But it was a long wait, and with each day that passed Akbar thought of the hunger of Kalb-Alrai, and the hunger of people she had not known of before she came to this dusty place on the ground.
On the sixth day after the arrival of the provincial mantri’s messenger, the advisers produced their report, setting out how the effect of famine might be lessened, if not eradicated, and how such a thing might be avoided in the future. Akbar asked that their course of action be checked by independent scholars, and instructed the imperial treasury to fund its implementation. And when that was done, Akbar rose from her dais and said, “Birbal, walk with me."
Rani Birbal was a poet among Akbar’s navaratnas, a witty and intelligent Brahmin, who on happier days needled Akbar like a gadfly. She went quietly with her friend into the great gardens surrounding Fatehpur Sikri, and asked, “How may I assist you, huzoor?"
An emperor, particularly a young and inexperienced emperor, may not show weakness. Rather than speak of what troubled her, Akbar pointed at the flock of black birds gathering around the edge of the ponds, and asked, “What sort of birds are those, Birbal?"
“Those are carrion crows, huzoor," said Birbal. “They pick the flesh of dead things, so the bones are clean, and do not fester or cause disease."
“And how many crows are there in my kingdom?"
“There are five hundred and forty thousand, three hundred and twelve crows in your kingdom," said Birbal.
“How can you be so sure?" Akbar asked. “Very little is certain in this country. Perhaps I shall commission a report and have them counted."
“You may do so, huzoor."
“And what if the number it gives is lower than yours?"
“That is simple," Birbal said. “Some of our crows will have gone on pilgrimage to other kingdoms."
“And if my commission finds that the number is higher?"
“Then other crows have come to visit their relatives in your kingdom, huzoor."
Akbar laughed, and was a little reconciled to the strangeness of life on the ground.
One-Day Listing
This is just one ordinary day in Senchai’s new life. So far, it’s not going well.
People say that the asteroid that destroyed 47 Piscium was set in motion by a passing star. That it was a handful of dust coalesced into rock, with a bare nothing of a molten core, minding its own business out on the far reaches of traversed space, until its nearest star puffed off its outer layers in a radiant twinkling and it tumbled into history contrariwise to the spin of the galaxy. Senchai isn’t sure she understands that: how that sequence of relativistic forces led to a crater hundreds of metres across and a cloud of ash blocking out the midday sun. But she’s pretty sure, first of all, that she knows what that felt like, that sudden lurch into uncharted territory; and, second of all, that there is a direct causal relationship between that bright burst of stellar energy and the fact that she, Senchai of Signa and Earth and Nazer, respected attorney-at-law, is sitting on her office floor crying into the powdered remains of her morning cup of coffee.
Chrissie does a couple more pull-ups on the door frame, her arm muscles tensing visibly, her feet landing with firm thumps on the honey stone floor, and then realises. “Oh, no, did the vibration push your coffee off the table? Oh, honey, I’m sorry, I’ll go get you another one, okay?"
Chrissie’s too kind to mention the tears, Senchai notes dispassionately. She leans against the wall, the stone warm against her cheek, and listens to the sound of Chrissie sweeping up the debris and then to the distant whistle of boiling water. By the time she can smell the fresh coffee, she’s back at her desk, looking through her case docket for the day, making notes of points of law she wants to check before the hearing. A flash of Chrissie’s warm presence and then there’s a cup at her elbow; Senchai takes a sip while reading about the original Signan Lands Acts.
Then Chrissie says, “Oh, hey, Senchai, you know we’re out of paperclips?" —and Senchai is crying again, really crying, tears dripping down her nose along the same tracks as before, landing with disturbing swiftness in the dust on her desk. For a long moment, there’s no sound but her breathing and the rattles of beads in the mild desert wind. The office, like many in Nazer and on 31 Piscium, is built within a natural cave structure. Instead of doors and internal partitions, they have long strings of rough wooden fragments, threaded on twine and cut to fit. The beads rattle. Senchai cries.
