Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) (20 page)

“Simon says,
turn around as fast as you can
!” Ms. Taylor said sharply.

Syl Vor gasped, hearing an echo of Grandaunt’s voice in that sharp command, and turned every bit as quickly as he could—and there was Kaleb, staggering as he spun, shouting laughter.

Syl Vor pulled in his shoulders and twisted.

Kaleb yelled, “Watch it!” and jumped for the space behind Delia’s chair, which was where Syl Vor had been going, and he twisted again; Kaleb bumped the chair, knocking it into Syl Vor’s knee. He overbalanced, chairs screeched across the floor, kids yelled, and he fell, barely managing to tuck up so he didn’t hurt himself.

Much.

“Don’t the Boss teach you not to fall over chairs?” That was Rudy.

“Who’d thought such a little kid could make such a big mess outta Simon Says?”
That
was Peter.

“Kaleb! You okay?” And Tansy.

Syl Vor, curled on the floor, sighed and took stock, which the training tapes, and Grandfather and Grandaunt, and Quin and Padi had
all
told him that he must do, once he had time.

He’d hit his elbow hard when he fell, which was his own fault for not tucking fast enough; and his knee hurt where the chair had banged into it. Beyond that . . .

“Syl Vor,” Ms. Taylor said, softly. He felt her stroke his hair. Horrified, he opened his eyes and saw her knees on the floor in front of him. “You okay, honey?”

He took a breath. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and wriggled into a sitting position, out from under her touch. She wasn’t kin. She had no—He swallowed, and looked down, deliberately reviewing the calming exercise. The bracelet had slipped down over his hand. He pushed it back up under the sleeve of his sweater.

“I’m all right,” he said, looking firmly into Ms. Taylor’s face.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Fell over his own feet,” Rudy said.

Ms. Taylor looked over Syl Vor’s head, frowning darkly. “I am
speaking
with Syl Vor,” she said sharply.

There was a short silence, then Rudy muttered, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Syl Vor, what happened?” Ms. Taylor repeated.

Surely, she’d seen what had happened, he thought crankily. And then thought that she might not have, because she had everybody to watch, and during the Simon game she tended to watch Peter and Rudy, Tansy, Kaleb, and Arn.

“I turned as fast as I could,” he said carefully, “and s-saw that I might . . . bump Kaleb, and so I tried . . .” He bit his lip, unsure of how much he needed to say, and not wanting to seem to place blame on Kaleb.

“You tried to miss him and that put you off-balance,” Ms. Taylor finished, and Syl Vor felt relief. She
did
understand, then.

“Can you stand up?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and did so, then stood looking down into her face, which wore a startled expression. She was his elder, so he offered her his hand, politely, heard Rudy laugh, and Peter snicker, and saw Ms. Taylor’s lips thin.

She put her hand in his and rose, hardly using his support at all.

“That was very courteous, Syl Vor, thank you.”

She looked around, and nodded briskly.

“All right, everyone, put things in order, then back to your seats! Geography next!”

* * *

Mike Golden kept a firm grip on her shoulder as they walked toward the
school
. Kezzi kept a sharp eye out for another of the
kompani
, but saw no one she could signal.

“Here we go,” the man said, steering her toward three scrubbed stone steps, and a bright red door at the top, with a handsome knocker made out of good Bedel blackwork, in the shape of a goat-footed man playing the short pipes.

Kezzi stumbled, seeing that knocker, for she remembered Pulka laughing at Rafin over his care of work that was destined to adorn the
gadje
house of love, until Rafin had growled at him to shut up, or go away, and in either case leave him in peace.

This, Kezzi thought, was bad, and now that she knew what
school
was, she almost thought that she might prefer jail. But no. There were stories she had dreamed, that told of escape from such houses as this. It could be done. And she had an ally.

Twisting in Mike Golden’s hand, she faked a stumble. He went to one knee with her, his grip firm, but that was all right, the only thing she needed to do was drop a single word in Malda’s up-perked ear.

“
Ezat
.” Help.

Malda yipped once, spun, and raced off the way they had come.

Mike Golden never faltered.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I’m not hurt,” she answered, allowing herself to be brought to her feet. She looked up into his face. “I don’t want to go there.”

