by M. A. Ray
This morning, she complained nonstop while he relaxed in the hammock. “I can’t fix it!” she growled, throwing her comb to the ground and crossing her arms.
“Why not just cut it off?” he asked. “I could do it for you.”
“Um, no. I do not want mine like yours.”
Dingus laughed and passed a hand over his own hair. He used a knife on it whenever he happened to notice it was getting too long, which made it shaggy and uneven, but who cared? It was just hair. “I wouldn’t make it like mine. I did a pretty good job on your ears the other day, didn’t I?”
She touched the tiny gold otters in her earlobes, which he had bought her in a wild fit of niceness, because they reminded him of her. Only later, when she’d told him, had he realized her ears weren’t pierced. She’d demanded he do the job so she could wear them. “It’s not the same.”
“You let me stick a needle through your ears, and you don’t want me to cut your hair? Hair grows back.”
“It’s just not the same!”
“Well, I’ll help you if you want, that’s all.”
“Thanks,” she said, with absolutely no sincerity, and stretched out for her comb. After another ten minutes, she threw it again, clear across the camp. “I hate my hair!”
He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “Looks fine the way it is. You don’t gotta put it in those dumb braids if you don’t want, or do any damn thing with it.”
“It’s not proper otherwise. I’m not married.”
What about Kessa was proper? She ran around the wilderness alone with two older, unmarried men, wearing breeches and boots. She’d stumbled across Vandis naked twice over and come running back into camp both times, swearing her mind was broken and she’d be blind forever. Going along like they did, there was no way to avoid seeing something you could never unsee. “So you’re gonna try braiding it every day ’til you get married?”
“I’m never getting married.”
“Okay, the whole rest of your life, then? Just tie it back if you don’t like it.”
“People will think I’m loose!”
“So what? You’re a Squire. People don’t expect you got your legs glued together.” He paused. “Except me and Vandis.”
She growled at him, and he slid out of the hammock.
“Come on, Kess,” he said, trying to turn her up sweet. He didn’t know why he tried, ’cause it never worked. She threw him a dirty look, and he crossed to the nurse log and snatched up one of the leather thongs she used to tie her braids.
“What are you doing?”
He pulled her hair back from her face and square-knotted the thong tightly around it. It looked like a carrot-colored puffball mushroom stuck on the back of her head, but whatever.
“Oh my gods,” she said. “It looks like a big orange puffball, doesn’t it?”
“Naw.”
She twisted to look at him. “Liar.”
“It shows your earrings,” he pointed out. “Now can we please go?”
She moaned and covered her face. “You go.”
“You’re the one that wanted to go in the first place!” Poking around big, central Sodee Marketplace sounded unutterably boring to him, but he’d agreed because what he wanted to do bored her, and happy Kessa was far and away better company than grumpy Kessa.
“I changed my mind.”
He shoved her off the nurse log. She squawked, and he laughed at her when she popped up like a thunderstorm. “You’ll have fun and you know it,” he said, swung his legs over, and grabbed her arm before she could sit back down.
“I’ll get you for this.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He dragged her off toward the nearest river anyway. He didn’t know its name, but it eased along inside its banks, almost too wide for a bridge, and though it sparkled in the morning light, the water was muddy-looking and unfit to drink. Ish rowed their canoes past, and sometimes a flatboat would drift by, pulled by a team of oxen. To either side of the river, the trees were cleared away a bit from the banks and the broad, cobbled byways. It’d be a fine, sunny day; the fog had already burned off over the roads. Dingus pulled Kessa in to join the traffic.
The market was about two miles downriver, and spread out from it on either side deep into the trees, sunny by the banks and shady under the canopy. The place would’ve been peaceful if it hadn’t been for all the people, hundreds of them on at least three levels, buying and selling and moving and shouting. People stared, sometimes even stopped to stare, but they probably couldn’t help it, since Dingus and Kessa were head, shoulders, and chest above everybody else, and ginger besides. Carrot orange and flaming red weren’t common hair colors even among humans, and rarer yet among the Ish, although a good number had bright yellow crests or sunset-yellow fur. “I feel like a standard on a pole,” Kessa complained, which made Dingus laugh again. He’d had the same feeling, but at least nobody bothered them.
