by M. A. Ray
How was a guy supposed to get cleansed and purified by a mosquito-infested, stagnant bath? It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t stand it any longer, and besides, he wanted to do something he didn’t have to think about, to use his muscles instead of his brain. He always was better at that. He’d already sworn out a bounty on Droshky—the best he could think to do—and made sure the order, stamped with his personal seal in white wax with gold flecks, went out with the post. He’d scheduled interviews for the Director of Medicine’s position. He thought he’d earned the chance to mark something a little simpler off his list, even if it was disgusting.
At last, he found the plate at the center of the bath by its shifting to his probing toes. He pushed it aside to expose the drain, which went to work in a hurry. At least the thing wasn’t covered with a grate, as he discovered when he put his foot into it and nearly fell. He wouldn’t have to stand here with a stick to poke things through.
Krakus waded to the edge of the tub and got out while it drained. He sat in the sun, drying his smelly clothes. The sinking water gradually revealed the walls, which sight tied his stomach in a knot. No, this couldn’t be right. Patches of black and green coated the stone, shining with wet. Penance, Krakus, he reminded himself. It’s penance. Think of it that way and maybe you won’t puke.
It took nearly an hour for the tub to drain completely. It was, after all, big enough for ten monks at once. Before it had finished Krakus had grown bored and started to fetch buckets of clean water from the well in Section Three. He already had a bucket of sand and a bar of brown soap, and a scrub brush besides, not to mention a trowel of the kind the plasterers used: all benefits of making friends with the staff—and, since Nadia had died, he’d started helping them. He was doing it for his sins, but now, all he needed to say was, “I’ve got a project. What do I need to do this?” and the servants sprang to help him. He’d found he liked working with his hands nearly as much as he liked teaching, but beyond that, it was damned good to feel useful now and then, rather than a fat slug who ate, played with silly little toys, and left all the work to someone else.
Now that the tub had drained, Krakus climbed into it again and began on the mammoth task of scraping the layers of horrible off the walls with the trowel. Blobs of algae and bits of mold landed around his bare feet, and he wished he could hold his nose, but that wouldn’t help; his hands had already been in it, and besides, it would just take longer that way. He gritted his teeth, and before too long he’d gotten used to it. He scraped away, and a little while into the afternoon he’d finished with that part of the job, at least.
He used the water in his buckets to rinse what he could down the drain. Now for the scrubbing. He was just getting into it with soap, sand, and scrub brush when young Fillip came along. “Father Krakus, you’ve missed dinner—what are you doing?”
Krakus shrugged and kept scrubbing his way down a section of the stone wall. “I guess I am a bit hungry,” he admitted.
“Father—you—this—”
“Needs to be done.”
“You can’t!”
“Can,” Krakus said, with satisfaction. “Am.”
“But Father!”
Krakus turned to the young Militant, raising two fingers. “You can go away, or you can help. Those are your only two options.”
“Oh, well, I’ll help, of course I’ll help,” Fillip said, hurrying for the steps.
“Hold on. I’d take those boots off, Brother.”
“Oh! Oh. I’ll get another brush, first, shouldn’t I, Father Krakus?”
“Probably.” Krakus looked at the river sand he was using to scrub. It’d tear up a man’s hands; he’d already gotten a couple of abrasions where he wasn’t careful. “Yeah.”
Fillip dashed off across the lawn to the kitchens, calling, “I’ll be right back!” Krakus laughed to himself and fell to scrubbing. Fillip did come right back, and flopped down on the scrubby, summer-bleached grass to pull off his boots and stockings. When he came down into the tub, he looked furtively around before leaning closer to say in an undertone, “This thing’s nasty! What a good idea, Father!”
“My least favorite part of the morning,” Krakus confided, in the same undertone. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be like this, do you?”
Fillip, wide-eyed, shook his head vigorously. “No—no, I don’t think it is, but I don’t know who’s supposed to clean it!”
“We are, I think. The monks.”
