Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) Read online

  For an instant, Kezzi saw it—an orb divided against itself, as if the gadje’s soul had been sundered, half from half.

  The luthia breathed in, and sat back on her heels.

  “We will do what may be done,” she said, meeting Udari’s eyes across the fire. “Kezzi, bring my bag.”

  * * *

  The new street policy put into play by the Consolidated Bosses of Surebleak said that, if the hospital field unit came up with somebody hurt in ways that seemed to be consistent with violence, they were to call the Street Patrol. The Patrol was to relay the call to the office of the appropriate Boss, where whoever was on comm would pass it to the ’hand on watch, who would either note it, or act on it.

  It was, Mike Golden admitted, more likely that such calls would be noted than acted on, given everything else that was prolly going on at the exact same minute. Boss Nova wasn’t one to let any snow drift around her. Or her ’hands. And, the Consolidated Bosses—or, say, at least Boss Conrad—weren’t no dummies. There was a safety net built into the system. The Patrol had to send one of theirs ’round to the hospital to have a look an’ a chat. If the Patroller found something interesting, then another call would get made to the Boss.

  That second call always got an answer from the Boss’s household—a high level answer, too, ever since the big thinkers decided to make their lives smooth and easy by retiring the Road Boss’s wife. His pregnant wife.

  Yeah, Mike thought, some people were too stupid to come in outta the snow.

  All that being so, he was in the kitchen, grabbing a cup of coffee and a cookie by way of soothing his hurt feelings, when Ali come in with the message.

  “Three repeaters at clinic,” she said. “One cut bad, one smashed nose, one broke finger.”

  Mike shrugged and took a bite of his cookie.

  “Come in from the warehouse side,” she added.

  Oh, had they?

  He gave Ali a nod, that being the best he could do with a mouthful of cookie, and she took herself back to the comm.

  Him, he sipped his hot coffee with respect and had a minute’s quiet thought.

  It happened the Bosses were thinking to expand into the company warehouses, which’d been standing empty, absent the odd metal-miner, since the Company’d gone off and left their hired help to fend for themselves while the Company mined timonium in some other, less chilly locale.

  Given the realities of Surebleak, you’da thought the warehouses would’ve been taken down to a few splinters of steel by this time, but—funny thing. They weren’t. Peculiar things went on up in the warehouses; folks disappeared, or fell down so hard their brains got shook and they didn’t remember quite where they’d got turned around. Didn’t take much of that before the warehouses came to be avoided.

  And that’d been okay, under the old ways of doin’ things.

  Under the new way, though . . .

  Mike sighed.

  If there was something with teeth living in the warehouses, best to know it before the Bosses sent in the work crews.

  ’Nother thing, too, while he was thinkin’.

  The girl with the dog—Anna, if he was to believe her, which he didn’t particularly—she’d pointed off north when he’d asked her where home was.

  But she’d run away east.

  Toward the warehouse district.

  Mike finished his coffee and stood there in the corner of the kitchen, staring hard at nothing much.

  Three bad acts coming in all banged up from outta the warehouses? One little girl an’ her little dog weren’t gonna be responsible for that.

  Were they?

  Only one way to find out, like his grandma used to say. And who knew? The repeaters might’ve noticed something useful.

  Mike rinsed his cup and put it into the sink to be washed.

  Then he went to tell Ali to call the clinic and let ’em know he was on his way over.

  * * *

  The Patroller was a short, slight woman with snow-blue eyes who talked off-world Terran with an accent like Boss Nova’s. One of the Scouts of which they suddenly had a surplus, he figured, and gave her a nod. “Mike Golden, Boss Nova’s office.”

  “Isphet bar’Obin,” she answered. “Blair Road Patrol.” She showed him the card signed by Tommy Tilden, Blair’s Boss Patroller, and he nodded.

  “You talk to these yoyos yet?”

  “I thought it best to wait,” she said, “as the Boss has an interest.”

