Fox’s Tongue and Kirin’s Bone - Chapter 17: Be Polite

The lieutenant had waited for them to finish. He came to attention as the door opened, darting one look at Aaron before giving the Lady his full attention.

“He’s human enough,” she announced.

Somehow, that failed to reassure the good lieutenant. “ ‘Enough’?”

“He’s been raised by doppels,” the woman said. “He’s hardly the sort of human the militia can swear in, but he’s human enough to not need killing. He might even be strictly human, if we can keep him out of the Downs long enough to stop thinking of every rat-eyed abomination as a person. Now, I believe you arrested him as he was trying to better himself? Take him to Mrs. Summers, please. See if she’s still looking for an errand runner.”

The lieutenant flushed crimson. “Yes, Lady.”

“Oh, and Lieutenant Varghese?” she asked, pausing in her doorway. “Do be sure our housekeeper doesn’t know that I recommended him.”

She shut the door, leaving Aaron alone with the redcoat.

“So. I’m not a prisoner anymore?” Aaron asked.

“That’s correct,” Lochlann confirmed.

Before, he’d known exactly what was expected of him. They wanted him in a cell, he wanted to not be in a cell. Simple. Now… he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. The hallway was empty except for the two of them, and the day was bright, and as long as he didn’t try to filch their silverware he could probably just walk straight out the gates.

Aaron shoved his hands in his pockets. “Weird.”

“Agreed.”

If the lieutenant could have hesitated even a moment, Aaron would have appreciated it.

Markus’ Death was gone. For now, at least. Aaron didn’t think the Deaths could kill directly: if they could, he was fairly certain the man would have strangled him rather than simply disappearing. He’d certainly looked like he had murder on his mind just before he’d vanished. Hopefully his own Death would talk the man out of anything hasty, particularly things involving ripping his soul out and putting the real Markus back where he belonged.

Aaron shivered a little, hunched his shoulders a bit, and tried not to think anymore about souls. Or ripping. Or the two words together, really.

“Do you still want a job?” Lochlann asked, seeing his shiver and thinking he understood a thing he didn’t. “I know we haven’t been particularly welcoming.”

Aaron forced out a grin. “Why, Lieutenant. Is that an apology?”

Lochlann scowled and led the way.

The housekeeper was in the eastern courtyard, on the opposite side of the castle from the main gates. She was a white-haired woman with a permanent frown etched into the lines of her face, where wrinkles and freckles dueled for territory. She sat at a table, a pile of clothes on one side of her and a cane leaning against the bench on her other. She was alternating between sewing and scowling at the servants hanging laundry out to dry.

“No,” she said, without even seeming to look at him. It was impressive, really. Aaron had never been so thoroughly rejected in such a short span of time. It put his castle interviews to shame.

Lochlann tried to be reasonable. “You wanted someone who wasn’t afraid to go into the lower town. Here he is.”

“The Lady sent him down to me, didn’t she? Then no. Nothing personal, boy.”

“Aaron,” Aaron felt the need to correct.

The guard ran a hand through his dark hair. “Can you see if another department has a use for him, before we toss him out the gates? He didn’t exactly get a chance at interviewing.”

Oh, he’d had a chance. It had gone a lot like this.

“I could be your dungeon sweeper,” he offered.

The old woman flicked her green gaze to him. “Don’t get smart, boy.”

“Aaron.”

“I’m on duty.” Lochlann looked very much like he had a headache building. “I can’t very well drag him to every end of the castle, and I certainly can’t keep him with me. Can’t he just… wait here? I can deal with him later, if you won’t.”

The old woman drew a stitch through the shirt she was mending with rather more force than necessary. “I’ll ask around. It will be a few hours. Think you can sit still that long, boy?”

Aaron smiled. “In company fair, a man can pass a lifetime in but a moment.”

“Quite a way with words you have, for a rat,” the old woman said.

“Squeak,” Aaron replied, rising to her expectations.

Lochlann shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Seemed like he was going to speak, then thought better of it. He turned on his heel and left them to enjoy each other’s company. Aaron sat on the end of the bench furthest from her. After several moments of silence, and the excitement of watching people hang sheets, he reached for her sewing basket.

A slapping hand cut him off. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“It’s this thing you do, with a needle and thread and a pile of torn clothes. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”

The old woman snorted. “You? Know how to sew? That, I’d like to see.”

Aaron held out his palm like a challenge. She set a needle in it, like a threat. They worked in silence, broken by occasional sharp barks at the poor souls under her command.

With a last stitch, she balled up the shirt she’d been mending and tossed it into a basket at her feet. She tugged a nightgown off the pile behind her. “Who taught you?”

Aaron was working on a pillow case. He kept his stitches even and tight, and if she wanted to complain that he worked at half her speed, then she could very well do it herself. “No one you’d care to meet, ma’am.”

