Necessity's Child

by Sharon Lee

“There is no thanks given, between brothers,” Udari said, mildly. “It is our way. A moment and I will help you to bed, if you think that you might sleep now.”

  “I think that I might,” Rys said.

  Udari reached to the fire and carefully knocked the last of the stuff from the pipe’s bowl before slipping it away inside his sweater.

  He rose then, and bent.

  “Hold my arm,” he said, “and I will raise you.”

  This he did, effortlessly, and Rys was once more balanced on his good leg, Udari’s arm tight around his waist.

  “Now, we walk. Lean on me, Brother.”

  There was no choice, but Rys didn’t say so. He only floated above his own head and watched as the tall man half-carried the small one the few steps from the fire to the cot, laid him down, and covered him over with a blanket.

  “Sleep,” he heard the tall man say. “Grow strong.”

  Rys, floating, yawned, and felt sleep weigh on him, bearing him down, gently, back into his broken body, where he sighed once, deeply, and knew nothing more.

  Chapter Sixteen

  He had cost Larnce his post, which was bad enough, if that was the worst of it, but he feared—he very much feared—that Mike Golden would lose his, too, before this day was done.

  His mother was that angry.

  He had tried—after Ms. Veeno had come and solemnly escorted Larnce to the front door—he had tried to explain that the fault was his, but that only made her angrier. She had snatched his shoulders and shaken him and then hugged him against her, pressing his face into her shoulder, which would have been pleasant, except that his cheek hurt from having rubbed against the alley, and he had twitched a little, only meaning to—His mother had thrust him back, still holding onto his shoulders, and stared at him hard, violet eyes glittering, before raising her voice to demand the immediate attendance of Pounce, the house’s medic.

  Pounce took him, not to his room, but to the kitchen, the warmest room in the house. Beck brought a basin of water to the table, and some towels, and an aid box, and Pounce carefully cleaned Syl Vor’s face, and put ointment on his raw cheek, then helped him take off his sweater and his shirt so that ribs and back could be inspected.

  “Starting to see some bruise, here,” Pounce murmured, touching the place between his shoulders where Peter had struck him. “Anything else hurt? Arms? Knees? Hips?”

  “No,” Syl Vor told him.

  Pounce nodded seriously and had him stand up and hold his arms out, then raise them, make fists and shake his fingers out, bend over to touch his toes, twist from his waist, bend his knees into a crouch, then straighten again to stand first on one foot and then the other.

  “Lookin’ good,” Pounce said finally. “Shoulder might stiff up overnight. I got some warmin’ oil that’ll loosen it again.” He grinned and shook his hair out of his eyes. “No missin’ school for you.”

  That of course was his other fear, that his mother would send him back to Jelaza Kazone and never allow him in town, or down to the port, or anywhere, ever again. She could have already called for the car, and he would be back in the nursery this evening.

  His eyes stung and he sniffed, just a little as he tucked in his shirt and pulled the sweater over his head.

  Pounce folded his kit and went away, leaving Syl Vor standing by the table, uncertain of what he ought to do. Perhaps, if he spoke to his mother again—she might not be so very angry…

  “You have yourself a setdown, now,” Beck said from the counter. “There’s your mug o’tea comin’ over there in half a shake, an’ a couple slices new bread with jam to wash it down with.”

  “Thank you,” Syl Vor said to the cook’s broad back. “But I am not very hungry.”

  “Sure ya aren’t.” Beck said and turned around, mug and plate in hand. They landed on the table soft as snow, and big hands pulled out the chair. “Just take a setdown, if ya don’t want yer tea. Makes sense to stay close; yer momma’s gonna want you soon.”

  “Yes,” Syl Vor agreed. “I—she is very angry.”

  “Can’t blame ’er for that,” Beck said, turning back to the work counter. “None too happy, my ownself, you want the truth on it. Just ’cuz we-all took our licks when we was curb-high don’t mean we wanna see our youngers get the same.”

  Syl Vor frowned.

  “You got knocked down, Beck?”

  “Hell, yeah, I got knocked down, ’til I learnt better. That took some time.” A quick glance and a grin over one shoulder. “Not a fast learner. You, now—yer right quick.”