  The Boss only had what he’d left her on the house noteboard, but that wasn’t something Patroller bar’Obin needed to know.

  “Let’s see what they know, then,” he said, and led the way down the short hall to the patch-up room.

  There were three streeters in the big room, each at their own station; each being tended by a med tech. There were three clinic security posted at points around the occupied stations, guns and annoyance showing.

  The streeters were sadly familiar: Hank Regis, with his right hand in a splint; Mort Almonte, with his nose at a funny angle; and Danny Ringrose, swearing and sweating while the tech took stitches up a long, deep cut in his arm. By rights, there should’ve been two more, but maybe Parfil and Dwight had gotten lucky.

  Mike sighed and headed for Hank, not because he was the brightest—that’d be Danny—or the most talkative—that was Mort—but because he was the one most able to be informative at this particular point in time.

  “Hey, Goldie. How’s the tame streeter?”

  “Healthier than you are, seems like,” Mike returned, stopping a few steps short of the gurney where Hank sat, legs swinging. Mike crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Yeah, well, sometimes there’s accidents,” Hank said. “Got any smoke, Goldie?”

  “Sorry.”

  Hank shrugged. “Never was much use.”

  Mike felt Patroller bar’Obin shift at his side, but she didn’t say anything, which made her brighter than Hank. On the other hand, who wasn’t?

  “So, what happened to your hand?”

  “Broke the thumb. Damnedest thing—sure been a lesson to me.”

  Right.

  “How’d you happen to break it?”

  “Banged it against something harder than it was. Want I should show you?”

  “That’s okay.” He jerked his head toward Mort. “How ’bout your pard, there?”

  Hank snickered. “Ran into a pot.”

  Mort turned his head carefully and gave the three of them a glare, but didn’t say anything.

  “A pot?” Mike asked.

  “S’right, a pot. Did a sight o’damage, that pot, but we got it settled at the end.”

  “Shut up, Hank.” That was Danny, his voice stretched and angry.

  Mike moved over to his station, leaving Hank to the Patroller, and peered over the med tech’s shoulder.

  “That’s a nasty slice,” he commented.

  “Cut m’self shaving,” Danny snarled. “What’s up with you, Goldie?”

  “Just payin’ a social call. Heard you come in from the warehouses. Bosses are gonna be renovatin’ there, real soon. If there’s teeth—or pots—that need flushin’ out first, it’d be good to know.” He thought for a second, then added, “Reward for information.”

  The tech did something that made Danny hiss and swear, arm jerking against the webbing that held it taut.

  “Stop that!” the tech snapped. “You stay still or I’ll knock you out!”

  “I’ll stay still,” Danny said through clenched teeth. “Get on with it, woman.”

  “Think I’m darning a sock?” she said, bending to her task again.

  “So,” Mike insisted, drawing Danny’s attention back to him, “what’s up there to look out for, Danny?”

  The other man bared his teeth. “Nothing, now. We took care of ’im for ya, Goldie. Mean little sumbitch. Still breathin’ when we left him, but I’m betting that didn’t last long.”

  The tech must’ve hit Danny with some happy juice when he wasn’t looking, Mike thought. He took a hard look at the streeter’s face—white and sweaty. Might be shock—or might be fury. Whichever, maybe he’d say more.

  “Where?” he asked.

  “Up ta north side, two blocks in,” Danny said through gritted teeth. “What’s my reward, Goldie?”

  “Have to see the body first,” he said, tucking his hands carefully into his pockets. There was law, now. And the law said he couldn’t just break Danny’s neck for being a bad act and all-around nuisance. He said he’d killed somebody, but there wasn’t no murder until there was a body. Mike took a breath.

  “I’ll get back to you,” he told Danny and stepped away, gesturing to the security.

  “Yessir.”

  “Can you keep these guys close?”

  The security shrugged. “Danny ain’t goin’ nowhere, is my bet. Gin already hit him with a calm-down dose and she’ll hit him with another one ’fore she gets done, not to say some antibiotics. That’s a bad cut, like you said. She lets him outta here, it’ll go septic for sure. Woman hates to see her work wasted.”

