Unfit (6 page)

  Pertran stands boldly before his cowering Lightnings, deflecting rocks away from them. He makes no attempt to throw the rocks back. It makes me think he is tiring. Or he is saving his strength to fight the ‘Canoid.

  “Hold there,” says Pertran when I get to four metres. “Pertran remembers one peasant woman Kwan.”

  Behind me I can
feel
the crowd’s growing confusion. They don’t understand why Pertran hasn’t attacked me, but it’s beginning to give them the courage to charge. I have very little time left.

  “Yes, that is me. I’ve come to broker a deal to get you out of here.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I can do it. If you speak kindly to them, they will be keen to listen. Their thoughts will merge for a brief moment. I should be able to pacify them.”

  “Speak kindly to them? Or did you mean surrender to them?”

  In a way that is what I meant. Whatever saves the lives of those cowering Lightnings who don’t want to die.

  “Lord Pertran, please listen. There is little time.”

  “Coercion,” he says, raising an arm towards me. “Pertran is not one who bows before anyone.”

  The mark of Kajo about my head suddenly bursts into light. It forms a halo around me, an arm-span wide and radiant, with crackling tongues of sparkling energy like a giant wreath of brambles.

  I don’t know if Pertran meant to bolt me. Seeing the dazzling ring of light about my head, his mouth fall open, but he hesitates. The crowd roars, seeing this, rushing forward together. All I can do is dive to Tiller and drape my body over his, projecting thoughts of safety and peace.

  Before I know it, they’ve gathered up Pertran and beaten him to semi-consciousness. It’s just too many people to bolt. The Lightnings are overwhelmed.

  The telekinetics no longer disagree. I know what comes next, as I watch them carry Pertran off to the waiting ‘Canoid.

  The crowd has forgotten me in its haste to dispatch the Lightnings. I watch the ‘Canoid reach down to grasp Pertran. It lifts him by the legs, snapping them easily. Unable to tear my gaze away, I watch it drop him into the cheering crowd with a sickening thud.

  What a hideous way to die. I slide myself off of Tiller and lean to the side so I can retch. How fortunate I am to have darkness cover this undignified moment. My hands shake as I search for a handkerchief to wipe my mouth, but this dress has no pockets and I haven’t brought my handbag. A segment torn from my slip will have to do.

  “Kwan, you shouldn’t have come,” says Tiller, stirring.

  “You needed help. I came.”

  “Little sot. You risk your neck for a company of fools.”

  “No. Only for one fool. Can you walk?”

  “Yeh, nothing broken.”

  I put his arm over my shoulder and help him to his feet. We scramble over to Dodger, as the mob cheers again. There’s a scream and a meaty thump. I think I want to be sick again.

  “That jacket’s gotta go,” says Hattie, having dismounted to help Tiller make the last steps.

  “What?” asks Tiller.

  “We won’t be able to get you out of here in those Coalition markings.”

  “She’s right,” I say. “I can feel a cloud of apprehension stalking you. When the last Lightning has been murdered, you will become the next target.”

  Hattie and I help Tiller shrug out of his overcoat and we toss it to the ground. Tiller mounts uneasily, straddling awkwardly across the edge of the saddle, instead of using it properly. It will do until he’s shaken the last of the grogginess from that blow to his head.

  I take Hattie’s hand and lead the way back to the street. Dodger follows of his own will, with no one holding the reins.

  The tax office fire still burns. This crowd seems so much calmer then the pit crowd. And I can hear someone addressing them as we approach.

  “Peace, I offer you,” says the voice. “Freedom from oppression. Freedom to choose your own destinies.”

  “That’s Penderson,” says Tiller, frowning when Dodger comes up to stand beside me. He dismounts shakily.

  Penderson is a man in merchant-guilder attire; the type Greg’s dad wears to work. He stands on the pile of rubble, arms spreading energetically as he regales the crowd. He carries the assuredness of leadership with him. I can tell without even getting close that he’s someone well accustomed to political power.

  “He’s been preaching around here,” says Hattie, radiating curiosity. “Lotta talk about us choosing him for Namika. But I don’t like him. He’s kinda slick.”

