T’Thelo sat a moment staring at the string of wooden beads passing between his callused work-stiffened fingers; he’d had them from his father who’d had them from his, they were dark with ancient sweat, ancient aches and agonies, ancient furies that had no other place to go. He rubbed his thumb across the headbead larger than the rest, darker, looked up. “Give me a way to get word to the Plain.”
Maksim snapped his fingers, plucked a small obsidian egg from the air. He set it on the table, gave it a push that took it across to T’Thelo. “The word is PE-TOM’, it calls a ge’mel to you.” He smiled at the distaste visible in T’Thelo’s lined face. “A ge’mel is a friendly little demon about the size of a pigeon, it looks like a mix between a bat and a bunch of celery and it’s a chatty beast. Worst trouble you’ll have with it is getting it to shut up and listen to instructions. It can go anywhere between one breath and the next, all you have to do is name the man you’re sending it to and think about him when you name him. When you’ve finished with the ge’mel, say PI’YEN NA; that’ll send it home. Any questions?”
T’Thelo looked at the egg. After a long silence, he put his worry beads away, reached out and touched the stone with the tip of his left forefinger. When it didn’t bite him, he picked it up, looked at his distorted reflection in the polished black glass. “Petom’,” he said. His voice was nearly as deep as Maksim’s but harsher; though it could bum with hard passion, that voice, it could never sing, an orator’s voice, an old man’s voice beginning to hollow with age.
The ge’mel flicked out of nothing, sat perched on the richly polished wood, its oval black eyes lively and shining with its demon laughter; its face was triangular, vaguely batlike, it had huge green jade ears with delicately ragged edges that matched the greenleaf lace on its tailend. Its wings were bone and membrane, the membrane like nubbly raw silk, green silk with tattered edges. Its body was lined and ridged, almost white about the shoulders, growing gradually greener down past the leg sockets until the taillace was a dark jade. Its four standing limbs were hard and hooked, much like those of a praying mantis, its two front limbs had delicate three-fingered hands with opposable thumbs. It held its forelimbs folded up against its body, hands pressed together as if praying. “Yes yes, new master,” it said; its voice was a high hum, not too unlike a mosquito whine, but oddly pleasant despite that. “What do you wish? I, Yimna Himmna Lute, will do it. Oyee, this is a fine table.” It pushed one of its hind limbs across the wood, making a soft sliding sound. “Lovely wood.” It tilted its little face and twinkled at T’Thelo. “Are you an important man, sirrah? I like to serve important men who do important things, it makes my wives and hatchlings happy, it gives them things to boast of when the neighbors visit.”
Maksim chuckled. “Now how in modesty could the man answer that, Yim? I’ll do it for him. Yes, little friend, he is a very important man and the work he gives you will be very important work, it might save his land and his people from a danger coming at them.”
Yimna Himmna Lute bounced happily on its hind-limbs, rubbed its dainty hands together. “Good good splendid,” it fluted. Wings fluttering in the wind of its impatience, it fixed its black beady eyes on T’Thelo (who was rather disconcerted since he had nothing for Yim to do at the moment, having called up a monster to get a look at it, only to find there was nothing monstrous about the little creature; he’d had chickens a lot more alarming and certainly worse tempered.)
“Unruffie, Yim. The man just wanted to meet you, be introduced, as it were. Voice T’Thelo meet Yimna Himmna Lute, the swiftest surest messenger in all realities. Yim, meet Hrous T’Thelo, Voice of the Land-men of Cheonea.” He waited until T’Thelo nodded and Yimna finished its elaborate meeting dance, then said, “Voice T’Thelo, now that the introductions are complete, perhaps you could send Yim back home while you think out and write out the messages you want it to carry for you.”
T’Thelo blinked, raised tangled brows. Yim gave him another elaborate bow, coaxing-a reluctant smile from him. The Voice rubbed his thumb across the smooth black obsidian, thought a moment, said, “Pi’yen Na.”
Little mouth stretched in a happy grin, Yim whiffed out like a snuffed candle.
“Cheerful little git,” T’Thelo said. He pushed his chair back, stood. “I thank you, Phoros Pharmaga, I will not waste your warning.” He followed Todichi
Yahzi to the door, gave a jerk of a bow like an afterthought and went out.
Todichi Yahzi came back and stood before Maksim; his deepset eyes had deep red fires in them. “I have served you long and well, Settsimaksimin, I have not made demands beyond my needs,” he sang in his humming garbled Cheonese, “I do not wish to leave you now, but if you die how do I go home?”
“Todich old friend, did you think I had forgot you?” Maksim got to his feet, stretched his arms out, then up, massive powerful arms, no fat on them or flab, he yawned, twiddled his long tapering fingers, held out a hand. “Come, I’ll show you.”
The bedroom was at once austere and cluttered; Todichi Yahzi clucked with distress as he followed Maksim inside. It’d been weeks since he’d been let in to clean the place. The bed was a naked flocking mattress in a lacquer frame, sheets (at least they were clean) and thick soft red blankets twisted into a complex sloppy knot and kicked against the wall. A blackened dented samovar on a wheeled table was pushed against the frame near the head of the bed, a plate with flat round ginger cookies, a sprinkle of brown crumbs and the remnants of a cheese sandwich sat on the floor by the table. A book lay open beside it, turned face down. Robes, sandals, underclothes, towels, scrolls of assorted sizes and conditions and several leather pillows were heaped on or beside rumpled rugs. Maksim crossed to a large chest with many shallow drawers. He opened one, poked through it, clicked his tongue with annoyance when he didn’t find what he was looking for, snapped the drawer shut and opened another. “Ah ah, here we are.” He lifted out a fine gold chain with a crooked glass drop dangling from it. “Here, Todich, take this.”
Todichi Yahzi held the drop in his dark leathery palm, looked down at it, gleams of purple and brown flickering in his eyes.
“When you know I’m dead, throw the drop in a fire; when it explodes, you go home. Don’t try it while I’m still alive, won’t work. And ah don’t worry about it breaking, it won’t. I’ve been meaning to give you that for months, Todich.” He lifted his braid off his neck and swiped at the sweat gathered there, rubbed his hand down his side. “Every time I thought of it, something came up to distract me. You understand what to do?”
Todichi Yahzi nodded, closed his fingers tight about the drop. His chest rose, fell. After a tense silence, he sang, “May the day I burn this be many years off.” He looked around, shuddered. “Maksim friend, will you please please let me clean this… this room?”
A rumbling chuckle. “Why not, old friend. I’ll be below.”