“Honey," Chrissie says, after a while, tossing her dreadlocks over her shoulders, “it’s nothing to do with the paperclips, is it?"
The ridiculous thing is that it is to do with the paperclips, as well as with that same small asteroid rocking through space towards the Magellanic Clouds. They are running out of paperclips because there are none to be had in any of the small retail establishments in town, nor can any be sent for from anywhere else. Everything here on 31 Piscium is bought or given away the moment it’s unloaded from the ship holds. What they do have in excess is people, eating food and drinking potable water and using paperclips to hold together the letters they’re sending to everyone they know to say they’re safe. That the warning system, installed at great effort and expense thirty years before around the colony world of 47 Piscium, worked, and when thousands of tonnes of solid rock and newly molten metal hit the southern continent, most of them, but not all, were already in deep space. Public opinion is divided between those who demand to know why humanity’s first foothold on another world should have been on 47 Piscium, a planet known to be the largest of an orbiting field of rocky debris, and have to be reminded of its soft, fertile soils and absence of height or depth; and those who demand why the refugees all have to come here, to 31 Piscium, the closest colony world, and why their water is rationed and why are there not enough paperclips.
And those who say nothing, but resolve to eat a little less and wash a little less often, and make do with a lower dose of their medication.
Human melodrama, Senchai thinks: such unnecessary self-sacrifice. Senchai is human on her father’s side of the family, but the fact often doesn’t figure in her interior monologue.
“If you’ve got a needle and thread somewhere," Chrissie says, her lips curled up, “I can sew your documents together. I’m sure the court won’t mind. I'll do it when I get back, though – just going for a quick run around the block."
Senchai considers telling her about the weight of the paperclips required to hold together the Nazer District Court regulations merely on the subject of the presentation and formatting of court-lodged documents, or about the effect of 31 Piscium’s sand-laden air on Chrissie’s wholly human physiology, and decides against it on both counts. Because that’s it, isn’t it: the coffee cup Chrissie brought is warm and comforting, and so is the air in the room, thick with desert heat and solitude. It’s what Senchai wants.
___
Nick comes in an hour or so later, his pupils dilating in the relative dimness. He’s sweating from the effect of the desert sun, the crisp creases of his shirt beginning to wilt. He rummages through the piles on his desk, fanning and scattering them, papers making waterfalls into the dust. “Can’t be helped," he murmurs, perhaps to himself. Looking up, he asks, “Shall I toddle down and issue then, Senchai?"
Senchai has a flash of something then that could be intuition, or logic, or what the humans still insist on mistranslating as “magic": signene, that makes them what they are. “You wish to issue a claim?" she asks. “I will come with you. Chrissie will hold the fort, as you say."
“No probs." Chrissie toasts them with her cup.
Nick and Senchai pause to gather their materials in their arms and set out on the short walk around the corner. On Signa, justice must be done and seen to be done; Signan courts convene by custom under a broad-crowned tree.
The clerk rises at the sight of them walking down the shady street, nodding at them both. “Senchai of Nazer, and" — her eyes rest on Nick — “client? Name?"
“Ah, no," Senchai says. “I am no longer
a sole practitioner. I am joined by Nicholas Campbell and Crystal Lorde, both trained on Earth with rights of audience before Signan courts." The clerk’s stylus tracks, and Senchai holds up a hand. “Also— we shall be acting only on the Lands Act claims."
The clerk says, “Your family work - small commercial—"
“No longer." Senchai’s tone is more severe than she meant it to be; the clerk says nothing more. The first hearing of the day is in session as they move into the clear space of the court. Nick sits down cross-legged, right foot over left, seemingly without thinking about it. Senchai smiles to herself: he has had the training in Signan jurisprudence, after all.
"Allow me to sum up," the judge is saying. "You"— a pause for shuffling papers— "Teller of Nazer, did on the coming of the spring this year sell your neighbour several containers of seed, predicting a standard growth yield for the batch within a ten percent tolerance. It appears that the seeds have yielded…"
"Five times as much," calls a voice from the bench, presumably the defendant.