  “Did Larnce get knocked down?”

  Beck pursed her lips. “Prolly so, just thinkin’ bout the usual way it goes. He din’t never say, specific.”

  “And Mike Golden—did he get knocked down?”

  Beck’s eyebrows went up, both together, and she turned right around and put her hip against the work counter, arms crossed over her chest.

  “You wanna hear somethin? Mike got knocked down more’n all the rest of us together. I know on account we come up on the same street, see? And it wasn’t that he couldna knocked heads, but his granny, she wasn’t havin’ none of it. ‘Head ’n heart,’ was what she usta say. ‘Head ’n heart wins over fist an’ fear.’” Beck nodded. “She was right, I’ll grant it. What she didn’t say was—you get more bruises, her way.”

  Syl Vor leaned forward, watching Beck’s face, red-cheeked and plump.

  “But it does work,” he said, meaning it for a question.

  Beck nodded. “Sure, it works. Takes time, like I said.” She shifted, unfolded her arms and half-turned. “You have a sip o’that tea, why not? Don’ wanna go into your momma dry.”

  That made sense, Syl Vor thought. If, in fact, the car was on its way from the House, then the next chance—the last chance he would have to try to explain—would be in the front hallway, not in her office with tea laid to hand.

  He sipped from his mug, sighed for the warmth and the comforting taste, and had another sip. After that, he thought he might have just a bite of bread-and-jam, so that Beck wouldn’t think that her service was without value.

  By the time Ms. Veeno came into the kitchen to say that his mother wanted to see him in her office, he had finished both pieces of bread and was drinking the dregs of his tea.

  - - - - -

  Mike Golden was standing in front of Mother’s desk, hands folded behind his back. Syl Vor’s heart leapt—and then fell into the pit of his stomach as he saw how serious Mike’s broad brown face was. Mother—he shot a glance at her where she sat tall and stern behind her desk, her face coolly expressionless, and his heart slid from his stomach to his boots.

  Mother had not improved in temper. Indeed, it seemed that she was in worse temper than she had been when she had taken Larnce’s duty from him.

  Mother, Syl Vor very much feared, had called him in so that he could witness Mike Golden being cast from the House, which he would not abide. Not for his error!

  “My son,” Mother said, in a voice that for all its coolness meant now. “Please stand forward.”

  He did, trying to walk firmly, but not too quickly, nor too slowly, and trying, also, to catch Mike Golden’s eye. That gentleman, however, was focused entirely on Mother; Syl Vor might have already been in the nursery at Jelaza Kazone for all the attention he was spared.

  Stomach clenched, he stopped in line with the corner of his mother’s desk, so that he could see her and Mike, too. He took a breath and raised his head to meet her eyes. She inclined her head.

  “Thank you,” she said, and extended a hand to pluck up something that gleamed bright brass in the room’s lights.

  His bracelet.

  Syl Vor swallowed and looked to Mike Golden.

  “Is Peter—” he began…

  “Sold it,” Mike interrupted, giving him a serious look. “Took it right down to Vin’s Pawn Shop. Didn’t even bother to get off Boss Conrad’s turf.”

  “An over-confident young man,” his mother added.

 
; Mike shrugged. “Hard to tell if that’s not-smart or too-smart,” he said.

  “Not-smart,” Syl Vor said decisively. “He knew I would recognize his voice.”

  “Now, see, that could still be too-smart,” Mike said earnestly. “Boy—Pete, was it? Pete Day?”

  Syl Vor nodded.

  “Right. Pete could be trying to provoke something. You know who took the bracelet, now what’re you gonna do about it, see? He wants to find out what you’re made of.”

  Syl Vor blinked at him. “Blood and bone and microbes,” he said, which he had learned very decisively from his tutor. “The same as Peter is.”

  Mike Golden shook his head.

  “Blood and bone and microbes ain’t what’s bothering Pete Day. What he wants to know is, are you gonna fight, or if knockin’ you down once was all it took for him to be boss.”

  “Boss? He’s a boy.”

  “Boss of you, is what I mean. The one who stands ahead in line is the one who gets to tell the next one down what to do.” Mike nodded toward Mother, sitting with the bracelet in her hand, watching him with unreadable violet eyes. “Your ma, there, she stands first in line in this house. I stand second, so she tells me what needs done, and I pass it down the line to the one who’s gonna do it.”

