by Sharon Lee
They had again applied native earth, and it, too, was settling. There would be, Val Con thought, at least one more application of soil, perhaps as many as three, before the crack in the world was fully healed.
If only the other cracks in the world were so easily mended.
He ran his hand over the crisp Liaden grasses, the raw seam, and the moist Surebleak grasses, and sighed.
Well. One did what one could.
He rose, brushing his hand off against his thigh, and surveyed the land next door.
Yulie Shaper’s native vegetables seemed slightly further along the path to ripeness than those in Korval’s home garden. Still, lacking a midsummer snowstorm, there would be vegetables a-plenty. Yulie’s livelihood came from the sale of vegetables and other foodstuffs, mostly at the market in Melina Sherton’s turf. He also, from time to time, brought items to Korval’s kitchen door—indeed, he received the impression that Yulie and Mrs. ana’Tak, the cook—were famous friends.
“He says it is what neighbors do, sir,” Mrs. ana’Tak had said, when Val Con asked after the pedigree of a particularly handsome bunch of root vegetables, which he was given to know were called torups.
“He also said,” Mr. pel’Kana continued, “that he had too many for himself, they don’t go well at the market, and they don’t save good. If we had no use for them, they would go to the compost heap.”
“He gave me a recipe,” Mrs. ana’Tak said, taking the conversational ball back from the butler, “from his grandmother’s receipt book. I will make it up for Prime tonight; it ought to be savory.”
Surprisingly enough, cooked and mashed torups had been savory, and Val Con had directed the gardener to occasionally give what they had too much of to Mrs. ana’Tak, for Mr. Shaper.
Rubbing his hand down his thigh, Val Con surveyed the land before him. Yulie Shaper’s land loved him well, and sheltered him from prying eyes on those frequent occasions when he preferred not to be seen.
He breathed in, gently, tasting the air; listened to the small breeze combing through leaves; and let his eyes unfocus slightly.
There was a cat, under a broad leaf at the edge of the garden; another beneath a short shrub a-blaze with scarlet berries; and a third in the low branch of a tree.
Of Yulie Shaper, there was no sign, but then, he had more than this one garden spot to occupy him.
Val Con stepped over the crack in the world, and walked—carefully, hands in full view—along the path that skirted the garden, and wound its eventual way to the house.
He passed the compost heap, which showed signs of having recently been turned; and ducked beneath low-hanging branches heavy with ripening fruits. Several of the resident cats found his passage interesting enough to join him, one weaving ’round his ankles, while another dashed ahead, coming to sudden and unpredictable stops.
The path went from dirt to stone, framed by tall stalks, each surmounted with a blood red flower in the shape of a trumpet. The house itself was very near, only around another curve. He could see, between gently waving branches, the front gable—
Somewhere very close by, a firearm was discharged. The pellet whined as it passed his ear, and Val Con was down, rolling for the dubious cover of the long-legged flowers, cats scattering in all directions.
Another shot passed well over his head, and Val Con came cautiously to one knee beneath his honor guard of flowers, and spoke to a tall blue bush just ahead and on the opposite side of the path.
“Mr. Shaper, it is your neighbor, Val Con. I wish to speak with you on a matter of mutual interest, if you have time for me.”
There was a long moment of silence, in which Yulie Shaper perhaps reviewed his rules and policies for the concepts of neighbor, and mutual interest.
The bush shivered, very slightly, and a long, spare man stepped onto the path, his rifle held in two hands, across his chest.
“Didn’t hit you, did I? Thought I missed that first shot.”
Val Con stood, and showed his empty hands at shoulder height.
“The pellet sang to me on its way past my ear,” he said. “I am unhurt.”
Yulie nodded, his cap shadowing his eyes.
“Rifle’s been pulling to the right, lately. Gonna hafta rebore. Sorry—don’t shoot at neighbors, usually. You know that. Good neighbors you been, too. My cats like your cats. That Mrs. ana’Tak, she makes some tasty cookies. You had her cookies?”
