Thirteen Orphans (23 page)
Pearl thought,
Depending on how he was before, lacking his memory could make him a lot nicer. Nuttier maybe, but nicer. Still, Brenda is already looking at me sideways. I’m not going to press the point.
Depending on how he was before, lacking his memory could make him a lot nicer. Nuttier maybe, but nicer. Still, Brenda is already looking at me sideways. I’m not going to press the point.
Aloud Pearl said, “Then are we agreed that we should at least put serious effort into researching how to undo the spell?”
Nods went around the table.
Nissa said, “I’d like to help. I’m actually pretty good with formulas, but I’ll need to learn the basics first.”
Des nodded. “I’ll start you with what Riprap and Brenda already know while I move them ahead.”
“I guess being able to share a classroom is an advantage to us all being in one place,” Nissa agreed. “But I’ve been worried about that, too.”
“About being in one place?” Pearl said.
“Yeah. Someone’s out to get us, and we’ve put the last four Orphans under one roof. That makes it easier for us to work together, but it’s sure going to make it easier for someone to work against us as well.”
Brenda didn’t intend to eavesdrop on the argument between Pearl and Des that occurred a few days after their all taking up residence in Pearl’s house in San Jose. Des had made something spicy and Chinese for dinner. The difference between what Brenda’s South Carolina upbringing and Des’s New Mexico conditioning considered “mild” had resulted in an upset stomach that wouldn’t let her settle into sleep.
Brenda hadn’t heard Pearl come up to bed, so she’d padded down the carpeted front stairs in her bare feet, planning to ask if Pearl had any antacids. She’d been about to knock on Pearl’s office door when a murmur from behind the door caught her ear. The voice she heard was definitely her hostess’s.
Pearl’s probably on the phone,
Brenda thought, cupping her free hand over her lower abdomen.
She won’t mind if I bother her for something like this.
Brenda thought, cupping her free hand over her lower abdomen.
She won’t mind if I bother her for something like this.
Brenda held her hand from knocking when she realized that there were two people speaking, both at once, and neither of them sounded happy.
Pearl was saying, “ … realize you consider me unreasonable, but that young man is …”
Des was saying, “I realize what you think, but is that any reason to keep him unable to communicate?”
Brenda let her hand drop, her stomach ache forgotten. They had to be talking about Foster. Proximity had not dimmed Brenda’s unwilling attraction to the young man, and she held her breath so she could hear better. Happily for Brenda, although the old door between the office and the hallway was thick and heavy, it had long ago ceased to maintain a perfect fit. The voices came through, faint but clear.
Pearl said, “His inability to communicate was what made it possible for Riprap and me to get him across country without difficulty. It keeps him dependent.”
“His inability to communicate,” Des responded, “is beginning to drive Foster a little crazy. He’s isolated. The only people he can talk to are the two of us. You make it quite clear that you don’t want to talk to him. That leaves me, and since I’m teaching the other three, there are hours on end that Foster can’t exchange a single word with anyone. Lani chatters, but even the most talented two-and-a-half-year-old is hardly a great conversationalist. Then you insist on Foster being locked up at night, and those are more hours when he can’t talk to anyone. Damn it, Pearl! Solitary confinement has been known to drive people insane.”
“Foster is not solitary,” Pearl said, ice in her tone. “Against my better judgment, a young man who we know to have twice made attacks on members of the Thirteen—who we
know
to have succeeded in the case of Gaheris Morris, who we suspect to have succeeded in other circumstances—is being treated like a house guest rather than the prisoner of war that he is.”
know
to have succeeded in the case of Gaheris Morris, who we suspect to have succeeded in other circumstances—is being treated like a house guest rather than the prisoner of war that he is.”
“Prisoner of war,” Des repeated. “Is that how you see him?”
“I do. What other way is there to see him?”
“How about as a potential source of information?” Des said. “Right now Foster remembers nothing, but if we work out how to break that spell, his memory should return. Do we want him to remember us as having been cruel or kind? If he remembers that we were kind to him despite the circumstances, we might have made an ally.”
“I’ve been considering the question of his memory,” Pearl said. “I wonder if we need to return his memory at all? Perhaps we can find a way to read or view what is contained in the sphere, to learn what is there without returning the young man’s memory to him. Such must be possible. Why would our enemy be stealing memories if there is not some way to use them?”
