Necessity's Child-eARC

by Sharon Lee

  Twisting in Mike Golden’s hand, she faked a stumble. He went to one knee with her, his grip firm, but that was all right, the only thing she needed to do was drop a single word in Malda’s up-perked ear.

  “Ezat.” Help.

  Malda yipped once, spun, and raced off the way they had come.

  Mike Golden never faltered.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “I’m not hurt,” she answered, allowing herself to be brought to her feet. She looked up into his face. “I don’t want to go there.”

  He sighed, his brown gadje eyes seeming sad. “We been through this, right? It’s school or jail. You chose school. For what it’s worth, I think that’s the good choice, and I think you’re gonna enjoy yourself. Just gotta go in, is all. Give it a try. Can’t hurt.” He tipped his head. “Your dog gonna be OK?”

  “He knows the way home,” she replied, and he nodded.

  “Right, then. Let’s go, Anna.”

  He exerted pressure, and she went. There was no use fighting him, when he could easily carry her, if he decided to do so.

  And wherever she was going, Kezzi thought, she preferred to go on her own two feet.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Where do we walk today, Brother?” Rys asked Udari.

  Some six paces back their path had deviated from the well-known route to Pulka’s hearth, and Udari, usually so informative, had said nothing. Perhaps, Rys thought wryly, there was proper work of men to be done, and he had been called to it. He had, after all, only assumed that they were bound for Pulka and another session of tea, and smoke, and half-sketches made in chalk on the hearth-stones. Sketches that were more often than not rubbed out, while more tea was poured, and the pipes refilled.

  “Today, we go to the forges, where you will come to know our brother Rafin.”

  “And has my brother Rafin work to which I might set my hand?”

  Udari considered that in silence as they turned onto a ramp that tended, ever-so-slightly downward. Rys swung along beside, having grown accustomed to Udari’s silences, and minding how he set his crutch on the slope.

  “It is possible that Rafin will discover tasks for all of us, in time. Just at first, though, Brother—a word in your ear. At first, Rafin may be a bit short in his temper. It’s his way. Possibly, he will send us from his hearth. It has happened that he has cast brothers forth. If it should chance to happen today, be of firm heart. Firmness speaks to Rafin, and perseverance, which your brothers have in abundance.”

  “But,” Rys said carefully. “What do we attempt?”

  “What do we attempt?” Udari laughed. “The design is complete, so Pulka insists, and who would know better? There is no one in the kompani who can match or come near Pulka’s designs! What else should he do, then, but bring his dream to the best builder among us?”

  So, the talk and the smoke and the countless pots of tea had borne fruit? Yet, where was this design?

  “Does Pulka meet us,” he asked carefully, “with the rendering of the design?”

  “We will find Pulka at Rafin’s hearth,” Udari said composedly, which was a less complete answer than Rys could have wished. However, just then, the ramp took a turn and angled more sharply downward, and he was obliged to pay close attention to his balance, leaving other questions unasked.

  - - - - -

  “Damned if I will!” A voice rolled down the narrow tunnel, echoing off the walls like the sea.

  If it were Rafin moved to such a pronouncement, Rys thought, it would seem that Pulka’s design had not found favor.

  “Damned if you don’t!” Yes, that was Pulka, his voice recognizable even at such a pitch.

  Rys planted the tip of his crutch carefully against the tunnel’s molded floor, and shifted his weight onto his good leg.

  “I hear our brothers at prayer,” Udari said from behind. He patted Rys lightly on the shoulder. “There is nothing out of the ordinary here, Brother. Nothing to concern you. Come, let us add our blessings to the occasion.”

  More shouting rumbled along the walls, the words unintelligible. Perhaps they were spoken in the Bedel language, in which Rys was in no wise fluent. Perhaps it was simply that volume overtook sense. He was not much inclined to go forward into the din. Had he been alone, he would have turned and sought Silain’s hearth again, or made the long journey to the garden to offer his hand to Memit.

  However, he was not alone, and he had come into the habit of trusting Udari, who was never anything but gentle in their dealings, and who had indeed shown him a brother’s care.

  So it was that he let the crutch take his weight and continued on toward the rumbling racket, with Udari walking a little in advance, shoulders stiff, despite his tone of amused affection.