“Probably.” Fillip made a face, and they put their backs into it, working clear around the walls by midafternoon. Krakus scrubbed the cornered junctures of walls and floor, and Fillip started on the bottom.
People crossed through the yard on this business or that, but nobody had the poor taste to comment, or the good grace to offer help. That was all right by Krakus. He enjoyed Fillip’s company and his occasional jokes, not to mention the way he laughed at the jokes Krakus told—but then, ever since Krakus had started working with the other Militants, Fillip had been his favorite, and not just because Fillip cleaned his armor and oiled his weapons. He was quieter than most of the young Militants, and shyer, but he was a dab hand with a mace, and getting better with a longsword by the day. Krakus appreciated him. He smiled wider, ate heartier, since they’d become, what? Friends?
Maybe. If he could be friends with someone he so far outranked. If he couldn’t fool himself that Fillip would share real confidences with him, or joke around with him the same way as with the others, at least he could pretend; and if they weren’t exactly friends, they were friendly. It might be nice to have someone with whom position wasn’t an issue, but the only one available for that was—well, it was Lech, and that wagon train had long since—
“Krakus!”
He drew in breath through his nose, which was a mistake. The tub smelled a lot better, but it didn’t smell good by any stretch of the imagination. Krakus stood, well aware that sandy suds dripped off the bottoms of his breeches where he’d been kneeling in the mess, and ran down the fronts of his shins. Lech was fully, formally vested, like always, and sweat beaded on his upper lip. He wore his near-constant smelled-something-foul expression. Krakus wondered if his face really had frozen that way, like Mom had warned. “Yes, Lech?”
“What are you doing?”
He spread his arms, at least until he noticed his brush dripping filthy suds onto Fillip’s neck. He folded them instead. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“It looks as if you’re…” Lech’s face soured even further. Maybe it wasn’t frozen. “…scrubbing.”
“Good eye.” He lowered himself again. His knees hurt like a bitch, he noticed, now that he’d been off them. Sometimes he wished he’d figured things out before he got so old.
“Abasing yourself, when you ought to be—”
“Shut up,” Krakus said evenly.
Lech stiffened. “Your position requires slightly more dignity than a scullion’s, though I am certain you would find the scullion’s job more suited to your abilities.”
“I’m serving how I can.” Krakus scrubbed doggedly at a stubborn spot of black mold. “How did you serve today?”
“I find it ironic that a man who—”
“Look, Lechie, I’ll give you the same choices I gave Fillip here. Either you help, or you go away.”
“You—”
“Standing around making snide comments is not one of your options!” Krakus roared. Lech spun on his sandaled heel, and presented with his back, Krakus couldn’t resist. He whipped the scrub-brush overhand. It smacked between Lech’s shoulder blades, leaving a sandy, filthy smear on his snowy vestments when it fell.
Lech squawked and staggered. He whirled on Krakus with a look like a freezing blast.
Krakus smiled sunnily.
“Don’t be late for service,” Lech snarled, and he turned again and stormed away, arms rigid at his sides, hands in white-knuckle fists.
Krakus struggled up again and reached out of the tub for his brush. “As
shole,” he muttered, returning to his work.
Fillip choked on a laugh.
Tai
Windish
Dingus’s heart hammered. He lay on his back, listening to rain spatter off the oiled canvas of his tent and trying to slow his breathing.
The hanging dreams were the worst ones. During the day, he could forget what had happened outside Thundering Hills, but at night it roared back to eat him alive, and he felt the rope closing off his air. He saw Curran’s face, twisted, disgusted that Dingus should waste his time. Tonight, though—it could’ve been worse.
He could’ve been Tai.
He had to admire the little Ishling, if for no other reason than Tai had survived. The last six days, he’d been out to Sodee Market every noon. Tai could disappear like a sparrow in a bush, but after Dingus found him three days running, he didn’t even try to hide, probably ’cause meeting up with the “crazy Big” meant he got all he could eat. That was all he’d take, though. Dingus had tried, two days ago, to give him a new tunic. It didn’t go over well. Tai had refused, saying, “I is get in trouble for take it,” which had baffled Dingus. Why would anybody get in trouble for having clothes that didn’t look like holey gray cheese?