  “He’s from the League,” says Tiller. “They don’t declare their Namika in that part of the world. Rather, the Namika is acclaimed by the people.”

  “I suppose this Penderson has lots of gold,” I say. “To pay those assassins, for example.”

  “What? I don’t see any assassins,” says Hattie.

  “Just there, in the corner,” I tell them. “They followed me here.”

  “Probably to stop you from rescuing me,” says Tiller. “Penderson has no love for the Coalition.”

  “We cannot pass here,” I say. “The assassins will be on us the moment we leave the crowd. Unless...”

  “Unless?” asks Tiller.

  “Well I didn’t risk my life to rescue you, only to die under the assassins hands.”

  Grandpa would disapprove of what I am about to do. I pray he never learns. One single mind is easy to overcome. He’s been trained in basic defences to keep me from detecting him, but with his presence known to me, there is nothing he can do.

  “Sleep,” I tell him.
You’re so sleepy, you can hardly stand.

  The assassin falls to the ground and crumples out of his hiding spot. The knot of five people near him make way for him to fall between them at first. But then one man stoops beside the fallen assassin to steal his scimitar. A woman in their group rushes over to shake his boots off his feet.

 
Run, the rest of you, or you’ll wind up like him.

  They can’t hear me, of course, but I sense the chronomancers retreating. They leave their fallen companion behind to the mercy of the looters. No amount of gold is worth this mark. I’m certain they won’t return.

  “Utterly amazing,” says Tiller, staring at me.

  “Now we can get you back downtown.”

  Tiller shakes his head in disagreement. “This is a good parting spot. I can make it on my own now. And it won’t do to march you two into the Coalition-side of town.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “Yes. I bid you farewell.”

  Tiller sets his hands on my hips and leans into my space. I stiffen a little, ready to pull back and break away. But he stops short of brushing lips with me, instead opting for a peck on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Kwan. Here let me help you up.”

  He stops to kiss the back of Hattie’s hand and then walks west, in the direction of the Coalition fortress. I watch him as I endeavour to get my foot into a stirrup.

  “He sure is handsome,” says Hattie. “I wonder if he’s married.”

  “Come up, Hattie?”

  “I’m good from here, Miss Kwan. Two’s not comfortable up there. And I guess you’re a telepath, so...”

  She doesn’t want to admit it, but her public mind tells me. She doesn’t want to impose rapport on me. She must have studied telepathy in school.

  “Well, let’s get you home.”

  The sounds of the riot follow us faintly in the background, but by the time we reach my parents street, where Hattie lives, the only visual sign of the riot is the unnatural orange glow over the houses. The mood of the rioters reaches me even after they’re no longer in sight. It’s been jubilant ever since Pertran died.

  Poor Pertran. In death you’ve brought happiness.

  My street has power, since it runs off of a different electrical station. It is with relief that we see working streetlights there. Hattie’s house is across the street, and two doors down from my parents. I spot a woman sitting on her front porch stairs.

  The woman has short brown curls and wears a loose fitting shirt and leggings. She rests her head on her hands as we approach.

  “Thank you, Miss Kwan, for seeing me home,” says Hattie. She makes to go home.

  The woman stands up, as Hattie trots up the path. I notice now the unnatural pallor of her skin. A deep, jagged wound crosses her neck. A sword or knife attack? The blood no longer spurts from the open wound, but has seeped down the woman’s chest and matted to become a sticky-looking viscous red stain.

  “Hattie, wait! Come back.”

  Hattie stops and turns a hand-span from running into the woman. I dismount, intending to rush up and grab Hattie’s arm to pull her away.

  Before I can get there, the woman has looped her arms around Hattie’s shoulders. I can hardly croak out a sound to warn her away. Hattie takes no notice of it.

  “Yes, Mis Kwan? Did you need something?”

  The woman hugs Hattie from behind, nestling her head against Hattie’s cheek. Strength leaves my knees. I drop to the sidewalk, staring.

  Hattie comes back to me. The woman releases her and observes us.

  “Are you okay, Miss Kwan? Why are you suddenly so pale?”

  “Tell me about your mother, Hattie.”