  A light showed ahead, brighter and broader than the spots in the tunnel’s ceiling. The shouting had stopped now, the walls were informed with a low hum, like an engine idling. Udari walked on and so, perforce, did Rys—to the end of the tunnel, into a wide, vaulted room. In the room’s center, fire roared in a forge twice Udari’s height, pipes crisscrossing above it, taking off heat and steam, it was certain, though the destination of those elements was not immediately apparent.

  “A blessed day to you, Brothers!” Udari said cheerfully, walking toward the two men by the hearth—Pulka, bald and plump, his face red in the heat. The other man was stripped to the waist, showing a well-muscled belly and dark skin slick with sweat.

  It was the second man who turned to Udari with what came to Rys’ ear as a curse, despite the fact that he did not know the words.

  “There’s no need of that!” Pulka snapped. “Udari has a brother to care for, whatever you—”

  “A brother, is it?” The lean, angry man—Rafin, surely—spun fast, one hand snatching Udari’s arm and pulling him, unresisting, closer to the dangerous flames.

  “What means of man brings a gadje to the kompani as a brother, Udari of the Bedel?”

  “A man of heart, Brother Rafin,” Udari answered, his voice calm, and his shoulders tense.

  Rys moved forward, deliberately, any noise his crutch might make against the floor hidden in the fire’s dull roar.

  “A man of heart brings a mewling broken kitten of a gadje into the kompani, calls him brother and seeks repair for wounds too terrible to bear. A man of action—attend me well, Udari of the Bedel!—” Rafin yanked the younger man forward, overbalancing him, so that he steadied himself with one hand on Rafin’s naked shoulder. Rafin’s face, sharp cheekbones, strong brow, and prominent hooked nose, was very nearly cheek to Udari’s cheek.

  “A man of action,” Rafin said, his voice low and rough, “would have prevented what pain he might, bestowing a blessing, and holding the kompani close.” He tightened his grip and Udari’s boots gritted on the floor as he sought his balance. “A man of action cannot change what a man of heart has done, but I swear upon—”

  “Let my brother Udari go,” Rys said, hearing his voice calm and cold against the heated roar of Rafin’s forge. “Brother. He is unbalanced and will do better without your aid.”

  Rafin turned his head; his eyes were a hot blue in his lean, dark face. For a long moment, the room was silent. Even the fire seemed to cease its growl.

  Then, Rafin thrust Udari back. The slighter man spun like a dancer, perfectly balanced, keeping a wary eye on Rafin.

  Rys eased his weight onto his good leg. Having released Udari, it naturally followed that Rafin would turn his attention, and his emnity, to the man who had demanded it.

  He had, Rys reminded himself, dry-mouthed, wanted that.

  He took a deep breath and felt a certain coolness flow into him. The man before him was tall, his big hands in fists, standing tall well-balanced on two sturdy legs.

  Yet, Rys thought, as the coolness flowed and deepened, he was not himself without resources.

  He shifted his grip on the crutch, and surreptitiously flexed his other arm, testing the heft of the splint.

  “You!” Rafin snarled.
“Do you think that I—I, Rafin!—will build a leg for you? That I will not, little gadje. Heed me; I will not. Nor will I call you brother, or give you any soft word or gentleness such as my brothers-born might have from me.”

  “You have, in fact, taken me in dislike,” Rys said, from a center so cold it might have been said to be ice.

  “Dislike?” Rafin gave sharp snap of laughter. “You are unnatural, gadje, do you know it? You are a dead man, yet you…walk, let us make it. You have no place in life, and yet you seek a place in the kompani.”

  He had moved, two small, stealthy steps. Rys stood his ground, balance assured, holding himself ready. Without question, Rafin would make a move—Udari thought so, too. From the side of his eye, Rys saw Udari dance one step forward, as if he would intervene, only to have his arm caught and held by Pulka, who signed something quick and low with his off-hand.

  “What you may have from me, little gadje, is what any dangerous vermin may have.”

  Rafin extended, his arm coming out and down, like a branch falling, and like a branch falling it would break what it struck.

