Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) (21 page)

“So.” Rafin was standing before him again, hard hands behind his back. He glanced aside, to Pulka and to Udari, and used his chin to draw their attention to Rys.

“Behold him, Brothers, as he stands there, one-legged, fending off a wolf of the Bedel with his
crutch
, eh? Eh?” He slapped his hands on his thighs and laughed as noisily as he had cursed.

“I see it!” he said, looking to Udari. “Brother, I see what you saw! Even a man of action might love the tiny cock, fire in his eye and one wing trailing.” He slapped his thighs again.

“I will do it!” The ductwork rang with his shout. “By the blood of the Bedel, I
will
do it! Come, Pulka! I would dream what you have dreamed.”

The two moved aside, away from the forge, toward an alcove and the table set there.

Rys closed his eyes as the icy surety melted and flowed away, leaving him overheated and shaking, his heart pounding in his ears. He sagged on the crutch—and snapped straight, eyes opening as he sensed a body within reach.

“Brother.” Udari extended a gentle hand and touched Rys on the shoulder. “Brother, you played that exactly! You have won Rafin’s help.”

“But not his brotherhood,” Rys said. His stomach was churning. He feared he might shame himself, and—where had those thoughts come from? he asked himself. The detailed series of moves that would end a man’s life, framed in a clarity as hard as crystal.

“Rys?” Udari murmured.

He drew a breath. “I believe . . . that I need to sit down, Brother.”

* * *

The door opened into a small room that smelled sweet and smoky. There was a red rug under Kezzi’s boots and a red lamp hanging from a chain.

To her right, she glimpsed a larger room with yellow covers on the chairs; the red rug had yellow flowers woven into it, and there was a branch with yellow cloth flowers tied to it in a bowl on a wooden table. Somewhere in the part of the room she couldn’t see, she heard a man’s voice, followed by a woman’s laugh, and a dry rustle.

Ahead, the red rug ran down the center of a narrow hall, somewhat more brightly lit by wall lamps in white and yellow.

To Kezzi’s left was another door, and this now opened. A man stepped through, sock-footed, brown-haired, and rumpled, with a red mark on his pale cheek, sleep heavy in his eyes.

“Who . . . Oh. Mike. ’Mornin’.” The man pulled his shapeless grey sweater closer around him, and yawned.

“’Mornin’,” Mike Golden said. “Rough night?”

The other man raised a slender hand to his cheek to rub the red mark.

“Fell asleep on the ’counts book,” he said with a shy smile. “Don’t tell Ms. Audrey, now.”

“Not a word,” Mike Golden said. His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulder; he might have glanced down at her—the other man did, and smiled.

“Hey, honey. What’s your name?” he asked, his voice pitched slightly higher than it had been for Mike Golden. It was, she realized, the voice a certain kind of
gadje
used when they talked to Malda, and asked if he was a
good fella
.

“Anna,” she said, and gave the man the
other
smile Vylet had taught her.

“You’re a real cutie,” he said, giving her back the exact same smile. “I’m Sheyn. You come find me when you get tired of Mike. I’ll take good care of you.”

“She’s here for school,” Mike Golden said from behind her, his voice sounding growlier than usual.

“Oho!” Sheyn winked broadly, like Pulka when he was teasing her. “You’ll like Jansy. All the girls do.”

“Sheyn.” That was Mike Golden again.

“Hey, don’t get mad, Mike.” Sheyn aimed Vylet’s
other
smile over Kezzi’s head. “
You
won’t flirt with me—how else am I gonna practice?” He raised a hand, showing a soft, white palm. “Never mind. You know where you’re going. I gotta get back to the ’counts.” He looked at Kezzi and smiled again—not at all like Vylet, but like Udari, sweet and kind. “Study good, Anna.”

“All right,” she said, gravely, and moved in obedience to the pressure of Mike Golden’s fingers—forward, down the narrow hallway.

* * *

They’d put the chairs back in order, and settled into them, Syl Vor sitting quietly beside Jeff.

“You really okay?” Jeff asked, speaking indistinctly out of the side of his mouth, while Ms. Taylor fiddled with the desk controllers. “Looked like you banged your knee pretty bad.”

“I am okay,” Syl Vor assured him, and added, “thank you for your care.”

Jeff shrugged. “Whatever. Just—if it swells up, you put snow or ice on it, ’kay?”

“I will,” Syl Vor promised.

