2
“I DON’T like him,” said Locke. “I don’t like him at all.”
He and Chains were preparing the breakfast meal early the next morning; Locke was simmering up a soup from sliced onions and irregular little brown cubes of reduced beef stock, while Chains was attempting to crack the wax seal on a honey crock. His bare fingers and nails having failed, he was hacking at it with a stiletto and muttering to himself.
“Don’t like him at all? That’s rather silly,” said Chains, his voice distant, “since he’s not yet been here a single day.”
“He’s fat. He’s soft. He’s not one of us.”
“He most certainly is. We showed him the temple and the burrow; he took oath as my pezon. I’ll go see the capa with him in just a day or two.”
“I don’t mean one of us, Gentlemen Bastards, I mean one of us, us. He’s not a thief. He’s a soft fat—”
“Merchant. Son of merchant parents is what he is. But he’s a thief now.”
“He didn’t steal things! He didn’t charm or tease! He said he was in the hill for a few days before he got brought here. So he’s not one of us.”
“Locke.” Chains turned from the business of the honey crock and stared down at him, frowning. “Jean Tannen is a thief because I’m going to train him as a thief. You do recall that’s what I train here; thieves of a very particular sort. This hasn’t slipped your mind?”
“But he’s—”
“He’s better-learned than any of you. Scribes in a clean, smooth hand. Understands business, ledgers, money-shifts, and a great many other things. Your former master knew I’d want him right away.”
“He’s fat.”
“So am I. And you’re ugly. Calo and Galdo have noses like siege engines. Sabetha had spots breaking out last we saw her. Did you have a point?”
“He kept us up all night. He was crying, and he wouldn’t shut up.”
“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice from behind them. Locke and Chains turned (the latter much more slowly than the former); Jean Tannen was standing by the door to the sleeping quarters, red-eyed. “I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t help it.”
“Ha!” Chains turned back to his stiletto and his honey crock. “Looks as though boys who live in glass burrows shouldn’t speak so loudly of those in the next room.”
“Well, don’t do it again, Jean,” said Locke, hopping down from the wooden step he still used to reach the top of the cooking hearth. He crossed to one of the spice cabinets and began shuffling jars, looking for something. “Shut up and let us sleep. Calo and Galdo and I don’t blubber.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jean, sounding close to tears again. “I’m sorry, it’s just…my mother. My father. I…I’m an orphan.”
“So what?” Locke took down a little glass bottle of pickled radishes, sealed with a stone stopper like an alchemical potion. “I’m an orphan. We’re all orphans here. Whining won’t make your family live again.”
Locke turned and took two steps back toward the cooking hearth, so he didn’t see Jean cross the space between them. He did feel Jean’s arm wrap around his neck from behind; it might have been soft but it was damned heavy, for a ten-year-old. Locke lost his grip on the pickled radishes; Jean picked him off the ground by main force, whirled, and heaved him.
Locke’s feet left the ground at the same time the radish jar shattered against it; a confused second later the back of Locke’s head bounced off the heavy witchwood dining table and he fell to the ground, landing painfully on his rather bony posterior.
“You shut up!” There was nothing subdued about Jean now; he was screaming, red-faced, with tears pouring out of his eyes. “You shut your filthy mouth! You never talk about my family!”
Locke put up his hands and tried to stand up; one of Jean’s fists grew in his field of vision until it seemed to blot out half the world. The blow folded him over like a bread-pretzel. When he recovered something resembling his senses he was hugging a table leg; the room was dancing a minuet around him.
“Wrrblg,” he said, his mouth full of blood and pain.
“Now, Jean,” said Chains, pulling the heavyset boy away from Locke. “I think your message is rather thoroughly delivered.”
“Ugh. That really hurt,” said Locke.
“It’s only fair.” Chains released Jean, who balled his fists and stood glaring at Locke, shuddering. “You really deserved it.”
“Huh…wha?”
“Sure we’re all orphans here. My parents were long dead before you were even born. Your parents are years gone. Same for Calo and Galdo and Sabetha. But Jean,” said Chains, “lost his only five nights ago.”
“Oh.” Locke sat up, groaning. “I didn’t…I didn’t know.”
“Well, then.” Chains finally succeeded in prying open the honey crock; the wax seal split with an audible crack. “When you don’t know everything you could know, it’s a fine time to shut your fucking noisemaker and be polite.”
“It was a fire.” Jean took a few deep breaths, still staring at Locke. “They burned to death. The whole shop. Everything gone.” He turned and walked back to the sleeping quarters, head down, rubbing at his eyes.
Chains turned his back on Locke and began stirring the honey, breaking up the little patches of crystallization.
There was an echoing clang from the fall of the secret door that led down from the temple above; a moment later Calo and Galdo appeared in the kitchen, each twin dressed in his white initiate’s robe, each one balancing a long, soft loaf of bread atop his head.
“We have returned,” said Calo.
“With bread!”
“Which is obvious!”
“No, you’re obvious!”
The twins stopped short when they saw Locke pulling himself up by the edge of the table, lips swollen, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.
“What did we miss?” asked Galdo.
“Boys,” said Chains, “I might have forgotten to tell you something when I introduced you to Jean and showed him around last night. Your old master from Shades’ Hill warned me that while Jean is mostly soft-spoken, the boy has one hell of a colorful temper.”
Shaking his head, Chains stepped over to Locke and helped him stand upright. “When the world stops spinning,” he said, “don’t forget that you’ve got broken glass and radishes to clean up, too.”