  Rys gave his weight to his good leg and threw the crutch up, meeting Rafin’s arm with an audible crack. The man spun to the side, wide-open, depending on speed, reach, and reputation to win his point. Rys did a quick calculation, and swung the crutch again, clipping Rafin smartly above the ear. Deliberate, that blow—hard enough to give pause—but not hard enough to kill.

  Rafin dropped back a step, and raised a hand.

  “Hold,” he said, rubbing his head with the other hand.

  “Hold,” he said again, and walked to the right, circling Rys, where he stood braced, his thoughts cold and clear, waiting. If Rafin rushed him from behind, he must drop to his better knee and sweep the crutch to knock the other off his feet, then jam the point of the crutch into the vulnerable throat, for the kill. If he lost the crutch, there was the splint left for a weapon.

  “So.” Rafin was standing before him again, hard hands behind his back. He glanced aside, to Pulka and to Udari, and used his chin to draw their attention to Rys.

  “Behold him, Brothers, as he stands there, one-legged, fending off a wolf of the Bedel with his crutch, eh? Eh?” He slapped his hands on his thighs and laughed as noisily as he had cursed.

  “I see it!” he said, looking to Udari. “Brother, I see what you saw! Even a man of action might love the tiny cock, fire in his eye and one wing trailing.” He slapped his thighs again.

  “I will do it!” The duct-work rang with his shout. “By the blood of the Bedel, I will do it! Come, Pulka! I would dream what you have dreamed.”

  The two moved aside, away from the forge, toward an alcove and the table set there.

  Rys closed his eyes as the icy surety melted and flowed away, leaving him overheated and shaking, his heart pounding in his ears. He sagged on the crutch—and snapped straight, eyes opening as he sensed a body within reach.

  “Brother.” Udari extended a gentle hand and touched Rys on the shoulder. “Brother, you played that exactly! You have won Rafin’s help.”

  “But not his brotherhood,” Rys said. His stomach was churning. He feared he might shame himself, and—where had those thoughts come from? He asked himself. The detailed series of moves that would end a man’s life, framed in a clarity as hard as crystal.

  “Rys?” Udari murmured.

  He drew a breath. “I believe…that I need to sit down, Brother.”

  * * *

  The door opened into a small room that smelled sweet and smoky. There was red rug under Kezzi’s boots; and a red lamp hanging from a chain.

  To her right, she glimpsed a larger room with yellow covers on the chairs; the red rug had yellow flowers woven into it, and there was a branch with yellow cloth flowers tied to it in a bowl on a wooden table. Somewhere in the part of the room she couldn’t see, she heard a man’s voice, followed by a woman’s laugh, and a dry rustle.

  Ahead, the red rug ran down the center of a narrow hall, somewhat more brightly lit by wall lamps in white and yellow.

  To Kezzi’s left was another door, and this now opened. A man stepped through, sock-foot, brown-haired, and rumpled, with a red mark on his pale cheek, sleep heavy in his eyes.

  “Who—Oh. Mike. ‘Mornin’.” The man pulled his shapeless gray sweater closer around him, and yawned.

  “’Mornin’,” Mike Golden said. “Rough night?”

  The other man, and raised a slender hand to his cheek to rub the red mark.

  “Fell asleep on the ’counts book,” he said with a shy smile. “Don’t tell Ms. Audrey, now.”

  “Not a word,” Mike Golden said. His fingers tightened briefly on her shoulder; he might have glanced down at her—the other man did, and smiled.

  “Hey, honey. What’s your name?” he asked, his voice pitched slightly higher than it had been for Mike Golden. It was, she realized, the voice a certain kind of gadje used when they talked to Malda, and asked if he was a good fella.

  “Anna,” she said, and gave the man the other smile Vylet had taught her.

  “You’re a real cutie,” he said, giving her back the exact same smile. “I’m Sheyn. You come find me when you get tired of Mike. I’ll take good care of you.”

  “She’s here for school,” Mike Golden said from behind her, his voice sounding growlier than usual.

  “Oho!” Sheyn winked broadly, like Pulka when he was teasing her. “You’ll like Jansy. All the girls do.”

  “Sheyn.” That was Mike Golden again.