  Mike nodded. “Patrol can take Mort and Hank.”

  “I’ll call ’em and set it up.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said. “They have anything with ’em when they come in?”

  “Took some things outta pockets, but I’m guessing the good stuff, if there was any, went with Dwight and Parfil.”

  Mike nodded. “Me and Patroller bar’Obin will wanna look at what’s there.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  Like the man’d said, there wasn’t much—some coins, a snap knife with a grippy handle, a box of strike-anywheres.

  Patroller bar’Obin used her chin to point at the knife.

  “That is off-world,” she said.

 
Mike nodded to show he’d heard her, though it didn’t help all that much. Lately, anybody with enough money, or a light touch, could have an outworld knife.

  “Do you have orders for the Patrol, Michael Golden of Boss Nova’s office?”

  He sighed and looked at her, seeing only a kind of smooth politeness.

  “Yeah. See if you can get a line on the knife. And ask Chief Tilden to send a couple Patrollers up into the warehouses—north side, first—to see if they can find a pot—or a body.”

  * * *

  The gadje breathed yet, far more than the five Udari had called. That he would continue to breathe through the night, or that he would mend—those were questions even the luthia could not answer.

  “We will do what may be done,” the luthia said, her bag repacked and her face pale with strain from her labors. Kezzi brought her a cup of tea, there by the hearth. Inside, Jin sat with the gadje, holding his undamaged hand between both of hers, so he would know, even in the depths of his coma, that he was not alone.

  “Will he live?” Kezzi asked again, sitting on her heels next to the fire. For many hours, she had bound and held and snipped and washed as directed by the luthia. The gadje—he had been like a doll, smashed under a heavy, heedless boot. His right hand—the tiny bones broken like so many twigs—his ribs, his face, and things broken inside, too, so that the luthia had called for the Deep Healer—the first time Kezzi had ever seen this device used.

  “He may live or he may not,” Silain said, giving the question the only answer she would. “We have done what we are given to do. We have shown the universe that we do not willingly let him go.”

  A shadow moved at the edge of the fire.

  “And why,” asked Alosha the headman, “do we not relinquish him, O luthia? What do the Bedel owe this gadje that we will return him to life, and trust him not to betray us?”

  The luthia looked to Kezzi. “Bring tea for the headman, small sister. And take some for yourself.”

  Alosha sighed, and sat at the luthia’s right hand, legs crossed and face weary.

  “Udari’s actions at the first seem sensible. A dying gadje at our very door! Such a thing must be removed, and quickly. The furnace was near, and certain. Child,” he said, accepting the mug from Kezzi’s hand.

  “But does Udari of the Bedel make an end to the sad gadje’s pain, and afterward feed the furnace? He does not. Instead, he brings the gadje to Silain, our luthia.” Alosha paused, sipped, and allowed another sigh to be heard.

  “Well! Udari has a soft nature; he is devout. And we are taught that the luthia’s blessing is required to smooth the way to the World Unseen.”

  Kezzi poured the dregs of the kettle into her mug and squatted by the fire, listening.

  “But does the luthia then release the gadje’s spirit into the next world? She does not. Rather, she undertakes a healing, for no reason that I can understand. Luthia, teach me. I ask it.”

  There was a small silence while Silain sipped her tea.

  “There are those things which are given to the headman’s authority and understanding,” she said at last. “And those things which are given to the understanding and the authority of the luthia.”

  “So we are taught, and so we believe,” Alosha acknowledged.

  “So we are taught, and so we believe, and so the universe is ordered,” the luthia said, which was the fuller answer.

  She shook her hair back and looked across the fire to the headman. Kezzi could see that she smiled.

  “Sleep well and dream richly, Alosha, headman of the Bedel. The universe is ordered, and all is as well as may be.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Good morning, Grandaunt.”

