Necessity's Child

by Sharon Lee

  Silain smiled. “That is well done, and well-said. Now, sit, and tell me what you heard pass between myself and the headman.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rys opened his eyes, and immediately regretted doing so.

  What light there was—and it was not by any means brilliant—assaulted him, waking the dull throb of a headache. His mouth felt furry, and tasted foul; his stomach was queasy and he was not at all certain that it was proof against even the slightest movement.

  He closed his eyes again, which settled his stomach somewhat, and tried to force his laggard brain to recall what had occurred, that he should waken in such a state, in—in…

  Gingerly, he opened his eyes to the veriest slits, surveying his surroundings through his lashes.

  He lay on his side on a thin pad; a blanket had been thrown over him, though he was fully dressed, even unto his boots. Before him, not many hand-spans from the tip of his nose,fabric rippled, like a curtain drawn over an open window. He raised his eyes. The ceiling was swathed in more fabric, and there were two small, round disks set into it. It was these that provided the meager light.

  Unless his memory was now also malfunctioning in the short term, he had never seen this place before. Certainly, he did not remember lying down on the mattress, nor pulling the blanket up around himself.

  He took a breath, trying to remember, but gently and without urgency.

  First, where was he not?

  Absolutely, he was not in Silain’s hearth-room, which was bright, airy, and open to the common area.

  He was—he knew he was—back with the Bedel, beneath the city.

  Well.

  Deliberately, he relaxed into that conviction, eyes closing against the silence.

  Slowly, as if he were watching bladder lilies rise to the surface of a pond, the events of the last several hours elucidated themselves.

  The meeting with Rafin, the expedition to Finder’s Junk Heap, the advent of Malda, and the decision to go with those who sought for Kezzi.

  He had fallen behind, his handicaps having overset him, and leaned against a wall to recruit himself.

  There had been—he had been more exhausted than he had known, and must have fallen into a…doze, for the next thing he recalled was Udari bending close and asking if he was well.

  The headache snarled, and he winced.

  One deep breath; and another, deliberately thinking of nothing. He shifted on the mattress, and turned onto his back. The blanket was twisted ’round him irritatingly, and he snatched at it with—

  With a hand that gleamed liquid brass in the dim lights.

  Rys froze. His prime hand had been badly damaged, he told himself, very carefully indeed. It was splinted and padded, lest any random bump cause him pain. He could use it for gross tasks, and to keep balance, but on the whole, it was useless, and likely to remain that way for the rest of his life, if he understood Silain correctly, even if he found an autodoc in this place.

  And yet, here was no splint, padded out with rags. Here…was a thing of precision and beauty. He brought his hand closer to his eyes, understanding that he wore a glove, a glove to which hundreds—thousands!—of golden scales had been meticulously adhered by some art that was beyond him—the whole being wondrously light, and—

  He clenched his fist.

  There was a small hum from among the larger scales at the glove’s hem. That was all.

  He opened his fist and spread his fingers as wide as they would go, rotating the hand at the wrist. The palm and the underside of his fingers was covered with dark, flexible mesh. It had a metallic glitter to it, but was soft against the skin of his opposite palm.

  His heart pounding in his ears, he closed his eyes, resting his hands on his chest, where both relaxed with a slight curl to the fingers.

  The remainder of yesterday flowed into his consciousness, as easily as if he had never been at a loss.

  After he recovered from his swoon, they—being Rafin, Udari, Kezzi, Malda, and himself—had walked slowly back to a gate, where Rafin let them in.

  It was not the gate they had passed through on their way to Finders. Indeed, his knowledge of the Bedel led him to suppose that there were several gates, and that the location of all were known only to a few. Once they were inside, their coats and hats hung on hooks for the use of those next to venture outside, Udari had taken the child and her dog to the luthia, while he and Rafin had returned to the Forge.

  There, they had found Pulka, who was sorting the bounty they had gathered at the junk heap. He pulled out the ragged knot of silver-and-blue, and laughed aloud, tossing the thing to Rafin, who cried, “Eh? Eh?”