He sighed, his brown
gadje
eyes seeming sad. “We been through this, right? It’s school or jail. You chose school. For what it’s worth, I think that’s the good choice, and I think you’re gonna enjoy yourself. Just gotta go in, is all. Give it a try. Can’t hurt.” He tipped his head. “Your dog gonna be okay?”

“He knows the way home,” she replied, and he nodded.

“Right, then. Let’s go, Anna.”

He exerted pressure, and she went. There was no use fighting him, when he could easily carry her, if he decided to do so.

And wherever she was going, Kezzi thought, she preferred to go on her own two feet.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Where do we walk today, Brother?” Rys asked Udari.

Some six paces back their path had deviated from the well-known route to Pulka’s hearth, and Udari, usually so informative, had said nothing. Perhaps, Rys thought wryly, there was proper work of men to be done, and he had been called to it. He had, after all, only assumed that they were bound for Pulka and another session of tea, and smoke, and half-sketches made in chalk on the hearthstones. Sketches that were more often than not rubbed out, while more tea was poured, and the pipes refilled.

“Today, we go to the forges, where you will come to know our brother Rafin.”

“And has my brother Rafin work to which I might set my hand?”

Udari considered that in silence as they turned onto a ramp that tended, ever so slightly downward. Rys swung along beside, having grown accustomed to Udari’s silences, and minding how he set his crutch on the slope.

“It is possible that Rafin will discover tasks for all of us, in time. Just at first, though, Brother—a word in your ear. At first, Rafin may be a bit short in his temper. It’s his way. Possibly, he will send us from his hearth. It has happened that he has cast brothers forth. If it should chance to happen today, be of firm heart. Firmness speaks to Rafin, and perseverance, which your brothers have in abundance.”

“But,” Rys said carefully, “what do we attempt?”

“What do we attempt?” Udari laughed. “The design is complete, so Pulka insists, and who would know better? There is no one in the
kompani
who can match or come near Pulka’s designs! What else should he do, then, but bring his dream to the best builder among us?”

So, the talk and the smoke and the countless pots of tea had borne fruit? Yet, where
was
this design?

“Does Pulka meet us,” he asked carefully, “with the rendering of the design?”

“We will find Pulka at Rafin’s hearth,” Udari said composedly, which was a less complete answer than Rys could have wished. However, just then, the ramp took a turn and angled more sharply downward, and he was obliged to pay close attention to his balance, leaving other questions unasked.

* * *

“Damned if I will!” A voice rolled down the narrow tunnel, echoing off the walls like the sea.

If it were Rafin moved to such a pronouncement, Rys thought, it would seem that Pulka’s design had not found favor.

“Damned if you don’t!” Yes, that was Pulka, his voice recognizable even at such a pitch.

Rys planted the tip of his crutch carefully against the tunnel’s molded floor, and shifted his weight onto his good leg.

“I hear our brothers at prayer,” Udari said from behind. He patted Rys lightly on the shoulder. “There is nothing out of the ordinary here, Brother. Nothing to concern you. Come, let us add our blessings to the occasion.”

More shouting rumbled along the walls, the words unintelligible. Perhaps they were spoken in the Bedel language, in which Rys was in nowise fluent. Perhaps it was simply that volume overtook sense. He was not much inclined to go forward into the din. Had he been alone, he would have turned and sought Silain’s hearth again, or made the long journey to the garden to offer his hand to Memit.

However, he was not alone, and he had come into the habit of trusting Udari, who was never anything but gentle in their dealings, and who had indeed shown him a brother’s care.

So it was that he let the crutch take his weight and continued on toward the rumbling racket, with Udari walking a little in advance, shoulders stiff, despite his tone of amused affection.

A light showed ahead, brighter and broader than the spots in the tunnel’s ceiling. The shouting had stopped now; the walls were informed with a low hum, like an engine idling. Udari walked on and so, perforce, did Rys—to the end of the tunnel, into a wide, vaulted room. In the room’s center, fire roared in a forge twice Udari’s height, pipes crisscrossing above it, taking off heat and steam it was certain, though the destination of those elements was not immediately apparent.

“A blessed day to you, Brothers!” Udari said cheerfully, walking toward the two men by the hearth—Pulka, bald and plump, his face red in the heat. The other man was stripped to the waist, showing a well-muscled belly and dark skin slick with sweat.

