by Sharon Lee
“I understand that you were at liberty and felt that a walk would be beneficial,” she continued. “We all have such times. However. You will in future sign out with Jeeves, or directly into the house base. It is not damage to the house we fear so much as damage to yourself. Had you fallen and broken a leg, and all of us unaware—that could have been very dangerous for you. Life threatening. So, it is not only for the protection of the House, but for protection of a valued child of the House. Do you understand?”
Syl Vor bowed. “Aunt, I do.”
“Good. Tell me more of Mr. Shaper. Did you leave him in good spirits?”
He nodded—caught himself and bit his lip.
“I believe so, yes, ma’am. As we were leaving, he called to us, and said that—that he had a barn that wanted painting, if I wished to work with him again.”
Aunt Miri laughed. “Barn, is it? Well, we will see. In the meantime…” She stood and held out her hand. Syl Vor hesitantly placed his dirty one in hers.
“I am glad that your day was enjoyable and instructive. We don’t wish to clip your wings, but to provide a net, should it be needed. Now, you must go upstairs and make your peace with Ms. pel’Esla, who feels that she fell short of her duty. Also—” She extended her other hand and ran her fingers down his cheek, grinning openly.
“I think a bath is in order.”
Chapter Seven
The comm unit on the edge of her desk gave tongue, bringing Nova, blinking, out of an intense study of the plans for the first phase of the warehouse district recovery. So much unused space, under roof above ground, as well as levels below grade, where it was warmer, for Surebleak values of warm, that might be utilized for—
The comm sounded again. She shook herself, and glanced at the screen. Her brows rose as she looked to the clock—and snapped the speaker on.
“Mother?” Syl Vor’s voice was strained.
“Yes, my child,” she said soothingly. “Are you well?”
A small hesitation, which instantly placed her on guard. Syl Vor was not an untruthful boy, but he was becoming adept at the fine art of phrasing.
“I am well, yes,” he said now, politely. “And yourself? I hope I am not disturbing your work.”
Cousin Kareen’s influence there. Nova carefully did not sigh. One must know the forms, after all, and to sigh after the artless conversational style of only a year ago was to serve no one. It was the order of things, that straightforward children became facile adults.
“I find myself in the bloom of health, thank you,” she told her son. “As it happens I was working, and must therefore claim you for my rescue, for I believe I have been working far too long this day.” That style was a little forward of his current ability, she thought—but see what he made of it.
“I am pleased to be of service,” he answered, which was perfectly apt, though delivered rather more seriously than was strictly in mode.
“We are well-aligned then,” she said, matching his seriousness. “Now, you must tell me how I may serve you.”
That hesitation again. Nova closed her eyes; the better to listen on all levels.
“Is Quin well?” Syl Vor asked, wistfully.
“He was perfectly well when last I saw him,” she said. “He has piloting lessons every afternoon, with a Scout, which reconciles him, a little, to the learning of Boss Conrad’s business.”
“I don’t think he wants to be Boss,” Syl Vor said.
“Nor did your cousin Pat Rin. Indeed, I believe that the Rule of Succession must be the same for Bosses as for delms.”
“Who wants it least will do it best,” Syl Vor quoted.
“Exactly.”
“Padi has gone with Uncle Shan, on the Passage,” her son said, after a moment.
“Padi is overdue to take up her training. Only consider! You will be in her place in a very few years. How do you think you will like that?”
Flying on a tangent he might be, but Syl Vor was not to be diverted by so simple a ploy as that.
“Grand-uncle Daav was kind enough to reprogram the shadow-spar so that I might learn the bridges. I practice every day. Sometimes, I practice twice a day. Uncle Shan had recommended I study counterchance, but I fear the unit in the nursery is defective. I’ve done all my lessons ahead. Tomorrow, I will ask my tutor to unlock the next two levels.”
This litany of industriousness was of course gratifying—one wished for one’s off-spring to be diligent. It came to her then that Syl Vor had perhaps not veered so very sharply on tangent, after all.