  Syl Vor looked at his mother. His mother met his gaze, and said nothing.

  “Boss’ brat,” he said, remembering.

  She raised an elegant eyebrow.

  “Was this also Peter Day?”

  “No, that was Rudy.” Syl Vor looked to Mike. “What is a brat?”

  “Well, that’s like kid, ’cept not so nice. Boss’ brat—that kinda carries the meaning that you got everything soft ’n easy and always have it zackly like you want.”

  Syl Vor stared, and bit his lip against a sudden impulse to laugh. This was not, he was fairly certain, the correct time to laugh.

  Mike Golden gave him a nod.

  “This Rudy,” his mother said. “He was also in the alley?”

  Syl Vor shook his head. “No, ma’am. There was only Peter in the alley. Rudy…disliked a thing that I said at lunch.”

  He took a breath, not wanting to ask, and yet—

  “Am I to be sent—back—back under Tree?”

  “Is that your choice?”

  “No, Mother,” he said carefully. “I would prefer to stay in our house here, and to go to school.”

  “Our house here, is it? You grow facile, my son.”

  He shook his head. “Grand-aunt would not allow it. If one can remark the doing, then it was clumsily done, she would say.”

  His mother’s eyebrows lifted. “Would she. Myself, I allow it to be a good effort by one still new to his boards.”

  “Thank you,” Syl Vor said, politely, and took a deep breath, before adding, as calmly as he could managed, “I would prefer not to wear the bracelet, when I go to school.”

  She tipped her head, blond hair tumbling across her shoulders. “I believe that may no longer be an option. Mr. Golden, do I have that correctly?”

  “I think so, ma’am. Look, Silver, I know it’s the root of the trouble, but the thing is, if stop wearin’ it now, Pete thinks he got away with something. He sees that ’round your wrist tomorrow, an’ he’ll maybe start thinkin’ a mistake was made. That’ll get him worried, see? He won’t know what else you might do, or if he’s gotta watch his back.”

  This sounded somewhat familiar. Syl Vor chewed his lip, remembering the Rock, and overhearing Grandfather Luken and Grand-aunt talking over the moves available to Korval’s enemies, and what sort of melant’i games they might undertake in order to blacken Korval’s honor among those who were not completely informed of facts.

  “I understand,” he said, and then, more abruptly than he had intended. “Are you staying in-House, Mike Golden?”

  The man’s brows pulled together briefly, then his face relaxed as he went down on one knee, which put him more-or-less level with Syl Vor.

  “I ain’t fired yet,” he said. “’Less you think I oughta be.”

  “No!” Syl Vor said forcefully.

  Mike nodded seriously. “I ’preciate that, ’specially since you gotta be pretty corked off at me, insisting on the bracelet in the first place. You wanna take a swing, you go ’head. I got it comin’.”

  “You want me to—knock you down?”

  “Well, I don’t say I want it, but I did earn it, and I’m not one to deny a man his rights, or grudge him fair payment.”

  “I don’t want to hit you,” Syl Vor said. “I—” He glanced at his mother, who inclined her head as if she could hear his thought. “We are in Balance, Mike Golden.”

  “That sounds like something I might live to regret,” the man said, voice light. He came to his feet, and looked to Mother.

  “With your permission, Boss.”

  “Yes, Mr. Golden,” she said. “Thank you.”

  He bowed, just a stiff little incline from the waist, which wasn’t really a proper bow, but Mother accepted it calmly, and Mike Golden left the room, his footsteps firm in the hallway.

  Syl Vor sighed and looked at his mother, who was toying with the bracelet, turning it this way and that so that the brass caught the light.

  “Your tutor is waiting for you,” she said. “Do you feel able to attend your lessons?”

  “Yes,” he said decisively, and saw the small curve of her smile.

  “It pleases me to hear you say so. When you are done, pray do me the favor of returning to me here. We might share a cup of tea before dinner, while you tell me about the rest of your school day.”

  Syl Vor bowed. “I would like that extremely, ma’am,” he said properly.