Up at the front of the room, Ms. Taylor had turned toward the hall; Syl Vor heard the sound of heavy feet on the carpet. He sat up interestedly. Had the patrol brought in another student?

The door opened, and Mike Golden walked into the classroom, his hand firm on the shoulder of a black-haired girl in a dusty green coat that was too big for her.

Ms. Taylor went to Mike’s side, and he leaned over to talk to her, his hand still on the girl’s shoulder. She looked out over the room from narrowed black eyes, chin up. Syl Vor knew that look. It was what Padi did when she was scared and trying to figure out what to do next.

“Wonderful!” Ms. Taylor said brightly.

She stepped to the girl’s side and curled her hand around the dusty green sleeve, holding firmly. Mike put his hands behind his back, and stood with his legs braced, like he expected the floor to move—or the girl to run, Syl Vor thought suddenly, seeing a tiny shift in her balance. Ms. Taylor must have felt the move, because she put her other hand around the girl’s arm, too.

“Everyone? Your attention, please! We have a new member of the class.”

Behind Syl Vor, a chair creaked, and over to the front right of the room, somebody scuffed their shoes against the floor. Otherwise, their attention was on the front of the room. The black-haired girl glared at them all, lips pressed tight.

“This is what we do, honey. You tell the class your name and turf, and then they’ll each tell you theirs, by turn. After introductions are over, you’ll take a seat.” Ms. Taylor smiled brightly. “You’re just in time for geography—my favorite class!”

The black-haired girl turned her head to wordlessly stare at Ms. Taylor.

Mike Golden cleared his throat.

The black-haired girl took a deep breath.

“My name is Anna,” she said, giving the
s
an extra hiss. She took another breath. “Anna Brown. Boss Wentworth’s turf.”

“Wentworth’s turf, huh?” Peter said from the back of the room. “How come I never seen ya?”

The chin lowered, black eyes wide now. “Maybe you’re blind,” Anna said with great disinterest, “or maybe you’re stupid.”

“Children!” Ms. Taylor’s voice was sharp. “Pete, I’ll expect you to bring me a complete list of everyone in Boss Wentworth’s territory tomorrow morning. Anna, we don’t call our classmates stupid. Now! Introductions, starting from the front right please.”

* * *

One by one, the
gadje
stood up from their chairs, spoke their names and the name of their Boss—pale faces, dark faces, tall, small, boy, girl, eyes as bright as colored glass, high voices like mice. Kezzi didn’t bother to listen to what they said, only glared at each in turn. At least Mike Golden had gone away, and if the
gadje
woman would loosen her grip, the door was only three long steps away.

Except there was the man Sheyn between her and the outside door. He would only bring her back here. For all she knew, Mike Golden himself stood guard at the doorway and . . .

Yet another
gadje
stood up from his place—yellow hair and blue marble eyes, his face neither pale nor dark, but a smooth gold, like Rys’ skin, now that the bruises and cuts were gone.

Kezzi glared at the yellow-haired boy and breathed in the pattern that cleared the mind. Trying to run away would only make them watch her the harder, she thought. Better to be like these—or as much like as she could—so that they would grow careless.
Then
she might make an escape.

Or Mike Golden might have said the truth, and at the end of the day she would go out the door and back to the
kompani
. . .

“Thank you, everyone; that was very nicely done,” the
gadje
—the “Ms. Taylor” said, chirping brightly, like a bird. She nodded at one of the smaller boys. “Arn, please show Anna where to hang up her coat.”

“Yes, Ms. Taylor,” he said, and jumped to his feet, running noisily down the room toward a wall hung with many garments. “C’mon, Anna!” he said, turning and waving at her.

They were all watching her. This was not what one of the Bedel wished for, within a crowd of
gadje
. Kezzi felt a little sick to her stomach, and swallowed, and remembered Malda—brave and clever. She walked—head up, with modest steps that did not crash against the plastic floor—down the room, to the place where the boy Arn stood, pointing to an empty hook.

It was hard—very hard—to hang the coat on that hook, though the pockets were not as full as she had intended. And, she told herself, she had her small knife, some flashers, and a kerchief full of dried apples from their own trees in the pockets of her vest.

“Hurry up,” Arn said, jostling her elbow. “We’re missing geography.” He ran noisily back to his seat. Kezzi turned around and looked up the room, frowning into Ms. Taylor’s smile.

“Good,” the
gadje
said. “Now, Anna, you can take the seat next to Syl Vor.”

