One more tweak of the bow and the girl announced, “Package is done!” She set it at the edge of the counter, smiled brilliantly. “Sure you don’t want a nice cup of caff?” Another view of her breasts.
Garrett did a slight inclination of the torso. “Thank you, no, GentleLady.” He gave the boy the same bow. “GentleSir.”
“Come in anytime!” she called as he left with a ringing of bells above the door, and he heard Josey’s determined statement. “I’ll be taking over the shop. I’ll convince Mom.”
And as he left with the ring, Garrett reflected on the parallels of this particular case. This time Laev and Josey. He’d met two young males, of widely different backgrounds, with their skills and intelligence dismissed by their relatives. He thought young Josey had finally proven himself to his sister, and maybe to the rest of his family, whoever they might be, at twelve.
Laev T’Hawthorn, FirstFamily GreatLord, a man of thirty-some years, still had to prove himself and gain – regain -- the respect of his relations.
As for Garrett, at about Josey’s age, he’d been doing a man’s job in the stables of the Smallage estate.
Outside the shop, Garrett glanced around, but saw no sign of the FamCats. Using the scry in the glider, he ordered the smallest amount of Earthan catnip on sale for the young calico cat and had a member of the starship crew send it to T’Hawthorn Residence cache with a note for Laev.
He weighed the fancy box and bow in his hand. Now the conundrum facing him was to decide whether to go along with the Family and refuse to reveal the greed or fury, or worse, pettiness, of Laev’s dead wife to the man himself. Or leave the guy with a better image of his late wife.
Not something Garrett would usually worry about. But he didn’t delude himself that this new scandal wouldn’t get out and smear Laev’s and the Hawthorn’s name and pride even more.
If he continued the quest Laev had sent him on, his inquiries would prompt talk and speculation. Gossip.
Like any other social circle, Garrett figured the FirstFamilies would gossip about this. And about Laev, a man who’d just succeeded to a title.
A man who’d made a terrible mistake that the highest lords and ladies might still talk about, one that showed his judgment, at the very least, to be poor ... at seventeen.
But the man and the Family would take a definite hit. Lose honor, lose some of the prestige the former lord with the towering reputation had built.
Garrett had been wrong.
Nobles did have problems. And some that gilt and power couldn’t fix. Even if Garrett discovered every single item the woman had purloined ... had sold or given to her Family, or, even worse, tracked down gifts to her lovers .... Even if Garrett returned all the heirlooms to GreatLord T’Hawthorn -- something Garrett didn’t think was possible -- the fact that his wife had betrayed him in such a shabby manner would hurt the man.
And Garrett liked Laev.
But he’d been hired to do a job. He’d signed a contract, sealed the deal with an arm grasp. So, really no choice.
He had no doubt that after Laev T’Hawthorn moved through his anger and grief, he’d see the implications of what could happen to his Family’s position and influence if Garrett continued to try and recover the missing treasures.
Laev could make that decision.
Garrett had determined the thief and found and returned one stolen heirloom, they could both consider the contract fulfilled.
With a low level dread at having to reveal to his client that his lady had betrayed him, Garrett exited the glider when it pulled up before the impressive front entrance of the castle. He strode up the steps and the elaborately carved wooden double doors over steel swung open. The Residence in action, since not one member of the household stood in the small atrium, nor beyond in the larger hall.
Good with directions, Garrett took the corridor to his left toward the ResidenceDen. “Is T’Hawthorn back?” he asked. If not, he’d leave the box on the man’s desk and make an appointment to meet with him tomorrow. He wanted to get this delivery of bad news over with.
“As you surmise, Laev is in the GreatLord’s ResidenceDen,” the house said and fell silent.
“Uh-huh.” Garrett sped up, taking another turn or two down empty hallways. Human instinct not to be around the boss when misfortune hit.
This time when he entered the ResidenceDen, Garrett became aware of an elegant purple rug showing the Hawthorn tree and shabby at the edges. Mostly he noticed it because Laev stood frowning down at it.