He’d demanded to know where Tai’s parents lived, but Tai, he’d learned, didn’t have parents. No dad, which you could survive without, he and Kessa were proof of that—but no ma either? No big-mama, like Tikka was, to rule the house like they did in Windish, and nobody like Vandis, nobody at all who cared about him. Instead, Tai had Laben, who took what he stole and gave him a leaky roof in return, and a few other Ishlings in the same boat; but when Dingus asked to be taken to Laben, Tai flatly refused and wouldn’t discuss it, not one word more.
I have to do something, he kept thinking. It’s in the Oath, right there, about four different ways. Even if it wasn’t I’d have to do something. Just don’t see what I can do. What he wanted was, he wanted to grab Tai and bring him back to the camp and just—keep him. Dingus was pretty sure the Lady wouldn’t think much of that attitude, nor Vandis. Tai was little, and if he got cleaned up he’d be cute as hell, but he wasn’t a pet, he was a person.
Dingus wouldn’t be here forever. Vandis would return in about a fortnight, and then they’d get back on the road. His Master had been making noises about Oasis, and he wanted to see it, definitely wanted to see the houses made of mud brick, or set into the cliffs in artificial caves. A few days ago he would’ve said he couldn’t wait to lay eyes on a new place, eat new food, explore new countryside—but now, on top of the constant, dull worry about Vandis hovering in the back of his mind, he worried about Tai, too, and that was a knife he kept testing with his thumb no matter how well he knew it was sharp. When they left Windish, he’d probably never see Tai again. He couldn’t give the Ishling anything that would last. From what Tai said, Laben would take away anything Dingus gave him, and the food didn’t last at all; it got eaten up and shat out, and that was the end.
Dingus would have to give something nobody could touch or steal, and the only way he could think to do that was to teach Tai something. It’d have to be something that didn’t need equipment, except maybe the knife he knew Tai carried. Fungus would be easy, but there were plenty of mushrooms that’d make even a big human dirty-dog sick, and some that were deadly poison. Some of them looked a lot like the ones that were good to eat, too. He didn’t want to teach Tai to gather something good and have him stuff himself on death angels instead as soon as Dingus disappeared over the horizon. And Tai was smaller than, or the same size as, plenty of the available game. Besides, chances were, anybody’d get sick if he ate uncooked squirrel. But fish—that was easy, and in a pinch it could be eaten raw.
Grandpa had taught him fishing first thing. He’d learned how to tickle trout even before he’d known how to build a safe fire. Plus, it was fun, and as a bonus for him, Tai would get clean in the water. He didn’t like to say so, since Tai couldn’t help it, but the Ishling stank to high heaven, sweat and butt and Lady knew what else. Fishing would just about do it, Dingus decided. He rolled to his side, shut his eyes, and fell asleep with a smile.
By dawn, the rain slackened into drizzle, but by about dinnertime it was still going, and Kessa begged to be allowed to stay in camp. He extracted her solemn word, hope to die, that she wouldn’t go anywhere and set off for Sodee Market by himself.
When he got there, he didn’t find Tai in any of the places he’d learned to look, so he found one of the long, flat rocks that served as benches—near the bridge, but under the trees, not too open—and sat down to wait. He watched the traffic ease by: the taller human traders, with their wives; Ish women in clean tunics on a lunch break from whatever job they held; Ish men in sweaty ones doing the same; girls taking a break from school and boys trying to flirt; couples young and old. The ones he watched, to be honest, were the graying or white big-mamas with mobs of Ishlings skipping, all-footing, and piggybacking all around them: squealing, jumping, giggling Ishlings with soft, clean fur. He drew up his knees and crossed his forearms over them.
