The Children of the Sky

Bergsndot human was out of power, at best a minor player. On the other hand, Timor himself was becoming an important one, even if he didn’t realize the fact. Down in the New Meeting Place, Belle often lay at his feet pretending to sleep while eavesdropping on the humans.

As far as Belle could tell, Timor’s parents had had roughly the same social status as did offal collectors in the Domain. Timor had inherited their talents—and somehow those abilities were rare and precious down here. Nevil and his friends didn’t like Timor. They didn’t like his innocent opinions or the effect he had on the other Children. One way or another, Timor is my lever! The main thing was to pick the right time and issue to use against Nevil and his pals. She was already planting the seeds for that: “Maybe we could complain to Nevil, or that nice Bili Yngva.”

The boy yawned. “I guess.” He gave a little shiver. “I’m too tired to read any more now. I need to go to bed.”

When Timor had been just a puppy of a Child, she had tucked him in every night. It had become an unnecessary ritual. But the boy was still as small as he had ever been. He hadn’t grown like the other Children. And there were other problems. He weakened so easily, and he still needed a lot more sleep than any human or pack she had ever known. Even if he stayed loyal to her, she might still lose out.

She led and followed Timor up the stairs to the tiny sleeping loft. At the top was one of those wonderful little light switches. With a tap of a snout, there was a bluish glow from a ceramic square mounted on the wall.

“Huh, the light’s kinda dim,” she said.

“It’s okay,” said Timor. “But the room is colder than usual. I’ll bet there’s some problem with the steam pipes.” That happened often enough. Their little house had been one of the first with a heating tower, hence it had one of the crummiest of the devices.

Tonight’s cold was something substantive they could complain about. She checked the small glass windows. They were all shut tight, no trace of a breeze. The nearest street lamp was broken, so there wasn’t much of a view either. They’d have a very nice list when they finally went complaining.

The rest of her was busy tucking Timor in. “We’ll use extra blankets,” she said. She topped them with a frayed green quilt, her only prize from the last real shipwreck. She had almost lost Timor’s loyalty over that. He’d accused her of robbing from the dying. Hah! But who had been dying? Not a single pack. And what was left of the Tropical mob was sitting pretty now, in its semi-mindless way. Besides, no one ever came looking for goods lost in the sea.

She had used her old bone needles to make a quilt out of the green fabric, stuffing it with froghen down. It was a crude job, the stitching irregular; not a single member of herself had direct memory of sewing skills. After eight years, the stitches were coming loose, and the fabric was riddled with insect holes. Now it was Timor who insisted they keep the thing.

“Is that warm enough?” she asked.

“Yes, it’ll be enough.” He patted her nearest head.

“I’ll just listen for a while then.” This was part of the ritual too. One of Belle scooched down to the end of the bed and sat on the covers. Another lay on the floor by the bed. The other two sat a few feet away, listening and watching. She flicked off the light. “G’night, Timor.”

“G’night, Belle.”

Now the room was really dark. On this winter night with the street lamp gone and the clouds she had noticed earlier, it was probably too dark even for Timor to see. On the other hand, she could hear everything in the room, and when she emitted squeaks up in the range of Tinish thought, she could hear the walls and the floor. With work she could have even made out the shape of Timor’s face. And Timor’s heart and lungs made so much noise that even without such effort she could make out his form under the covers.

Eight years ago, when Timor was just out of coldsleep, he had cried himself to sleep every night, cried for his lost parents, cried for things he couldn’t explain. In those first years, Belle would sometimes sit two of herself on his bed, cuddling him. He hadn’t cried in years now, and he said he was too old to cuddle, but he still liked her to lie in the dark and listen for a while.

She didn’t mind. She’d always been a planner and a schemer. She’d never been fast at thinking on her feet, even when she’d been Belle Ornrikakihm and not Belle Ornrikak. With Ihm dead, she was down to four. A pack of four could be a clever person. More often it was dull and unimaginative. Sometimes, sitting here in the dark, slowly slowly creating strategy, she wondered if she was only fooling herself to think her plans were clever.

Timor was still awake and restless, but she could tell he really was tired. Funny how much she knew his mind even though his thoughts were silent. Sometimes even silent, he could be almost member useful: Without climbing, he could reach higher than some of her. His fingers could solve problems that her Tinish snouts would just fumble over. At the same time he was as smart as a whole pack, and like all the humans he had the strangest ideas.

A clever pack could see the power in those ideas.

If only I was a royal advisor once more. That damned Woodcarver had always favored Scrupilo and Vendacious, her own offspring packs. If I had guessed that Vendacious was a traitor, I could have unmasked him and now I would be second in the realm. Sigh. She was edging toward that waking nightmare, where she came more and more often: she might never climb back from the trap she had made for herself. She had not the cleverness, and with Ihm gone she had lost the last of herself who was fertile.

While Ihm was still alive, she had the possibility of trading puppies with some other pack. But she had not tried hard enough for a match, or maybe even when she was five, she still was not attractive. Now she was four barren old ugly females. Her schemes would never carry her so high that she would have the pick of a decent litter. In truth her choices were very few. She could go to the Fragmentarium, adopt some dregs. She could run away from herself. Or she could simply die off one by one, until she was nothing, as dead as poor Timor would someday be.

Timor still wasn’t sleeping. This might be one of those rare nights when he stayed awake longer than Belle. Then she noticed that he was shivering. The room must be too cold for him, even with all the blankets. He hadn’t complained, but then he rarely complained. This just proved that there was something seriously wrong with the house’s features. Tomorrow she’d advance her schedule and stuff Timor’s torment down the throat of Nevil Storherte. She and Timor would pry some really nice digs out of this outrage.…

But what if the cold made Timor really sick? He was so fragile, and he could die all at once. She’d be left with nothing.

Okay, something had to be done about this tonight. She could call in and complain—assuming the phones weren’t broken too. She thought for a moment about how these homes were powered. The teachers at the Children’s Academy had talked about that in mind-numbing detail, more than the four-sized Belle could properly remember. Hot water boils into steam, which can “do work.” So a water pipe had been laid all along the Queen’s Road, with an outlet at every house on nearby streets. The skyfolk magic was in the fact that they didn’t need a thousand bonfires to keep the water from freezing—or to make it steam. The starship Oobii had limitless fire somewhere inside and it could deliver the heat of that fire to any point that was visible from its upper hatchway. (Think on that, enemies of the Domain! Belle had often wondered why Ravna and Woodcarver didn’t make more of Oobii’s awesome deadly power. Back when she had still had Ihm, Belle had concluded that the only explanation for the humans’ meekness must be that there was an upper limit on the rate that the heat could be pumped out. She no longer understood the reasoning, but she held the conclusion close in her remaining mind.) Anyway, all the homes near the Queen’s Road had a view down upon Oobii. They should never lack for warmth, and the steam also powered the smaller magics like the lights. And the telephones?

She slipped off the end of Timor’s bed and all of her headed quietly for the stairs. She was mostly on the steps when Timor’s voice came to her, soft and half asleep. “You’re a good person, Belle.”

“Um, yes,” she replied. “G’night.” What did he mean by that?

Now back in the downstairs sitting room, she flicked on the light. The glow lamp came on, but it was so faint she could barely see it. The steam pressure must be near zero. She walked across the room, easily avoiding the knickknacks that she and Timor had collected. There were just too many books, too. She shuffled them out of the way, digging down to the telephone. It was made for both humans and Tines. A foursome could easily manage it. She was still smart enough to voice some righteous indignation on behalf of Timor Ristling. The poor Child could