“Nice rug,” Garrett said into the heavy silence.
Laev raised violet eyes to meet his, gestured elegantly. “You want it? It’s yours.”
“Rather be paid in gilt,” Garrett said.
A not-happy smile hovered on Laev’s lips. “This would be in addition to our contractual arrangements. You can take the rug away with you today.”
Cleaning out. “Fine.” Garrett went over and stooped to touch the carpet. With great effort he translocated the rug to his apartment. Then he wiped his sweaty forehead with a softleaf.
“I got the catnip.” Humor showed in Laev’s eyes as strolled to his desk and held up a tiny bag. “For one of the animal informants you use?”
“Nope, for one of the feral FamCats on your estate.”
Closing his eyes, Garrett formed the location image that Calico had transferred to his own mind, sent that mentally to Laev. An instant later the catnip vanished and Garrett heard a telepathic cat squeal of glee. Yes, he and Laev T’Hawthorn worked together well.
Garrett placed the exquisitely boxed package on Laev’s desk, along with the papyrus inventory.
T’Hawthorn glanced at the sheet. “A girl’s ring, a gift to a daughter of the house found and returned. Excellent.”
“Glad you think so.”
For himself, he’d like an emotional blow, bad news, shot quick and clean. “You should sit and brace yourself.”
The lord’s smile faded, his body tensed. He glanced at Garrett then sat behind his desk.
Garrett took a position behind a chair. He might need to make a fast getaway.
“All right,” Laev -- T’Hawthorn with the grim expression -- said.
“Your wife Nivea Hawthorn purloined the items.”
Devastation flashed across the man’s face and he flinched. At some point in time he must have loved his wife, cherished her, and been totally betrayed.
A man who was held to be -- and held himself -- to the highest, most honorable code, had been manipulated and betrayed by a deceitful woman. He’d brought that woman into the heart of a Family too proud to stoop to dishonor.
He sat still, eyes darkening to purple, saying nothing, only absorbing the blow and the various ramifications, and unspeaking for several moments.
Garrett didn’t press him.
“Thank you,” T’Hawthorn gritted.
And Garrett felt the rawness of his pain. “I’ll be going now, and send you an itemized bill for today’s work. You can let me know if you want me to continue--”
“Yes. I do.” The man’s voice sounded downright rough.
“I have other leads and think I can reclaim some -- perhaps most -- of the missing pieces.”
“Good.”
Garrett met the GreatLord’s bleak gaze. He bowed deeply as a mark of respect man-to-man. “Merry meet,” he said, then winced.
A crack of laughter erupted from T’Hawthorn, then he breathed a couple of times as he held Garrett’s glance. “Merry meet, friend Garrett.”
“And I’m thinking you’re definitely glad for me to ‘merry part,’” Garrett said, considered the man whom he’d shocked with such an emotional blow. Laev had taken it, and committed to taking more, doing the right thing for his Family, even though scandal would whirl around him. “Merry part, friend Laev. And we will meet again.”
As friends. Garrett never would have thought it, not of a noble, not of a noble of the highest status.
He used the last of his energy to teleport
away to his warm and homey apartment.
Today’s case had shone a light on his own life, his own past, his nature. Had revealed his own prejudice against nobles, when some were more courageous and honorable than he’d ever expected.
He valued his own station, situation, life more.
And he’d gained a friend.
HeartStones
I was asked by a writer friend to contribute to an anthology: Debris & Detritus, The Lesser Greek Gods Running Amok (edited by Patrica Burroughs, published by Story Spring Publishing L.L.C. of Pekin, IL, in 2017). Since then I’ve revised it slightly and added a new ending. Both Zane and the House, Debris and Detritus, will be featured in another books
HeartStones
424 Years After Colonization, Druida City, Winter
* * *
Something--some sound, some pain kicked him into consciousness. Splintering agony ripped through him. Yes, someone broke his front door. The pang sharpened as it hit the metal hinges of the door, then dulled a bit as the hurt traveled through his walls and floors, then eventually dissipated through his whole three-storied house self.
