by Sharon Shinn
And so they sent the boys to the community center and worried about what would happen next.
Some of the young men, of course, took jobs in the city, drifted into the more affluent gulden neighborhoods, tried to make a life for themselves that had nothing to do with their heritage. Some of them continued to hang around in the women’s ghetto, aimless and angry and harder by the year to control. Some packed their possessions and boarded the train for Gold Mountain, to seek their fathers and their fortunes. Most of them were never heard from again.
They were better off staying in the city. Their mothers tried to tell them that. But these were men who had somehow divined that their mothers’ opinions did not matter much in the world they came from, the world in which they belonged; and they were determined to discover what they were worth in the only sphere worth inhabiting. And so they left the ghetto, and they never returned.
Kit had spent some energy trying to convince Del and the other women that they should make a huge effort to reclaim these gulden boys. Inculcated with a whole new set of beliefs and perceptions, she argued, these city guldmen could reshape the history of the race. They could be taught to value their mothers, cherish their sisters, consider their wives their equals, and disdain their forefathers. To this end, she had said, what was needed was not a dilapidated gymnasium where the gulden teens could work off their aggressions in unsupervised sports, but a school, a cultural center, a place where they could learn and grow. She was willing to draft the plans and look for the instructors. She was willing to set the curriculum and teach the classes herself.
But Del did not agree and the other women did not comprehend, and so her words were wasted. Besides, they wanted to use her for other work. Fund-raising, for instance. She was a blueskin; she could approach the indigo corporations and ask for money. She could wheedle for concessions from the utility companies who did not understand why so many of the guldwomen’s bills were paid late or not at all. She could recruit highly trained indigo doctors who felt enough compassion to donate their time and services to the poorly equipped clinic. She could be their conduit to all that indigo wealth.
And so she had done it. Uncomplainingly, though at first with a certain degree of embarrassment. It was begging, after all, even though her cause was noble and she was not begging for herself. She had enlisted Sereva’s help, because her cousin had not spent half her life in Geldricht, as Kit had. Sereva knew who among the indigo were philanthropists and crusaders. She knew who had a genuinely kind heart and who could be moved by appeals to noblesse oblige.
In fact, Kit was surprised at how many indigo women were eager to help their unfortunate sisters, how many gave generously of both personal and corporate funds. When she considered it, she realized that, in this particular instance, gender superseded race. The blueskin women were appalled at the lives of their gulden counterparts. If a loaf of bread, a hefty check, or a pile of used clothing (scarcely worn and good as new) could transform the hapless, helpless, fearful guldwomen into strong, independent, righteous members of society—well, then, they were glad to give what they had. It was the least they could do. And they felt proud of themselves once they’d done it.
It was a start. There was so much more to be done that sometimes Kit could hardly bear it. But a start.
This morning, when she arrived at the charity bank, there was a small mob of women standing outside the double doors, huddled close together but not speaking. They were all dressed in the city drab that the ghetto women affected. In Geldricht, they wore a medley of bright colors, rich blues and hand-dyed green and scarlet. Here, khaki and olive and tan. They did not like to draw attention to themselves; they had no joy in color anymore. And their gold skin, like their clothing, seemed to fade and lighten under the city sun, till their rich complexions were a pasty beige and their lovely flaming hair showed no life or brilliance at all.
Today, the group outside the charity bank seemed even paler and more colorless than ever. Kit counted about fifty women, more than could usually be found here at this hour, all wrapped in fear and silence. “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked in goldtongue as she strode up to them. No one answered her. A few looked away.
There were a few women here she knew, and she planted herself before the nearest one. “Shan, what’s going on?” Kit demanded. “Why is everyone here?”
Shan reluctantly met her eyes. “They see troubles,” she said in that elliptical singsong so prevalent among the gulden. It was as though their conversation had nothing to do with themselves; they could tell the most intimate story as if it were a myth about some long-dead ancestor. “They see such sadness.”
“What happened?” Kit said. Even though long experience told her it was impossible to rush a gulden telling a sensitive story, Kit tried to hurry her to the point. “Was there another murder?”
“A woman and her three girls, could it be they are dead? Oldest boy, they say, not to be found.”
Kit briefly shut her eyes. So a young man had killed his mother and sisters. It was a frequent tale. “Who was killed?” she asked.
“Some woman come to the city to be safe.”
“What was her name? Did you know her?”
“Her name was Mish. She was here only three or four weeks.”
Mish. Not a name Kit recognized, but there were so many women here she didn’t know. So many women here. “And her oldest son is missing? Does anyone know where he might be found?”
“With his father, they are saying.”
“Back in Geldricht?”
“This young man’s father, he has come to the city to visit.”
Kit frowned, trying to follow. “Mish’s husband is in the city? Did he come to the district looking for her?”
“No one I know has seen this man nearby.”
