by R. L. King
For several seconds Faran looked at him, as if trying to decide if he was worth taking a chance on. “Yeah, fine,” he said at last. “We’ll try it, anyway, but if you’re too slow I’m gonna have to let you go. There’s another kid who wants the job, and he can read.”
He nodded at the card. “All that says is your name and that you live and work here. The papers say the same thing, with a little more detail about your job and that kind of stuff.” His gaze flicked up. “What kind of name is ‘Stone,’ anyway?”
“It’s…more common where I come from.” Stone finished his sandwich. “Byra told me this ID card won’t pass inspection in Temolan. Do some of the nonmagical people work there?”
Faran’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a strange guy, Stone. You sound smart, but you don’t know things every five-year-old knows.”
Stone didn’t reply.
“Yeah. Some of ’em do,” Faran said with a sigh, after waiting him out for a while. “You need special permission, and the Zaps watch the people up there a lot closer than they do here. Me, I don’t know why anybody’d want to do it, but some people are willing to put up with more, I guess. Trust me—you don’t wanna go there anyway. Stay down here and stay outta trouble.” His expression hardened. “Favor or not, I get one complaint about you and you’re out. You do what you’re told, don’t make trouble with the Zaps, and we’ll be fine. Got it?”
Stone paused a moment to get his annoyance under control. This man acted like a job delivering meat and cleaning up the butcher shop was something worthy of high-level security clearance and fawning gratitude. Still, he needed money, and right now this was the only game in town. Maybe he could find something else later, but for now he’d have to put up with Faran’s treatment. “I’ve got it, yes.”
“Good.” Faran drained the remainder of his water, finished his sandwich, and pushed his chair back. “Come on. I’ll start you out on some close-by deliveries so you can get used to the area, and when you finish those you can clean up the shop after we close.”
Stone followed him to the storeroom and listened as he pointed out a stack of wrapped packages in a large chest freezer and marked the location of each delivery on a hand-drawn map of the area. Naturally all the text on it was in the unfamiliar language, but a map was a map.
“These are all businesses you’re deliverin’ to,” Faran told him. “Just match up the address on the package with what’s on the windows, and you should be fine. You don’t need to pick up any payment—it’s already arranged. Just have ’em sign for the delivery. You can keep any tips they give you, but don’t count on any, and don’t ask for any. Do you understand?”
Again, Stone’s annoyance rose. The man spoke slowly and distinctly to him as if he were dull-witted. “As I said, don’t worry—I’ve got it.” He took the map and put it in his coat pocket.
Faran eyed him sideways, but finally nodded. He pointed out the broom, rags, and other cleaning implements. “Make sure you scrub all the counters, pick up any scraps on the floor, mop, and sweep up the front. I want to see the place spotless. Once you finish the deliveries and cleaning, you’re on your own until tomorrow. You can pick up your dinner from Runa after sundown. You’ll start at sunrise tomorrow morning. Now go on—I’m already behind schedule today.”
As he turned to depart, something occurred to Stone. “Wait—one more question.”
“What is it?” Faran sounded impatient.
“How do I make the deliveries? Am I walking, or using your truck, or—”
“Nobody drives my truck but me. There’s an old bicycle out back you can use. Now go on, before I change my mind about hirin’ the other guy.”
“Right…” Stone murmured. He pulled the map back out and spent the next few minutes comparing it to the packages in the freezer, then collected a few and headed out of the shop.
Faran hadn’t been kidding about the “old bicycle.” The thing that leaned against the wall behind the shop looked like something out of a museum, heavy and ungainly with a hard leather seat, chipped black paint, substantial fenders fore and aft, and big, well-worn balloon tires. A small, enclosed two-wheeled trailer cart attached to the back sported the shop’s red-cow logo image and the same writing as on Faran’s truck.
Stone eyed it dubiously—he hadn’t ridden a bicycle since his University days, and never one with a trailer—but it was definitely better than walking, especially carrying the packages. He consulted the map one more time to fix his first couple delivery locations in his mind, loaded the packages in the trailer, then mounted the contraption and set off.