  And tossed it to Rys.

  Instinct had thrown up his prime hand, clumsy in its splint. Instead of catching the metal ball, he knocked it aside. It struck the floor and rolled toward the alcove where Rafin had his worktable. Rys started after, and was caught short by Rafin, who grabbed his arm and held his ruined hand high.

  “When does the splint come off?”

  “Never,” Rys told him. “The luthia would have it that the bones are ground into uselessness, and no art of hers can mend it.”

  Rafin pursed his lips. “Is that so? Well!” He released Rys and turned to look at Pulka.

  “After such a day as we have had, a man wants a beer! Do you not find it so, Brother?”

  Pulka had looked momentarily surprised, but replied readily enough that beer would be most welcome.

  Which is how Rys came to have a glass of beer, and another, and possibly a third. There, his memory did fail him, but given the measure and the weight of the beverage involved, that was perhaps not surprising.

  He must, he thought, have passed out from effects of too much pleasure. His final memory, before waking up in this dark, silent place with two functioning hands, was of his own voice, screaming, very far away.

  - - - - -

  “He wakes!” Rafin shouted from the workbench. His grin was a wonder of white in a sweaty, soot-soaked face. “What do you think of our beer, eh?”

  Rys stopped, setting the tip of his crutch carefully, and looked up into the other man’s eyes.

  “I think the beer of the Bedel is amazingly restorative,” he said, and held out his beautiful hand out, palm up, for Rafin to make of what he might.

  The grin became a laugh. “The fighting cock would clasp my hand in brotherhood! Almost, you tempt me. But first, you must be the master of yourself. Catch!”

  He plucked a metal mug from the edge of the bench and threw it, muscles rippling with his effort.

  Rys raised his prime hand, catching it easily—

  And crushing it into uselessness in the same moment.

  He stared, then looked back to Rafin.

  “Have a care with that work-glove,” the other told him, “and train it well. That is your job today, while your brothers pursue other tasks of interest.”

  “How?” Rys asked.

  Rafin waved vaguely into the open space of the Forge.

  “Find heavy things, things that break, things that weigh less than yourself. Practice handling them, until you can do so without damage. To anything.”

  “Yes,” Rys said, and asked, “Is there a place where a man might shower?”

  Rafin jerked his head to the right. “Over there.”

  Rys looked about, trying to pinpoint over there, without much success. He did see Pulka, back to the pair of them, as he worked at the forge.

  “Where is Udari?” he asked, then, risking a third question and the end of the other’s sunny mood.

  Rafin shrugged. “The luthia needed a thing done, that only he could do. Leave me now, little one. We each have our tasks this day.”

  As dismissals went, it was both straightforward and without rancor. Rys bowed, very slightly, and headed in the direction of over there.

  * * *

  Kezzi hadn’t come to school.

  The dance had paired Syl Vor today with Rodale and Kaleb. Right now, they were doing ar
ithmetic—multiplication problems. He’d finished his, and now his task—assigned by Ms. Taylor—was to help his tablemates. Mostly, that meant reminding Kaleb to add the deferred units to the multiplicand, a task that unfortunately left too much time for Syl Vor to think of other, less simple, things.

  Why hadn’t she come? he asked himself. Had her grandmother forbidden it? That was possible. Maybe her grandmother was one of those who didn’t think a cross-turf school was a good idea.

  In that case, her grandmother would send a letter to Mother, explaining her concerns. That would be the polite thing to do. If she had written to Mother, then Mother would be able to show her the benefits of school and learning to work together. Veeno said that folks had forgotten that, over the years since the Company had left, and that some folks found remembering a hard road. Mike Golden had said that it wasn’t so much forgetting and remembering, but that mostly people were scared of change.

  Syl Vor wondered if Kezzi was scared of change. Or—he bit his lip—if she was scared of him. Mother hadn’t been pleased with the manner in which he’d brought Kezzi to her. Even if there hadn’t been any other way to be sure she wouldn’t run away…it wasn’t done, to drag people down the street, and—force them…

  “You forgot to add in the one,” he said to Kaleb.

