Unfit (5 page)

  The table cloth is made of a deep red polyester voile. It’s been folded, and rests under an empty vase. It will make a good headscarf, which will save me from having to go back upstairs for one and risk waking anyone up.

  I turn the stove off, leaving my boiling milk behind. The doorman is at the front door, chair tipped back against the wall and cap low. He stirs to wakefulness as I try to slide quietly into my shoes.

  “Goin’ for a walk Miss Kwan?”

  “Yes... a walk... to get some air.”

  With a creak of the chair, he rises and quietly opens the door for me.

  “Okay then, I’ll see you to ‘is house ‘n keep you safe.”

  “Oh that’s all right. You just sit back down and finish your nap, there.”

  It takes a firm mental nudge, using a picture of him sleeping peacefully to get him to settle down.

  “Just not safe...” he manages before he nods back off.

  It would be easy to nudge the memory of seeing me out of his head right now, but then it’ll seem strange when I get back. And I don’t like adjusting people’s memories. It makes me feel like I’m compromising their souls.

  “Sleep tight,” I say, hurriedly taking my leave.

  This part of town has little taxi stations all over, compared to my parents area, which is more bus-dependent. I can see a station from here outside the Lanarrs’ front door, so I make my way over to it.

  This taxi station fits neatly in the space of a regular property. It has a stable, containing six stalls in a row, and a driveway for the carriages. There are no carriages at the moment, and one horse remains in the final pen. The office is a booth in the front, but there is no one at the desk. The single lantern has an incandescent bulb in it. By its glow, I can make out the clerk who’s staffing it, facing away and hidden under a light evening-coat and top hat.

  The clerk stands in the shadows against another building. I hear the trickle of water from that direction. Suddenly, I’m not sure where to look, so I shuffle uncomfortably and play interest in the lantern until he finishes.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” He ambles back over and takes his place behind the counter.

  “I’d like to rent that horse, please.”

  “Old Dodger? No can do lady. That ol’ lad snapped a while ago. He’s a little fussy for riding purposes.”

  “If I can ride him, will you let me?”

  “Bound for the glue factory, he is. Nigh on useless for riding.”

  “I really need it. I’ll pay what you want.”

  This causes him to peer at me closely. His public mind expresses an interest in what House I might be from, and what boy from high family I might be off to see in such a fluster.

  It makes me wonder if that’s all the high family girls do is traipse around the countryside visiting boys at night. But very well, if it will get me to Tiller faster, I’ll play along.

  “Please hurry. It’s an emergency. He mustn’t be kept waiting.”

  “You got twelve cred on you?” asks the clerk.

  I hand him a paper note for twenty. He folds it into his pocket, rather than place it in the till.

  “Should be interesting to see how Dodger takes to side-saddle. Hope you’re good at riding.”

  The clerk reaches behind him and pulls down tack for the horse from the end of a row of pegs. I follow him to the last stall, where Dodger eyes us suspiciously. While the clerk straps on the saddle, I reach out to him with my arms. He sticks his giant nose in my face.

 
Hi Dodger. I am in need of you.

 
Trade carrots?

  Not specific words, but thought concepts.

 
Two bunches of carrots for you tomorrow morning.

 
Human. Interest-Trust.

  “You’re lucky tonight young lady. Normally Dodger puts up way more fight than this.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The clerk hands me the reins and helps me mount. It’s tricky learning how to sit for the first time, but I get a sense of what’s just right from the horse’s mind. Dodger even knows the way to my destination, so we’re off at a brisk trot.

  The tax office is in my parents neighbourhood. It’s a forty minute walk. Dodger thinks he can do it in a third of that. I’m inclined to believe him, although it makes me wonder how horses understand time.

  The sky is cloudless under a quarter moon. This, combined with the fancy streetlights in Greg’s neighbourhood, make it easy to see. The air is decidedly cool. Cool enough to carry the far off thuds of falling stones to my ears.

 
Stinky giant metal man
, says Dodger.

  He’s right. Under his much keener ears, I can hear the grating sounds of a walking mechanoid.