The city looked marginally less intimidating in the daylight, an odd combination of the familiar and the tantalizingly alien. Stone pedaled along the side of the street, splitting his attention between watching where he was going and taking in the area around the shop.
It wasn’t too hot, fortunately. Patchy clouds dominated the sky, which was a little darker blue than Stone was used to; he took a few moments to once again try locating the floating city, and was disappointed when he found it: a small, dark spot hovering so high above them that he couldn’t even be sure it was real. He’d need binoculars or a telescope to make out any detail, and since he hadn’t seen any of those around here, he reluctantly decided it wasn’t worth the effort.
The street, made of a substance similar to asphalt, still showed signs that it had rained recently. It bore no markings—no lines indicating traffic flow, crosswalks, or limit lines. Simple, utilitarian street lights hung from poles at regular intervals, and the only signs he spotted were on each corner, marking street names. The old, heavy bike with its trailer jounced and juddered over the frequent cracks in the street’s surface, cushioned somewhat by the big tires.
He paused at each street corner, a couple times having to pull out his map and consult it before continuing straight or making a turn. He was glad there wasn’t much vehicle traffic, though he did get passed by several other people on bicycles. Many of them flashed him odd, curious glances, but didn’t stop or say anything to him as they went by.
He’d deliberately picked the closest building marked on the map for his first delivery, even though it would ultimately make more sense to head out to the farthest and work his way back. He’d do that once he got a better idea of the geography, but for now he wanted to get a success under his belt. Only a couple blocks from Faran’s place, he pulled the bike to a stop in front of a small shop in the middle of a block.
Like most of the other buildings he’d seen, this one was made of dark red brick. It had two stories, and looked as if the proprietors might live above their business. He compared the writing on the window to the top package in the trailer, and was pleased to see they matched. The image above the writing, a flower with yellow petals, gave no indication of the business’s purpose, but from the aromas wafting out from the open door, he guessed it was a restaurant. He grabbed the package and paused, wondering if it was safe to leave the bike with the other parcels while he went inside.
“You Faran’s new delivery boy?” came a gruff voice from the restaurant’s doorway.
Stone jerked his head up to see a small, beetle-browed man regarding him.
“Er—yes, I suppose I am.”
“Deliveries around the back, fool,” the man snapped. “You think the customers want to look at ya?”
“Right. Sorry. It’s my first day.”
“Yeah, fine.” He shook his head in disgust. “I swear they get simpler every time. Go on—I’ll meet you back there.”
I guess I’m not getting a tip from this one, Stone thought wryly as he wheeled the bike down a narrow alley toward the rear of the building. He forced himself not to take the ‘simpler every time’ comment personally, though it wasn’t easy. Once again, his frustration grew: he should be out looking for Harrison, not getting insulted by ill-tempered restauranteurs.
The man was waiting for him when he arrived at the back door, and stood aside to let him enter. “Take ’em in and stack ’em i
n the freezer there.”
When Stone had finished carrying the packages inside and putting them in the freezer as indicated, the man muttered something that might have been a grudging thank-you, waiting for him to leave, then slammed the door behind him.
That went well. Stone studied the door for a moment, noticing a little bell next to it. Perhaps he was supposed to ring that to signal the owners of a delivery. Would have been nice for Faran to tell him that.
He continued making deliveries for the rest of the afternoon, heading back to the shop twice to pick up more packages. He was pleased to discover that his guess had been correct: every business location he visited had the same bell at the back door, and ringing it did summon someone to accept the delivery. By the time he rolled back in behind Faran’s shop, tired but satisfied, he’d learned most of the streets in the area, memorized the delivery locations and many of the other nearby businesses, and even managed to collect a couple of tips—silver coins that jingled in his pocket. He had no idea how much they were worth, but at least he’d earned a bit of money. Maybe even enough for a drink. He’d noted the location of a bar a few streets away from the shop—whatever dimension you were on, a bar was a bar. Perhaps he could get some answers about Harrison there later along with his drink.