The judge acknowledges the interruption. "And after that the refugees from 47 Piscium arrived, so we consider this a blessing. You, Teller of Nazer, are now applying for an overage payment in respect of the yield."
Teller stands up and nods his head. "Not for the whole amount," he says. "But for the excess, perhaps the original price could be paid over again…"
“Such a thing is contrary to nature," the judge says, cutting him off gently. "It is" — and he makes the gesture, fingers curled against the grain of the webbing, so the court know the word is coming - "signene. And it is the oldest settled law of our people that where signene lies, no cause of action can. This is how things must be. I elect to dismiss."
The man takes it with no bad grace; he rises, bows, and walks out of the shade of the tree.
"Next," the judge says, taking the brief from the clerk, "the first Lands Act case of the day. Elan, now of Nazer. Advocate? Nicholas Campbell. What did your mothers call you, Nicholas Campbell?"
"Nick," Nick says, standing and bowing, a little clumsily. Senchai places a hand on his elbow to steady him.
"Nick. Speak.
"Ah." Nick hesitates before speaking. "My client, sir. Elon of Nazer."
The judge consults his notes. "Elan of Nazer, it says here."
"Ah," Nick says, uncertainly, "yes" - and Senchai wonders at it. Perhaps it is because he is not accustomed to inquisitorial justice, made nervous by the clear-eyed focus on him. His client sits quietly on the ground, eyes on the judge. "Anyway" —more hesitation — "my client is, in, ah, an unhappy position."
"As are all those making Lands Act claims, Nick. A little more expedition."
"His mother owned land on 47 Piscium. It was left to her sister on her death, of natural causes, last winter. My client would have been in line of succession, eventually. But his mother and his mother's sister, and his siblings and cousins - well, you know. He didn't have any cousins. But the other things. And as his aunt held the land he is a nephew, which is not within the human lines of descent within the Acts. I hope that's clear."
The judge says, "Have you the deeds?"
An apologetic glance at Senchai, a shift from foot to foot, and then Nick is looking at the judge again. "It was rather a mess this morning," he offers, and then pauses. Senchai notices his eyes flickering from side to side, as though he's waiting in fear of something. Her own wrath, perhaps.
The judge sighs, an audible sigh rattling across the space beneath the tree. "It appears to me," he says, "that the equitable resolution to the claim is quite clear. Elan of Nazer, I grant you land under the auspices of my jurisdiction and the Modern 47 Piscium Lands Acts, to compensate and comfort in the loss of your hearth and home; the clerk shall draft the order and you shall take it to the registry in due course. But" - his voice sharpens - "that is despite, rather than because of your advocacy, Nicholas Campbell."
Senchai flinches; the full name is an insult.
"Bring the deeds to the clerk in the afternoon," the judge says.
Nick nods and bows again; the next case is brought up, the next client's name read.
"Advocate, Senchai of Nazer," says the judge. "What did your mothers call you, Senchai of Nazer?"
The issue is purely procedural – a claim under the Acts that was a mere day or so out of time, because of the plaintiff’s sudden illness – and Senchai goes through the rituals of the jurisprudence automatically, with her eyes on Nick. She’s wondering if she made a mistake.
___
When the court breaks for the afternoon, all Senchai wants is silence – perhaps just the quiet space of her life as it used to be, before the noise of the impact and the misery and the two Earth-trained lawyers with their endless things to say. But when she arrives back at the office the doors are all open to the sounds of passing people and traffic, and Chrissie, assisted by two volunteers that she appears to have pulled in off the street, is carrying a gigantic purple shrub in a makeshift pot into the office, dropping spiky scraps of foliage and twigs everywhere.
“What," Senchai begins, but Chrissie waves her away.
“Long story, Senchai, don’t worry about it. Come on then, I was just about to go get some lunch."
