Rhone

by Kelly St Clare

  Rhone grinned down at her, shaking his head. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re strange?”

  Her eyes darkened, and he regretted the words immediately.

  The leader got to his feet, surveying the area. “You well and truly beat my men.”

  That wasn’t the usual response in this situation, Rhone knew from experience. “What?”

  “You’re a fighter,” Yarik said. He surveyed Rhone and stepped closer.

  Rhone glanced at the men on the ground. “I know a few things.”

  Monikah snorted. “A few things. A few things.” She cackled again.

  Being frightened made some people cower. For others, it gave them a rush. The urchin appeared to be the latter.

  “Tell you what,” the leader said. “I am not eager to bring twenty more men down here to contain you. I imagine a fair number of them would get hurt.”

  Rhone nodded. “They would.”

  “Monikah may stay in the Ire, if you remain here for five days at least.”

  Rhone narrowed his eyes. Recovering would probably take that long, but why five days, specifically?

  “Why?” he demanded.

  The leader crouched by another of his men. “I might have a proposition for you.”

  “What proposition?”

  Yarik glanced up. “To borrow your earlier phrase . . . none of your fucking business.”

  Rhone grunted and contemplated the offer. “I can work with that.”

  The leader stood and offered him a hand. “We have a deal.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” Rhone ignored the hand and turned to pick up Monikah’s Soar. Commandeering one of the other tried-and-true Soars was tempting, but he’d made a stand for the urchin’s design now.

  “You are in charge of him, Monikah,” Yarik called out. “Any further transgressions on your behalf, and I don’t care how many men it takes to bring Rhone down, you will be punished.”

  Rhone waited as she strapped them in and tilted them off the edge of the island. They climbed in the air, moving farther into the Ire. Rhone spotted tents on the surrounding islands and assumed this was where the Ire folk slept. Monikah directed them to an island on the outskirts with a small tent and fire pit.

  After another disastrous landing, Rhone decided to just stay where he was on his probably broken back, staring up at the underside of an island for the third time in two days.

  Monikah unstrapped them and eventually removed her elbow from his gut. She hovered next to him in silence as he regained his breath.

  “Thank you,” she said, quiet enough that he wasn’t sure he’d heard.

  Rhone turned his head to her. “Don’t mention it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Okay, strong man.”

  He let her pick up one of his hands and watched her survey the cuts on his knuckles. Her eyes moved up his arm, to his face, where her eyes narrowed on the couple of throbbing blows he’d earned from the two giants. They’d been the best fighters of the bunch by far.

  “Let’s clean you up,” she said.

  He groaned. “I’m staying right here.”

  “You’re going to be a baby about this, aren’t you?” she asked.

  He glared at her and nearly laughed at the look on her face. The pain in his ribs stopped him. “I’m not being unreasonable.”

  “Hmm, so you say. Though,” she added, wrinkling her nose, “it’s probably best if you wash before bed. Wait here.”

  She vaulted away to the tent and emerged with her arms full. She dropped her armload next to him and then jumped off again behind the tent. Why did she spring everywhere? Rhone had never met someone who bounded.

  Rhone’s body was taxed, and the recent rush was wearing off, leaving him worse than before. As Monikah cleaned and bound the cuts, his arms and legs began to feel heavy, his mind drowsy.

  “Would you like me to wash you?” she asked.

  Rhone cracked an eyelid open to see her. A saucy grin flittered across her face, and he was oddly tempted before recalling he couldn’t move. “No, urchin.”

  “Such a prude.” She winked. “Well, I will leave you to wash yourself. Here is a bucket and here is a new and improved scrubbing brush—one of my inventions—and a drying cloth.”

  Rhone rolled to his side with no small amount of effort. He glanced around the open island. “And where will you be during this?”

  Monikah tilted her head. “Where would you like me to be?”

  Rhone stared at her and she broke into laughter.

  “I’m going to find you a tent, you big dummy. I’m not sure you’ll even fit in mine. And you’re too much of a prude to share, anyway.”