“Many times. I particularly like the ones that have jam in the center.”
“Those are good,” Yulie said, as one giving art its due. “Me, I’m partial to them soft brown ones with the raisins and the little bit of white icing on top.”
“Ah, yes; those are very good, too.”
He considered it safe enough to lower his hands, and did so, slowly. Yulie didn’t seem to notice.
“May I ask why you are shooting at . . . me?”
“Well.” Yulie took off his cap and resettled it over his straw-colored hair. “Wasn’t shootin’ at you, in particular. Got a little out o’true, there, but here’s why—somebody tried to break into the growing rooms last night. Mighta done it, too, ’cept the ’larm bell went off in the house, woke me up outta sound sleep, and at first I didn’t know what it was—only ever heard the ’larm bell once, maybe twice, back when Grampa was still alive; me and Rollie, we was just tads—no older’n that Syl Vor o’yours.
“So, anyway, it took me bad, but I r’membered; got on out here, and chased ’em off. Had the idea that I hit one sorta bad, but his crew musta carried him away. Heard a car, figured they was gone, but then I couldn’t get easy, y’know? Thought I oughta get the big light and do a walk around, check the locks, but what if they’d left somebody to watch? There’s just me and the cats; and there was five, six of them.
“Went back in the house. Made some coffee; went out to walk a couple times, just to show ’em there was somebody up and watching. Sun come up, then I went to see what they done.”
He shook his head.
“Did you take losses?” Val Con asked. “If there are repairs to be made, I—as your neighbor—would be pleased to send someone over to assist.”
“That’s neighborly, and I tell you what: if you got somebody to spare, I could use some help getting things right. Used a damn crowbar on a vacuum door! Bent it all up; tore the seal. Not sure I got another seal. Just luck it ain’t a room I use, but I like to keep everything up, like in the binder.”
“Indeed, indeed. Doors ought to open, and seals should seal. We are in agreement. Allow me to send Tan Ort to you, with his toolbox. He is an extremely able—” He paused, considering the proper way to present Tan Ort in all his many talents—“handyman. He may even have a seal that will do, at least as a stopgap.”
“That’d be good, if he has the time. Have to ask, though, how I’ll know him.”
“Tan Ort is shorter than I am, with very red hair, and a portly bearing. He will be bringing a wheeled toolbox, and also a plate of Mrs. ana’Tak’s iced raisin cookies. Will that suffice?”
Yulie Shaper was a hard-faced man who rarely smiled. A lifetime of working in Surebleak’s weather had etched lines around his eyes and the sides of his mouth. Val Con had supposed Yulie his elder by at least a half-dozen Standards. But the grin that illuminated his face, very briefly, revealed a much younger man, made older by care, and the weight of his rules and policies.
“That’ll do it. Thank’ee.”
He shifted his gun slightly. “You come for somethin’ other’n being shot at, though. Something about—‘mutual interest’?”
“I did,” Val Con said. “I have a letter which indicates that you may be the owner of an island which my brother Shan is interested in purchasing.”
Yulie shook his head.
“I don’t own nothing ’cept this place, and that’s ’cause of being Grampa’s heir—me an’ Rollie, that was, then me, since Rollie died.”
“The letter I have is much the same case. You own the island because the original owner
had died, and her designated heir has died. You are, I believe, the heir of the heir.”
Yulie shook his head again.
“You mind leavin’ that paper? I’m gonna be out o’true ’til that door’s right again. I’ll look at it, tomorrow—maybe next day—and come by to let you know if it’s anything to do with me. Right?”
“Right,” Val Con said. “The paper is in my inner jacket pocket. I will take it out now.”
He did so, and Yulie took it in one hard brown hand, glanced at it incuriously, and stuffed it into the outside pocket of his jacket.
Val Con sighed. “If there is nothing I can do for you immediately, I will take my leave, and send Tan Ort to you as quickly as may be.”