“You don’t seem thrilled by the idea of employment.” She put the end of a thread in her mouth, tightening up the fibers before threading it through her needle. “You’d keep a honeyed tongue, if you did.”

“You don’t seem thrilled by the idea of my existence, so let’s call that trade fair, shall we?” Aaron tied off a stitch and broke the excess thread off with his teeth. He balled the pillow case up and took more satisfaction than necessary from throwing it in the basket. “This is exactly how I knew it would be, up here. This is why I never even tried before.”

“Give me that.” She snatched the sheet he’d just grabbed out of his hands and tossed a shirt at him, instead. “The tear is on the seam with that one. You’ll have an easier time hiding your stitches.”

“I could have hidden them just fine, thank you.”

“You sew like a surgeon. I’ll not have you putting scars all over my sheets, boy.”

“Aaron.” He felt his face flushing, but he took the shirt.

“What changed your mind? You did try this year, well as that turned out.”

He laughed. It was about the only thing he could do. “I don’t even know how to answer that. Things got complicated, then they got more complicated, then I was in a dungeon, now I’m on a bench. Like you said: well as that turned out.”

“This have to do with whatever’s stirring up the caves? My people won’t go lower than Second Down.”

He finished lining up the edges of the tear and pulled his first stitch through. “The best markets are on Third.”

“Don’t I know it. But they’re convinced they’ll get stabbed in the back for their pocket change.”

Aaron thought a moment. “Not an unreasonable fear.”

“Almost a decade now I’ve been sending people as low as Fourth, and they were fine so long as they kept sharp. Then summer comes, and this. What happened?”

“Your king’s dying, isn’t he?” A midnight conversation, and a figure trying to stand on his own outside the castle doors. Aaron knew his sums well enough to put together two and two. The Wasting King was a title that grew ever more appropriate.

The woman looked up from her work with a scowl. “He’s your king too, boy.”

“Aaron.” He pulled another stitch through. “And no, he’s not. Mine’s dead.”

“Ah.” Just that. The woman didn’t need any further explanation. She returned to her sewing. “So what’s your plan, boy?”

He opened his mouth to correct her, and just… gave up. It was a good question. Lochlann’s had been a good one, as well. Did he want a job at the castle? A better question was if he’d everwanted one. This had been his Death’s idea from the beginning, and now that he was fairly sure the Deaths themselves couldn’t—or wouldn’t—kill him instantly, it was time to rethink things. Even now, he was only sitting here because the Lady had thought it perfect: an errand boy could run back and forth between the castle and the caves, with no one questioning it. It would be perfect, if he were Markus playing at being a dead boy named Aaron.

Frankly, it would be perfect for Aaron playing at Markus, as well. He could let his friends know he was still alive, then go back up the stairs and sleep somewhere safe every night. Holed up in the castle, hopefully the Raffertys would realize he was no threat.

“You’re gathering fey, boy,” she prompted.

“Aaron.” He finished with the shirt and threw it in the basket with the rest. “My name is Aaron, Mrs. Summers. And once every office in your fine castle has had the chance to reject the boy, I’ll see if one of the caravans will take me. And when that doesn’t work, I don’t know. Steal enough to buy my passage, even if they won’t let me work for it. Probably steal some better clothes, while I’m at it.” He plucked at his shirt. “Got a bit of blood on mine, defending your fine walls last night. Between the handcuffs and the forced imprisonment, I didn’t have time to wash it out before it set.”

“There are guards right over there, Aaron. You want to keep talking about stealing?”

She’d actually used his name. It took his brain a long, baffled moment to process that. “No, ma’am. Sorry.”

The old woman stuck her needle through the sheet to hold it in place, then reached down and rummaged in the basket. She pulled a sweater out and tossed it at his chest. Aaron held it up for inspection. There had been a run under the back collar, but it was barely noticeable now.

He lowered it to look at her. “It’s been mended already.”

“I know it has,” she said. “You need new clothes? There. Don’t steal, Aaron. If you need something, you try asking first. I don’t care how they raised you in the Downs. Real humans take care of each other. It’s how we survive.”

He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. It was thick and warm and soft. Almost like new, and perfect for winter. “What would you do, if you were me?”

The old woman shot a pointed stare his way. “Be nice to the woman who makes the hiring decisions, for one thing. Ask her for a job. Politely.”

Aaron hesitated a long moment. It felt like a trap, somehow. “Please, Mrs. Summers, may I have a job?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes.” She pulled a long stitch through. “You work without being told. You sew better than half my staff. You’re honest enough; maybe too honest. If you get lazy on me, or put things in your pockets that don’t belong to you, then I’ll have you out on the streets. But I’ll give you a try, first.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Death. His own Death. He was gone before Aaron could look at him plain, but Aaron thought he caught a smile on the figure’s lips.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that man’s smiles.