Pain more than he’d felt ... long, long, long time.
Ssshhh, whispered through him, as a wisp of alive-ness inside him but apart from himself surged. The being trailed energy that soaked into each of his fibers. Riveted, he watched himself mend and grow stronger.
He’s aware!
Then we must withdraw. He can Heal himself.
A while later he turned his attention back from his beams and stones to ponder what happened. A kick brought him to full awareness and kept him there. The kick on his slammed door. His door, part of him. His main portal to the world outside. And odd that he sensed a world outside.
A different type and temperature of air against his rough outer walls than the smooth inner ones.
He began to sense many things, put them in order. Think.
Live.
Primarily, hurt. The smashing of the door hurt. He whimpered and strained and the small pieces of the front door rose and set back in place. Still aching, he sent ... energy .. . into it, soothing himself.
Better.
But still the door didn’t quite fit and a gaping crack let the cold winter air in.
Now silence lived within him instead of the noises. No mumbled words that he’d been aware of for a while and that had stirred him, reminding him of other times and sounds and voices of beings that moved around inside him, vibrating on his floors.
Yes, he remembered other voices, a snatch of back and forth between two beings long ago ... conversation.
His oldest memory--words echoing through him, bouncing off his interior walls instead of soaking into them, then. “If I am debris, then you must be detritus.”
He turned over the syllables, again and again, began to get meaning from them.
Debris and Detritus. He liked those words. Said often within his walls, the words fit him, because they’d shaped him.
Now as he thought them, he tried to form them in sounds. Odd creaks, not like the smooth facility he’d sensed from those who’d originally made the words. But those sounds, the first words said by his own self, echoed through his walls, sank into his stone, seemed to anchor his being.
He was Debris and Detritus.
The concept of self floated through his mind, new and sparkly thoughts.
A vibration outside his walls, outside, heavy, stopped near his broken door--oh! from a mobile being! Additional ideas tumbled through Debris and Detritus’s mind-self. He was not a mobile entity.
That odd being forced the door in, scraping and hurting. Debris and Detritus let wind whistle through his rooms, giving noise to the pain.
“Huh,” the mobile person grunted, bootsteps stomping on the floor, through the tiled hall of the entryway, into the round mainspace of marble. “Yep, definite squatters stayed here. Kicked in the door. Left a lotta trash. I’ll call in a report that I’m doin’ a sweep of the house. That’ll keep me here and out of the police guardhouse until end of shift. Good.”
The new being mumbled a word, one with weight that fizzed the air around it. And Debris and Detritus experienced another recently-remembered sensation, the inside of the mainspace chamber held less dark, became brighter with light.
He liked that.
“What’s this? A hundred silver coin?” The new person made a series of deep sounds and radiated ... amusement. Another concept came to Debris and Detritus’ new thoughts. Laughing.
“Those fliggering squatters left something besides trash here. They’ll sure miss that. And I’ve got it! Only fliggering thing of value in this cruddy building.”
More laughing. “Huh. This’ll come in handy. I’ll stay to end of my shift, follow my regular pattern so they don’t look at me for stealing that brooch. Only twenty more minutes. But then gotta get out of the city with the jewel. Immediately. Live good for the rest of my life.” The bright white bathing his walls vanished from the mainspace.
The air in his rooms changed as the mobile entity traversed every chamber, light coming and going. As the being thumped up his staircase, Debris and Detritus listened to the words coming from the entity.
“No one here in this stupid, trashy, place.”
That made an odd and different pain inside him.
The person kicked more stuff from the center of chambers to along baseboards. “If it weren’t for finding that silver piece, and for giving me a good excuse to hide out alone until end of shift, I’d be long gone from this abandoned and rotting house.”