“Do I hear a request for a change in schedule?” she asked.
A sigh, perfectly audible. “If you please, Mother. I had asked Mrs. ana’Tak if I could help her cook, but she only gave me an apple and told me to get along outside. I—perhaps I might assist the gardener? I…think I should like to know more about gardening. I am—I am willing to work, ma’am.”
Indeed, he was willing to work. A concerned parent might even say—rather too willing. Nova frowned. The burden of Plan B had altered them all, but it seemed that the conditions of refuge in Runig’s Rock had exerted strange pressures on Syl Vor. She had hoped that a return to normalcy—but, there. Nothing about Korval’s current situation approached normalcy. Even the nursery must know that.
“Mother?” His voice was uncertain, as if he feared that he had made a misstep.
“Forgive me, my son; I was thinking. I wonder—might this discussion of your schedule wait until we are face to face? Some planning is done better, thus, and I would rather that we give ourselves the best opportunity to plan well.”
“Y-yes,” he said, audibly disappointed.
“That is what we shall do, then,” she said, with another glance at the clock. “And, now, young sir, it is time for you to seek your bed. Chiat’a bei kruzon.”
“Yes,” he said again. “Sleep sweetly, Mother.”
- - - - -
Nova flipped the comm off, and sat back in her chair, abruptly aware of a presence in the doorway—Michael Golden, tea tray in hand.
“Forgive me,” she said; “I did not hear you.”
“No problem,” he answered, coming forward and depositing the tray on the corner of her desk. It had become their custom, to take tea and some small snack together at the end of the day, comparing notes before each sought their rest.
Nova poured as he settled himself into the desk-side chair.
“That was the boy calling? Everything going aces for him, up under tree?”
Nova picked up her cup and sighed.
“I fear that he is feeling…somewhat isolated. He has no age-mates, and had lately been accustomed to the companionship of his elder cousins, who are now called to duty. His hours hang on his hands, and he asks after other occupation.”
“Nobody to play with—that’s tough,” Michael Golden said, with an air of knowing something about the topic on which he discoursed. “Kids’ve gotta play.”
This was true. Children ought to play. Especially serious children ought to play. She had herself been a serious child, though she had shared the nursery with Shan and Val Con, neither of whom had been serious in the least. It had not seemed so at the time, but in hindsight she had been well-served by her brothers’ shatterbrained companionship. She shook her head, as her mother has used to do, a gesture of not knowing, rather than denial.
“At ho—on Liad, Syl Vor had been accustomed to spending time with the children of yo’Lanna, a—an old friend friend of our family. The delm willing, he would by now have been fostered into the house of an ally with near-aged children,” she said. “I had considered that, perhaps we might—But, no. It is ineligible.” She sighed again.
Michael Golden sipped his tea. She did the same.
“Word come in that the school site’s been left alone six nights in a row,” he said eventually.
Nova raised her eyebrows. “That…is almost wonderful, Mr. Golden. To what do you attribute this sudden lack of popularity?”
“Well, now, there�
�s the thing. I can’t pin it on any particular something. Could be the folks behind it just got worn out. Could be they’re gathering themselves together for a big surprise, and they don’t wanna risk being caught at the small stuff.”
“Could it be that those who have been taken up in the sweep were the decision-makers, and those they leave behind are without orders?”
Michael Golden frowned, his nose wrinkling slightly with the intensity of his thought. Nova, who by this time knew his ways, warmed his cup, and hers…and waited.
“Could be,” he said at last, “but I can’t say that’s for sure the case. ’Less you got something from the Road Boss?”
She shook her head. “Merely speculation.”
He picked up his cup with an appreciative nod to her. “Thanks. I don’t say it wouldn’t be convenient if that was the case, but I’m thinking we’d better not count on convenience.”
“I agree. What do you suggest?”
