'That's what he said last time. And everybody else said they would too. But they didn't. And I'm the one that got hurt.'
'He got you out, didn't he?'
'Uh-huh. Where were the rest of you while he was doing it?'
Kevin shrugged and looked away.
'I work better alone,' Mischa said. 'Let's leave it at that.'
'Okay.' But he sounded unwilling, as though he had instructions he was reluctant to disobey.
'Hey,' Mischa said.
'What?'
She pointed. At Stone Palace one of the doors swung slowly closed behind a child in a gilded kilt and collar. It minced along in the sand, in unconscious parody of adulthood despite baby fat and long beribboned curls.
'Come on,' Mischa said.
Kevin followed her down the helix. 'What are you going to do?'
'I don't know,' she said, as though she had definite and malevolent plans.
'You're crazy,' Kevin said, making the assumptions Mischa had expected.
'Find other company, then.'
He followed her, and they followed the slave child as it followed its memorized route. Mischa was cautious by habit, though the child walked eyes front, incurious, disdainful. It seemed to look down its nose even at things twice its size. It shied away from dirt and disorder, when it should have been making mudpies. It seemed proud of itself, proud of its duties, proud of the collar around its neck.
The slave child walked down the middle of the path, toward the Family domes. Kevin grew increasingly nervous. He and Mischa both were out of place in this part of the city. 'But what are you going to do?'
'I told you I don't know yet.'
'Why waste time on it?'
'That's just why I won't come back.'
Not understanding, Kevin said, 'Dav—'
'Dav chews his toenails,' Mischa snapped.
Hurt by the insult, Kevin grew silent. He followed her for a few more minutes, then spoke again, hesitantly. 'Whatever you're going to do, I don't think it'll work.'
'I'll see you around, then.'
Having expected her to stop chasing the useless slave, Kevin halted, surprised at the cutoff. Mischa kept going, half-smiling with relief that vanished when he called to her.
'Mischa—'
'What?'
'Dav wanted me to tell you one thing.'
'What?'
'He says he misses you.'
The tightness in her throat was less, this time, than her anger. 'That's too bad,' she said. Dav had been a good friend, a pleasurable companion, but he had drawn on their friendship more than once too often. Mischa did not want to see him again. Too many people were trying to control her life. She had missed Dav for a long time, in the day, in the night, but she did not miss him anymore. She walked away from Kevin and did not look back.
The slave child's presence in Center, unguarded, was a taunt that would never be answered. Its authority emanated from Stone Palace, where Blaisse, its lord, held half the power in Center. Blaisse did not exert his will as much as Mischa had heard his father used to, but the potential existed. Blaisse controlled any ship that landed at Center from the Sphere, and he was said to possess great weapons. At least the Families believed he did, for they never tried to alter the uneasy balance of power. The Families themselves were unquestionably powerful, for they controlled the law, the food and water, access to the outside, raw materials, even the air. And, of course, electricity: the light.
When the slave child reached the Family domes, it was allowed to enter, a courtesy accorded few others. When it had finished giving the bulk orders, it went to franchises to buy prepared goods: cloth or caked and flavored algae or meat made of pressed sheets of cultured cells. Last it visited the little luxury shops for outside imports that could not be made or grown in Center: fruit, animal meat, fur, sun-drugs. The prices had already risen considerably; they would be much higher by spring. The child pilfered choice tidbits with impunity, ignoring guardbirds that would have been loosed to take out anyone else's eyes.
Unmolested and avoided, the child made its loop of Center and returned to Stone Palace, to give up its responsibility and again be a plaything competing with other playthings for the attention of some noble. Mischa let it go. She looked up at the clean gray stone where units had been stripped away and crumbled into rubble to give the Palace and its lord the privacy they required. Mischa felt no animosity toward Blaisse for the destruction; it had been done long before either he or Mischa was born.
Mischa smiled a wry private smile and turned back the way she had come.
Jan Hikaru's Journal:
My friend the blinded navigator tells stories of greater or lesser credibility, and her words flow like poetry. The blind poet: a character so ancient it has become an archetype: Homer, Miriamne ... and my friend. I listen to her and talk with her for hours every day.
People come to her: children, young navigators, even captains, to tell her of ships about to depart for places I have heard of but never seen. She questions each with equal courtesy, thanks them, and stays. She is waiting for something. Of late she has become restless. I have a feeling that soon she will make her way down to the field, find a ship of whatever destination, and leave.
I'm discovering that I have never been frightened before. I am frightened now, of losing her, of loneliness.
Kirillin was a tall, ugly young woman with knife scars down her cheek and a purple birthmark like a mask across her eyes. She always wore opaque black. She was older than Chris by a few years, and ten years removed from being a sneakthief, but she was a good friend. For many things she had been Mischa's teacher, from tricks of the trade of thievery to biocontrol of fertility. Mischa went to her shop and leaned against the doorframe.
Kiri glanced up. 'Hello, Mischa.'
'Hi.' She gestured toward the back of the room where five kids were playing three-coin. 'Need more help?'
Kiri smiled with the half of her face that worked. 'What have you got in mind? An honest job?'
'Thought I'd try it.'
Kiri raised an eyebrow. 'It would be a real shame to distract such a good thief.'
'I'm getting old for it.'
Kiri's laugh was all she needed to indicate her skepticism. 'Just what are you planning?'
Mischa shrugged.
'Let's see,' Kirillin said. 'My senile old mind seems to recall seeing a Palace footwarmer prancing by a little while ago. I'll be hiring out for delivery soon.' She frowned. 'Close?'
'But you do need more help.'
'That's a hell of a risk.'
'I want to talk to Blaisse.'
Kiri laughed, quickly, sharply, with surprise and disbelief. 'He'd rather have you steal from him.'
'Give me a chance, Kiri.'
'Why?'
Mischa folded her arms and let her hair slide across her eyes. 'When did you see Chris last?'
Muscles tensed along the side of Kiri's face. 'I don't remember. A long time ago.'
'One of the shipowners hired him, but he. got sick. I've got to get him out of Center, Kiri, or he's going to die. Maybe away from here they can help him.'
'Mischa, but what can you say to Blaisse?'
She hunched her shoulders. 'I don't know. I don't have a special thing I can do, like Chris does. But I can do anything, if you show me once. I'm pretty smart. I'll just have to convince him to let me on one of his ships.'
Kiri levered herself from her chair and stared out the window at the bare gray Palace space, taking time. 'I