The wind stirred his fur. He sat on a balcony, the railing around him rusting, the paint that had once covered it now peeling. A woman sat in the shade of an umbrella, hands in her lap, mouth wide open. Sleeping on a warm day, oblivious to the roar of the milling humanity below her.
If she woke up, she would only see a disheveled white cat perched on the little table at one corner of the balcony. Dirty, but with enough white fur visible to suggest it could be beautiful, if left pristine.
A small child, riding on her father’s shoulders, happened to spy him looking over the railing, and waved.
Four hundred and twenty thousand, two hundred and ninety-six unique individuals, now.
He began adjusting paths. Alterations to space, to placement. One change, willed into being. A car moved one inch this way. More room for a car to park forward, making it harder for the men coming down the street in their great garbage collection truck to enter the alley and pick up the cans there.
Some trash should remain behind, but it wouldn’t be much. The longer-term effect would be greater. He could return in a week and do a similar thing. The same men were liable to keep coming for the same patrol.
The rodent population would increase, and the monsters that lurked beneath the city would be encouraged to come up for the food and the comforting presence of the rats and filth.
There was an ecosystem here that needed balancing, too. The monsters would run aground with the local goblin population. Both would be weak when the practitioners at the nearby church stepped in, they would be ruined, but not entirely destroyed.
In a year, the angel could return. If the practitioners were too strong, their direction dangerous, the angel could tease them into action by stirring the pot. Distract and weaken.
A subtle change to the pathway slowed the movement along one street, to benefit one store, and subtly alter the course of business throughout this section of the city.
A growing date tree was guided so it might grow into the surroundings, fixing it in place, a curiosity that might inspire, and perhaps lead to the tree being allowed to flourish in its unique fashion.
More small changes were made. To enhance growth, to rein in destructive elements, and sow seeds for future possibilities.
A figure appeared, standing opposite the angel, at the mouth of an alleyway. His skin was a deep brown, his eyes dark but gentle, but his face worn. He wore a dress shirt with the collar unbuttoned, and had a suit jacket folded over one arm.
The angel atop the balcony hopped down, just as the old woman beside him awoke. She startled, trying to follow him despite the disorientation of recent sleep, but he was already gone.
Already at the side of the man at the mouth of the alley. His brother’s side.
“Harith,” the angel greeted the man.
“Faysal.” Harith took his hand. They walked together, hand in hand. “What news?”
Faysal shook his head. He used the fingers of his free hand to brush hair away from his face, then smoothed his shirt as he dropped his hand to his side. “No news. The world turns.”
“We’ll encourage it to continue doing so,” Harith said.
They were in the midst of the crowd now. People milled around them. Each one a contained storm of events, of history, and untapped potential.
It was heady, distracting, to be in the midst of this. Harith was a source of calm in the midst of a storm.
“Humanity surges in strength,” Harith observed. “It surprises me at times.”
“Me as well. I’ve wondered for some time if I should encourage it or discourage it.”
“Makes little difference.”
“It makes all the difference in the world,” Faysal said. “Assuming we want to stave off the end of things, supporting humanity could make all the difference.”
“Or we could only be adding fuel to the fire, giving them the strength they need to speed along their way to the end of their road.”
“Yes. I’ve wondered which it might be. This would all be so much easier if we knew.”
“It makes little difference, because we can’t and don’t know. We must ignore humans and look to balance. Stability. If the demon’s destruction is analogue to our creation, then stability is the balm to mankind’s change. The humans are strong, and have seized the reins, taken to taming wild things. Including us. With a little help, they’ve willingly taken to engineering their own balance. They are best left to their own devices.”
Faysal nodded.
“The demons are strong too. They lurk in the background of things, and perhaps they always have. When the age of humans ends, they will be best positioned to bring about an age of their own. I feel we shouldn’t leave them to their own devices, as we mean to do with man.”
“Yes,” Faysal said. He laid a hand on a child’s head as she ran by.
“Two problems have arisen in one place. I’m otherwise occupied, and you’re not. I thought to ask your help.”
“What problems?”
“One is a demon. It is freshly bound and may not be bound forever, as the bloodline that did the binding may now be disintegrating. It has been called a few times, and in answering the call, it is traveling a path. Wearing down the road, if you will. I know paths are your specialty, gatekeeper.”
“The other problem?”
“A man. A practitioner. He is building something.”
“Building? Buildings are your specialty, Harith. The third choir’s.”
“But the building is a subtle one, and subtlety is your specialty. He is laying the groundwork for something big, that much is clear, but here we stand, off to one side, watching and wondering how he can build so very quietly. Or why.”
“No sound of hammers, nor sawing wood?”
“In a sense.”
■
Johannes glanced over his shoulder.
Two bogeymen, a foo dog guardian, a ghost, and a faerie with a great rat pelt drawn over her shoulders stood ready.
Help, borrowed, bought, and coerced.
“Now or never,” he murmured to himself. He glanced at his followers. “Be ready.”
There were a few nods.
He turned forward once again. His finger tapped. His eye reread the page on Demesnes for the thousandth time.
Drawing in a deep breath, he spoke with confidence. “I, Johannes the piper, the sorcerer, the vagabond, hereby-”
“-Stop,” a voice spoke out, soft, almost as if it were completing the sentence for him.
Johannes turned.
The man that stood in the doorway was beautiful, slight in build, white hair and beard cut short. He wore a gently rumpled shirt and khaki pants, and his feet were bare.
Looking at the man with the sight, Johannes could see how the man fed into everything around him. Where other connections were straight lines, the man shimmered, as if connections tied him to every speck of dust, every splinter of wood. When he looked, he could see connections to more distant things. To himself. There was no tension, no rigidity to the lines. The rules, very plainly, were different, where this man was involved.