  Rodale looked up from working his own problems. “Again? I’m tellinya, Kaleb, I’m gonna write that out on your forehead, so’s you stop forgettin’!”

  “No good on m’ forehead,” Kaleb objected. “Can’t see my own forehead.”

  Rodale frowned, apparently struck by this, then he leaned forward. “I’ll write it on your arm, then. And when it wears out, I’ll write it again ’til you remember, or ’til your arm falls off!”

  Kaleb blinked, clearly disturbed, and put his pencil down. “You’re not touching my arm!” he said, loudly enough to be heard by Ms. Taylor, who was up at the front table, working with Tansy and Delia.

  “Quiet!” Syl Vor said, keeping his own voice low. “Kaleb, Rodale was only making a joke. Rodale—tell him.”

  “Ain’t a joke!” Kaleb said, not bothering to keep his voice down, his eyes filling with tears. “I saw a guy, his arm had swelt up all black an’ all, and m’brother said he was gonna hafta to have it off, ’less he wanted to be poisoned.”

  Rodale blinked, looked at Syl Vor, then back to Kaleb. He leaned forward and slid his hand across the table, palm up, fingers curled.

  “Hey. Hey, Kaleb—that’s not what I meant. It’s just a thing we say at home. S’posed to be funny, like Syl Vor said. I din’t know that could happen, like you tole us.”

  Kaleb sniffled, swallowed, and then nodded. “Happens when a cut goes bad.”

  “Yeah?” Rodale looked interested, and Syl Vor felt a spark of curiosity, too, beyond his worry about Kezzi.

  “Ain’t the only thing can do it,” Kaleb said, seeing their interest. “My auntie—”

  The sound of the door opening drew his attention—and everyone’s—to the front of the room.

  Kezzi stepped into the room, her eyes narrowing in the face of so many stares. She took a breath, and pushed the door closed, then stood, looking from face to face.

  Syl Vor stood up, and her glance leapt to him. He thought she looked relieved.

  “Good morning, Anna,” Ms. Taylor said, looking up from Tansy and Delia’s table. “Please be on time tomorrow. Now, hang up your coat and join us here. We’re doing multiplication problems.”

  “Yes,” Kezzi said.

  She passed Syl Vor’s table on her way to hang up her coat, and threw him a dark, unreadable look. He inclined his head and sat down again. She turned her back and marched back up the room.

  “Anna’s sweet on you,” Rodale said, and nudged him with his elbow. “How ’bout that?”

  “She looked mad to me,” Kaleb said, which is what Syl Vor thought, too.

  He, on the other hand, felt a relief so profound it made his stomach hurt.

  “Have you both finished your problems?” he asked, not looking at the front of the room. “We should check each other’s work.”

  * * *

  Pulka and Rafin had reached a point in their shared work which required a great deal of gesticulating, accompanied by raised voices. The noise pounded nastily against the beer headache, and woke an unpleasant roiling in his stomach.

  As it appeared that the…discussion was going to be lengthy, Rys rose from the place where he had been practicing picking up items of various stages of fragility, holding them, and putting them down. The crutch took his weight, and he swung out of the Forge, into the mouth of the tunnel he and Udari had traversed only yesterday.

  It was a shorter walk than he had recalled, and the ramps not so steep that they thwarted a determined man.

  He found himself determined, as the voices faded behind him—determined to show Silain his beautiful, functional, hand, even now swinging lithe and beautiful at his side. She had said that she could not mend the damage done—and he believed her. What he did not know was whether she knew of this…work glove of Rafin’s, and if she did not…

  The tunnel ended in a wide hall, floored with stone. Some distance ahead, he could see the solemn glow of hearths ’round the common area. He paused then, and took stock.

  His head was still sullen, and his stomach uneasy. It was, he thought, possible that Silain had a potion to ease a hangover, though he thought it more likely that she would laugh at him for having drunk more than his means.

