Eighteen #2
“I had a very interesting proposal from Gylla the Nose, too—”
I tune out. Ky, I suspect, is going to get what she wants.
Instead I kneel down beside Star and look at Lorrimer.
She’s wearing a floor-length shapeless gray dress with many pockets, bearing the same sorts of cuts and stains my own working outfits accumulate.
She tilts her head back and forth, which gives me glimpses of a long, sallow face through her fringe of hair.
Star, looking back at her, mimics her motions.
“Did you tell it to do that?” she says, her voice surprisingly pleasant.
“Do what?”
“Copy me. Look.” She tips her head again, and Star, peevishly, goes the other way. “It was doing it a second ago!”
“I haven’t told it to do anything,” I say.
“Don’t lie to me. You’ve got a trick. Some construct you keep in your pocket, right? You can tap the commands on little switches, maybe.”
Closer to the truth than what I told Ky about gestures, anyway. I give an awkward shrug.
“Thing I can’t figure out is why you bother. Does being able to command it silently really give you that much of an advantage? It must be expensive.”
I shrug again.
“Prick,” she says, almost amiably. “Nothing about you makes sense anyway. Why’d you make it this little body?”
“Easier to carry that way.”
“Easier to— What, so you can take it around the city with you? Why?”
Because he wants to see things doesn’t seem like an explanation that would satisfy her. Fortunately for me, she’s already moved on.
“And I don’t recognize any of these parts. No brands or model numbers, just… nothing.”
“Star’s not built from parts. I made him myself.”
“You made… him. Yourself.”
I nod.
“But you can’t do that,” she says with growing frustration. “Wiring sigils together by hand is for… for kids playing with junk. Nobody wires up an entire runic by hand, the connections are too complicated to keep track of.”
I’d never found it particularly difficult, to be honest. Each sigil had its connection points and hooked in with the others. After a little trial and error, it was just obvious.
“It seems to work for me,” I say, spreading my hands.
“Ugh.” She blows out a breath, stirring the curtain of hair. “I hate you.”
“Sorry. Because I beat you?”
“Because I don’t understand how.” She crosses her arms. “It’s not like I’ve never lost before. When you lose, you look at the other guy’s runic and think, oh, okay, that’s clever, and then you just copy it. Or else somebody just wall-of-bits’s you and there’s nothing you can do.”
“‘Wall-of-bits’?”
“Yeah.” She gives me an odd look and waves a hand. “Like, a runic with a crappy design, but it’s got such expensive sigils stuffed into it that it wins anyway. Like being crushed by a wall of bits.”
“Ah,” I say.
“You really are new at this, aren’t you?
” She sighs. “Sometimes rich kids from Yesod want to slum it down here, and they bring these runics that are just ridiculous. Every sigil orange or yellow, even the modifiers. It’s stupid.
I thought you might be one of those but obviously not.
Your runic doesn’t even have skulls and flames painted on the side. ”
“The rich kids’ do?”
“Every fucking time.” She idly blows at her hair. “So where are you from?”
I’m not sure I should say, and I’m saved from having to answer by Ky’s call.
“Taj! We’ve got a deal.”
“Your girlfriend must be tough if she can go toe-to-toe with my aunt,” Lorrimer says, standing up and brushing off her skirt.
“She’s not my— Your aunt?”
She nods and wanders away. I go back to the others; Ky is bouncing with anticipation, and Weslai’s eyes have the shine they get with the imminent prospect of money. Even Venci, for once, looks more excited than annoyed.
“Can you be ready for a fight in two days’ time?” Ky says.
I glance at Star. The Mark 4 is in pretty good shape, even after the last fight. It won’t take long to tune it up. “Sure, as long as I can get the cash we talked about.”
Ky gives an eager nod. Venci sizes me up and snorts.
“Your reputation’s spread enough that we’ll have no problem getting challengers,” she says. “But you could stand to spruce yourself up a bit. It’s all about putting on a show, remember. And do something about your runic, it’s too drab.”
[Agreement: I am too drab. I require sparkles.]
How about some skulls and flames? Maybe a few spikes?
[Distaste: spikes would impede my mobility. And skulls and flames are apparently a marker of inferior status. My decorations should be more elegant.]
Well, I tell him as Venci and I shake hands, I’ll see what I can do.
In between fights, I can spend time with my family.
I still don’t fill them in on exactly what I’m doing—residual paranoia, maybe—but they can see that it’s working by the gifts I bring home.
I find a new journal for Spike, a nice leatherbound one, and grab whatever books Weslai has lying around for Somi.
The selection is eclectic, but his face lights up with delight every time.
There’s one stop I’m almost eager to make when the time comes. I don’t have to go looking for Rekas. I just stroll around the market for a while, and he finds me. The Clawmark enforcer falls in beside me, as though we were old friends, a horrible grin on his battered features.
“Hello, Taj,” he rumbles. “Once again you’re looking well.”
“Rekas,” I say. “You’re still bald and ugly.”
“Can’t deny it.” He chuckles and runs a hand over his stubbled scalp. “From what I hear, you’ve had a bit of an upswing in your fortunes. Been seeing you at the market more, picking up some nice things. Hit some good scavenge lately, have you?”
“Something like that.” My hands itch to close into fists.
“I’m happy for you,” he says. “Really. Just, in your newfound prosperity, make sure you don’t forget good old Uncle Claw, who makes it all possible. No use scavenging without peace, after all, and peace is what Uncle Claw provides, first and foremost—”
I can’t stand to listen to him talk anymore. “Here.”
He stops, staring at the bag in my outthrust hand. “What’s this?”
“Our shortfall, plus next month.”
“Is it, now?” He takes the bag carefully, as though expecting a trap. Bits clink inside.
“Take it and go. I don’t have to listen to you blather.”
“Hmm.” He tightens his fingers on the bag. “Uncle Claw certainly appreciates the contribution. But I must say I’m curious. Where, exactly, have you been doing so very well for yourself?”
“I’m sucking cocks in back alleys, what the fuck do you care? Now are you going to get lost, or do I need to go to Uncle Claw and tell him you’re hassling a friend who’s paid up and then some?”
“Careful, Taj.” His smile has faded. “You don’t just owe your uncle money. You owe him respect.”
He’s right. I should be careful. But every time I look at him, all I can see is Spike, one eye swollen shut, crying over the shredded bits of her journal. If I bend to kiss this thug’s boots, I feel like it will break me in half.
“I have plenty of respect,” I say. “For him.”
“Hmm.” There’s a long pause, and then Rekas tucks the bag away. “Well. I can only hope your good fortune continues.”
Something in his face says he’s not hoping very hard.