Eight
It’s very satisfying to drop in on Ekkeban in the small hours of the morning and lay the treasures from Ky’s house across his counter; the pile of bits he builds as he sorts through them is impressively large.
It becomes somewhat less so when he deducts enough to cover my tab, but it’s enough to keep the bakery in mash for some time.
And I’ve still got the sword in reserve—I’ll sell it eventually, but I wanted to study it first. I’d love to be able to duplicate it for Star.
I’ve had no sleep since the night before last, and by the time I get back to the bakery I’m ready to drop. But the front door is still shut, so I have to run the gauntlet in back, where Somi is distributing bread to the usual suspects.
“Taj!”
“Tah!”
And a wetness at my shin that indicates someone is gumming my pants leg.
“Morning, Taj,” Somi says, his voice carefully neutral. “You’ve been… busy.”
He fixes me with a disapproving glare. I give him a broad smile and a shrug. “Late night.”
“Spike was worried about you.”
“She should know me better than that.”
“Taj!” Ema says, tugging at my arm. “Can we see Star?”
Star is already inside in one of his tunnels; I don’t want to answer questions about why he looks so different. I pat Ema’s head, which she hates; she shoves my hand away and runs her fingers through her rat’s nest of straw-colored hair.
“Not today. He’ll come play with you another time.”
“Stah!” Athie says excitedly.
“Taj is very tired,” Somi says. “And his pants are filthy, Gort, stop chewing on them. Here, have a nice mash-bun instead.”
Somi’s not wrong, but being dismissed rankles. He’ll change his tune quickly enough when I toss him the purse I got from Ekkeban, though. I detach Gort and point him in Somi’s direction.
“We’ll talk later,” Somi mutters as I slip past.
“You’re not dead,” Spike says from the kitchen.
“I hope you didn’t clean out my room already.”
“Not quite yet.” She sticks her head out and adds in a low tone, “Don’t think you’re getting out of toilet cleaning that easily.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Did you win?”
“In a manner of speaking.” I can’t help a bit of a smile, and Spike’s eyes light up. “You’ll see.”
I have a present for her in my pack. Somi too. But right now my bed is calling me with an irresistible siren song. I stagger into my room, shut the door, and collapse; the world disappears for ten or twelve hours.
When I wake up I have to spend a while massaging my bad leg before it consents to bear my weight again. I should wash, but the basin is downstairs and I’m not up to facing people just yet.
Instead I sit at my workbench and start working on Star’s new combat body.
I retrieved the remains of the Mark 3 from Ekkeban, but it’s so badly damaged it’s easier to strip out the surviving sigils and start again.
So this will be the Mark 4, bigger and stronger than ever.
I’ll need a lot more supplies to finish it, but there’s enough to make a beginning.
Star pops up through the hatch in the floor and scuttles over. He spends a while watching me lay out fresh metal plates and spars.
[Observation: when Somi repairs you, you can’t even bear to watch.]
I get a sudden memory of his needle tugging at the edges of my seared flesh and swallow bile. Yeah, yeah. You runics are superior because you don’t have stomachs to turn.
[Self-evidently.]
I start screwing a couple of spars into a ball joint. Thanks for saving my ass up there.
[Addendum: again.]
Right. The joint squeaks; there’s a rough spot. I sigh and make a mental note to get more grease. Again.
He clambers onto the bench and stares solemnly at his own inert body. [Query: you have sufficient resources to complete this?]
Not yet. But we’ll see how much Ekkeban will give me for the sword.
[Observation: if it is insufficient, we will need to return to Yesod.]
Yeah. I shift uncomfortably.
[Reminder: last time, you said we cannot “tap that keg” too often, or the Arbiters will take notice.]
I know. A little theft here and there fades into the background, but a string of robberies will draw official attention.
[Reminder: and that was before we were nearly captured.]
I know, Star. But we’ll be fine. The natural assumption would be that a thief is sneaking in from Malkuth, which will have them looking in all the wrong places. They don’t have any reason to suspect someone’s climbing up from below.
[Foreboding: unless Ky tells them.]
I stop abruptly. The thought had honestly never occurred to me; something in her open manner had made me feel sure she’d keep my secret. But of course she’s a Yesod citizen, and she doesn’t owe shit to a random Heaper who’d robbed her. She didn’t even make any promises.
I think of all the questions she asked, and my cheeks grow warm. Some mix of anger and—let’s be honest—horniness had driven me to respond, and viewed in the cold light of day that felt kind of really fucking stupid.
Not much we could have done about that either way.
[Observation: except kill her.]
We can’t just go around killing people.
[Confirmation: because it would attract Arbiter attention?]