“About time,” Faran said gruffly as he came in after parking the bike in the back where he’d gotten it. The butcher was behind the counter in the shop, wrapping up an order of something that looked like dark brown chicken. “How’d the deliveries go?”
“Fine.” Stone paused a moment to catch his breath; normally, the distance he’d gone today wouldn’t have tired him in the slightest, but after his week in the hospital his endurance hadn’t returned yet.
“Okay, good. Didn’t have anybody callin’ to complain about you, so that’s a good thing. I’m about to close up here. You can get started with the cleanin’ as soon as I’m out.”
Stone was more concerned about the cleaning than he was about the deliveries, since he wasn’t sure what level of detail Faran wanted and in any case he had little experience with this kind of task. At least he didn’t have many tools to work with: a broom, a mop, a bucket, a jug of cleaning fluid, a collection of rags, and something in a spray bottle that smelled like bleach. Also to his advantage, the shop wasn’t large. He set to work, hoping his stamina would hold out long enough for him to complete the job.
It took him nearly two hours to finish cleaning up the scraps behind the counter, sweeping and mopping the floor, wiping down all the counters and the display cases, and putting all the implements back in the closet. By the time he was done, between all the deliveries and the cleaning he felt as if he’d worked harder than he had in years—which was probably true, given that the most strenuous thing he had to do at Stanford was walk from his office to his classes. He sat down, taking a moment to catch his breath. Hot and sweaty, he wanted nothing more than a shower before dinner.
The door to the back opened and Faran’s wife Runa appeared, apron-clad and red-faced. “You want dinner?” she asked. She still sounded as if something about him rubbed her the wrong way.
“Er—yes, thank you. I’m sorry. Am I late?” He glanced around the shop, but it had no clock. “Lost track of time.”
“Yeah, you’re late. Don’t let it happen again. Come on—I’m not runnin’ a short-order kitchen here. You miss dinnertime, you’re on your own from now on. Pick it up and take it back to your room. You can bring the dishes back in the morning.”
He followed her to the back, where she handed him a covered plate along with utensils rolled into a paper napkin and an open brown bottle. “Thank you,” he said, and got only a grunt in reply.
As unappealing as the company was, at least the food was good. After washing his hands in the bathroom (the shower would have to wait until after dinner at this point) he uncovered the plate to find several slices of hot roast meat, something pale green that otherwise looked and tasted like mashed potatoes, and a hunk of thick brown bread slathered in butter.
His room didn’t have a table, so he sat on the bed with the plate balanced on his lap and his back against the wall. As he ate, his thoughts turned to what was going on back home. It had been a week now, assuming time worked the same here as it did on Earth. Had Verity told Jason about where he’d gone? At least he didn’t have to worry about work for a while—he hadn’t had much to do at the University this summer, and he’d arranged for a teaching assistant to take over with help from Mackenzie Hubbard, his fellow Occult Studies professor. Hubbard hadn’t been happy about it, but Stone had covered for the man enough times over the last few years that he didn’t think it would be a problem. That meant nobody expected him back until September.
Would he even get back by September? Idly he tried his magic again, trying first to view the aura around his outstretched hand, and then to levitate the plate in his lap.
Nothing.
Not even a glimmer to encourage him that it might come back at some point, as it always had before.
A sudden thought struck him and he jerked up straight, nearly dislodging the plate: perhaps his magic wasn’t back because the process of sending himself to this world had somehow drained his power. He was a black mage now—between everything else happening recently, he’d almost forgotten about that! He needed power from an outside source to do magic. If the trip had siphoned off that power, he might just need a new infusion.
Of course, even without power he should be able to do simple things like read auras, but maybe things worked differently here.
That brought up new problems, though: was he willing to risk taking power from some stranger to test his theory? That was why he was here in the first place: because he didn’t want to do that—in fact, didn’t trust himself to do that.