It was the most frustrating conversation imaginable, but Kit tried to hold on to her patience. She had had countless conversations like this over the years—conversations that were even less productive than this one, in fact. “Why do you think Mish’s husband is here if you haven’t seen him?”
“Wouldn’t you come to the city with Chay Zanlan if Chay Zanlan was your uncle and a man you greatly admired?”
So Mish had been married to one of Chay’s nephews. And enlightened though Chay assuredly was, many of his relatives were as traditional and fierce as the feudal clan leaders of a hundred years ago. “What is his name, do you know?” she asked sharply. “This man who was married to Mish?”
“Girt Zanlan,” Shan said flatly.
Kit nodded. She had met Girt Zanlan a dozen times, a brawny, stupid, brutal man who embodied every quality, good or bad, that could be assigned to the gulden. Chay had never seemed to trust him, though he kept Girt around—mostly, Kit had always thought, to intimidate blueskin ambassadors who were unsure of how to negotiate with the gulden. Jex had always spoken of his cousin with a mix of affection and derision, but he was not above using the man’s clan loyalty when he needed something risky accomplished. Girt was just the sort of father who would inspire a lost, angry young ghetto boy to an act of savagery. Girt would probably even take his son back, after such an act. Girt would consider it noble.
But. “I can’t believe it of Chay,” Kit said, shaking her head. “He would not encourage such a thing. Chay has spoken out against the slaughters again and again.”
Shan shrugged. “Mish is dead. The boy is gone. Girt is in the city. Those are the pieces. Work the puzzle any way you wish.”
Kit nodded again and turned away. She felt sick and exhausted, and the day had just begun. She slipped past the crowd of women and into the building, thinking that perhaps Del would have more information for her. But the stooped, pale, white-haired woman merely looked as weary and heartsick as Kit felt.
“Who knows why this happened?” she said when Kit found her and demanded explanations. “I cannot blame Chay or Girt or even the boy. He
did what he was taught. Mish should have left him behind when she came to the city.”
“It’s surely not her fault,” Kit said. “If there is blame here, it is not hers.”
Del shrugged. “There is no blame. There is only tragedy and sorrow. Not even you can come up with a way to solve that.”
Kit swallowed a retort. Del—all of them—seemed to believe that she considered herself practically omnipotent, armed with the answers that would save the world. The truth was, she so often felt confused, overwhelmed, and hopeless that she couldn’t imagine she would ever be able to help anyone. She must act more confident than she felt, she supposed. She must exude that indigo arrogance like a perfume from her skin.
“Very well, then. What is done, is done. Is there anything I can do now to ease or aid anyone?”
“There is that new restaurant in the city. You said you would go there.”
Kit nodded, trying to stave off a wave of bitterness. Such a pointless activity—now—after such an event. The last thing she felt like doing was going into the city and soliciting more donations. Though Del had seemed quite hopeful about the possibilities here. It was an unlikely joint venture between an indigo capitalist and a gulden cook, and it was designed to attract wealthy patrons of all the major races. The food was supposed to be fabulous, and the clientele had already included everyone from Ariana Bayless to the richest guldmen in the city. Del thought it was possible that the restaurant owners would be willing to donate their leftover food every day to the charity bank, an idea that had seemed meritorious to Kit when she heard of it. But now …
“Of course. Today? There is such turmoil here—”
Del shrugged again. “And what is it you can do about such turmoil? In the city, I think, they do not notice that the ghetto women are suffering. Unless we tell them. You said you would tell them.”
“I’ll tell them,” Kit said on a sigh. “I’ll be back sometime today.”
* * *
* * *
So she was, fairly soon, back on the Centrifuge, going three-quarters of the way around the city to the North Zero gate. The express trolley to the Complex took her close to her destination, but she still had a walk ahead of her to the restaurant. Not a bad thing. She needed a bit of brisk exercise to clear her mind of its sudden black depression.
Though it was hard to walk as quickly as she would like; the streets were far more crowded than usual. Chay, she thought, as she noted all the extra security forces on every corner. The police and the gawkers. It’ll take me forever just to cross the street.
But eventually, pushing through tourists and guards, she made her way to the restaurant. It was chic, small, decorated with a mix of Higher Hundred heraldry and gulden craftwork. Even at this morning hour, the aromas seeping out from the kitchen were varied and delicious. Kit stopped the first employee she saw and asked to be taken to an owner.
“You have a complaint?” the young woman asked. She was lowcaste blueskin but well-educated, Kit thought; she seemed both deferential and confident.
“Not at all. A request. I work for a charity, and we were hoping to interest your owners in our work.”
“I’ll see if Dort is available.”
Dort. The curt one-syllable name nearly always indicated a gulden; the hard final consonant usually signalled a male. Not always, of course, Chay being the most famous example. Not to mention Kit, she thought wryly. But of course only her father called her Kit. And Jex. And the other gulden. To the blueskins, she was Kitrini. Only rarely would Sereva or her other family members call her by any other name.
