Necessity's Child-eARC

by Sharon Lee

  Mike Golden, who was putting his lunch bowl in the sink to be washed, looked ’round, interested.

  “That’s another tray?”

  Veeno gave him a nod. “Little kid in the waitin’ room. Looks like a cookie’d cheer ’im up.”

  Really? That wasn’t bidness like normal. Streeters kept their kids away from the Bosses, and with good reason. Other Bosses did the same, for even better reasons.

  “Who’s with the Boss?” he asked Veeno.

  “Anthora yos’Galan. On the Undertree List.”

  Boss’ sister, that was. Mike nodded. “Who’s the kid?”

  Veeno shrugged. “Didn’t say. Figured he rode on her ticket.”

  He nodded. “Set up another glass on the cookie tray, willya, Beck? I’ll take it along to the kid. Keep ’im company.”

  Beck nodded and looked over her shoulder to Veeno.

  “You’d best get back on door. Gavit’ll take the tray in when the pot’s ready.” She slid some seed cookies onto a tray with a beaker of redjuice and a couple plastic cups. “Here go, Mike. Ain’t got no proper sweet for the boy.”

  “A plate of your seed cookies? I’d call that a proper sweet!” he said bracingly.

  Beck laughed and slapped him on the arm. “You ain’t no little boy, neither. Get outta my kitchen, now!”

  “I’m gone,” he said—and was.

  * * *

  Syl Vor had chosen a chair with a good view of the doorway and the hall beyond without being directly in the line of sight of someone walking down the hall. The chair he chose was too tall for him, but so were all the chairs.

  He had put his pack on the floor next to him, first retrieving the tea tin. It was warm in the little parlor, and he thought about taking his jacket off, but he didn’t know the house rules regarding guns. He didn’t want to offend his mother’s staff, but he found that he didn’t care for the idea of being unarmed, either. As a compromise, he unsealed his jacket, making sure that the gun was accessible without necessarily being visible.

  That done, he composed himself to wait, tea tin on his knee.

  Aunt Anthora had gone ahead to his mother; she had asked him particularly if she might do so, and of course he had said yes. It was a reasonable request, and, anyway, he was a child and she outranked him.

  Someone passed in the hallway, shadow preceding her—the stern woman who had opened the door to them, shown them to this room, and taken Aunt Anthora to Mother. She was carrying a tea tray, and she did not look into his parlor.

  This seemed a rather quiet house, Syl Vor thought—at least, it seemed so now. The dozen chairs in this waiting parlor might sometimes be full of people wanting to see his mother, who was Boss Nova, and who had agreed to solve for those of Surebleak who had no delm to solve for them.

  He wasn’t exactly sure how it had fallen to those of Korval to solve for—well, for all the world. His tutor, unforthcoming as she usually was on matters of Surebleak, had been adamant upon this point—no one native to Surebleak belonged to a clan or had anyone but themselves to solve for them, or remind them of the forms, or—or to guard their sleep so that enemies did not fall on them unaware.

  That, in Syl Vor’s opinion, was a very bad state of affairs and right it had been of Cousin Pat Rin—for it was Cousin Pat Rin who had brought this work to the clan—to take Surebleak in hand.

  Except…Cousin Pat Rin had perhaps not quite understood how much solving was needed. Maybe, Syl Vor thought, a few of the Surebleak people could be taught to solve, too, and then his mother would not be too busy to come home.

  Another shadow moved in the hall, accompanied by firm steps. Not his mother nor Aunt Anthora, nor the lady who had opened to them.

  Syl Vor sat up straighter in his chair and slid his gun hand down his thigh.

  The steps slowed, the shadow wavered and vanished behind a dark-haired man carrying a tray. He gave Syl Vor a smile and a nod.

  “Afternoon. Ms. Veeno thought you might like a snack an’ some company.”

  Syl Vor relaxed, for here was no threat, but merely the courtesy of the house.

  “Thank you,” he said, in his careful Terran; “a glass of juice would be most welcome.” He skooched forward in the chair until he could slide off the edge and onto his feet. The edge of his jacket caught on the wood and dragged open. He snatched it closed with a quick look, but the man was busy with the tray.

  He put the tea tin on the chair seat and approached the table.