“Seems to me we got enough watchers on-site, now, and as reliable as we can make ’em. What we wanna be sure of is that nobody gets paid to go temporarily blind, if you understand me. McFarland says he can set us up with long-distance surveillance, and a couple pairs o’Scouts to mind the screens. I think we’d best take him up on that.”
Nova nodded.
“Please proceed,” she said. “Quickly, in case this big surprise you argue for so persuasively is near to fruition.”
“I’ll get it set up tomorrow. McFarland give me everything I need. Wanted to clear it with you first.” He raised his cup. “Figure it’s only smart, to open up extra eyes, but I’d rather that notion of yours was right, Boss. Long run, it’d save us all some trouble.”
* * *
It was a fine, warm day on the top of the world when Kezzi pushed open her own door to let herself and Malda out into it.
Before opening the hatch, she had used the mirror tube to look up the street and down the street. It had been empty, which the street usually was. That didn’t mean that there was no use in looking, though. Once, she had seen Rafin stalking toward the kompani’s fifth door, his toolbelt clanking and a scowl on his face. Rafin’s temper wasn’t good at the best of times, and she didn’t want to meet that frown on the street, or have her ears cuffed, and be dragged back below because she was only a Small, and not permitted to be out alone.
That was the Rule: Smalls were not go to the top of the world or the City Above, except with an elder.
The Bedel said, “Rules are for weak heads.”
Also, Kezzi thought, closing the hatch behind her and snapping her fingers for Malda to follow, she was not a Small. That there were no others Smaller, did not mean that she remained Small forever.
Because the day was so fine, she and Malda walked out of the quiet streets and down where Those Other People—the gadje—moved about, busy and important. Far too busy and important to notice a girl and her little black-and-tan dog.
And that was well.
That was very well, indeed.
- - - - -
“Here, now, you little thief, come back here!”
The shopkeeper who yelled it was a red-faced man with freckles and a dirty apron. His legs were long and there was no possibility that she could out-run him.
Kezzi, therefore, fell to her knees, clutched Malda to her and began to loudly lament.
“No! No! He’s my dog! You can’t have him!”
The shopkeeper came to a halt, a look of confusion on his foolish gadje face.
“What the—” he began, as another man came forward. Kezzi saw him out of the corner of her eye—a brown man with big shoulders, and a gun belted on his hip.
“Hey, now, neighbor, leave the kid’s dog alone, right?”
“Dog?” The red-faced man blinked and turned. “Dog?” he repeated. “I’m not after her damn dog—ain’t even enough of it to make a decent stew! She stole a—”
“Easy,” the brown man interrupted, putting a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Go on inside and make sure the neighbors don’t walk off with the store.”
“But, she—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll come in in a few and make it right with you. Just want to have a word or two with the younger here, first. I don’t show up, you call in one of the patrol and tell ’em to write down that Golden stiffed you. Got that name?”
“Golden,” the red-faced man repeated. “Dorrie Golden’s grandson?”
“That’s me.”
The red-faced man shook his head. “You ain’t gonna stiff me,” he said, and walked away without saying anything else.
During this exchange, Kezzi had kept up her end of things, clutching Malda—to whom the part of patient victim was nothing new—and weeping desperately into his fur.
“OK.” The man named Golden hunkered down next to her. “He’s gone. Nobody’s gonna take your dog.”
Sniffling, Kezzi raised her head. “Nobody?” she asked, suspiciously.
“Let’s just say they’ll have to get through me, first,” Golden said, brown eyes smiling.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Anna.”
“Pleased to meetcha, Anna,” he said politely. “I’m Mike Golden. What’s your dog’s name?”
“Rascal,” she answered promptly.
“Glad to meet Rascal, too. Now, c’mon stand up.” He did, and held his hand down to her.
Kezzi knew better than to let one of Those Other People get a hand on her. She came to her feet fast, and went three steps back, not quite beyond Mike Golden’s reach, which was long. He didn’t look too fast, though, with his short legs, his big shoulders, and heavy bones. Kezzi thought she could out-run him.
“Where’s your ma?” the man asked her.