That too. But… you just don’t. For some reason I think of Fara, wiping blood off my face after some scuffle or other. Not unless they’re trying to kill you first.
[Dubious: waiting for them to try to kill you seems poor tactics.]
It’s a… human thing, all right? I change the subject. Are you disappointed I didn’t accept her offer?
[Denial: your decision was the correct one.]
Would you want to be “bigger and fightier”? I glance at the embryonic Mark 4, then give his little head a tap. You seem happy enough in this body.
[Agreement: this body has its advantages. Size is not the only virtue.]
“That’s what I keep telling them,” I mutter under my breath.
[Query: repeat?]
Never mind. Stupid joke. I finish tightening the joint and lean back in my chair. What do you want, when it comes down to it?
There’s a long pause. Star turns his primary optics toward me, legs clicking softly.
[Recall: without the energy you provide to my foundation sigil, I would not be conscious. Without the bodies you build, I could neither perceive the world nor take action. Assisting you as best I am able is my optimal course of action.]
Aw. I rap his little head again. You like me.
[Denial: my decision-making is not clouded by your human emotions.]
Mmmhmm.
[Regardless: it follows that whatever body shape is most useful to you is the one I should prefer. Accordingly, I defer to your decisions.]
Very practical, I tell him. But if you ever want something decorative, let me know. You could have some flower engravings, or a little party hat.
[Emphatic rejection.]
I laugh out loud.
Once the bakery has closed for the day, I go down to Somi’s room.
It used to be Fara’s room, though she’d spent little enough time in it.
The three of us hadn’t quite known what to do with it after she died, but eventually Somi’s incessant snoring had won out over residual discomfort and he’d moved in.
Since then, he’s made a start on making it his own—the big bed and the sewing table are the same, but we’d sold Fara’s face-paints and jewelry and used the space for a little writing desk.
Somi’s precious collection of books lines the back of it, a half dozen volumes he’s read so often he’s had to replace the spines more than once.
Little Forest Stories lies open now, the book of fairy tales Fara used to read to get us to sleep. Somi’s copying out the one about the clever fox and the foolish bear onto gray rag-paper.
He looks up at the sound of my footsteps. I raise an eyebrow.
“Ema says one of the older kids in her kip reads to the others,” he says. “I thought I’d give her a couple of these to take to him.”
“Very kind of you.” I try not to sound skeptical. Somi is a big believer in the power of stories, but I suspect the kids would trade all the fairy tales in the world for an extra loaf.
He sets the pen down, carefully, and turns in his chair. “Where were you last night, Taj?”
“I got you a present,” I tell him, rummaging in my bag. “Here.”
It’s a book, a thick one with a rich purple binding. The Noble Art of Lacemaking, the cover says. How it ended up here I have no idea, but the stains and scuffs indicate a long and pungent story. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, truthfully, but it was the only one in Ekkeban’s shop.
“Taj…” Somi takes it, flips a few cracked pages. “How did you—”
“Oh, and this,” I add, trying for casual and not quite making it as I toss a little bag on the desk. It gives the metallic clink of bits. “For the jar.”
Somi sets the book down and stares at the purse as though it were a poisonous spider.
“Taj,” he says eventually. “Where were you?”
“Who cares?” I say. “We need the money.”
“I care. We do need the money, but…”
“But nothing. There it is.”
“A sack of bits isn’t worth losing my brother.”
“Nobody’s lost anybody. I’m right here.”
“This time.”
Anger tightens my guts. “I can’t believe you.”
“That I care about you? That I worry you’re risking too much?”
“I’m taking risks so you can go on giving food away to every little beggar who finds our door! Is it too much to ask for a little gratitude?”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
I grit my teeth. “And I don’t have to ask for your permission! You’re not Fara.”
“Stars know I understand that. But I’m trying to do what she would have done, and that means keeping everyone safe.”
“Well you can stop!” I slam my hand against the wall. “I can handle myself. Haven’t I proven that by now?”
“By coming back half dead? By sneaking out and lying to us?”
“Someone has to take chances! If you had your way, we’d all be tucked up safe and sound and fucking starving to death!”
The look on his face makes my gut twist. Shit. Shit shit shit. Why am I doing this? He’s my brother, and I love him more than anything else in the world. Which means I know how to hurt him better than anyone.
“If Fara was alive, she would tell you the same thing,” Somi says.
Of course, the same goes for him. I turn away, not wanting him to see the tears pricking my eyes. Before I realize it, I’m stalking for the door.
“Where are you going?” he calls after me. Plaintive, like a fucking child.
“Out,” I mutter. I doubt he hears.