  Somehow, he suspected telling her he was no such thing would be lost on the Ire woman. Shaking his head, Rhone forced his body upright. When Monikah took flight, he pulled off his shirt.

  His hands went to his trousers.

  “Woohoo! That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”

  Rhone jumped and cursed at the resulting pain. Was she . . . perving on him? He peered around the island, looking for her, but he knew from experience she was nearly undetectable. Not trusting her, and other Ire folk not to pass by, Rhone grabbed the bucket, brush, and cloth and strode around the back of the tent.

  The rocks were high behind the tent and the three-meter space provided some shelter from perving inventors. The water was cold, but cleaning himself for the first time in a week felt good. Monikah’s ‘new and improved’ scrubbing brush was just a usual brush attached to a stick the length of Rhone’s forearm. Still, the extension made reaching the middle of his back surprisingly easy. After washing, he scrubbed his clothing in the bucket and threw the heavy garments over a rock to dry before wrapping the drying cloth around his hips.

  There was a thump as Monikah landed on the other side of the tent, and Rhone tipped his head with narrowed eyes, wondering if she’d done a loop overhead beforehand.

  He rounded the tent, holding the ends of the drying cloth together over one hip. Monikah threw down a bundle and turned to him. She froze as her eyes encountered his bare chest. She lingered on several scars there before continuing down to rest her gaze on the muscled portion of thigh that the drying cloth was failing to cover. If he hadn’t seen the way some males preened—Sin—he might be tempted to preen right now.

  “Having a good look?” he asked. Her staring didn’t bother him. In fact, her staring was a balm to his currently wounded ego. Maybe he’d enjoy this a little.

  Pink stole across her cheeks. “I got you a tent,” she blurted, spinning away.

  Not as confident as she wanted him to think with all her ‘you’re a prude’ talk. He grinned at her back and crossed to the bundle.

  “It should be big enough.” Her eyes went to his hips.

  “For what?” he asked, holding tight to his laughter, and the drying cloth.

  Her gaze flew up to meet him. “For you. Your entire body.”

  Clutching his stomach, Rhone lost the battle, laughing at Monikah’s discomfort.

  “You know what I meant,” she said, glaring at him, and bending to untie the bundle.

  “Yes,” he said, giving mercy. “I know what you meant. I’ll put the big-enough tent up, if you go and get me fresh clothing.”

  Monikah stopped fussing with the bundle and strode back to her Soar so quickly Rhone came to realize the woman was far more flustered than he’d initially guessed.

  “I should make you go and get clothing,” she said, face blazing. “Serve you right to have that drying cloth flapping in the breeze for everyone to see what’s underneath.” She scowled at him and snapped the rods into place. “Don’t put the tent up wrong.”

  Rhone lifted his brows but wisely remained silent as the Ire woman took off again.

  Chapter Nine

  Rhone wiped away his tears before exiting the dark alley leading to his house.

  He’d left home for the first time since his granny died a week ago. Like his grandpapa, she’d been lowered into the ground by so
me people Rhone had never met. Dirt was shoveled over her, brown dirt, nothing like the bright colors of the paint routinely splattered over her clothing. Now the food had run out, and Rhone had taken a few ornaments off the mantel to exchange for bread. Usually, they exchanged Granny’s paintings in the Inner Ring for coin to spend, but Rhone couldn’t part with them. The house felt empty now, devoid of his grandmother, but when he looked at her paintings, he could remember her smell and her smile.

  Now his granny was a secret only he could see.

  Rhone quickened his step, hurrying down the lane as the wind howled around him, throwing smoke from a fire barrel up ahead into his eyes.

  He turned to run up the stairs into the abode, but stopped short at the sight of three older boys sitting on the steps.

  “Hello,” he said to them with a frown.

  Did they finally want to be friends with him? Rhone couldn’t see much difference in his height after a whole year, but maybe they knew he was seven. Honestly, Rhone wasn’t sure he wanted to be friends with the boys who’d laughed at his Granny.