  Francesca is mixed up in this somewhere; I can tell that she’s awake. If she knew to stop and blank her mind right now, I would be able to speak to her. Then I would have some news of what lies ahead. Reiki would be able to hear me too, but she sleeps. Her home is far from this ruckus and has not been disturbed.

  Dodger hears a furtive footfall two houses behind us. I turn and peer about, but all I see is the road, rolling and twisted, flagstones catching off the streetlights. There’s someone back there, thinking about me, though. The person has gone still, blanking out his public mind to prevent me from sensing him.

  And so, my mystery person knows about my powers. And is trained in outfoxing telepathic detection.

 
Hold, Dodger. Let us listen.

  We stop at a roundabout, just under the streetlight in the middle. The night is ominously quiet. A far off rooster gives a single cry.

 
There
, says Dodger.

  I’m not fast enough to turn and see it, but I pull the sight of a shadowy figure from Dodger’s mind. The figure slinks from one alley to the alcove near it, some fifteen metres away from me.

  Another flitting man-sized shadow crosses the street to the west.

  Two people following me?

  We move forward at a fast trot, crossing a stone footbridge to follow the river north. In moments we are out of the Lanarrs’ neighbourhood and in sight of to the main road that leads to the tax office.

  Stone bridges cross the river every block or so. Ahead, underneath a bridge, Dodger spots someone hidden. We break into a gallop to pass that bridge.

  The man under the bridge slinks out of the darkness to dart across the road. He wears a dark green clock and a black face-mask. His heavy gloves, boots, and gleaming scimitar are a telltale that makes me catch my breath.

  Chronomancer assassins.

  I’ve studied them in history class. They have the normal chronomancer’s ability to predict the future, combined with martial arts training. They work for anyone who has enough gold to pay them.

  This gets my mind to spinning. Who would have hired the chronomancers to come here? And why?

  Dodger has continued his brisk trot while I was thinking. Seeing another chronomancer up ahead, Dodger turns down a side street. It’s more of an alleyway, since I have to duck under clotheslines. A pile of boxes, leaning against a post, hooks my shoe and pulls me, threatening to yank me out of the saddle.

 
Stay to the open
, I instruct Dodger.
If the chronomancers take me in a cramped place like this, they will slit my throat and no one will hear my final scream.

  We emerge from the other end of the alley and claim a road again, retaking our northward progression. I see the chronomancers flitting about between the houses, following me. It’s a run for them. They won’t be able to keep up with Dodger for long.

  In a minute and a half, I’ve put a healthy distance on the assassins. I can sense that they’re still in pursuit though. It will make for trouble getting home after rescuing Tiller.

  Five more minutes hurrying down the main street, and the noises ahead have grown louder. By the column of golden smoke over the treetops, I know I’ve almost reached my destination. I can worry about the chronomancers later.

  When I clear the next turn, I see six men standing in a pile of rubble heaped before the burning tax office. They wield long-armed axes, using them to hew wooden beams and joists into portable segments. Other men collect the segments and toss them into the growing fire. Their shirts tossed aside, the mens’ backs glisten with sweat by the light of the three-storey tall fire.

  About a hundred people have gathered around this spectacle. They shout and chant while holding hands. The mood is so war-like and violent, I find myself I clamping down on my thoughts, lest I have the emotions forced on me.

  The roads here are dark. The electrical station is down, so there is no power to the streetlights. The only light is the demonic glow from the tax-office fire. That, and the occasional flashlight or lantern casting about.

  There are not many people mounted, so I’m noticed as I stand there in the back. Noticed, in fact, by someone I know.

  “Hullo, Miss Kwan,” says Hattie, popping out of the crowd.

  Just when I needed someone strong like Kajo or Kimberly to fend off the chronomancer assassins, I get Hattie.

  “You’ve come to see what’s going on too?” she asks, coming over to stand by my knee.

  “Yes, Hattie. But why don’t you run along, hmm? This part of the mob looks a little dangerous.”

 
And besides, if you stand here and get seen with me, I’ll be putting your life in jeopardy.

  “Oh, it’s okay. The telekinetics are here trying to maintain order. I know it looks chaotic, but there’s really not that much trouble for you and me.”