This is what humans do, Senchai thinks with frustration. Somehow without really wanting to, she's following Chrissie to one of the small siesta markets that appear and disappear between lunchtime and sunset. Chrissie stops and expertly haggles over a bowl of vegetable soup with some black market rice. Senchai gives up and buys some of the soup for herself, too. She’s not hungry, but then, she rarely is these days. They sit on a low wall to eat it, looking back across the street to Senchai’s little frontage with Chrissie’s and Nick’s names roughly added.
“I wanted to tell you something," Chrissie says, without preamble, once she’s devoured most of the soup. Chrissie always eats like that, Senchai has noticed – with the single-minded joy of one taking a sacrament. “When I was a kid my mom died. We lived on 47 Piscium back then."
“I’m sorry for your loss," Senchai says, startled, automatic.
Chrissie shakes her head. “No big deal. I hadn’t been back for years when the rock hit. I blew off my high school reunion. But Mom died, and then it was just Dad and me. And I love the Signans, Senchai, I do." A pause. “I don’t, I guess. I mean, sometimes I love them, sometimes I don't, like they’re my own people. But then it was just Dad and me, humans alone in this little edge-settlement town. 47 Piscium wasn’t so big of a place back then and I was young, I acted out." She shrugs. “I want you to know you can do what you want, Senchai. You lost some of your family, didn’t you?"
Senchai lets out a sigh because this, this is what humans do. “Yes."
“So – you know, I just wanted to tell you, you can stay home when you feel bad, smash some stuff. You want to sit in the corner and cry, that’s okay too."
Senchai shakes her head. “What I do is my job."
Chrissie smiles fondly in response at that, and Senchai doesn't understand it. “Senchai, you’re doing your job. You’re doing it. You got us in to help, and you rearranged your whole practice, and you—"
“And I was here, when it happened; I still have a home." Senchai has raised her voice without quite meaning to, and she knows her eyes are getting wider with emotion from the way Chrissie is moving backwards in alarm. Senchai’s father used to say that Senchai had eyes like two silver dollars, which was a human, kind way of saying they were large as a curled index finger and with the implacable surface of quicksilver.
But the moment passes, Chrissie takes another loving slurp of her soup, and Senchai finally feels moved to try her own. It’s thin and watery. “Tell me something," Chrissie says, at length. “Your… signene." Though she doesn’t make the accompanying gesture, she says the word quietly. Senchai approves. “Didn’t you know, that something…"
“That something terrible was going to happen. Yes." Senchai nods. “Some of us did. My mother spent a day crying at
nothing; I threw up. I believed it had been my evening meal. Once the data had been collected—"
“It was too late." Chrissie makes a wry expression, not quite a smile. “I guess it’s never like fairy tales. I guess we have to go back to work."
“Precisely." Senchai helps Chrissie up, and they walk back across the street.
___
There are still two hours before the evening session. Chrissie goes out to visit a client at home and Senchai sits down to work, noticing that the purplish shrub from earlier has been moved to a large glass bucket, its roots bathed in water. She shakes her head at it and sits down at her desk, beginning on her afternoon briefs.She works solidly for a short while, making handwritten notes for later reference, when she hears a strange sound, the movement somewhere near her feet. She gets down to her hands and knees to investigate.
“I’m fine," Nick says, irritably. He’s sitting, Senchai notes, almost exactly in the same spot she chose in the morning; some of the white dust from the smashed cup is now on his hands. With his head against the stone wall, his eyes are closed. “I’m fine, Senchai. Just… a bad mental health day."
“Ah," Senchai says, understanding a number of things all at once, and goes into the kitchen to heat up some water. Nick doesn’t drink coffee, but she pours the boiling water into two cups and adds a precious slice of fresh lemon to each. She puts Nick’s cup directly into his hand, so he doesn’t have to open his eyes, and sits down next to him to sip from her own.
“Surely," he says after a minute, still aware of her presence, “you have better things to do."
“No." Senchai takes another sip from her cup. “But I will leave if you wish."
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