She hated how rich people made up this romantic dream of what an orphanage should be like. Perfect, full of sweet smiles and happy singing. Not full of frustration, pain, and confusion.
She sat down next to the boy. She was smaller than he was. “Hey,” she said.
He looked to her with glazed eyes. She could see his wound better now. The hair hadn’t grown back on the side of his head.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said, taking his hand in hers.
He didn’t reply.
A short time later, the door into the orphanage opened, revealing a shriveled-up weed of a woman. Seriously. She looked like the child of a broom and a particularly determined clump of moss. Her skin drooped off her bones like something you’d hack up after catching crud in the slums, and she had spindly fingers that Lift figured might be twigs she’d glued in place after her real ones fell off.
The woman put hands on hips—amazingly, she didn’t break any bones in the motion—and looked the two of them over. “An idiot and an opportunist,” she said.
“Hey!” Lift said, scrambling up. “He’s not an idiot. He’s just hurt.”
“I was describing you, child,” the woman said, then knelt beside the boy with the hurt head. She clicked her tongue. “Worthless, worthless,” she muttered. “I can see through your deception. You won’t last long here. Watch and see.” She gestured backward, and the young man Lift had seen earlier came out and took the hurt boy by the arm, leading him into the orphanage.
Lift tried to follow, but twigs-for-hands stepped in front of her. “You can have three meals,” the woman told her. “You pick when you want them, but after three you’re done. Consider yourself lucky I’m willing to give anything to one like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Lift demanded.
“That if you don’t want rats on your ship, you shouldn’t be in the business of feeding them.” The woman shook her head, then moved to pull the door shut.
“Wait!” Lift said. “I need somewhere to sleep.”
“Then you came to the right place.”
“Really?”
“Yes, those benches usually clear out once it gets dark.”
“Stone benches?” Lift said. “You want me to sleep on stone benches?”
“Oh, don’t whine. It’s not even raining any longer.” The woman shut the door.
Lift sighed, looking toward Wyndle. A moment later, the young man from before opened the door and tossed something out to her—a large baked roll of clemabread, thick and granular, with spicy paste at the center.
“Don’t suppose you have a pancake?” Lift asked him. “I’ve got a goal to eat—”
He shut the door. Lift sighed, but settled down on the stone benches near some old men, and started gobbling it up. It wasn’t particularly good, but it was warm and filling. “Storming witch,” she muttered.
“Don’t judge her too harshly, child,” said one of the old men on the benches. He wore a black shiqua, but had pulled back the part that wrapped the face, exposing a grey mustache and eyebrows. He had dark brown skin with a wide smile. “It is difficult to be the one that handles everyone else’s problems.”
“She doesn’t have to be so mean.”
“When she isn’t, then children congregate here begging for handouts.”
“So? Isn’t that kind of the point of an orphanage?” Lift chewed on the roll. “Sleep on the rock benches? I should go steal her pillow.”
“I think you’d find her ready to deal with feisty urchin thieves.”
“She ain’t never faced me before. I’m awesome.” She looked down at the rest of her food. Of course, if she used her awesomeness, she’d just end up hungry again.
The man laughed. “They call her the Stump, because she won’t be blown by any storm. I don’t think you’ll get the best of her, little one.” He leaned in. “But I have information, if you are interested in a trade.”
Tashikki and their secrets. Lift rolled her eyes. “Ain’t got nothing left to trade.”
“Trade me your time, then. I will tell you how to get on the Stump’s good side. Maybe earn yourself a bed. In turn, you answer a question for me. Is this a deal?”
Lift cocked an eyebrow at him. “Sure. Whatever.”
“Here is my secret. The Stump has a little … hobby. She is in the business of trading spheres. An exchanging business, so to speak. Find someone who wants to trade with her, and she will handsomely reward you.”
“Trade spheres?” Lift said. “Money for money? What is the point of that?”
He shrugged. “She works hard to cover it up. So it must be important.”
“What a lame secret,” Lift said. She popped the last of the roll into her mouth, the clemabread breaking apart easily—it was almost more of a mush.
“Will you still answer my question?”
“Depends on how lame it is.”
“What body part do you feel that you are most like?” he asked. “Are you the hand, always busy doing work? Are you the mind, giving direction? Do you feel that you are more of a … leg, perhaps? Bearing up everyone else, and rarely noticed?”
“Yeah. Lame question.”
“No, no. It is of most importance. Each person, they are but a piece of something larger—some grand organism that makes up this city. This is the philosophy I am building, you see.”
Lift eyed him. Great. Angry twig running an orphanage; weird old man outside it. She dusted off her hands. “If I’m anything, I’m a nose. ’Cuz I’m filled with all kinds of weird crud, and you never know what’s gonna fall out.”
“Ah … interesting.”
“That wasn’t meant to be helpful.”
“Yes, but it was honest, which is the cornerstone of a good philosophy.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Lift hopped off the stone benches. “As fun as it was talkin’ crazy stuff with you, I got somewhere important to be.”
“You do?” Wyndle asked, rising from where he’d been coiled up on the bench beside her.
“Yup,” Lift said. “I’ve got an appointment.”
7
LIFT was worried she’d be late. She’d never been good with time.
Now, she could keep the important parts straight. Sun up, sun down. Blah blah. But the divisions beyond that … well, she’d never found those to be important. Other people did though, so she hurried through the slot.
“Are you going to find spheres for that woman at the orphanage?” Wyndle said, zipping along the ground beside her, weaving between the legs of people. “Get on her good side?”
“Of course not,” Lift said, sniffing. “It’s a scam.”
“It is?”
“Course it is. She’s probably launderin’ spheres for criminals, takin’ them as ‘donations,’ then givin’ others back. Men’ll pay well to clean up their spheres, particularly in places like this, where you got scribes looking over your shoulder all the starvin’ time. Course, it might not be that scam. She might be guiltin’ people into giving her donations of infused spheres, traded for her dun ones. They’ll feel sympathetic, because she talks about her poor children. Then she can trade infused spheres to the moneychangers and make a small profit.”
“That’s shockingly unscrupulous, mistress!”