Syl Vor?
Now, she saw her error. She should have listened to the
gadje
’s names, and remembered them. Had Silain not taught her—
to remember is to know
?

She swallowed, trying to think, to remember, while she looked here and there around the room, and—wait!

There was a chair—a single empty chair among the clustered
gadje
, next to the boy with the yellow hair who reminded her of Rys.

She sat on the edge of that empty chair, tucking her hands into the warm tail of her scarf.

In front of the room, Ms. Taylor raised her eyebrows, and nodded as if to say that Kezzi had done well, which made her feel . . . pleased. It
had
been well done, she told herself, and a good sign that in this place the
kompani
’s fortune remained intact.

Silain, and Pulka, too, said that the
kompani
’s fortune came from the wit and the heart of the Bedel. She must not be stupid again.

She leaned forward in her chair as Ms. Taylor picked up a small black stick and called out, in a voice that rang the rafters, “All right, everybody! Time to do routes!”

* * *

Routes today was a quick review of nearby landmarks, for the new girl, Syl Vor thought. At least she was paying attention now, frowning slightly after the red dot, and nodding to herself when each route was completed. Syl Vor sighed. She had made a good recovery in figuring out which seat she was to take. He had thought he was going to have to give her a hint, which he didn’t think she would have liked very much. But, really, she should have listened at introductions, rather than just pretending that none of them were there—or that she was someplace else.

“Warm now?” Ms. Taylor shouted.

In the chair next to him, Anna twitched; she hadn’t been expecting that.

She twitched again when Syl Vor joined the class in shouting back, “We’re warm all right!”

“Let’s do round two!” Ms. Taylor threw the pointer to Vanette, who jumped up and caught it between two hands, then stood bouncing on the balls of her feet, grinning.

“Everett’s Market,” Ms. Taylor said, which was barely a clue at all.

Syl Vor frowned. Everett’s Market was in . . . was in . . .

“Whitman’s turf!” Rodale, who hardly ever volunteered, jumped up from his seat in the back. “It’s in a big ol’ garage thing over out east o’the Hamilton Street.”

Vanette spun, stared at him, spun back and raised the pointer. The red dot traced a quick route from their location to Hamilton, hesitated . . .

“East . . .” Rodale almost-whispered, leaning forward. “Look east, see? Next to the booths, just about . . .”

Syl Vor stared at the map, finding the tollbooths, but—a big garage? He leaned forward, his hand gripping the back of the chair in front of him, staring . . .

Vanette squeaked; the red dot jumped, then traced a smooth path ’round a corner and up two streets, to rest determinedly in the center of a large rectangle.

“Very good!” Ms. Taylor applauded. “What teamwork!”

“But—” Vanette turned to look at Rodale. “How did you
know
? You’re Cruther’s.”

“Ustabe we were Whitman’s,” Rodale said, looking down at the floor. “M’dad street-hopped when I was a kid, on account the Alleys had work.”

“That’s a good memory,” Vanette said. “Thanks.”

“No prob,” Rodale muttered, and sat down abruptly, head hanging.

Vanette tossed the pointer back to Ms. Taylor, who looked around the room, a considering frown on her face.

Suddenly, she grinned, and threw the pointer to—Syl Vor tensed, hand rising—

But the throw was to Anna.

She jumped up and sideways, catching the pointer in her off-hand like she was turning an opponent’s knife.

“Show me the quickest way to Finder’s Junk Heap.”

Anna raised the pointer, touched the school briefly, then traced a swift, unhesitating path down the back alley, across several streets into Boss Kalhoon’s territory, then a sharp right, down another alley, across a red do-not-cross line, and into the heart of Finder’s.

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Rudy jumped to his feet.

“That route don’t work!”

Anna turned to stare at him, the pointer held loosely in an attitude Syl Vor knew well.

“It does,” she said flatly, and looked him up and down, one side of her mouth lifting slightly in what was
not
a smile. “Unless you’re afraid of the fence?”

Rudy’s face flushed as red as his hair.

“I ain’t afraid a no fence! But that route’s not straight!”

“It is straight! Straightest there is!” Anna answered hotly.

“Yes, it is,” Ms. Taylor said, so strongly that Anna turned away from Rudy to face her. “It is the straightest route, Anna, thank you. Rudy’s right to call a foul, though. The routes we’re looking for are those that can be walked, with—with a sack of groceries on your arm. For class, we don’t want emergency routes, or your family’s special ways. Okay?”