  It might already be too late to prevent them from stalking Hattie. I reach out with my senses, feeling for Tiller. He’s alive, but unconscious, roughly ahead, past the tax office.

  Francesca is far from here, which is good. I hope she stays wherever she is.

  Hattie’s been talking while I was thinking, telling me about how the men brought down the walls of the tax office using earth-shaking telekinetic punches. I interrupt her.

  “Come with me, Hattie. It is dangerous for me to leave you here.”

  “Sure thing, Miss Kwan.”

  I urge Dodger to skirt the edge of the crowd and Hattie follows beside us. She’s worn her usual school clothes, with a simple overcoat that looks like an apron. Altogether, she blends into the crowd much better than I do.

  “Those Lightnings from the tax office, boy did they get pummelled,” says Hattie. “They all got dragged ‘round back behind the textile plant. I think the mob’s gonna kill em.”

  “I’m here to rescue them.”

  “Oh, I doubt you can do that. That mob’s really angry. You never know what they’ll do.”

  Dodger moves at a walk, cautious of stepping on feet. Once away from the tax office, the crowd thins out, so the going is easier.

  We pass the textile plant and find a large field roughly the size of a football field. It’s a shallow pit where excavation must be occurring by day. Now it is ringed in fires burning in large metal drums. Some of the chairs and tables from the tax office have been cast into the fires as well. The smell of burning plastic and expensive upholstery fills the air.

  At the end of the field, towering over the gathered people, stands a mechanoid. I observe a wrestling match as five Hillvalian telekinetics try to steer it at once. The ‘Canoid lurches awkwardly as it lumbers back and forth. The pilot struggles to stay in the cockpit without being thrown out and crushed.

  This ‘Canoid has been fitted for demolitions, so it has two large scoops for hands. One of the scoops reaches for the centre of the pit, where I see Pertran’s Lightnings huddled. Pertran stands, but his fellows are grouped together, covering their heads against the hail of bricks and bottles the mob throws upon them.

  “The telekinetics voted,” says Hattie. “Half said Pertran should die and half said he should live.”

  “I see that they’re still undecided by that swaying ‘Canoid.”

  “And you want to get through this crowd to save them? Very hard, Miss Kwan.”

  I’ve never seen so many people in one place. There has to be five to ten thousand people here. Dodger’s bulk allows me to skirt along the back of the crowd. The going is slow, and I am jostled a little, even while mounted. The crowd’s jostling rams Hattie against my legs several times, so I stop and extend my hand to her, breaking her chatter.

  “Come up, Hattie,” I say, bracing for the rapport.

  She takes my hand and gets a foot into the stirrup I free for her. In rapport, her only thought is gratefulness, even as I put my arms around her to balance her. She has a flash of concern for my own comfort even though she feels like she’s about to fall off. But that’s it. No mental chatter as I’d have expected.

  It’s a little strange riding like this, but much quieter, since she stops talking.

  Right at the edge of the pit, where the wall of the next factory rises, the crowd is thin enough to circumvent. I get Dodger to walk us into the pit until he reaches the rocky bottom where the front line has gathered.

  Past here, we’ll be in the range of Pertran’s bolts. Some of the braver people in the mob dash forward to throw rocks at Pertran, but they scramble back quickly. And on the far side of the clearing, the ‘Canoid still struggles under its conflicting telekinetic orders.

  Tiller lies face-down behind Pertran’s men, bleeding from a wound to his head. I can sense his mind feebly attempting to regain consciousness. The other five men behind Pertran are all conscious, but as they are Lightnings, I read nothing from them.

  The rubble in the pit where they stand is sharp and jagged. Dodger does not want to cross it. I dismount.

  “Hattie, stay here,” I say, before stepping forward into the clearing.

  Someone in the throngs thinks to pull me back to safety, so I broadcast well-being and reassurance into the crowd.

  There’s so much anger directed at Pertran. That part will be easy to diffuse because it’s a thought with a strong, singular focus. The hard part will be calming everyone down, because there’s so much chaotic energy at work. Some are here due to suffering. Some, due to loss. Others, for sport. Without a single thought to adjust, my telepathy will not be enough to control this crowd.