  “I am Syl Vor yos’Galan,” he said, courteous and proper, as Terran custom did not consider clan affiliation to be part of one’s name.

  The man looked up, brown eyes bright. “Silver, is it?” he said interestedly. “Now there’s a pairing you don’t get everyday. I’m Golden myself. Mike Golden.”

  Syl Vor blinked, the Terran words for a moment swirling out of sense—and then he blinked again, rehearing what the man had said, seeing the hint of a smile at the edge of the big mouth.

  “Was that a joke?” he asked sternly.

  The smile got wider. “Quicker’n your ma, there,” he said. “Yep, it was; I’m a sucker for a joke, myself.”

  “It was not a very good joke,” Syl Vor told him. “My name is not silver. Silver is a trade metal.”

  “Well, so’s gold, last I knew about it. Now, something else you’ll want to know is I’m your ma’s ’hand, which means I got her back—an’ yours, too. So favor me by puttin’ the safety on that pistol.”

  Oh. Mike Golden had quick eyes.

  “The safety is on,” Syl Vor told him. “I wanted the gun close.”

  “Can’t fault a man for wanting his protection to hand. Your ma, she don’t like for there to be disorder in the house, and we try to keep it like she wants. Mostly, we keep it zackly like she wants, no worries. Sometimes things slip, though, so it’s good to be prepared.” He picked up the beaker of redjuice.

  “You know about town hospitality?” he asked.

  Syl Vor frowned. “No…?”

  Mike Golden nodded. “Here’s how we do it. I’m gonna pour both glasses from this same jug, here, see? An’ then I’m gonna drink first, to show there’s nothing wrong with the juice. Then I’ll have a bite outta one of Beck’s special cookies. After that’s finished with, an’ assuming I don’t fall down, then you can go ahead and drink, and have as many cookies as you want. Got that?”

  Syl Vor considered the form, chewing his lip. It was not dissimilar, he thought, to one of the Visiting Rules Grand-aunt had taught him from the Code.

  “Is this the rule for all houses,” he asked, “or this house only?”

  Mike Golden smiled as if he had been particularly clever. “Sharp as a tack,” he said. “That’s the rule for all Surebleak houses, Silver. If somebody wants you to drink, and they ain’t doing the same, or if they bring you a glass already full from somewhere else—don’t you touch it, and get outta there as fast as you can.”

  Yes, very like that particular Visiting Rule. Syl Vor inclined his head. “I understand. Thank you, Mr. Golden.”

  “Mike—you call me Mike. Now, here.”

  He poured juice into a glass, raised it and took a long draught. Then he picked up a cookie and bit into it with evident enjoyment. Syl Vor waited for the count of twelve. Mike Golden did not fall down.

  “Now, you,” he said, and filled the second glass with redjuice.

  Syl Vor drank with satisfaction.

  “That is good,” he said. “Boss Sherton sends to us redjuice at House.” He frowned at his error, and looked up into the man’s face. “Your pardon. I mean to say that Boss Sherton sends the House redjuice.”

  “That’s OK,” Mike Golden said. “I gotcher meaning.”

  “Yes, but I must speak properly.”

  “My grandma Dorrie used to say the same thing to me, then give me a swat upside the head so I’d remember it.” Mike Golden bit into his cookie and gave Syl Vor a sideways look. “Maybe you got a grandma yourself?”

  “I have a grand-aunt,”
Syl Vor said. “Her method is…similar.”

  Mike Golden laughed. “I bet it is. So, if you don’t mind my askin’, what brings you to town?”

  The cookies were very good. Syl Vor chose a second one.

  “I must talk to my mother about…having work. Except for the twins—and they are babies!—I am the only one who has no work. I thought, there is so much, here in the town, that my mother and—that my mother comes home very seldom. If I could help her, then she could come home more often, and I would be…of use.”

  Mike Golden blinked.

  “Of use—well, sure. We all wanna be of use. An’ y’know—I got a thought. Let me lay it out for you and you see what you think…”

  Chapter Eleven

  Kezzi and Malda raced up the ramp to the green garden, the little dog yapping with excitement when she reached into her pocket and pulled out his ball. Laughing, she threw it toward the service apron, not into the garden. The last time Memit had caught them playing in the garden, she had boxed Kezzi’s ears, and spoken so sternly to Malda that he had crouched at her feet with his ears wilted and his nose between his front paws. Worse, Memit had then claimed Kezzi for a week of extra-work, weeding, trimming back, and digging.