He enjoyed it more than he’d thought he would. There was a lot to see, even if it wasn’t exactly what Dingus would’ve chosen to look at. The market stalls and sellers’ baskets overflowed with bright blankets and rugs like Tikka had, woven into religious symbols; with beautiful, patterned baskets, some huge, some tiny and woven from pine needles; wild masks like stylized animal faces; and tons and tons of jewelry for wrists, ears, tails, ankles, and crests. If it stuck out, the Ish would decorate it. There was even a stand selling penis jewelry. When Dingus saw it, he hustled Kessa past, red in the face. Everything was for sale here, even carved, brightly-painted canoes set out on long stands.
They bought food: vegetables, fruits, and flour for noodles, which Dingus put in the twine bag he’d knotted a couple of mornings back, and also a little more of the soft cheese for salmon buns. They picked up a few skeins of plain yarn so they could knit more stockings. Dingus’s were in terrible shape, with growing holes that let his heels and toes stick out. His boots were getting too small, but Windish lacked cobblers. Most everybody went barefoot to make good use of their long, dexterous toes.
After hardly any time at all, their stomachs started to growl for dinner. “Let’s go to that noodle stall we saw,” Dingus said. “It smelled the best.”
Kessa laughed. “We’ve seen about two score noodle stalls.”
“Yeah, but that one smelled like rosemary. I like rosemary. It was back on the other side of the river.”
“I don’t remember, but let’s go try it,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his. They set off toward the bridge. “Do you really smell that good?”
He made a show of sniffing his pits. “Nope, I smell terrible,” he said, and she giggled and gave him a play shove, which knocked him sidewise a pace or two. If she’d really meant it, he’d be on his ass.
“Gross! You know what I mean,” she said through her giggles.
He steadied himself on a cedar and opened his mouth to mess with her some more. Something brushed in the vicinity of his belt, and without thinking, he snapped his hand out and grabbed. He meant to pull whatever it was away from him, but he got something like a furry twig in his fist, small and thin and warm. When he turned his head to see what it was, a raggedy, scrawny Ishling glared at him from partway up the tree, just above his waist. It skinned its lips back from its teeth. “If you bite me, you’ll regret it,” he said, real quick. It went to bite him anyways and he flicked with his thumb and finger square in the middle of its forehead.
“Ow!” it squalled, rubbing the spot, and gave him a credible stink-eye—for something the size of a barn cat. It was young enough that it had a wide strip of longer fuzz over the round crown of its head, instead of a crest. It absolutely reeked. “What, you gots a problem?” it demanded in a piping voice, still clutching his purse. Boy or girl, he couldn’t tell; before they got to a certain age, everybody had a kid smell anyways. Then it kicked, and its ragged tunic went up a little bit. Boy.
“I don’t like it when people try to steal from me.”
“You is take me to the Hops now?” The boy
wore a defiant expression, but his voice shook the tiniest bit.
“No, but you take your hand off my purse or I will make you sorry,” he warned, even though he wasn’t sure how he’d do that. What could he begin to do to a kid who lived like this? When the tiny knife stabbed for his hand, Dingus almost missed seeing it. With less than an inch to spare, he snatched the Ishling off the tree, wrapping his hands around the little torso and pinning the twiggy arms. “No,” he said. “Kess, take his knife.” The boy struggled, kicking out for Dingus’s face with filthy, long-toed feet. “Relax. She’ll give it back.”
“What’re you thinking?” Kessa asked as she pried the delicate fingers apart and took the knife.
Dingus didn’t know. Well, here’s a nice corner you painted yourself into, was what he thought. The boy had stopped struggling, and his hollow chest heaved in Dingus’s grip. He stared at Dingus out of huge eyes black as coal with the whites showing all around. His face was so dirty the color of his fur couldn’t be told, and Dingus felt every last bone in his arms.