  The largest boy in the middle, who Rhone knew to be Malt, spoke. “This is our house now.”

  Rhone clutched the canvas bag filled with bread to his chest. “No, it’s my house.”

  “It was your looney grandma’s place,” Malt replied with a smirk. He jerked a thumb at the boy next to him. “Rogyr says she’s dead now. Which means this ain’t your house.”

  His gut churned with anger. “It’s still my house! I live here.”

  “Not if we live here now. Which we do. You’ve got to find somewhere else to live.”

  Rhone dropped the bread. “Get out of the way. You’re not staying here.”

  The older boy moved quicker than Rhone thought possible. Malt socked him in the stomach and Rhone doubled over, wheezing.

  He bent down beside Rhone, and whispered, “You come around here again, and I’ll kill you. You’ve had a roof over your head for years. It’s our turn.”

  The two other boys moved to stand behind him, and Rhone knew the rest of their gang would come if needed. He could hear them talking by the fire barrel, not even twenty meters away.

  “My Granny’s paintings,” he managed to say, pressing a hand to his side to stand. “I need them.”

  The other boys went back to Malt’s side, sensing Rhone was defeated. Malt studied him for a moment, and Rhone grew hopeful the mean boy might part with the paintings after all.

  “You mean those ones?” Malt asked, jerking his thumb further up the lane.

  Rhone’s mouth dried as he spun, actually looking at the fire for the first time, at what was jammed into it. The burned edges of one of his grandmother’s canvases stuck up out of the blazing barrel.

  “No,” he moaned, his hands shaking. How many had they burned?

  His fingers curled into fists as the boys dumped another two paintings in the fire. “No!” he shouted at them.

  Red blanketed his vision and Rhone sprinted down the lane towards the gang of boys. “Stop it!” he screamed at them, tears coating his cheeks. “Stop it!”

  Someone tackled him from behind and Rhone landed heavily on the ground, the wind forced from his lungs. He rolled over, gulping for breath, but wasn’t quick enough to regain his feet before the person who’d tackled him.

  Malt sneered, looming over him.

  “Stop it, please,” Rhone whispered. “They’re all I have left of her.”

  A few boys appeared behind Malt, and then a few more, until Rhone was surrounded.

  “You want your Granny’s paintings, little baby?” Malt asked, crossing his arms. “Well, too bad, they were shit anyway.” He nodded at the other boys and jerked his head to Rhone. “Deal with him.”

  Chapter Ten

  Rhone ducked out of the tent and stretched, gaining no satisfaction from the movement. He felt like a beaten sack of feathers; maybe fighting those men yesterday hadn’t been his best idea. Shivering in the thin, borrowed trousers, he shrugged into a long-sleeved tunic to cover his chest. He wasn’t ready to tease Monikah again just yet anyway.

  Someone yelled on the other side of the island tent, and Rhone forced his body into a limping semblance of a jog.

  He slowed at the sight of Monikah kicking a rock and muttering to herself. His eyes shifted to the smoking pile of something over the fire.

  “I forgot about the toast,” she said. “I got distracted.” She scraped away the charred remains and put two more slices of bread on the flat grate.

  “With what?” He sat next to the fire. Hopefully the heat would ease some of his muscle ache. He’d never longed for a bath so badly.

  Her face brightened. “A Boot Helper. Here, look.” She held up a boot.

  “Isn’t that mine?” he asked.

  “Shh.” She set the boot next to him and then picked up a stick with a tapered and grooved end. “Here, hold this on the back of your heel.”

  Rhone blew out a breath and did as asked.

  “Now, put on your boot,” she instructed, holding it out to him.

  His body was too sore to put on boots. He told her so, and she fluttered her hands in his face in an agitated way that had him hurriedly reaching for the boot anyway. He held the stick tight and slid his toes into the boot.

  “Now use the stick to help,” she said.

  He didn’t need further explanation. Rhone sensed how the stick would help as soon as he reached the part where the boot tightened. He pulled up the tongue of his boot and, with the stick’s help, his foot slid into place easily.

