be a different atmosphere here, to preserve documents. Might be less oxygen."
"Oh dear," April said. "Quickly, sit down—or lie down if there's room—and put yourself in a trance. You'll use less air that way. I'll call the City Guards."
"Good idea, on both counts." The image wheeled away from the man on the floor and Robert's face reappeared. "I hope I'll see you soon."
"I'll make it my top priority."
The mirror went dark. April quickly called the Homicide division of the Guards, explained the situation, and gave them the address, which Lord Robert had fortunately included in his calendar entry. Then she turned the registrar's office over to Keven, the second assistant registrar, and told him she was going to go help Lord Robert.
"Good thing you're a Sensitive," Keven said as he looked at the stacks of paper to be dealt with that afternoon. "If he's passed out from lack of air, at least you can find him."
"If he's passed out from lack of air," April said grimly, "I had better find him very quickly."
* * * *
April actually beat Homicide to the dentist's office. She was waiting in front of the building when a carriage pulled up and a man and a woman stepped out. Both wore the standard City Guard uniform with short sword, shield talisman, and mini-crossbow with tranquilizing darts at their waists; the woman's uniform, however, seemed exceptionally well tailored and pressed, or perhaps it was her bearing that gave that impression. Before her foot touched the pavement she was already speaking to her partner in a murmur that only April's Sensitivity allowed her to overhear. "Oh, marvelous. Charles, you go inside and check out the victim. I'll deal with the civilian."
The woman turned to April. "I'd like to speak to you, please," she said, with a tone that suggested that the "please" was strictly pro forma. "You called in the crime?" April nodded, and the Guard took her through the details of the call while all April wanted to do was to go inside and find Lord Robert.
Then the other Guard stuck his head out the front door. "Juliana? Where did you say the body was?"
"You can't find it?" April's interrogator sounded skeptical.
"It's locked in the Records room, along with my boss," April said anxiously. "You should be able to talk to him through the door, unless he's run out of air..."
"Come along," Juliana said, taking April's arm, possibly to ensure that she didn't stray or touch anything. "If he's not fully conscious he may respond better to your voice than ours."
They entered the building together. It was an old-fashioned townhouse, with the office on the ground floor. The dentist probably lived upstairs. April, whose friends included an architect, knew that was the usual arrangement for this type of property. The receptionist was apparently still at lunch and must have locked up the patient records; the only things on her desk were a fashion magazine and a bottle of nail varnish. A nail file rested in a pencil cup along with assorted pens and pencils.
Beyond the reception area was a hallway with treatment rooms—all of them empty—on both sides. Beside the open entrances to three of them, waist-high shelves bore covered trays. The hall's only closed doorway stood at the end, marked "Records." Above its shelf hung a framed sampler, proclaiming in cross-stitch:
BUT LO, THOU REQUIREST TRUTH IN THE INWARD PARTS,
AND SHALT MAKE ME TO UNDERSTAND WISDOM SECRETLY.
PSALM 51:6
"A motivational piece?" said Juliana. "That's a new style. What happened to just using the word INTEGRITY—perhaps with a painting of, oh, I don't know, a flying eagle or something? It would take fewer stitches." She snorted. "Business chic. Go figure."
Questioning the victim's taste now, are we? For all we know, his mother made that. Aloud, April said, "I rather like the needlework."
On the shelf lay three folders. "That's Lord Robert's file on top," April said.
Juliana pulled her back so suddenly that April almost lost her balance. "I wasn't going to touch it!"
"Charles," Juliana said sharply to her partner. "Is that blood?" She pointed to a few drops on the floor below the shelf, and April realized that she had almost stepped on them. She froze in place while Juliana and Charles knelt to examine the floor. Cautiously lowering the mental shields that enabled a Sensitive to live a fairly normal life, she reached out with her mind, seeking Lord Robert's psychic pattern. To her astonishment, she couldn't find it. That's impossible. Even if he had died right after I spoke to him,
there should still be a residual pattern. There should be one from the dentist as well, if he's been dead less than a day. "This just feels like an empty closet."
"What?" Juliana looked up at her, and April realized she had said the last part aloud.
"He's not in there. And I don't think the body is either."
"And you think this because...?"
"I'm a Sensitive."
Juliana ground her teeth audibly. "Marvelous. How am I supposed to investigate a homicide with no body? You're the one who told me it was here, and now you're saying it's not?"
"There is the blood," Charles pointed out.
"I've seen more from a nosebleed."
"Who's there?" a voice called from the reception area. A young blonde woman, dressed in a white uniform rather shorter and tighter than current fashion dictated, appeared at the other end of the hall. "You're not supposed to be back here!"
Juliana stalked down the hallway, forcing the girl back into the reception area. April followed her, leaving Charles to examine what little evidence there was.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"I'm Dr. Gheorghe's receptionist. Who are you, and what are you doing here?"
Juliana pulled her identification from a pocket and presented it. "Homicide. When did you last see Gheorghe?"
"He's dead?" The blonde looked horrified. "He was fine when I left for lunch. What happened to him?"
Juliana ignored the question. "What time did you leave for lunch?"
The receptionist looked at an antique water-clock on its pedestal in the corner. "An hour ago. Exactly."
She's lying. It was almost that long ago when Lord Robert called me.
"Was anyone else here when you left?"
"Just Dr. Gheorghe. I'd just checked out his last morning patient and given the files back to him. He hadn't pulled the afternoon files yet."
That sounded odd to April. "You don't do the filing?"
"Oh, no." The blonde shook her head. "He's very particular about his records; he does all his own filing."