  “Oh, they took her away when I was wee small. She was a telepath, y’see. But she never declared. I dunno how she got found out.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “She looked just like me, actually. There’s still pictures in the house. But when they carried her off, that’s when my Dad started drinking. I think his soul’s been shattered.”

  Images crop up in Hattie’s mind. Unsurprisingly, they match the woman behind her.

  “I miss her lots,” says Hattie. “But every now and then I can hear her singing to me at night. So I know wherever she is, she still loves me. Now what’s all this about? Here let me help you up. That dirty sidewalk will muss up your pretty dress.”

  Hattie gets under my arm and forces me to my feet as she dusts at my dress with her free hand. My dress is peppered in fine ash from all those fires at the riot. That will take forever to wash out.

  “Thank you, Hattie. Have a good night. And you’re right. Your mother still loves you.”

  “Bye, Miss Kwan.”

  I watch Hattie walk back to the house. Her mother puts a loving arm over her shoulders. Oblivious, Hattie enters the house together with her.

  I guess this has been going on for years. What can I say? May happiness find you, Hattie.

  Dodger butts me with his nose.

 
Human-Kwan not forget carrots?
he asks.

 
Of course not, Dodger. To your home and then I’ll see you come morning.

  I return Dodger to his stable, help him out of the harness, and leave all the tack on the peg in the office, since the stall clerk has gone missing. The Lanarrs’ front door is unlocked, allowing me to slip inside, and sneak past the sleeping doorman.

  I see a light on in the kitchen as I remove my shoes. When I go to it, I find Greg there, reading.

  He’s heard me come, so he turns the book over and sets it down. He turns on the chair to study me, as he puts on a slight smirk.

  Caught sneaking around hours before dawn. I hope he finds the truth credible.

  I walk over to him and get down so I can set my hands on his knees. Better to start from here, in case I need to do some emergency begging.

  “I went to rescue a friend. There were riots in my area and he got trapped.”

  “He?” Greg’s thoughts are guarded, so his public mind is opaque to me. I get a glimmer of amusement and curiosity, but no anger. So far so good.

  “A friend, yes. A telepath who tried to help me once. I’m not one to forget a good deed.”

  Greg picks at the ash on my sleeve, frowning. It’s a strange way to corroborate my story, but I think tonight is just going to insist on being a strange night.

  “The doorman got word to me to look out for you,” says Greg. “But when you didn’t arrive, I got worried and came here.”

  “Thank you, for believing a story that sounds incredible, even to me.”

  “You thought I wouldn’t believe you? Lords, you’re the worst telepath in the world.”

  If he knew how much I want to sit on his chest, pinning him down while I force rapport on him and share every idea in my head, he would probably run away screaming. If only I could fully understand the complex war of emotions playing beneath the surface of his public mind.

  Greg rises, taking me by the hand.

  “Shh,” he says. “Or we’ll get caught.”

  He takes me out the service entrance from the kitchen, into the backyard. From there, he leads me to a side door of the house, nestled in the shadows. After a moment fumbling for a key, we take it and climb a narrow staircase leading to his room on the third floor.

  There, so he can kiss me.

  This is too much surprise for one night. I try to push away, but my body has turned into soft clay. I should be exhausted; the sun will rise in a bit over two hours. I should be too sore to move. How can I be so stunningly dreamily awake?

  We somehow arrive at the bed. One thing leads to another, and before long, my dress tumbles off the side.

  “You’ve not done it before,” says Greg after a moment.

  “You can feel it?”

  “You’re so worldly sometimes, I might have thought otherwise.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  But Greg is wise enough to evade my question by going back to kissing.

  An hour goes by. Maybe more, but I’m sure the large clock downstairs has only made one gong. We stop short of having sex. But it’s enough: I am spent. I can barely move enough to return the favour.

  He carries me back to my room and sets me down on my bed.

  “You will be my wife one day,” he whispers into my ear.

  His words turn me back into putty. I try to cling to him.

  Greg gently gets himself disentangled, kisses me once and leaves quietly. I can’t even hear him descend the stairs, but I think I’m asleep before he can get back to his uncle’s house.

  Sounds awaken me. Exhausted as I am, yet I still can’t sleep soundly in this bed. I shall be quite stir crazy by the weekend if this keeps up.