“That would be cruel!” Des protested. “Foster knows he can’t remember. What if we damaged his memory in viewing it? Foster might be condemned to never remember.”
“That might be for the best,” Pearl said. “You might feel differently about ‘Foster’ if you had been the one to find him in your room, armed with spells and sword. He was no gentle babysitter then, but a Tiger with fangs and claws.”
“I’ve looked at his weapons and clothing,” Des said, and Brenda thought she heard a note of resignation in his voice. “He certainly was armed for bear … .”
“For Tiger,” Pearl said. “For Tiger and for Rabbit, as he would have come later armed for Rooster and Dog. I admit, the current version of Foster is somewhat appealing: kind to children, possessed of very nice table manners and a certain courtliness of bearing. However, I cannot forget that he has successfully attacked nine of my associates—some of whom, like Gaheris, like Albert, like Shen Kung, are also my friends.”
“You cannot forget,” Des retorted, “that Foster looks rather too much like your father did as a young man.”
“What of that?” Pearl said. “My father was from the Lands Born from Smoke and Sacrifice. He may have been a very apt representation of the type of person who lives there. All the tales we have heard report that the Lands suffered frequent war. Our ancestors were exiled because they were on the losing side of one such conflict. Even after they were exiled, they were still pursued—and not from a desire for reconciliation. Judging from the evidence, the tendency toward violence persists. Foster is a young warrior born in that land, of that tradition, and you want me to treat him like a house cat? Perhaps I might, but only if you find a way to declaw him.”
There was a sound, as of one of the heavy armchairs being pushed back. Brenda darted to the foot of the stair, but continued to listen.
Des sounded tired, and she wondered if he and Pearl had gone through some version of this argument before.
“Pearl, I’m going to bed. Much as I want to figure out how to unlock the crystal, I can’t concentrate now. I’m going to ask if Foster wants me to move into the room that connects with his. I know it’s a risk, but I can’t be part of this isolation policy of yours. I think I’d rather lose my memory—and it means a great deal to me, I assure you—than behave as you would have me do.”
Brenda saw the doorknob start to turn and fled up the stairs, but Pearl’s voice carried clearly through the opening door.
“Your memory? Des, I would take care that you don’t lose your life.”
Back in her own room, Brenda rushed into the bathroom. Eavesdropping had not cured her of her upset stomach, but agitation had definitely moved the problem along. She wondered if she had disturbed Nissa and Lani, but there wasn’t a sound from the other side of the door.
Brenda almost wished there had been. She would have liked to talk about what she had overheard with Nissa. Although Nissa was only a couple of years older than Brenda, early motherhood and the peculiar semicommu-nal lifestyle she shared with her sisters had given her an interesting perspective, even something like wisdom.
Brenda went as far as turning off the bathroom light and opening the connecting door a crack. Soft breathing and the smell of baby powder and grape juice were her only greetings. She shut the door carefully, and retreated into her own room.
She tried lying down and going to sleep, but although her stomach was better, she could not settle. She reviewed what she had overheard again and again. Pearl’s callousness troubled her, but even with Brenda’s interest in Foster, she had to admit the older woman had a point. So did Des, though, especially that bit about considering how Foster’s attitude toward them in the future would be influenced by his current treatment.
Surely treating Foster like a prisoner at first had made sense, especially with having to get him across country and all, but now? Didn’t prisoners get privileges for good behavior? How long before Foster started considering another tactic? If good behavior got him nothing, then he might start acting bad.
Pearl and Des both seemed to have overlooked that even disarmed and without his memory, Foster had a lot going for him. Brenda ran a mental finger over those assets. Foster was strong, muscular, and very graceful.
Foster was observant, quick to offer a hand, especially with Lani, but also with things like setting the table. He was also obviously intelligent, judging from how he had picked up a bit of English with no one but Lani and children’s television as a tutor. At first he didn’t have much more than “hello” and “good-bye,” but he’d started picking up nouns from the television. He’d also gotten “please” and “thank you” down pat, probably because Nissa frequently reminded Lani to use the “magic words.”