“Please,” he whispered, “you isn’t hurt me, please, I is sorry, I isn’t try to take from you anymore. Please…”
Dingus drew a breath. “Are you hungry?”
The Ishling let out a disgusted chuff that shook at the end, and when he inhaled after it was almost a sob.
“Well, that was a stupid question.” The Ishling stared, and Dingus’s heart twisted. He could count ribs through the holes in the tunic. “Go on, you can say it.”
“You is at least enough smart to know.”
He laughed. “Kessa, take my purse,” he said, and she came over to untie it from his belt. “Get us dinner. As much as you can carry.”
“I’ll be right back,” she said.
“Listen,” he told the boy, “I’m gonna put you down, but if you run away you won’t get any food.”
The coal eyes sharpened. “Food?”
“Yeah.”
“If I stays, I eats?”
“You got it. As much as you want.”
Dingus’s prisoner stilled, thinking. “Okay. You is put me down and I stays.”
He stooped and set the Ishling gently on the ground. The little one crouched there, still staring, and Dingus sat back on his heels.
“You speak Traders’ pretty good,” he offered.
“Uh, market?”
“Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. What now? “My name’s Dingus. What’s yours?”
The Ishling eyed him. “Is Tai.”
“I like yours better than mine,” he joked, and Tai sniggered.
“I isn’t wonder. In Ishian, you know what is deengoos?” When Dingus shook his head, Tai said, “Is for smoke. Smell like skunk.”
“Better than Hayedi,” he decided. “In Hayedi it’s—”
“Den ghus. Horseshit. And in Traders’ it’s mean this.” Tai grabbed his crotch. “In Oasan, is jingass. Bad luck, and in Muscodite is dyinveys for dog. I isn’t can think of any way ‘dingus’ is nice for saying. Your mama is name you that?”
“My father. Where I come from it means ‘blue sock.’”
One side of Tai’s brow lifted: a raised eyebrow, even though he didn’t really have eyebrows—just fur. “Who is name a person as a sock?”
“I don’t know. I never met him. Anyways he was human, so he was really naming me dick.” Dingus made a face.
“In what language it’s ‘blue sock,’ then?”
“It’s hituleti. The People’s tongue.” At Tai’s confused look, he tried, “The elves’ language.”
“Hituleti,” Tai said, mimicking Dingus’s accent perfectly. “You is speak it?”
“Yeah. Traders’ and hituleti.”
“I is speak more than you.” Tai’s little chest puffed out. “Ishian and Traders’ most, and Oasan. Hayedi and Muscodite and Portese. Only a little of Kuo. They isn’t come too often. Now you is give me some hituleti, and I can know that.”
Dingus, with food on the brain, taught him some food words: apple, mutton, pancake. While Tai was telling him how to say “pancake” in Ishian, Kessa came back with dinner, half a dozen paper cones full of noodles, vegetables, and shellfish. When she gave one to Tai he shoved his face into it and started gobbling. It was all gone before Dingus even took three bites, and he looked at the others with longing.
“As much as you want,” Dingus prompted him.
“You is a crazy Big,” Tai said, snatched another cone, and disappeared, leaving Dingus staring off in the direction he’d gone.
“Uh-oh,” Kessa muttered. “I’ve seen that look before.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You put it on me once, and the same night you and Vandis took me away.”
“Are you sorry we did?”
She held up her palms. “No way! I’m just saying.”
“And what,” he demanded, “are you saying?”
“Aw, come on! I don’t know, Dingus, it’s just… you can’t fix everybody’s life!”
The hell I can’t. “You can’t tell me it’s right, a little kid living that way.”
“’Course I can’t, but—” She broke off, shaking her head. “Never mind. Can we go back to camp after this?”
“Good idea,” he said. The clockwork in his head struggled to tick. He’d figure this out, but he wanted quiet to think in.
