Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) (16 page)

He recalled sitting in the trade bar, a nothing staring at nothing—clanless, kinless, and lacking a future. And he recalled a thump and a scrape as the chair across from him was taken. He looked up into a pair of mist-blue eyes.

“I’m Jasin Bell, mate on
Momma Liberty
. We got crew work, if you’re lookin’.”

Work—that had gotten through. Even a man without kin needed work.

“You lookin’?” Jasin Bell had snapped, and that roused him a little. Roused him enough.

“I am looking,” he answered in his careful, textbook Terran. And then, because his grandmother had not raised him to be a fool, “I will see the contract, if you please.”

Rys took a hard breath and deliberately drank the rest of his now-tepid tea, putting the empty mug beside his knee. His muscles were quivering as if he’d been doing the hand-stacking on a dock where the gravity was high.

Jasin . . . His recollections of Jasin were vivid. But just . . . there was something, about Jasin—no!
Beyond
Jasin! His thoughts were abruptly in turmoil, scattered like grape spiders from the impact of a man’s boot. He snatched after them, and gasped, tears starting. Clumsily, he drew up his good leg and leaned his forehead against his knee, weeping with terror and confusion and loss; glad that there was no one to see.

* * *

Perhaps he drowsed, weak as he was and worn out with trying to remember. Indeed, he
must
have drowsed, and dreamt that he was on-comm with Jasin, demanding to know in what mad port she had abandoned him, broken and desperate as he—

“Well met, Brother,” a soft voice uttered.

Brother?
thought Rys, the dream making him sticky and slow. He had no living brothers, and none that would address him so—least of all Jasin’s brother.

“I overheard my small sister say to the
luthia
that you prayed, Brother. I do not want to intrude, but I thought you might wish not to be alone, when you are done.”

Rys raised his head, looking across the fire at the shadow that addressed him.

“Good e’en,” he said, both cautious and courteous. “Brother.”

It might have been that his caller sighed. Certainly, it seemed so.

“May I sit with you?” he asked. “I have a pipe, if you will share smoke with me.”

No, decidedly it was not Jasin’s brother, who had never once offered him a kindness. Rys blinked, trying to focus his thoughts.

“It is a joy,” he said, even more careful, “to share with a brother.”

“Glad I am to hear you say so,” the other said and stepped ’round the fire. He dropped, crosslegged, onto the rug at Rys’ right hand, and gazed at it for a moment, useless and strapped to its board, before raising his head and meeting Rys’ gaze.

“I am,” he said quietly, “Udari. It was I who found you, and brought you to the
luthia
for healing. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Surely, you have saved my life,” Rys protested, and added, “Brother.”

“Surely, I did,” Udari agreed. “But perhaps it would have been better, had I walked ’round the corner, smoked a pipe, and granted you time to pass the gate. It would not have been many breaths more of pain, and you would have risen whole and filled with light in the World Beyond, full able to tend those things that a man should and must.

“As we have it now, the
luthia
says that hand will not grip again, and the leg will never bear you. A man in his prime—as we are, Brother—might argue that those losses are bitter.”

“They are,” Rys said slowly. “But I hold the hope that . . . some assistance may arrive.” He meant Jasin, come to find him, and the autodoc unit in
Momma Liberty
’s sick bay.

Udari nodded, slow and solemn, and reached into the neck of his sweater. He withdrew a drawstring bag, and a small glass pipe that caught the glow from the dying fire and gave it back with a heart of red.

“There is something in what you say,” Udari said, as he filled the pipe’s bowl with a pinch of stuff from the pouch and tamped it with his thumb. “It might be that help will arrive. I will dream on it.”

He pulled the strings of the bag tight and replaced it within his sweater, then extended his hand and plucked an ember from the edge of the fire.

Rys sat up straight with a wordless gasp—but Udari was perfectly composed, holding the ember to the stuff in the pipe’s bowl whilst drawing on the stem.

Fragrant smoke came from the bowl—reminding Rys of sweetsuckle blooming amid the still leafless vines, bloomed and dead within two sunrises, crumbling by the fourth, giving itself to nurture the soil.

“Ah . . .” Udari sighed, and offered him the pipe, stem first.

“Go carefully,” he advised as Rys took the thing, his clumsiness betraying his unfamiliarity. “The smoke is hot, so draw slow and steady. I will put something more on the hearth.”

So saying, he rose, leaving Rys alone on the rug, puffing cautiously on the pipe. The smoke was hot, and the perfume caught at the back of his throat. He coughed once, and puffed again, gratified to see the bowl glow orange.

“Here.” Udari was back, dropping lightly to his knees, and placing something Rys didn’t quite see on the fire. Flame licked up, showing a long face dominated by a bold nose and a pair of liquid dark eyes. He sat back with easy grace, legs once again crossed, and took the pipe from Rys’ hand.

“Enough smoke makes a man wise,” he murmured, drawing until the bowl glowed scarlet. He raised his head, eyes closed, seeming not to breathe—then sighed out a cloud of scented smoke with a smile.

“Too much makes a man foolish.”

That, Rys thought, sounded familiar. He sighed softly.

“No more for me, then, Brother. I am already fool enough.”

“Say you so? But I have tasted wisdom’s draught. Show me your foolishness, Brother, and I will tease sense from it.”

Rys looked at him, this ragged stranger, who was in truth neither brother nor comrade . . . who had saved his life, and who had come on purpose to bear him company when he was alone and frightened.

“I cannot remember,” he said, speaking frankly. “I have lost who I am, and the path I walked, that led to this place.”

Pipe in hand, Udari nodded solemnly.

“Your soul has gone a-wandering, which souls are apt to do, when we are weak, or when we are undecided. You must grow strong, and be decisive. At that time, you will no longer be lost, and will recall all that you are and have been.”

There was certainly nothing to argue about in that, Rys thought. And then he thought that the little smoke he had ingested had indeed made him foolish. He felt as if he floated, pain-free and undistressed, some few inches above the top of his own head, and was looking down into Udari’s face.

“How fare you, Brother?” that one asked.

“Very well indeed,” Rys answered. “I thank you, Brother, for your care.”

“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 his mother 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. 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
any
where, 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, please stand forward,” Mother said, in a voice that for all its coolness meant
now
.

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.