  Normally, Kezzi liked taking her work-turn in the garden. That week, though, Memit had a Teaching to deliver, and she went at it with such a will that Kezzi’s back ached for days after the work was done, and her fingers were so stiff she could barely hold the deck, much less spread a fan. Then Vylet had been angry with her, and Kezzi had gone to visit the luthia, who gave her a liniment, and asked what she had learned.

  “I learned not to throw Malda’s ball in the garden when Memit is watching,” she had answered, bitterly.

  The luthia had laughed and said, “Well, that is one thing! Dream on it, little sister, and come to me on the morning after the next one. We will drink tea together.”

  That had been how she had become Silain’s student, so there was some good out of Memit’s spite.

  And Kezzi took care not to throw Malda’s ball in the garden, ever again.

  She made the top of the ramp, and here was Malda trotting proudly toward her, head high and stubby tail wagging, the blue ball in his mouth.

  “Bold Malda!” Kezzi cried. “Swift Malda! Bring it, now, and make a gift.”

  The little dog pranced up to her, bowed, and placed the ball between Kezzi’s feet.

  “Well done,” she said, rubbing his ears. She picked up the ball, and he leapt high into the air, ran three steps out, spun in a tight circle, and rose onto his hind legs with a yip that urged her to throw.

  Throw she did, and ran after she had thrown, so that by the time they had raced the length of the service apron three times, she and Malda were panting alike.

  “One more,” she said, “then we must find Vylet.”

  She picked up the ball and threw with more strength than she had intended. The ball bounced once and disappeared into the mouth of a service tunnel, Malda in hot pursuit.

  “Malda!” Kezzi pelted after, stopping at the edge of the tunnel and peering into the blackness beyond. That was strange—twice strange. Not only were the tunnels usually closed with flexwire, but they were lit by the glow-strips running down the middle of the floor and ceiling. The strips in this tunnel were as black as the walls.

  “Malda!” she called again, reaching into her pocket. She heard a scrabbling sound, like a dog’s claws on the stone flooring.

  Her fingers found the cool cylinder of the flash; she pulled it out and pressed the stud, waking a beam of light.

  It was only a small light against a large darkness. Still, it preceded Kezzi by three steps, so she went carefully forward.

  The scrabbling came again.

  Kezzi stopped and snapped her fingers. “Malda! Come!”

  The answer to this was a yip, and a silence long enough for Kezzi to walk nine more steps into the tunnel. She bit her lip. To leave Malda in the tunnel—that she could not do. There were rats in the tunnels, and other strange creatures, who would find one small dog just good enough for dinner.

  Thinking of those other creatures, she was afraid—and that she mustn’t be. To bring Malda back to her, she had to sound strong and stern, like she was a dog so big Malda would think of nothing but doing exactly what that big dog wanted him to do. Also, she needed to so big and so strong that those other creatures would think very hard about showing themselves.

  Kezzi took a deep breath, held it—and heard the scrabbling again, louder and faster this time, moving not down the tunnel—

  But up.

  She swung to the side, keeping the light focused on the tunnel floor. The noise grew louder, and suddenly through the little splinter of light raced a low gray animal pursued by a black-and-tan dog not much larger.

  Claws scraping the stone, they ran past, toward the light at the end of the tunnel. Kezzi thrust the flash into her pocket and ran after.

  The rat skidded to a halt, as if the light of the open garden hurt its eyes. Malda never paused, but rushed forward, grabbed the rat by the back of the neck, snapped it left, snapped it right—and dropped it, limp and unmoving, to the floor.

  Kezzi swallowed, and went forward, pulling her knife out of her belt. She held it ready, just in case—but Malda’s kill had been true.

  She took a breath, then, and forced herself to smile.

  “Good Malda!” she said. “Brave hunter!” She snapped her fingers and Malda left his prize to come forward and have his ears rubbed.