It was the second man who turned to Udari with what came to Rys’ ear as a curse, despite the fact that he did not know the words.

“There’s no need of that!” Pulka snapped. “Udari has a brother to care for, whatever you—”

“A
brother
, is it?” The lean, angry man—Rafin, surely—spun fast, one hand snatching Udari’s arm and pulling him, unresisting, closer to the dangerous flames.

“What means of man brings a
gadje
to the
kompani
as a brother, Udari of the Bedel?”

“A man of heart, Brother Rafin,” Udari answered, his voice calm, and his shoulders tense.

Rys moved forward, deliberately, any noise his crutch might make against the floor hidden in the fire’s dull roar.

“
A man of heart
brings a mewling broken kitten of a
gadje
into the
kompani
, calls him brother and seeks repair for wounds too terrible to bear. A man of action—attend me well, Udari of the Bedel!” Rafin yanked the younger man forward, overbalancing him, so that he steadied himself with one hand on Rafin’s naked shoulder. Rafin’s face, sharp cheekbones, strong brow, and prominent hooked nose, was very nearly cheek to Udari’s cheek.

“
A man of action
,” Rafin said, his voice low and rough, “would have prevented what pain he might, bestowing a blessing, and holding the
kompani
close.” He tightened his grip and Udari’s boots gritted on the floor as he sought his balance. “A man of action cannot change what a man of heart has done, but I swear upon—”

“Let my brother Udari go,” Rys said, hearing his voice calm and cold against the heated roar of Rafin’s forge. “Brother, he is unbalanced and will do better without your aid.”

Rafin turned his head; his eyes were a hot blue in his lean, dark face. For a long moment, the room was silent. Even the fire seemed to cease its growl.

Then, Rafin thrust Udari back. The slighter man spun like a dancer, perfectly balanced, keeping a wary eye on Rafin.

Rys eased his weight onto his good leg. Having released Udari, it naturally followed that Rafin would turn his attention, and his enmity, to the man who had demanded it.

He had, Rys reminded himself, dry-mouthed,
wanted
that.

He took a deep breath and felt a certain coolness flow into him. The man before him was tall, his big hands in fists, standing well-balanced on two sturdy legs.

Yet, Rys thought, as the coolness flowed and deepened, he was not himself without resources.

He shifted his grip on the crutch, and surreptitiously flexed his other arm, testing the heft of the splint.

“You!” Rafin snarled. “Do you think that I—I, Rafin!—will build a leg for you? That I will not, little
gadje
. Heed me;
I will not
. Nor will I call you brother, or give you any soft word or gentleness such as my brothers-born might have from me.”

“You have, in fact, taken me in dislike,” Rys said, from a center so cold it might have been said to be ice.

“Dislike?” Rafin gave a sharp snap of laughter. “You are unnatural,
gadje
, do you know it? You are a dead man, yet you . . .
walk
, let us make it. You have no place in life, and yet you seek a place in the
kompani
.”

He had moved, two small, stealthy steps. Rys stood his ground, balance assured, holding himself ready. Without question, Rafin
would
make a move—Udari thought so, too. From the side of his eye, Rys saw Udari dance one step forward, as if he would intervene, only to have his arm caught and held by Pulka, who signed something quick and low with his off-hand.

“What you may have from me, little
gadje
, is what any dangerous vermin may have.”

Rafin extended, his arm coming out and down, like a branch falling, and like a branch falling it would break what it struck.

Rys gave his weight to his good leg and threw the crutch up, meeting Rafin’s arm with an audible crack. The man spun to the side, wide open, depending on speed, reach, and reputation to win his point. Rys did a quick calculation, and swung the crutch again, clipping Rafin smartly above the ear. Deliberate, that blow—hard enough to give pause—but not hard enough to kill.

Rafin dropped back a step, and raised a hand.

“Hold,” he said, rubbing his head with the other hand.

“Hold,” he said again, and walked to the right, circling Rys, where he stood braced, his thoughts cold and clear, waiting. If Rafin rushed him from behind, he must drop to his better knee and sweep the crutch to knock the other off his feet, then jam the point of the crutch into the vulnerable throat, for the kill. If he lost the crutch, there was the splint left for a weapon.