  Syl Vor waited just inside the door to the morning room for Grandaunt Kareen to acknowledge him. He had taken particular care with himself this morning, brushing his hair until it lay flat, and choosing for his costume a white shirt, an embroidered vest, and soft dark pants. Of course, he was too young to have formal calling clothes, but he thought he had done rather well, given the resources available to him.

  Grandaunt looked up from her book, one eyebrow lifting as she surveyed him. Syl Vor raised his chin and met her eye boldly. Grandaunt did not approve of meeching manners.

  “Good morning, Child Syl Vor,” she said. “I hope I see you well this early in the day?”

  “Indeed, I am very well,” he answered, which correct response she herself had taught him. “May I hope that you are the same?”

  “I enjoy my usual robust health, thank you.” She closed the book and tucked it between her hip and the arm of the chair. “May I deduce from your attire that you have on purpose sought me out?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I have—if you please, Grandaunt—a question of protocol.”

  “A pressing question of protocol, I apprehend. Very well, child; you have my attention. Stand forth and ask.”

  Thus encouraged, he came an additional six steps into the room and bowed as one grateful for a kindness.

  “I have been reviewing the forms,” he said, which was perfectly true. “And I find that I—that my understanding founders on a matter of timing.” He paused, in case she wished to comment on his preface, or perhaps to praise his diligence.

  Grandaunt merely moved a hand, inviting him to continue.

  “I wonder, ma’am, what is the proper waiting period, when one party has said to another that a face-to-face meeting is required?”

  Grandaunt Kareen considered him blandly. Syl Vor folded his hands and composed himself to wait.

  “That is a question which cannot be answered before the sub-questions it spawns are properly retired.” She raised her hand, thumb extended. “Are both parties on-world?”

  “Yes, ma’am, they are.”

  Her index finger joined the thumb. “Have both parties agreed to the necessity of this meeting?”

  “Yes.”

  Middle finger. “Is there any necessity of clan or survival which prevents one party from attending?”

  This was where he had stumbled in his own analysis. Surely, if there was some danger in the city that prevented his mother from arriving home, the House would have heard—and acted. And yet, he was only just learning melant’i and form. There well could be some adult circumstance which was hidden from his understanding.

  “I am waiting, Child Syl Vor.”

  He bowed.

  “Forgive me, Grandaunt. There is no impediment that I am aware of.”

  “Ah, this is the crux, is it?” Grandaunt smiled her sharp, slender smile. “If such an impediment exists, it is the duty of the impeded party to communicate this. The Code assumes that we will be observant and thoughtful, Child Syl Vor. It does not assume prescience.”

  Syl Vor sighed, only a very tiny sigh, but Grandaunt of course heard. Astonishingly, she did not scold him for an unbecoming display, but merely asked, “What does your analysis tell you now?”

  “Three days,” he said. “Unless word has been sent.”

  “That is correct.” Grandaunt tipped her head. “Is there anything else, Child Syl Vor?”

  “No. I thank you, Grandaunt; there was only that.”

  “Then I will regretfully bid you good morning.”

  He bowed, younger to elder. “Good morning, Grandaunt. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome. Please do me the kindness of closing the door behind you.”

  * * *

  The garda had come up the street, and past three of their doors, including the door where Udari had found the dying gadje. Pulka, who watched the cameras one shift out of three, said that they had come to the very place where the gadje had lain, and placed a sniffer there on the ’crete. Had the headman’s cleansing of the area been less thorough—but Alosha was never careless, and so the devices of the garda were confounded.

  The Bedel had, for several days after, remained in kompani, and only Torv went to the City Above, as the eyes and ears of the Bedel. He brought back that the garda searched for a dead man they did not, themselves, fully believe in. They were therefore undismayed to find no trace of him. There was no lamentation in the taverns, nor notices on the message poles, as sometimes there was, asking for news of the gadje, their gadje. It would seem from this that he was a man alone—which was not, as Kezzi knew—a strange thing, in the City Above, though it seemed strange, indeed, to the Bedel, who were as the petals on a single flower.