  “Hey, don’t get mad, Mike.” Sheyn aimed Vylet’s other smile over Kezzi’s head. “You won’t flirt with me—how else am I gonna practice?” He raised a hand, showing a soft, white palm. “Never mind. You know where you’re going. I gotta get back to the ’counts.” He looked at Kezzi and smiled again—not at all like Vylet, but like Udari, sweet and kind. “Study good, Anna.”

  “All right,” she said, gravely, and moved in obedience to the pressure of Mike Golden’s fingers—forward, down the narrow hallway.

  * * *

  They’d put the chairs back in order, and settled into them, Syl Vor sitting quietly between Desi and Jeff.

  “You really OK?” Jeff asked, speaking indistinctly out of the side of his mouth, while Ms. Taylor fiddled with the desk controllers. “Looked like you banged your knee pretty bad.”

  “I am OK,” Syl Vor assured him, and added, “thank you for your care.”

  Jeff shrugged. “Whatever. Just—if it swells up, you put snow or ice on it, ’k?”

  “I will,” Syl Vor promised.

  Up at the front of the room, Ms. Taylor had turned toward the hall; and Syl Vor heard the sound of heavy feet on the carpet. He sat up interestedly. Had the patrol brought in another student?

  The door opened, and Mike Golden walked into the classroom, his hand firm on the shoulder of a black-haired girl in a dusty green coat that was too big for her.

  Ms. Taylor went to Mike’s side, and he leaned over to talk to her, his hand still on the girl’s shoulder. She looked out over the room from narrowed black eyes, chin up. Syl Vor knew that look. It was what Padi did when she was scared and trying to figure out what to do next.

  “Wonderful!” Ms. Taylor said brightly.

  She stepped to the girl’s side and curled her hand around the dusty green sleeve, holding firmly. Mike put his hands behind his back, and stood with his legs braced, like he expected the floor to move—or the girl to run, Syl Vor thought suddenly, seeing a tiny shift in her balance. Ms. Taylor must have felt the move, because she put her other hand around the girl’s arm, too.

  “Everyone? Your attention, please! We have a new member of the class.”

  Behind Syl Vor, a chair creaked, and over to the front right of the room, somebody scuffed their shoes against the floor. Otherwise, their attention was on the front of the room. The black-haired girl glared at them all, lips pressed tight.

  “This is what we do, honey. You tell the class your name and turf, a
nd then they’ll each tell you theirs, by turn. After introductions are over, you’ll take a seat.” Ms. Taylor smiled brightly. “You’re just in time for geography—my favorite class!”

  The black-haired girl turned her head to stare at Ms. Taylor, wordlessly.

  Mike Golden cleared his throat.

  The black-haired girl took a deep breath.

  “My name is Anna,” she said, giving the ‘s’ an extra hiss. She took another breath. “Anna Brown. Boss Wentworth’s turf.”

  “Wentworth’s turf, huh?” Peter said from the back of the room. “How come I never seen ya?”

  The chin lowered, black eyes wide now. “Maybe you’re blind,” Anna said with great disinterest; “or maybe you’re stupid.”

  “Children!” Ms. Taylor’s voice was sharp. “Pete, I’ll expect you to bring me a complete list of everyone in Boss Wentworth’s territory ready for me tomorrow morning. Anna, we don’t call our classmates stupid. Now! Introductions, starting from the front right please.”

  * * *

  One by one, the gadje stood up from their chairs, spoke their names and the name of their Boss—pale faces, dark faces, tall, small, boy, girl, eyes as bright as colored glass, high voices like mice. Kezzi didn’t bother to listen to what they said, only glared at each in turn. At least Mike Golden had gone away, and if the gadje woman would loosen her grip, the door—was only three long steps away.

  Except there was the man Sheyn between her and the outside door. He would only bring her back here. For all she knew, Mike Golden himself stood guard at the doorway, and…

  Yet another gadje stood up from his place—yellow hair and blue marble eyes, his face neither pale nor dark, but a smooth gold, like Rys’ skin, now that the bruises and cuts were gone.

  Kezzi glared at the yellow-haired boy and breathed in the pattern that cleared the mind. Trying to run away would only make them watch her the harder, she thought. Better to be like these—or as much like as she could—so that they would grow careless. Then she might make an escape.

  Or Mike Golden might have said the truth, and at the end of the day she would go out the door and back to the kompani…