“That’s fine. I’m fine. Biggest thing wrong is that door.” He nodded what was clearly a cordial dismissal. “You send that fella down here and we’ll get things patched up right and reg’lar. Tell ’im, don’t bring no lunch; I’ll feed ’im. Got some good cheese and fresh-bake bread and garden greens, enough for both of us and to spare.”
“I will tell him.”
Val Con bowed slightly.
“Good morning, Mr. Shaper. I enjoyed our talk.”
INTERLUDE FIVE
The Firmament
A star flared; the threads that bound it into the web of life and all creation became sturdy, twisted cords of light.
Ren Zel dea’Judan watched, breath-caught in this place where there was no air. Watched, while the flare subsided into a fine, vital glow. Energy traveled the bindings, informed, and informing as they rewove themselves into the web.
The watcher bent his head and wept tears of joy as those others near to him also did.
Sye Mon van’Kie had chosen to live, a free man, and master of his own soul.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Riley’s Back Room
Fortunato’s Turf
Naturally, the Citizens’ Heavy Loads Committee belonged to the Syndicate, and paid membership money into the treasury. Not insurance money: membership money. The only folks who paid insurance was streeters, specifically streeters who had a money-making bidness on the streets. Smealy’s old Aunt Min, she’d said that, back in the day, before the company lifted and left them, shopkeepers and small businesses—that’s what she called streeters. She had a funny way of talking, his Aunt Min, but wasn’t she sharp as a box o’tacks until the day she died from walking into the middle of a retirement party?
Well, what the old-time streeters paid that insurance money for, ’cording to her, was—in case, say, a store caught fire, or there was a bad storm and the roof fell in, or the shopkeeper tripped over his wares and broke his leg, then the insurance money paid for crew from the Fire-and-Doom Department, or the medic’s office, to come in and put out the fire, raise the roof back up to where it belonged, set the leg, or whatever else needed to happen.
How it worked out that Fire-and-Doom didn’t go broke doing all that, said Aunt Min, was that everybody paid into the insurance, but not everybody needed a rescue. Not even most everybody needed a rescue, so there was always plenty o’cash in the kitty.
Smealy’d asked her, once, how the Bosses had gotten paid, if all the insurance went to fixing stuff that got broke.
She’d given him one of those long Aunt Min looks, that had you going back over your last couple hours to figure out if you’d maybe done something particularly stupid, before she sighed and give him his answer.
“The Bosses drew a salary, Lionel. Don’t you mind about that; that’s all in the back-times. You just keep your head down and don’t set yourself in harm’s way. That’s the best help any of us has, in the now-times.”
So, anyhow, it was Heavy Loads meeting night, there in Riley’s back room, and Sioux was late. Nothing unusual there, Sioux was a worker; belonged to Heavy Loads, Insurance, and the Retirement Committees, and pretty often she was late to meetings, either because of another meeting, or a piece of bidness that needed looking after.
Zimmer was late, too—and that wasn’t usual at all. Most meetings, Zimmer was there before everybody, and already had a beer in his hand. Though, Smealy thought, taking his seat at the table next to Kreller, Zimmer’d joined up with the Search Committee. Might be there was a search going on.
Gretl looked around the table, frowning.
“Just three of us?”
“Zimmer left a message with Riley he’d be late,” said Kreller.
“And Sioux ain’t never on time,” Smealy said, and added, just as a friendly reminder about who was chairman here, “I’m gonna give ’em a couple minutes. No rush; ain’t snowing.”
Gretl sniffed.
Kreller lowered his mug.
“So, how’d it go with the Road Boss?”
Smealy shook his head.
“Let’s wait for Sioux and Zimmer, right? That way I ain’t gotta say it twice.”
“Sure,” said Kreller, and went back to his beer.
He’d finished the mug when the door opened and Zimmer came in, one arm in a sling, his face white as a snowbank.
“What the sleet happened to you?” Smealy’s place at the table faced the door, so he saw the damage before the other two.
Zimmer shook his head, carefullike, made it to the table, put his beer down, and almost fell into a chair.