  “Good dog, brave dog. Truly, you are of the Bedel! Come, now, follow!”

  She moved off at a trot across the service apron. Malda hesitated, looking back at the dead rat. Kezzi snapped her fingers again—and the little dog ran after her.

  There was a speaker in the wall of the garden, just beyond the fruiting trees. From it, Kezzi could call the gate-watch. A rat in the tunnel so near to the garden, that was bad. She was sad, for a moment, remembering that Malda’s ball was lost to the tunnel, then shrugged. She would go out into the City Above tomorrow, and get another one.

  * * *

  Syl Vor bowed to his mother’s honor, and straightened, holding the tea tin tight in both hands. He dared a glance at her face from beneath his lashes, so he saw that she was not frowning. That was, he told himself, well.

  She was not smiling, either, but his mother did not smile nearly so often as Aunt Anthora or Uncle Shan. And never so easily as Grandfather Luken. It was a prize, his mother’s smile. A treasure, and not given lightly.

  “My son,” she said now. “I am pleased to see you.”

  Pleased. He relaxed somewhat.

  “Did you not,” she asked, “expect me to be pleased?”

  Syl Vor met her eyes. “I had thought—surprised, ma’am.”

  “Ah.” Her mouth softened—not quite a smile, but definitely not a frown. “I believe the point is yours. I am also surprised.” She moved a hand, showing him the table, and the teapot. “Please, make yourself at ease.”

  “Thank you,” he said, bowed again—too rapidly, because he had forgotten!

  Straightening, he held the tea tin out across both palms.

  “I bring a gift of your favored leaf,” he said, careful of his mode. “I hope that it pleases.”

  Her mouth tightened—again, not a frown—and she stepped forward to receive the tin, and to spend a moment regarding its label.

  “The gift pleases,” she said then. “It is kind of you to recall. Now, my child—sit.”

  He’d left his pack with Aunt Anthora and Mike Golden in the waiting parlor, but he still wore his jacket. His mother did not seem to notice this, and he sat down at the table feeling both nervous and relieved.

  His mother sat in the chair opposite him, placing the tea tin carefully to her right. Syl Vor sighed. Where Aunt Anthora was round and dark, his mother was slim and pale. She had been counted a beauty, so Padi had told him, back ho—on Liad, and added that he looked exactly like her.

&nbs
p; That was a piece of Padi’s foolery, and it had made him laugh.

  “Before we begin, my child, you must allow me to beg your pardon. When I had suggested that we speak face to face, I had not intended to—put you aside, or to belittle your concerns in any way.”

  “I had thought you were busy in the town,” Syl Vor said. “Which is why I came to you.” He hesitated. “Mike Golden said that you’ve been running as fast as you can, just to stay in one place.”

  “An apt man with a phrase, is Mr. Golden. Indeed, it has been precisely so.”

  “His jokes aren’t very good.”

  His mother raised her eyebrows. “Of that, I fear I am no judge. And I am again remiss. May a pour you a cup of tea, Syl Vor-son? Will you have cake? A sandwich, perhaps?”

  “I had redjuice and cookies with Mike Golden just now,” he said, then added, hastily, as he recalled his manners, “A cup of tea would be welcome.”

  His mother poured, and they both sipped, to show, as Grand-aunt had taught him, goodwill. Syl Vor put his cup down, and his mother lowered hers.

  “Now,” she said. “How may I serve you?”

  “It is I who can perhaps serve you,” he said. “I would like to go to school, here in the city.”

  His mother’s mouth dropped open. He had never seen that happen before, and what it might portend, he could not say. Hastily, in case he had overstepped in a way that Mike Golden had not predicted, Syl Vor added—“Or, I might help Mr. Shaper paint his barn.”

  “Mr. Shaper…” His mother closed her eyes for the count of six, and opened them to gaze at him sternly.

  “Mr. Shaper does not always…enjoy company,” she said. “I hope that he has not come to regret us as neighbors.”

  Syl Vor thought about that.

  “I think…not?” he said carefully. “He seems to sincerely regard Grand-uncle Daav. When I met him, he proposed that I help him plant the spring seedlings, and—and declared to Diglon that I had been of use. It was he who said that I might come again, and that the barn wanted paint.”