Fool. That was one word. With the blood still dribbling from the left shoulder, something wrote that word on the floor several times, then another word, over and over.
Shadows moved at the edges of the walls, along the corners of the walls, accompanied by an interested sound, a satisfied gulping sound. Almost, but not quite, a chuckle.
5
Fringe Owldark’s home was a loft above a river-trade warehouse, four tiny rooms and two large ones that looked through tall windows at the passing barges; four tiny rooms and two large ones made up mostly of bare and shining space. The bedroom held only a simple float bed and the most complete information-entertainment console available in Enarae. Through the narrow windows, Fringe could watch the boats moving slowly by, night or day. Three doors along the inside wall opened into the saniton, into her wardrobe, and into her workroom.
The other large room was hardly ever used, not it, not the food synthesizers in the tiny kitchen. It was a room for guests and she never had guests. Four skeleton chairs, like dark fish bones, poised on the polished floor along with one sculptural table and a few blocks of polished precious stone with things on them, things that spoke to Fringe, whether or not others would have found them meaningful.
It had taken her years of moving about before she found this space. It had taken a lengthy time of living in it before she’d felt fully at home. She could count on her fingers the times she had brought anyone into this home space with her. She preferred that it be hers alone. She preferred to find it empty, untenanted, its air unbreathed.
Evenings when she was not on duty, she most often spent alone, perhaps lying quietly on her float bed, thinking of not much, watching the turgid flow of the river. This is what she was doing a day or two after her interview with the Final Equity Manager, when the evening reverie was interrupted by a call from Yilland so-called Dorwalk. If Fringe didn’t mind, Yilland said after introducing herself in a too-bright voice, she would like to come for a brief visit.
Fringe did mind, with a flush of anger so bright and shining it seemed it would set the place afire. The heat dwindled however, giving way to a mild curiosity. What did Yilland so-called Dorwalk have in mind?
The question was answered as soon as she showed up, for Yilland could barely conceal her frantic embarrassment as she chirped her plaint in an aggrieved voice.
“These last few claims that just came in, they’re claims from your mother’s brother and sister, and there’s no way Father’s Book can meet them!”
Yilland’s hair was slightly disheveled. Her face was blotchy from recent tears. Her comfort and poise were further compromised by the latest Professional fashion in clothing, a ridiculous profusion of bobbles, dangles, and drapes.
“My ma’s kin?” Fringe asked, gesturing to one of her skeleton chairs and seating herself across from the woman. “I heard it mentioned that Ma had a sister and a brother, but I never knew them. What claim might they have?”
“They’re claiming damages against Char for letting their father die before his time. In the Pighouse.”
Fringe snorted. “Ari was as old as sin. He spent the last year or so in a life box, being pumped in and out, with no more brain than a chicken. If his children wanted the old man, why didn’t they claim him earlier?”
“They say they didn’t know their sister died, didn’t know their father’s habitation was threatened, changed, oh, you know. They claim they should have been informed.”
“Who knew where they were? I certainly didn’t. They’d taken some pains to disappear, the way I remember the story.” Fringe shrugged, feeling angry. “You can probably buy them off for almost nothing.”
“But there’s nothing left, and they’re demanding I sell myself….”
Fringe said patiently, “The claim is unrighteous and unenforceable, and chances are they know it! They’re owed no such debt.”
“I know that!” Yilland shrieked, putting a hand over her mouth as though in shock at the sound she had made. “I know I probably wouldn’t have to do it. But they won’t let me alone and I don’t know what to do! They won’t let me alone!” Her face twitched, in spasms.
Fringe read the signs and got up, her lips quirking with a barely suppressed snort, half amusement, half anger. Wasn’t this ironic! Pa had repudiated her because of her chosen career, at least that had been his excuse, and here came his chosen classly daughter, wanting an Enforcer!
“You want me to Attend the Situation?”
“Would you. Oh, please. They frighten me!”
Fringe got out her pocket file and clicked it open. “Names?” she asked.
“The man says he’s your uncle, Zerka Troms. The woman’s name is Zenubi.”
“Where are they staying?”
“At Bridge House number three.” Yilland put her hand to her lips once more, as though to stop their trembling. “I have no right to ask you to do this, except they’re your kinfolk….”
“I suppose they could be, in a manner of speaking. But they’re not making any claim against me.”
“I know, I know, it’s just they’re so …”
“Crude,” suggested Fringe. “Brutal, vulgar, common, gross….”
Yilland couldn’t find a response.
“Like me,” finished Fringe.
“That’s not …” She gulped. “That’s not—”
“Oh, Yilland. Of course it is! That’s what Grandma Gregoria always thought. What she said the day she told me to get out of her sight and never come back. How is Gregoria, by the way? Did she die? Finally?”
Yilland nodded, her face flaming. “Before Char … before he married Mother. That’s why Mother married him, because he