Good thing Foster didn’t know they weren’t really magic, especially given what Brenda was learning about the magic of words. What if that triggered some latent memory? Would removing his memory have also removed his ability to use magic?
So if Foster decided that good behavior was getting him nowhere, and he stopped feeling quite so out of place, then he could be a real danger. He could take one of them as a hostage, or decide to run away.
No. Both Pearl and Des were right, but Des was more right. Pearl was acting as if the situation could be held static, but Foster was anything but static. The situation would change, and Des was right. They needed to make sure that when it did, Foster thought of them with as much fondness as possible.
Having reached this conclusion, Brenda immediately felt like a traitor. She was thinking about treating the man who had attacked her father—and Riprap and Pearl and Nissa—with kindness, with accommodation. But she was only going to treat him that way so that they could learn what they needed to return her father to normal. That was all.
Wasn’t it? It was. Brenda’s own perfectly natural attraction to an almost too perfectly handsome man was not an element, especially as she was all too aware of that attraction—and he, equally apparently, was unaware of her.
Brenda forced those thoughts from her head, and found herself again tracking through the argument she’d overheard. What was it that Des had been saying at the beginning? He’d been implying that it would be possible to give Foster the ability to communicate. Obviously, Des meant something other than the fragmented English Foster was already acquiring. That meant magic: either magic to let Foster understand English or to let them understand Chinese.
Brenda rose from her bed and turned on the desk lamp. She got out her lesson notes and spread them out on the desk. One of the things Des had insisted they copy out was a long list of limit hands, since each of these contained in their patterns the concealed form of a spell. Now which ones might work to give someone the ability to speak another language?
At first glance, nothing suggested itself, but Brenda knew she was probably thinking too literally. Would she have thought of Dragon’s Tail as a form of protection? Would she have considered Winding Snakes as a form of noninjurious attack? She needed to stretch, think less literally.
Reviewing the list, Brenda saw that there were several limit hands that involved pairs. That made sense, since getting pairs was, while not easy, one of the more obvious ways various tiles could be grouped. She turned to a blank sheet in her notebook, and started a list.
There was a hand called Four Friends, although Des had noted it was also called Four Blessings. Still, what was a greater blessing than for friends to be able to talk? Brenda noted it down and moved on.
“Knitting” might be a possibility. Knitting involved interlocking patterns. What else?
There were several “twin” hands. They might have the same association as pairs. There were also five or six limit hands involving winds. Breath was wind. Speech was wind. Those might work. She added them to her list.
Too many possibilities, but at least she had somewhere to start. Des had been giving lessons daily. She’d start asking questions about what different limit hands could do. This list would at least give her a starting point for her questions.
Suddenly tired, Brenda folded up her notes and got back into bed. She was asleep almost before her head sank into the pillow, but one stray thought mingled with her dreams.
Des wanted Foster to learn to talk to them. Maybe, just maybe, he’d let something slip—especially if Brenda gave him an opening. She needed to give him an opening … An opening …
Open.
The morning following her latest argument with Des, Pearl sat beneath the ramada in her backyard, stroking Amala and watching Lani play some elaborate game with herself. The yard invited such imaginings. Although not overly large, it featured numerous twisting paths paved in brick. These split and crossed, intersecting and separating, creating the illusion that the tangled growth went on nearly forever. Where a path ended, there was usually some surprise: a small fountain, a statue, an inscribed plaque, a dwarf tree, this often heavy with fruit or flower.
The ramada under which Pearl sat was overgrown with grapevines, their fruit sweet and dark, good for the table. This year’s crop wasn’t yet ripe, but it looked promising. She’d need to speak with Wong the gardener, when next he came by, about some judicious pruning.
Pearl went over arrangements that needed to be made for the continued smooth functioning of her household. Like the chauffeur, the gardener rarely came into the house. One of the paths ended in a charming little potting shed with its own running water. Still, she’d need to make certain that Foster was under wraps when next Wong was due. And she’d need to do something to make sure she didn’t lose her maid service. They took the occasional cancellation well, especially if you let them know in advance, but although all her guests—even Riprap, which had rather surprised her—had proven willing to keep the house neat, still Pearl liked to have the antiques dusted and polished.
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