  Rhone stared at the stick as he drew it from the shoe. “How did you know that would work?”

  Monikah snatched it off him. “The Boot Helper!” she announced, holding it high in the air. “For old people . . . and people like you,” she added with a glance.

  “How did you know it would work?” he pressed.

  Monikah bopped him on the head with the stick. “Just in my head. The groove isn’t quite right.” She hurried off with the stick and Rhone glanced at the toast on the grate.

  “Do you want me to watch the toast?” he called after her.

  There was no reply.

  Rhone shook his head and leaned forward to flip the toast over.

  “Hello!”

  Rhone tensed and tipped his head back. Didn’t these people knock? He located the person standing on the island to the left. Rhone squinted at the waving man, and his eyes fell on a thick wrapping of bandages over the person’s left leg. “Hello, Hamish,” he called back.

  “Heard you took out six of our guys. Had some kind of tantrum,” the young man called.

  “Heard you broke your leg because you can’t fly straight,” Rhone answered.

  The insult bounced off Hamish, who just chuckled. “Yes, you heard right. Is Monikah here?”

  “She’s working on a Boot Helper.”

  “Oh. . . .” Hamish floundered. “Well, tell her to visit when she’s done with . . . that. I’m not angry with her for breaking my leg. Tell her not to worry.”

  Monikah was in the tent; why couldn’t Hamish just yell a bit louder? Actually, how could she possibly not be hearing this conversation? Maybe people here got used to blocking things out. . . .

  Rhone nodded at Hamish, more to get rid of him than anything else, and took the toast off the grate, putting another two slices on. He glanced around and saw a jar of something on the ground. He twisted off the lid and sniffed. Smelled sweet. He spread some on the toast with a small knife next to it and then stood, barely withholding a sigh, to go give the food to the urchin.

  He found her in his tent, not hers, cross-legged on his bed. Using his best knife to whittle at the heel-shaped groove of her Boot Helper.

  He passed her the toast and plucked the knife from her grip.

  “Hey!” she said.

  “You don’t use this knife,” he said, replacing the weapon under his pillow. How had she even found it there?

  Her eyes followed the knife, the toast in her h
and ignored.

  Rhone ducked and stepped to where his other boot lay. Had she come in and stolen his boot as he slept? He extracted a second knife from the boot and handed it to her. “Use this one. It’s not as valuable.”

  Monikah studied him, and took a bite of her toast, chewing slowly. She swallowed. “Okay, I’ll do that.”

  “Thanks so much.” Rhone rolled his eyes.

  He went back out to flip his toast.

  “Hey!”

  This time the person calling was from above. Rhone didn’t recognize the older man peering over the edge of the island overhead. These people were popping out from the surrounding islands like hungry kids at dinnertime.

  “What do you want?” he called back.

  The old man blinked down at him. “You that man who lost his temper and beat up ten of our men?”

  The number was increasing. “Yes.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  This was why walls existed. Rhone flipped the toast. “Yarik was trying to kick Monikah out of the Ire for three months.”

  The old man whistled. “Three months, huh? Well, she’s a bit crazy to be sure, but three months seems harsh. Still, Yarik is a good man. Reads people well. No doubt she earned it.”

  Is this what Monikah had to put up with all the time? “She’s not crazy, old man.” Rhone raised his voice.

  “What’s that?” Monikah shouted, poking her head out of Rhone’s tent, wearing her goggles.

  “Your neighbor up there was just saying goodbye,” Rhone said loudly, aiming his remark at the man.

  “No, I wasn’t, I was saying how—”

  Rhone cut the Ire man off. “Ten men, old man. Ten men.”

  The old man disappeared with a squeak.

  Forget about Monikah—this entire place was full of crazy people. Rhone spread some of the sweet-smelling preserves on his toast and bit into it. His eyes widened as he chewed.

  “It’s marmalade,” the urchin said, cradling her Boot Helper as she sat next to him. “Citrus trees are about the only thing we can grow here.”