He sat for a minute, like he needed to get his breath before telling the table: “Ran into some trouble, last night.”
“You all know the Syndicate Boss is looking for a place to set up operations. Can’t be anyplace on the street, on account of all the cops, and Scouts, and general order busybodies walking around these days.
“So, we been looking for places to go to ground. One subcommittee thought it had a line on the old warehouses—the ones everybody says’re haunted? Couple them guys are still healing up from the beating they got.
“Our subcommittee located a place way out the road, almost to the Boss’s big house . . .”
“Wait,” said Gretl. “You wanted to put the Syndicate’s headquarters right next to the Road Boss?”
“Why not? Nice deep underplace, according to the readouts, and it ain’t like the Road Boss lives there. Just one old crazy farmer; easy enough to take care of. Anyhow, the crew of us went up there last night. Found a way in, and was working with a door, when some damn fool starts shooting at us, right outta the dark! Yells at us to get the slush offa his land. We get quiet, ’cept Makie, she kinda scuffs against a rock with her boot. Guy starts firing again—I’m tellin’ you, he’s takin’ sound shots in the dark and he’s got ears like a rabbit!
“Makie got hit worst; medic says she’ll be fine inna couple months.” He shifted a little, showing off the sling.
“Me, I got winged. Gref got his hair parted. No sense staying around, so we took off.”
“So, still no home for the new Bosses?” asked Kreller, making it sound like it was Zimmer’s fault.
The door opened then, and Sioux came in, carrying her beer. She slid into the empty chair between Gretl and Kreller, and nodded to Smealy.
Zimmer picked up his mug and downed half the beer in one swig.
“Here’s how it is. We got two good places ID’d. The Bosses are mapping out strategy, now. How best to take ’em both. Spread our people out, there’s less chance the cops or the busybodies’ll find us all.”
He drank down the rest of his beer.
“The farmer’s an easy mark. Couple guys go up in the daylight and take care o’that. Set one of us in his place—the old fella’s nephew or niece, and the whole thing’s sealed.”
“Right next to the Road Boss,” Gretl said again.
“What’s the problem? Smealy’s got the Road Boss in our pocket. Aincha, Lionel?”
Well, it wasn’t the lead-in he’d planned on, but he couldn’t ignore it, either.
He picked up his beer and had a swig; just enough to wet his whistle, then looked ’round the table at each of them in turn.
“All right,” he said, “here’s how it went.”
“Boy prolly just wanted to see how far you’d go,” Sioux said, who hadn’t been there, and had bad-mouthed the whole idea from the start.
“Told you,” Smealy’d snapped, “I didn’t even get near the numbers ’fore he was pulling in Security to boot me out. It was this bidness over contracts that got him outta true; he was innerested enough ’til then.”
“Which you managed so good, he threw you out and told you not to come back,” Kreller said. “Now we got no leverage, at all.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Smealy’d said, grinning. “There’s two Road Bosses, right? The little brother and his wife. Told me so himself that either one of ’em could help us out with concerns about the road.”
“So?” asked Zimmer.
“So, the wife’s a local girl; come up on Latimer’s turf. She’ll know how things is done here at home. Shoulda maybe gone right to her with this, but the little brother was a surer touch on Conrad.” He paused, considering that. “Might have to sweeten the pot a little, just to get ’er deep enough. Maybe a requisition?”
Sioux frowned, and Smealy braced himself for a disagreement, while bringing all the reasons why that wasn’t a completely stupid idea up to the front of his brain.
“Sure, give the wife a requisition,” Sioux said, thoughtfullike. “Then we got a surer touch on her, when she uses it. If the little brother’s anything at all like his big brother, he ain’t gonna like her going around him to make her own deal. Least’ll happen is we’ll break the Road Boss, and hafta find another way in to Conrad. Best that’ll happen, if the wife’s a smart woman, like I hear she is—she’ll keep her cards right there in her pocket and won’t find a reason to mention it.”