  “Excellent. Go, now, and study well.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Day Above was bright and still. Kezzi, walking at Droi’s elbow down the busy morning street, regretted the shawl her elder sister had draped over her shoulders, though, if the wind blew up, she would be grateful for its added warmth. Annoyances are blessings whose time has not come. That was what Pulka said. And then he would ask, “And when will your time come, small sister?”

  It was Kezzi’s belief that her time would come well before Pulka’s, but, there! She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about Pulka. She was supposed to be standing in Droi’s shadow, absorbing her skill at interpreting the meaning of the cards. Kezzi hoped that skill was all she would absorb from her elder sister. She didn’t think she would like to see the things that Droi did, that lived around corners, and under rocks, and in the lightless place of the World That Might Be.

  Though the day was fine and the street was busy, they had so far very little fortune, themselves. It was in Kezzi’s mind that the street was too busy, that its very fullness worked against a single gadje stepping out of the bustling crowd of them to offer a coin, and draw a card to learn what the day would bring.

  She was a shadow; it was not her place to suggest, or to do anything, other than watch, and learn. Still, it was on the tip of her tongue to suggest that they find a cup of ’toot and a place to sit in the sunshine for a little time, until the crowds of gadje gave over their rushing and took the time to look about them.

  Even as she began to speak, however, a gadje did step out of the crowd, a small, thin woman who walked as if she were tall, broad man. Her face was round and soft, her mouth straight and hard, and her eyes were like rat eyes, bright and merciless. Inside the warm shawl, Kezzi shivered, and missed Malda who had been left with Silain, since dogs, said Droi, had no place in lessons.

  “Good morning,” the gadje said, dipping two fingers into her belt. When she drew them out, a coin shone bright between them.

  “Will my day be fair or foul?” she asked, extending the coin to Droi while her gaze rested on Kezzi.

  Droi whisked the coin away into a hidden pocket; fanned the cards between both hands.

  “Draw a card and learn the answer,” she crooned, and slid one step to the side, intercepting the gadje’s gaze. “Pull one
—only one—the card that speaks to you. Draw it, show it, and I will tell you what it means.”

  The gadje snorted, extended a hand and without looking plucked a card from among its fellows in the fan.

  Carelessly, she flipped it up, showing Droi, and Kezzi The Lantern.

  Droi dipped her head, and contrived to seem to be looking up into the gadje’s cruel face.

  “Today, you seek,” she said, whispering, as if it were a secret, just between herself and the gadje.

  “Will I find what I seek?” the gadje demanded.

  Droi smiled, and caught the card back, folding it into the deck with a snap.

  “That depends on you, O seeker,” she answer, and drew her scarf closer about her face. Two steps she retreated, and Kezzi also, neither of them, it seemed, willing to turn their backs on the gadje, who watched them with chilly interest, then abruptly spun and swaggered down the street, in the direction she had come from.

  Droi’s hand snaked out and fastened around Kezzi’s wrist, urging her to a quick walk until they came to the mouth of an alley. They slipped into the dimness, their backs against the wall.

  “Seeking,” Kezzi whispered. “Us?”

  Droi shook her head. “Not by intent,” she said, and Kezzi relaxed.

  “Though the path to what she does seek may lie through us,” Droi added, which made Kezzi’s stomach hurt again.

  “Garda?” she asked.

  Droi shrugged.

  “When we return, I will speak with Rafin,” she said, being one of the few who might, without risking either a blow or a bellow.

  “I will speak to the luthia,” Kezzi said.

  “Yes.” Droi said, which only meant that she had heard.

  They stood in silence for another few breaths, watching the gadje bustle by, then Droi stood away from the wall and straightened her shawl and her headscarf.

  “Come,” she said. “Let us find a cup of coffeetoot and something sweet to give us strength. Then we will walk to the other side of the tollbooths and try our fortunes there.”

  “Yes,” Kezzi agreed, and followed her elder out of the alley and down the street.

  - - - - -

  They took a table just inside the door at Joan’s Bakery. Droi bespoke for them a raisin cake each, and a pot of ’toot to share. She placed the coin the cold gadje had given in exchange for her fortune on the edge of the table, and said airily to the one who brought the tray.