  He had taken nothing but some water since waking in Rafin’s quiet room, not merely because of the uncertainties of his stomach, but because he did not see where Rafin’s larder might be. Perhaps he kept no food in the Forge, but came in to the common area and ate at the hearth of one with whom he was…affiliated.

  Rys sighed and moved on, careful of uneven stones.

  His length of time among the Bedel had taught him some rather curious things, but what he had not yet been able to discover was the web of their relationships. To the naive eye, it would seem that the Bedel were…the Bedel. One clan, undivided. Silain stood grandmother; and Alosha the headman as captain, if not delm.

  But of the finer webs that exist within a clan, which bound two more tightly than another two? Those, he did not see.

  Where, for an instance, was Kezzi’s true-mother? Or Udari’s sister-by-blood? Where, indeed, were the children, beyond Kezzi, herself?

  Had Rafin a lover? Was there a place within the kompani, like the women’s section and the men’s, where those who were joined by passion shared a hearth?

  He sighed. It was difficult to know how long he had been among the Bedel—if there were a timepiece or a calendar among them, Rys had not discovered them. It was certain, however, that he had not been with them long enough to learn all their secrets. No, nor his own, either.

  Silain’s hearth was the last in the common area. From that direction, he spied a tall figure well-draped with shawl and scarves, a small, four-footed shadow walking subdued at her heel.

  Rys frowned. Where was the child?

  “Rys!” Silain called out, raising her hand. He raised his own in answer, and increased his pace, arriving very shortly at her side.

  “Grandmother, well-met.”

  “I chose to believe it,” she answered with a sharp glance from black eyes. “What distresses you, my child?”

  “The dog and the child were parted for some hours yesterday. I had thought to find them inseparable, today,” he said, glancing down at a very sober Malda, indeed. “I hope that my small sister has taken no hurt.”

  “Not hurt, but gone where her friend can’t follow.”

  He felt relief. It sometimes happened that the child was sent in company with an elder, pursuing her various studies.

  “I am called to Dmitri’s side,” Silain said, “on duty that won’t wait. Walk with me, if you will. Or return to our hearth. You look as if you’d welcome a mug of tea and a nap.”

  He would, he acknowledged, welcome bot
h of those things. But there was still the matter of Rafin’s work glove.

  “I will walk with you,” he said determinedly, and swung along on his crutch as she started out again.

  “You say that you’re Kezzi’s brother?” Silain asked after a moment.

  “I say it,” he said slowly. “I think it.”

  He slanted a glance into her face, finding it serene as always, her eyes watching, not him, but the path ahead. “You may doubt me—indeed, you would be wise to do so. A man who has no memory of who he is, though he seems to recall everything that he is not? Can he trust even himself?

  “I know that I had been a brother, once. My elder sister is dead—and all of my brothers, older and younger. I am—I was accustomed to being one of many—not, perhaps, as the Bedel are, but near enough that the Bedel call to me. Udari names me brother, and I say now that as much as he is, I am. It would pain me to lose him, or the child, or yourself, if I may dare to be so bold.”

  He paused, walking beside Silain in a charged silence.

  “There is a but, I think; heard, if not said.”

  He nodded.

  “But, I can only feel as the man I am, and speak the truth of one who is a fragment—who knows how small?—of a whole. Should the rest of my memories return, how can I predict what I might say to you then?”

  “We can only speak the truth that we know at the time it is known,” Silain said. “For myself, I delight in my grandson Rys, though I fear that he will be tested, soon.”

  “Tested?” Had Silain found some salve that would mend his fractured memory? It seemed unlikely in the extreme, and yet—so did the glove covering his shattered hand.

  Reminded, he raised his arm and stretched his gleaming fingers wide.

  Silain stopped, full-still, between one step and another, staring down upon it as if she had never seen the like before. His hunch had been correct, then. He was relieved. He would not like to think that Silain had lied to him. And now that she knew of the existence of such an item…

  “How did that come to you, grandson?”

  “Rafin gave it, upon hearing that my hand was beyond repair.” He felt his mouth twist into a half-smiled. “He and Pulka made sure I was well-anesthetized.”