by Sharon Lee
“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 Road.”
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 the booths, just about…”
Syl Vor stared at the map, finding the toll-booths, 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. OK?”
Anna was silent for the time it might take somebody to sigh, feelingly.
“Yes,” she said, and lifted the pointer again, touching the Junk Heap. “To not climb the fence, you walk, this way, around half, then to the road, turn on the right hand, and back to the corner by the rag shop.”
Syl Vor blinked, and looked up at her. She spoke as if she had walked the street in question not once but many times.
But Finder’s Junk Heap was in Marriot’s turf, which was six turfs over from Wentworth’s.
“Thank you, Anna,” Ms. Taylor said composedly. She held out her hand. “Please throw the pointer to me. Gently. Thank you.” She tucked it into her pocket.
“We’re running a little behind today, class. Let’s get some lunch and see if we can catch up!”
* * *
Rafin himself verified Droi’s measurements, and with a surprisingly gentle hand. He then returned to the alcove, and Pulka, whereupon the two took up their discussion, enlivened by much waving of the hands, and the occasional loud exclamation.
Rys watched it all from the chair Udari had found for him—a splendid thing of smooth, varnished wood, the seat and back woven leather, the whole comfortably balanced on rockers, that gently accepted the guidance of his good leg.
So it was that he sat, and rocked, drank the tea that Udari brought him, and eventually drowsed, until Rafin’s sudden shout brought him wide awake, nerves tingling.
“Enough! We dream as one! Let us now gather what is needed.”
Udari, who had been sitting on a rug at Rys’ right, sipping tea and observing the comedy, came to his feet at that, and extended a hand, as if to help him up.
Rys grabbed his crutch and came out of the rocking chair, clumsy, even given the strength of h
is brother’s arm.
“We, too, Brothers.” Udari said.
Pulka stopped in his headlong rush and blinked at the two of them.
“You, certainly, Brother,” he said. “But for Rys to undertake such a journey…”
“Why should the fighting cock not come with us?” Rafin shouted. “The journey and what we find at the end of it are in his service, eh? Let him come!”
“He will slow us,” Pulka protested.
“He! Oh, he’ll keep up, won’t you, my cock?” Rafin slapped his thigh and roared laughter. “Keep up? He’ll be there before us!”
He turned and strode away, past the forge. Pulka shrugged, and cast a glance at Udari.
“Come, then,” he said brusquely and departed in the noisy wake of Rafin.
“Where are we going?” Rys asked.
“Into the City Above, to Finders Junk Heap,” Udari said, pacing him.
Rys stopped, swallowing hard in a throat gone tight. His face was hot; his hands were cold.
“Brother?” Two paces ahead, Udari turned to look at him.
“The City Above,” Rys managed, his voice rasping, and shivered, hearing the sound of air parted by a mighty wing.
“I—” cannot withered on his tongue. He had observed betimes that he seemed to be a proud man. He had not previously understood that he was a fool.
Despite he did not say the word, Udari seemed to hear it. His face softened and he came back to stand by Rys and place a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You need have no fear, in the City Above. The ones who beat you have long since gone away. If any should try to make you their sport—why, you will be with your brothers, who do not hesitate to use their knives in a brother’s defense.”
From somewhere—from nowhere—from the murkiness inside his head, a pattern arose. He attended it in some fashion that felt both entirely natural and wholly alien. His breathing smoothed, his heartbeat slowed.
Fear receded.
“What do we want,” he was able to ask sensibly, “at this…junk heap?”
Udari was seen to smile, just slightly.
“Metal and fittings and those other things that shared dreaming has revealed.” He paused, then added, very gently, “It is as Rafin says, Brother; you should be part of this, as what comes of it will be part of you.”
“I agree,” Rys said, calmly. Thin though his knowledge of metals seemed to him as he stood here, had he not learned that it was possible he knew something of use, which would rise from the murk when it was needed?
And the dragon? It was as Udari said—he was not alone.
“I thought you would agree, bold heart. There are hats and jackets hung at the gate. Use what you need.”
“Yes,” said Rys and smiled up into Udari’s face. “Thank you. Brother. Let us go.”
Chapter Twenty
The yellow-haired boy with the glass-blue eyes possessed a remarkable thing. A thing of dreams.
He had…a pen.
Not just any pen, but a pen that wrote in four different colors, depending on which button was pushed on the barrel.
The moment she saw it, Kezzi knew that she had to possess it. Indeed, it seemed that it was hers, so familiar was it to her eye. Her fingers ached to hold it, and she desired it with her whole being.
The shared meal had taught her that it was very easy to steal from these gadje. Perhaps it was because they were young. Or perhaps they were only stupid.
She was patient, bending her head above the paper she shared with the yellow-haired boy, pretending to study the words printed there, and nodding whenever he drew a line—a red line between words that had the same meaning, and a green line between words that had an opposite meaning. Time and again, a heavy bracelet would peer out from under his sleeve, and he would immediately push it back into hiding again. It seemed a rich thing for a boy to have, but nowhere near as enticing as the pen.
In good time, her patience was rewarded. The Ms. Taylor called for their attention on the screen. The boy put his pen down and obediently lifted his head. Kezzi leaned forward, her eyes on the screen while she fingered the pen into her palm, and slipped her hand to her lap—
Fingers closed around her wrist, strong fingers for all they were so thin. She met the gadje’s blue eyes.