Debris and Detritus creaked in surprise at more insulting words. He checked, fast. No rot lived within him.
Vibrations back from his third floor down the stairs and into the mainspace, then a ping sounded, a non-being-made noise. Then came a wheezing huff. “That’s it. Shift over. Report in, then teleport straight outta Druida--”
Mumbling, then a whoosh of once-occupied-air and the being vanished from Debris and Detritus’ space. But as he left a clink sounded as something fell onto the marble floor.
Fascinating object, full of pulsing energy, giving a heavier feeling than the true mass of the worked minerals. Debris and Detritus drew it toward his essence, his thinking stones and surrounded it with energy, kept it safe. He liked the feel of it.
Then no more sounds or vibrations, either inside or close to his outside walls. Silence and not-light, dimness and dark, gathered within him and he had much time to recollect the other noises and beings and conversations past, from long ago.
He considered time: minutes, septhours, days, weeks, months, a year.
Terrible event happened perhaps four years ago. Something he disliked--hurt--recalling. The end of the sounds and warmth and light of mobile beings, the beginning of emptiness.
Thoughts feathered at the edge of his brain, that portion of him he understood consisted of his stones.
There had been two mobile beings, persons, people. An old couple who had ... talked to each other? Communicated?
He knew that word now, conversation and communication--ideas sent to other intelligent beings.
He scoured his memory and it flickered like ... like the fire in his fireplace in the mainspace he had once felt, close to his stones. And he felt, then considered, things he’d heard and what the people had read aloud and those words that had echoed in his walls
Debris and Detritus recalled the last deliberate touch of those two, near his stones, and their words. “Shouldn’t be long now, other Houses are Awakening,” the higher voice had said, smoothing a hand over the fireplace surround.
The other part of the couple replied in a deeper voice, “He will reach critical mass soon, of Flair that has sunk into him from this ground and atmosphere of Celta, of all the Flair his inhabitants have given him over the centuries.”
“Like us. We’ve shared our psi-power magic Flair”, said the first.
“Like us. We wanted to stimulate a house to become a Residence, and leave a legacy, and we have don
e so. He will Awake soon.”
A loud breath from the higher voice. “We won’t be here.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
That conversation went around and around in his mind. He had much time to be, and remember and contemplate.
To come to decisions.
He needed ... people.
He needed Family.
Somehow he’d get them. He would keep the next ones who came.
One night later.
Zane Aster had heard a whisper of treasure ... a treasure lost in Druida City.
While on duty, a venal city police guardsman had pinched a jeweled brooch from a GreatLord--a stupid deed. From that Lord’s sentient Residence--an even more unintelligent action, since the Residence eventually figured out who’d stolen the item. And, the worst and final idiocy, the guardsman-thief had misplaced the brooch.
Reward money had been offered.
As he stared into his thick, expensive brew mug, Zane wondered if he’d been supposed to hear that rumor. If it had come to his ears because his Family worried about him.
He sat in a luxurious noble social club frequented by all but the highest of society, his ass cradled by a thick cushion that conformed to his butt, the furrabeast leather chair tilted slightly to accommodate his wretched back.
If he’d been whole, he’d be down in a low-class tavern frequented by sailors and other treasure hunters like himself, but his pride wouldn’t let him go back there in his crippled state.
Glugging down the last of the ale, he acknowledged his Family should worry about him. With his sight fading along with his finding psi-power, his Flair, he wouldn’t give himself good odds of making it to spring.
He might not actually commit suicide, but he wouldn’t take care of himself, and there were plenty of ways to perish if you just didn’t give a damn whether you ate or how much alcohol you drank or what streets you wandered down drunk and wearing expensive clothes.
What he had to look forward to tomorrow was another Healing session. Maybe the Healers would break his spine again, or plump up the pads in his spinal column or something equally nasty he didn’t want to contemplate. The Healers could fix his back ... eventually.
Hearts and Stones (Celta HeartMate) Page 21