In a few moments, she was joined by a middle-aged, sharp-eyed gulden man who was trying to size her up with one quick glance and failing. Kit smiled to herself. He was smart enough not to make the obvious assumption—high-caste blueskin, I must curry her favor—and businessman enough to be ready to listen.
“Good morning, hela,” he said graciously enough. “I’m willing to hear about your charitable requests. But I must tell you that now is not a good time for me. Our tables are reserved for luncheon, and my entire staff is quite busy.”
“May I take five minutes to state my case? Or should I return some other day? Tomorrow perhaps?”
“If you can tell me quickly, I will hear the outline and then ask you back later in the week for details.”
“I am with the charity bank in the women’s ghetto on the west side of town,” Kit said baldly. “You may have heard of us. We have many corporate sponsors and many individual contributors as well. We thought you might be willing to help us out.”
Dort shrugged. “We’re a new business. We are not yet certain of our profits.”
Kit nodded. “Of course not. But at the end of the day, if there is food that you would throw away because you have not sold it and cannot save it for the next day, we would be glad to take that food off your hands. We would send someone to collect it. A few loaves of bread or a pile of fruit. Whatever you happened to have.”
Dort looked intrigued but, as he glanced at his watch, harassed as well. “It is an interesting proposition, hela,” he said. “If we could mention this charity in some of our advertising—”
“We would hope you would do so,” Kit said quickly. “That benefits us as well and puts our name before others who might wish to become benefactors.”
“I’ll mention it to my partner,” he said. “If he agrees—”
“When should I come back to hear your answer?”
“Three mornings from now. I will know by then.”
“You’re kind. I’ll see you then.”
“And your name, hela? In case my partner asks.”
A name his blueskin partner was sure to recognize even if Dort did not. Kit did not even allow her muscles to tense as she replied, “Kitrini Solvano Candachi.” Her own name, her father’s, her mother’s. Dort’s eyes widened involuntarily, but he wiped the look away quickly.
“And so I shall tell him,” he said. “In three days, then.”
Kit had just stepped outside the door when she realized she would not be making much progress anytime soon. The streets on both sides of the restaurant were being cordoned off, and a wall of mixed-race security forces blocked her escape in any direction. On her left, she could see a slow cavalcade moving up the street. It took her a moment to realize who must be at the heart of that mass of bodies, though she recognized the tourists and the reporters and the guards who circled around it.
“Chay,” she said aloud, and waited at the door for the procession to pass.
Except that it did not pass. It came her way, slowed even more, and turned toward the restaurant in one chattering lump. She was squeezed back to the brick of the wall, pushed off the walkway by a blueskin guard who was shouting orders into a handheld communicator and gesturing widely as if to sweep the air clean with his palms. She hopped to get her footing on the rocky ground and tried not to elbow the other unfortunates who had been shoved off the sidewalk next to her.
And then, like the others, she craned her neck and peered around people’s heads to try to catch a glimpse of the infamous visitor. There was Ariana Bayless, no mistaking that severe blue face and regal bearing. There was Ariana’s favorite council-woman, whose name escaped Kit at the moment. And there—yes, it was Girt, as blond and stupid as ever.
And beside him, big and golden and ropy with power, strode Chay Zanlan. He was dressed in a ceremonial tunic, a richly embroidered green silk, but his powerful arms were bare and the breadth of his chest was in no way disguised by the cut of the cloth. His bushy red hair was streaked with gray, his face was lined with every one of his sixty-some years, but there was nothing feeble or infirm about him. He was taller than Ariana Bayless by a least a head. As always, he used that height to his advantage, staring imperiously at the crowd around him with a gaze fearsome enough to make the most ardent stalker slink back.
A gaze th
at snagged on Kit’s face and brought those roving gray eyes to a standstill. Chay halted, and the entourage around him came to a sloppy stop. “What—?” “Who—?” “Is there a problem?” his escort murmured, but Chay ignored them all and pushed past his bodyguards to come face-to-face with Kit.
She had straightened against the wall as soon as he noticed her, but she made no move to meet him halfway. They had not parted on the best of terms. She would not go running to him now.
“Kit,” he said, when they were only a couple of feet apart. The crowd around them was breathlessly silent to listen; they might have been actors in a beloved play. “I did not know you were in the city.”
She stared back at him, not knowing what he was thinking, if he hated her or if he still loved her. “For about six months now.”
“Staying where?”
“With my grandmother.”
“Have they allowed you to see Jex?”
She nodded, for a moment wordless. It was over Jex that they had argued, she and this man who had been as dear to her as her own father. “From time to time. And you? Have they let you see him?”
“Twice. He appears to be treated well enough.”
“I believe he is. Though you would be wise—” She paused, bit her lip, and switched to goldtongue. “Not to trust easy promises this woman makes you.”
