isn’t play. It’s real. How are you going to get away from the bad men when you can’t even get away from your old Nana?” She reiterated, “It’s not a game, Arif. Now tell me the rules. What are you supposed to do?”
Lip out farther, Arif began reciting the litany of responses he was to make if somebody tried to kidnap him.
Mish rushed out of the house. “Mom, did you see Arif? He…” She saw him sitting there. Almost instantly, her eye strayed to the Dartars up the street. She did not hear a word Nana said. She always got deaf whenever Mom or Nana started yelling at her.
* * *
Azel strolled all the way around Government House twice, looking to see who was watching, if anyone was. He did not spot anyone. If someone was around he was good enough not to give himself away. That would be unusual for the ground-level men of the Living and impossible for the Dartars, who could not—and probably would not—disguise themselves as anything but what they were. There were jokes and parables about the Dartar inability to adapt. “Stubborn as a Dartar,” was a maxim as old as Qushmarrah itself.
Azel strolled to a tradesman’s entrance, knocked. A soldier opened a peekhole. “What you want?” he demanded.
“I got to see Colonel Bruda about the cut flowers he ordered.” He grinned. The guy wouldn’t know what the hell was going on, but he’d have a damned good idea, what with all the guys coming around about flowers for the Colonel. He could not be unique, could he? What the hell would a Colonel do with a ton of posies?
The Herodian bolted up behind Azel. In his own language he told his partner, “I’m going to take this gink up to Bruda. Hold the fort.”
The partner grunted. He had not bothered to look up from his lap. Too long in garrison, Azel figured.
His guide led him through dusty, seldom-used passages. He amused himself trying to estimate Government House’s backdoor traffic from the disturbances in the dust. He played the same game every time.
The guide turned into the long north-south hall. Azel glanced back. Nobody behind them. Nobody up ahead. There never was, but you had to check. You didn’t let up.
Should he do it?
Why the hell not? There wasn’t a damned thing they could do. He grinned.
He got his weight behind the punch and buried it in the soldier’s left kidney. The man folded around the blow, then crumpled. Azel leaned against the wall and waited. When the soldier finally began to get himself together and looked up, there were tears in his eyes.
“Gink, eh? You gotta learn not to let your asshole overload your brain.” He said it in Herodian vulgate, not the formal, upper-class Herodian most outsiders learned.
He saw something stir behind the soldier’s eyes. “Don’t even think about it. I’d tie your ears in a bowknot.” He extended a helping hand. “Let’s go see the Messenger of the Faith.” Though most everyone, including the common Herodian soldiers, used old-fashioned designations, among themselves the true believers used ranks that were religious.
The man let Azel help. He started off unsteadily, bent slightly, head hanging.
“I don’t reckon I hit you that hard, but if you start pissing blood you better see your regimental doc.”
The soldier said nothing. He took Azel up several floors and into a room where a Herodian ensign, still looking forward to his first shave, jumped up and opened another door, said something to someone on the other side. Then he told Azel, “He’ll see you in a minute.”
The soldier shuffled out.
“What was the matter with him?”
“Made a mistake. Made an ethnic slur.”
The boy did not meet his eye. Azel grinned, moved to a window, looked out at the bay. Hell of a view of the harbor. He wondered if he’d ever go to sea again. Not likely. That was a young man’s game. A young, stupid, blind man’s game. If you saw or figured out what you were walking into you didn’t walk.
“Rose?”
Azel turned.
Lip out farther, Arif began reciting the litany of responses he was to make if somebody tried to kidnap him.
Mish rushed out of the house. “Mom, did you see Arif? He…” She saw him sitting there. Almost instantly, her eye strayed to the Dartars up the street. She did not hear a word Nana said. She always got deaf whenever Mom or Nana started yelling at her.
* * *
Azel strolled all the way around Government House twice, looking to see who was watching, if anyone was. He did not spot anyone. If someone was around he was good enough not to give himself away. That would be unusual for the ground-level men of the Living and impossible for the Dartars, who could not—and probably would not—disguise themselves as anything but what they were. There were jokes and parables about the Dartar inability to adapt. “Stubborn as a Dartar,” was a maxim as old as Qushmarrah itself.
Azel strolled to a tradesman’s entrance, knocked. A soldier opened a peekhole. “What you want?” he demanded.
“I got to see Colonel Bruda about the cut flowers he ordered.” He grinned. The guy wouldn’t know what the hell was going on, but he’d have a damned good idea, what with all the guys coming around about flowers for the Colonel. He could not be unique, could he? What the hell would a Colonel do with a ton of posies?
The Herodian bolted up behind Azel. In his own language he told his partner, “I’m going to take this gink up to Bruda. Hold the fort.”
The partner grunted. He had not bothered to look up from his lap. Too long in garrison, Azel figured.
His guide led him through dusty, seldom-used passages. He amused himself trying to estimate Government House’s backdoor traffic from the disturbances in the dust. He played the same game every time.
The guide turned into the long north-south hall. Azel glanced back. Nobody behind them. Nobody up ahead. There never was, but you had to check. You didn’t let up.
Should he do it?
Why the hell not? There wasn’t a damned thing they could do. He grinned.
He got his weight behind the punch and buried it in the soldier’s left kidney. The man folded around the blow, then crumpled. Azel leaned against the wall and waited. When the soldier finally began to get himself together and looked up, there were tears in his eyes.
“Gink, eh? You gotta learn not to let your asshole overload your brain.” He said it in Herodian vulgate, not the formal, upper-class Herodian most outsiders learned.
He saw something stir behind the soldier’s eyes. “Don’t even think about it. I’d tie your ears in a bowknot.” He extended a helping hand. “Let’s go see the Messenger of the Faith.” Though most everyone, including the common Herodian soldiers, used old-fashioned designations, among themselves the true believers used ranks that were religious.
The man let Azel help. He started off unsteadily, bent slightly, head hanging.
“I don’t reckon I hit you that hard, but if you start pissing blood you better see your regimental doc.”
The soldier said nothing. He took Azel up several floors and into a room where a Herodian ensign, still looking forward to his first shave, jumped up and opened another door, said something to someone on the other side. Then he told Azel, “He’ll see you in a minute.”
The soldier shuffled out.
“What was the matter with him?”
“Made a mistake. Made an ethnic slur.”
The boy did not meet his eye. Azel grinned, moved to a window, looked out at the bay. Hell of a view of the harbor. He wondered if he’d ever go to sea again. Not likely. That was a young man’s game. A young, stupid, blind man’s game. If you saw or figured out what you were walking into you didn’t walk.
“Rose?”
Azel turned.
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