Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) (22 page)

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 his 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 Finder’s 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 his not saying 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 naught; 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 among 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 silver . . .

“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.

The pen . . . that was another regret. Four colors was not very many, but—

A hand closed over her wrist.

Instinctively, she snatched it back, but the hand only tightened. She turned her head and met the firm, glass-blue gaze of the yellow-haired
gadje
.

“Let me go,” she snapped.

“Presently,” he said coolly, and walked with her down the hall, the other
gadje
noisy around them.

Ahead, she saw the door to the street, open. Sheyn stood in the doorway to the red-and-yellow room, watching. He raised a hand as Kezzi went past.

“Hey, Anna! See you tomorrow!”

She turned her head away, pretending she did not hear.

Through the door they went, she and the yellow-haired
gadje
. At the top of the stairs, she threw her weight against him, meaning to knock him off his feet, but he thrust a hard shoulder into her, which unbalanced both of them, and they stumbled together to the walk . . .

. . . where Mike Golden stood, hands tucked into his pockets, his broad face placid and his eyes as sharp as one of Rafin’s throwing thorns.

Kezzi took a breath.

“Let me
go
,” she hissed at the boy.

“Presently,” he said again, and pulled her with him, to Mike Golden’s side.

“Evenin’, Anna. Silver.”

“Good evening, Mike.”

“School is finished,” Kezzi said. “I want to go home.”

Mike Golden eyed her. “Nothin’ stoppin’ you, is there?”

She threw her captive hand into the air, surprised that the boy allowed it.

Mike Golden pursed his lips.

“Silver. What’s up?”

“Anna is coming home with us.”

“I am not!”

The boy turned his head and looked directly into her eyes.

“You said you needed my pen.”

It didn’t quite seem a question, but she nodded. “Yes.”

“Then you must be brought to my mother.”

“Why?” she asked.

“So that she can see you,” he snapped.

“I don’t want to!” Kezzi snapped back, and yanked her arm, hard. He didn’t let go. She glared at him. He glared at her. Neither looked aside.