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Chapter 1
The Crime of Inaction
The Musician
The glow of the Fruit of Light was like a flickering candle. Thus I arranged for it a common name since the original was still too difficult for me to pronounce. It hung from inside a not-quite-glass lantern, barely illuminating the large metal table in front of me.
I laughed to myself, the sound echoing off empty walls as an unseen orb recorded my actions. Even if I would fail the supposed psychological evaluation, I didn’t fight to keep a straight face. This world of minute light could never fathom the existence of a candle. Wasn’t it absolutely ridiculous?
Clink, clink went the chain as it swung to and fro, above my head. The music of it banishing my laughter. If I was especially lucky, the chain would snap, glass shattering and the mango-shaped fruit squashing to the ground. How fascinating it would be to be engulfed in true darkness.
If I really concentrated, I could almost pretend the clinking was akin to a metronome, but the uneven beats soon swelled within my precise ears, disrupting the fantasy altogether.
I sighed, fingers grazing the violin case until the powers that be decided to grace me with their presence. It was a surprise the strigaix had let me keep my violin, but they had likely believed with my hands chained to a desk, it would be more painful to be so close to my instrument, but unable to play it.
Perhaps, if my original planet was like this one—without any orbiting sun—the darkness would have been harrowing. For those who have only known shadows, their torment is perpetual. When I’ve had months to adapt from sunshine, why would darkness upon darkness frighten me?
Perhaps, if I had come into this world with knowledge of this country’s language, the silence would be disturbing. To have the means and not use them is deliberate. When there was no one to speak to, why would prolonged stillness upset me?
Perhaps, if there was even the memory of loved ones to comfort me, I would have wept and cried out for those people. All I have is the practicality of musical theory. When I did not know love beyond that, why would extended solitude unnerve me?
None of this planetary happenstance applied to me. So I waited, humming a tune not a soul here would recognize, about a bird not of this world’s fauna: the nightingale.
Against my will or maybe out of sheer boredom, my feet began stomping on the ground, to a tempo soon matched by clear Arabic lyrics:
“I am from the Amir’s desire and treasure
From the Amir’s treasury, the possessor of profits
A scribe, an accountant, a preacher, a literati
An advisor who surpassed all advisors
An extraordinary poet, lighter than a feather
From beneath the wings”
I paused. There was supposed to be a line about a nightingale. I wanted to sing about the nightingale. What was it again? Right, I remember now.
“If the Amir calls upon me, he personally witnesses from me
One who is vigorous and proud like the voice of a nightingale.”
This wasn’t quite right. Not the poem. It was an ancient one by Aban ibn Abd al-Hamid in the era of caliphs and slaves. Yet what I wanted to sing was a song to remind me I was from a country and place beyond the eras of masters and slaves. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not remember the words. Even the singer who I was supposed to know by heart vanished from the recesses of my memories. All that remained were the poems and songs of centuries past.
It was sheer irony the door opened after that particular line. A woman came in with two tall men behind her. Like all the people of this southernmost province, they were dark-skinned, maybe a few shades darker than my own copper skin tone. The only thing giving away their inhumanness was how all three shared eyes the exact same shade of dark wine.
I tilted my head, examining them. Strigaix ruled this country, to no surprise or fanfare, but the sight of a woman gave me pause. Female strigaix were an impossibility.
One of the men pulled out the chair in such a firm grip, it did not drag and screech. The woman gathered her long robes as she sat, equally demure. Then she placed down a tablet and stylus on the table. Next to my violin case. “What are you thinking of?” she asked.
What she really meant was what was I singing. She lacked the ability to understand Classical Arabic poetics and I lacked the words to articulate the symbolic beauty of a bird which did not exist on this planet. A change of topic was needed, but what?
“Which your son and which your mate?” I said, frowning. “I no want tell you this.”
“A consequence of my younger son’s gift.” She gestured to the taller strigaix standing to her left. When my eyes trailed to the shorter one at her right, the woman said, “Unless you prove to be a problem, there will be no need for my older son’s gift.”
I nodded and even gave her a small smile, but a scowl formed on her face. She picked up her stylus pen and began scribbling something. “You’re quite calm, given your present circumstances.”