Kezzi pointed vaguely northward. “Home.”
Mike Golden nodded. “That bein’ the case, and it coming on to evening, how about I walk you and Rascal home?”
Kezzi shook her head. “I know the way,” she said, and added, for the smile in his eyes. “Good-bye, Mike Golden.”
She snapped her fingers for Malda, spun and took off at the top of her speed, dodging between the gadje who crowded the sidewalk.
She ran as fast as she could, head down, expecting to hear the man’s voice raised behind her, shouting out for somebody to catch that girl!
But that didn’t happen. Kezzi ran, Malda at her heel, and there was no outcry, and no one moved to stop them.
Chapter Eight
It was a merry group around Jin’s hearth—Kezzi, Isart, and Droi, who had all contributed food—Silain, of course, and also Memit, Kar, and Gahn, who brought fiddle, sistreen and drum and earned their suppers with song.
Isart’s contribution had been a piece of salt meat, which Jin had slivered and fried with the flapjacks she’d made from the flour Kezzi had contributed.
Kezzi thought the meat too strong, and fed hers to Malda. Droi saw, and slipped her another flapjack, dredged in the dusty sugar that she had brought back from the City Above.
Tea had been poured and the musicians were picking up their instruments again, when there came a pounding of feet across the common, and here was Vylet, gasping for the luthia to come to her own hearth at once!
Silain looked up from her tea, her silver hair moving along her shoulders like rain.
“What desperate need is this?”
“Udari found a dead gadje by the eight door,” gasped Vylet, “and brought him inside.”
“If the gadje is dead, he is beyond us all,” said Silain, unmoving.
Kezzi, though, put down her mug, remembering the brown man with the smiling eyes, there Above, who had not called out to Those Others his brothers to catch her. Had he followed her after all on his short, bandy legs? The streets Above were dangerous; sometimes even the Bedel were caught—
“Your pardon, luthia,” Vylet gasped. “The gadje has a number of breaths left in him. Udari thinks—five.”
Udari had only a little of the farsight. But, if he said that five brea
ths remained to the gadje, absent the luthia’s blessing, then likely he was right.
Silain rose speedily, and Kezzi, too, without being asked.
“I will come,” said Jin. “If you wish.”
“Yes,” said the luthia, and so it was the three of them came to where the gadje lay, while Vylet ran for the headman.
- - - - -
It was not Mike Golden, rumpled and sticky with blood, on a blanket at the luthia’s hearth. At first glance, Kezzi thought the gadje a boy, then Jin sponged the blood from his face and she saw that, however small, this was a man grown.
A man grown, but surely dying, his fires low and all but colorless. Even Kezzi could see that much.
“He is broken in many places,” the luthia breathed, fingering the gadje’s dying glow. “Inside more than out.”
“Perhaps it is best, to smooth the road,” Jin said. “And give that which is left to the furnace.”
To smooth the road to the World Unseen—that was the luthia’s most potent blessing. Surely, in such a case as this, it was the only good thing that could be done. Kezzi blinked and altered her breathing to that special rhythm she had so recently dreamed, bringing what she had learned about such matters to the top of her mind.
Kneeling on the far side of the luthia’s fire, Udari watched with his great dark eyes, but said nothing.
“Wait…” the luthia murmured, her fingers stroking the cooling fires. They paused at the center of the battered forehead, described a sign.
For an instant, Kezzi saw it—an orb divided against itself, as if the gadje’s soul had been sundered, half from half.
The luthia breathed in, and sat back on her heels.
“We will do what may be done,” she said, meeting Udari’s eyes across fire. “Kezzi, bring my bag.”
* * *
The new Street Policy put into play by the Consolidated Bosses of Surebleak said that, if the hospital field unit come up with somebody hurt in ways that seemed to be consistent with violence, they was to call the Street Patrol. The Patrol was to relay the call to the office of the appropriate Boss, where whoever was on comm would pass it to the ’hand on watch. Who would either note it, or act on it.