“That,” he said in a fierce whisper, “is mine.”
“It is mine now,” she answered haughtily.
His mouth thinned. “No. It belongs to me.”
“Well, I need it.”
The blue eyes narrowed.
Before she knew what he was about, he had slipped his other hand under hers, twisted the pen out of her grip, released her wrist, and again turned his head toward the screen. The coveted pen was now held firmly in his fist.
Kezzi drew a hard breath and sighed it out noisily.
“Anna?” The Ms. Taylor said from the top of the room. “Would you like to tell the class the difference between inflate and deflate?”
* * *
Rys leaned against a toothy boulder of broken crete, having been sternly warned away from the fence, which held a charge, so he surmised, except for those few heartbeats after it had been touched by the device Pulka had pulled from his belt.
He had not, after all, slowed them very much, though the effort had cost him. He was clammy with sweat, his muscles were aquiver, and his face burning. He very much wished for the quiet rocker in Rafin’s shop, and a cup of bitter Bedel tea in his hand.
Yet still, there had accrued some good to his account. Rafin had been seen to smile, and Pulka heard to grunt softly in what was understood to be approval as he crossed the fence in Udari’s wake.
And then there was this place, itself.
A treasure-trove, this so-called “junk heap,” and more neatly filed than his understanding of “heap” encompassed. Not that it would ever be mistaken for a porcelain shop, but there was order, of a kind. Metal was sorted with metal, wood with wood, stone with stone. Within each large category, some attempt had been made at a more detailed catalog: rebar was bunched together, and piping; wires and rope were coiled by weight; tubes and small electronics were piled into half-barrels and roughed-together bins.
Among this bounty, his brothers prowled, on the hunt among the piles of treasure, for he knew not what. From beyond the yard came the sounds of vehicles passing on the road, and some few footsteps; a laugh, sharp and short. If there was a keeper of this heap, he was engaged elsewhere. Or perhaps Rafin had a draw account.
“Brother?” Here was Udari, coming back to him, bright copper coiled ’round his arm like a warrior’s wristlet, and a spool of dull grey wire in his hand.
Rys found a smile and pushed away from his support, willing overworked muscles to bear him; shivering as a breeze slipped chilly fingers down his collar.
“I come,” he said. “I only needed a moment to rest.”
Udari smiled. “A moment and a day you will have of rest, your brother swears it to you. But first, your eye and your wisdom are needed on the gifts we stand among. Pulka would have the thing done sturdily, which you know means it will weigh more than you and I together. Rafin cares nought; his art is in the crafting.”
“And it is, after all,” Rys said, giving more of his weight to the stick than he usually cared to do, “for my benefit.”
“There you have it.”
Udari, seeing him on his feet and stirring, faded back into the mysteries of the heap. Rys continued onward, toward the rusted piles of metal, trying to envision what might be crafted from such rough fare. He was not, alas, a worker in metal, or an artisan of any kind, such as Rafin and Pulka must be. Repairs, yes, and rough carpentry, much like the knocked-together boxes just here, enough to hold cuttings for compost, or a load of sweet soil for mixing ’mong the roots. But—
A flash of blue and silver caught his eye, not stacked with the sharp, dark metals, but there, in a box of transparent tubing, beneath a scattering of thin glass bulbs in various colors, a shine of blue, a glint of si
lver…
“Well, little cock, what have your bright eyes seen?”
Rafin leaned past him, shifted the glass with care, and brought out a rough knot of mingled blue and silver metals, the whole thing slightly larger than Rys’ head. He sighed. Two metals had melted and fused, so it seemed to him, and if anything worthwhile could be made from either…
“By the blood of the Bedel,” Rafin breathed, “you have eyes, do you not, little one? This…” Strong teeth showed in a dark, angular face, as he held the ragged lump up and shook it. “This will do, I think. Eh? Eh?” The grin became a shout of laughter that rang metal piled about.
The knot of blue and silver vanished into Rafin’s bag. He bent again and chose a length of tubing and several of the glass bulbs, which also vanished into the bag.
He then slipped a hand under Rys’ elbow and guided him to a relatively smooth block of stone.
“Rest you here; your work is done. Your brothers will garner what supplies we yet lack.” A rough pat on his shoulder, as surprising as it was gentle, and Rafin was gone.
Rys settled on the block, sighed—and sat straight up.
Somewhere nearby a dog barked—a familiar high yip that brought him to his feet.
“Malda!” he called, and heard the yip again, closer now.
From across the yard came Pulka’s voice, rough in what must have been a curse. “If that girl has followed us on brother-work—”
“No!” That was Udari.
Rys saw him stride to Rafin’s side and thrust his gleanings into ready hands.
“The dog is alone. Hold these, Brother. I will bring him in.”
* * *
The Ms. Taylor had called dismissal. All the young gadje, talking and laughing, with Kezzi silent in their midst, filed to the bottom wall, took their coats down and pulled them on.
Kezzi sealed her coat, and followed Desi up the row along the wall to the hallway. Soon! Soon, now, she would be free. She would return to the kompani, and she would never leave again—never!
Well…for at least a long week. Or two. Bitterly, she regretted not having gotten the colors before Mike Golden had forced her here. Two long weeks might have been well-spent, tracing out and coloring her cards.