The Ishlings made him smile, but then he thought about it and his face fell. He didn’t understand how some little ones could be so valued, so loved, and some were nothing, less than nothing, not even noticed. Twice he saw Bigs get their purse strings cut by filthy little creatures that disappeared before anyone could catch them, or even see that it had happened. They were gone before Dingus could mark where they’d run to. Maybe he should’ve said something, but not everybody would understand the position those Ishlings were in, or care to. All they’d care about was that somebody’d stolen from them and seeing the thief punished. Maybe he was wrong not to stop the little ones, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was punishment enough to be an orphan in Windish. He’d had a shitty time of things growing up, but at least he’d been loved. Grandma and Grandpa never once made him feel they didn’t want him. He knew Ma hadn’t wanted him, but she loved him too, in her fucked-up way at least. These kids, though—nobody and nothing. It hurt just to think about.
A little after noon, he saw Tai poke his head out from behind one of the trees. He eased out to the side, slow, clinging to the bark with his long toes, and sat there in the shadow at a Big’s waist level. Dingus gave a little whistle, and when Tai glanced over he pulled his hood back just enough that the Ishling could see his face.
Tai scowled in a way only Ish could scowl, baring tiny fangs, and Dingus grinned. Tai shut his coal-black eyes in exasperation and sank against the tree, sighing visibly; then he put his knife away and jumped down into traffic. A moment later he hopped onto the bench. “What’s giving, crazy Big?” he demanded in his chirpy little voice.
“Here to see you, that’s all.”
“Without Kessa?”
“She said it’s too wet, but I don’t mind.” Dingus smiled.
Tai considered. “What you is feed me? Is we get noodles? I is loving noodles.”
“I love ’em, too, but how ’bout we do something different today? I wanna show you something my grandpa showed me.”
“Outside market, is you mean?” When Dingus nodded, Tai shook his head vigorously. “Uh-uh, that idea, it’s bad.”
“You sure?”
“I gots to stay here.” The Ishling grimaced.
“You could even hitch a ride on my back,” Dingus offered, hoping he’d be able to turn somebody up sweet for once.
“Babies do like that.”
“Or real little guys who got real big guys for friends, and they want to go someplace.”
Tai glanced around. “Oh, now we is friends?” he said, in a sarcastic tone almost as good as Vandis’s.
“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
“Maybe.” He looked around once, twice more. “Just now. Not again.”
Dingus hoped he’d be able to convince Tai more often than that, but he didn’t say so, only stuck his thumb out and pointed at his back. “Hop on.”
Tai leapt up and draped his pin arms over one o
f Dingus’s shoulders. Little fingers and toes curled into his jerkin; one foot wedged into his armpit.
“Ha ha—that tickles!”
“Hee hee,” Tai cheeped slyly, and wiggled his toes to draw another laugh—but he moved the foot afterward. Dingus stood, stuck his hands in his pockets, and walked out across the bridge to the road. Tai didn’t weigh a thing, maybe as much as Dingus’s brush knife, the one Vandis had given him when he got his leaf, but the tiny body was rigid with tension. After a while, Tai said, “Zeeta, she is tell me I isn’t talk to you. Bigs is trouble, she is saying, and I is thinking she’s right. Here I is, leaving market on a Big’s shoulder.”
“You wanna go back?”
“No,” Tai said, grabbing his jerkin so hard it pinched the skin underneath.
“Just making sure.” He ducked off into the trees. “You ready? Hang on tight now.”
“Huh!”
Figuring to teach Tai a lesson, Dingus stretched out into a loping run, and then a flat sprint. Tai shrieked with fright and plastered himself on. “Hang on tight,” he warned again, just before he went airborne over a little gully. This time, Tai listened; he let out a delighted squeal that Dingus could swear tore a hole in his eardrum.
“So fast!” Tai cried. His voice sounded even squeakier with glee.
“Told you it’d be fun,” Dingus said, and ran on, pleased with the happy cheeps and chirps all the way to the spot he’d picked out. There was a nice crick chuckling along in his path, and up just a bit there, a short waterfall. “Here we are.”
“What’s here?” Tai asked next to his ear, disgusted. Dingus had thought it was a pretty place: dark rocks, clear water, and all around, the green.