Akeere’s Good Work
Dreamport
Vandis stood in chilly water to the bottom of his ribs with the cliffy shoreline looming above him. The waves dragged at his clothes; he held a lit brand over his head. The sobbing of Hjaldi’s widow dragged at his heart, until he felt like he’d drown with his head above the surface. The four Knights around him—Reed; Adeon, who’d been Hjaldi’s Master; Hjaldi’s Junior, Guthlaf; and his fifteen-year-old Squire, Skerne—held the bier boat still so Vandis could toss the brand onto the oil-soaked wood.
The flames roared up and licked at Hjaldi’s kind face, blistering the skin. Skerne muffled a sob as the four pushed the boat out where the waves could take it.
“Fly with the Wayfarer,” Vandis said, and Skerne choked, splashing up onto the beach. Vandis watched the boat drift into the sunset. He’d admired Hjaldi’s gentleness of spirit, maybe because he so utterly lacked it.
Reed sloshed back to the beach while the boat receded, but Adeon and Guthlaf stood next to Vandis in the cold sea.
“What’ll we do?” Guthlaf asked after a few moments.
Vandis looked over at him. Was he twenty? Twenty-one? He had a bluff, earnest face spattered with freckles, and when he met Vandis’s eyes, his were blue, too shiny. “I’ll place you,” Vandis said.
“And Skerne?”
“It’ll be up to him. He hasn’t taken the Oath. If he wants to, he can go home.”
“He doesn’t have anybody,” Guthlaf said, brusque with suppressed tears. “Just Hjaldi and me. I guess just me now.”
“Then I won’t place you without him.”
“No more talk of placement,” Adeon said into the silence that followed. “Hjaldi was dear to me. It would be my honor to finish his work with you and with Skerne.”
Guthlaf looked past Vandis to the tulon. “Really?”
“If Vandis approves.”
“I do,” Vandis said, and turned. He waded back up to the beach, to Hjaldi’s wife.
She was a couple of inches taller than he was, and slight, except that her belly was swollen with child number seven; she and Hjaldi had six others, all under twelve. She curled her fingers around the purse Vandis pressed into her palm. “When—” She stopped, glancing away, then looked back. “When do you need us to move out?”
“HQ’s been your home as long as you’ve been married. Your kids don’t know anything else. Stay as long as you live, if you want to.”
“Oh, Vandis…” She clutched around his neck and proceeded to soak his shoulder. Awkwardly, he patted her back, staring at the face of the cliff behind her. What had he said in the sermon? He couldn’t remember. H
e couldn’t even think of her name, only the hole Reed had drilled in Hjaldi’s skull to try to relieve the pressure around his brain. They’d stoned him. Hjaldi, warm as a hearth fire, with a good word for everyone—they’d stoned Hjaldi. Vandis’s eyes burned.
“I have to go,” he said roughly, and she released him. He leapt into the air, back to HQ. It should have been me.
He went up to the office. The big room was as busy as always, warm from the two hearths and the people who crowded it. In the heat of the room, he realized how damned cold he was. His toes were numb inside his wet boots; his legs burned inside his wet breeches. He stepped over the threshold, staring at the desks that lined the walls and the clerks working at them; at the open door to the file room, where the walls were all cubbies overfull with papers. Over the muted talk from clerk to clerk, he heard Jimmy at work, whistling a cheerful tune.
Vandis stared at the carpet on the floor, once red, now worn to a soft pink in the places people most often walked, and he ached. Heavily, he walked through to the back, past Jimmy’s pin-neat desk, to the door that led to his own small office. Nobody spoke to him. The week that Hjaldi had clung to life had seen him though the stacks of work that had accumulated on his sofa in the year he’d been gone. He wanted to curl up on the cushions and sleep forever, but when he opened the door, his heart sank even farther, down to the soles of his boots.
Papers still clogged the dark, chilly office. He’d felt so accomplished clearing off the sofa—but there were piles and piles and more piles, slipping on his desk, sagging on the floor, stacked on every available surface. On the north wall, he had a cabinet with a few spare sets of clothing, and he picked his way over. Once he’d gotten changed, hung his wet clothes on the pothook, and poked up the fire, he dodged piles to sit at his desk.