He sighed, setting the plate and bottle aside on the tiny nightstand and swinging his legs around so he lay down on the narrow bed. He’d have to come up with an answer to that question, to decide whether he wanted to take the risk—but not tonight. Tonight, all he wanted was a shower and a good night’s sleep. It felt good to rest, though. He’d just lie here for a few minutes, and then—
He didn’t even realize he’d drifted off.
9
Stone woke abruptly to loud pounding on his door. “What—?” he mumbled, disoriented. Where was he? Who was shouting?
“Get out here, you lazy fool! Were you expecting breakfast in bed?”
The voice sounded angry, and it took him a second to identify it as Faran. He jerked upright, glancing at the window. The sun already shone in through the opening in the skewed shade.
Oh, bloody hell, I was supposed to start at sunrise!
“Just—just a moment,” he called.
He’d fallen asleep in his clothes—he must have been even more exhausted than he thought following his first full day of activity after his stay in the hospital. He glanced down at himself in disgust: wearing the same clothes he’d worn yesterday and slept in ran counter to everything in his fastidious nature, but the way Faran sounded there was no chance the man would give him time to shower and change. Heart pounding, he swiped his hand quickly through his hair and flung open the door.
“Sorry,” he said, breathless. “I must have overslept—guess I’m still recovering from my time in hospital. I promise, it won’t happen again.”
Faran looked him up and down, taking in his rumpled shirt, unshaven face, and disheveled hair with obvious distaste. “Look at you. I can’t have you deliverin’ my goods lookin’ like that.” His eyes narrowed. “Have you been out gettin’ drunk?”
“No. Listen—as I said, I promise it won’t happen again. I’m still adjusting to being here.” He adopted his most persuasive tone, the one he used to get things through to his students. “You said yesterday you didn’t get any complaints about me. I made the deliveries properly, right?”
“Well…yeah.” Faran’s tone was grudging.
“And was the cleaning to your satisfaction?”
“There you go, then,” Stone said. “I promise—I’ll do a good job. Just give me a chance. Please.”
Faran considered, then let out a loud sigh. “Fine. One more chance. You already missed breakfast—go make yourself presentable, and you can start in an hour. You’ll have to move faster to make up the time, though, and I’m dockin’ you a buck for startin’ late. You mess up one more time, you’re out. Take it or leave it.”
“Thank you,” Stone said. “You won’t regret it.”
By the time he finished all the deliveries for the day and cleaned up the shop, Stone felt tired but satisfied. It was a different kind of tired—not so much exhaustion from his injuries as a good, honest fatigue from a day’s work. Runa even seemed to take a bit of pity on him, because she gave him two sandwiches for lunch and nearly twice as much for dinner as the previous day. He set his dinner plate aside and pulled on his jacket—no way was he going to waste another evening passed out in his room. He had people to talk to and questions to ask, and the bars were a good place to start.
He’d filled in more of the local geography today, which helped. Although he’d had to hustle to make all the deliveries in an hour less than Faran had originally allotted, he still had time to memorize a few more streets and add them to his mental map. Now he knew the locations of three bars of varying levels, along with the information he could glean by studying them from the outside. One was more of a restaurant that happened to include a sizable drinking establishment; one reminded him of the pubs back home in England, where the same group of people would gather in the evenings for ales and companionship; and the third, near where the inhabited part of the city met the blasted-out ruin where he’d been found, was clearly the type respectable people didn’t go.
He hadn’t asked anyone about Harrison on his deliveries, still not confident enough he could trust anyone to risk saying the wrong thing. Though this meant he didn’t get any useful information on his route, he did get comfortable enough in his surroundings that his natural charm and charisma began to re-emerge while interacting with Faran’s customers—and that meant he got more tips. At least now he could afford to buy a few drinks when he went out, and, when Faran paid him, perhaps even some new clothes so he didn’t feel like a refugee from a rag-bag.