She bound a length of cloth tightly around the ankle and sent Dace to sit in Bezul’s hearth-side chair, then she dragged Lesimar’s high-seated feeding chair over to support his ankle.
“But, Chersey—the supper—I can stand.”
“Nonsense! You’ll sit and you’ll keep that ankle higher than your heart until that swelling goes down.”
“But—”
“No arguments. We’re your family, and we take care of our own.”
If some artist had wanted to paint a portrait of misery, he couldn’t have found a better model than Dace just then.
Supper was a poor meal, with no fresh food and not enough time to soften the lentils that formed the bulk of it. Dace slept in Bezul’s chair—or tried to. The boy was haggard when Chersey came down to check on him the next morning. The swelling hadn’t worsened, but it hadn’t subsided, either. Dace insisted he was well enough to return to the market, but Chersey wouldn’t hear of it. Gedozia went instead and, prompted by Chersey, brought back fresh honey cakes to brighten the boy’s mood.
The cakes didn’t help and Chersey feared that the damage done to the boy’s confidence was beyond healing.
One day fed mercilessly into the next. Ilsday, Anenday, every day brought Shiprisday closer and, come Shiprisday, Dace would have to gimp to the Frog and Bucket where Makker would peel his head like a ripe grape. He’d prayed that his wounds would fester, but his prayers were no match for Chersey’s kindness; and what god would heed the prayers of the liar he’d become?
Several times, Dace had come within a breath of confession. The opah wasn’t part of him anymore. The fever he’d run those first few days in the kitchen had owed little to bruises and everything to opah. Dace knew how foolish he’d been; he’d sworn he’d never touch a rag again. That was an easy oath in Chersey’s kitchen.
Shiprisday dawned clear and hot as fire. By afternoon, everybody needed space and Chersey didn’t argue when Dace said he was well enough to walk as far as the harbor where there was sometimes a breeze even on a scorching day.
Dace wasn’t going to the harbor. He did consider, as he set out on Wriggle Way, that the moment might have come to retreat to the Swamp of Night Secrets. His family wouldn’t welcome him, but they wouldn’t slaughter him, either.
Inside the Frog, Makker was nowhere in sight. Dace thought he’d been reprieved until the bartender recognized him and sent him into a back room where the Mrsevadan was having his lank hair dressed by two attractive girls. Kiff, the black-as-midnight bodyguard, looked on, as did another man, almost as big, whom Dace hadn’t seen before. “Dace! I wasn’t expecting you until after sundown. You’ve got my shaboozh!”
It wasn’t a question. Dace prayed to Thufir: O, Mighty Lord, open the earth and swallow me whole! But Thufir was elsewhere and Dace spat out the words that would surely get him killed.
“I was robbed, ser. I lost everything, especially the opah. I’ve brought my savings, ser—everything I’ve. got. It’s only two shaboozh—”
Dace held out the knotted cloth that contained all the padpols he’d saved from marketing. He intended to deliver the inadequate offering directly into Makker’s hand, but Kiff surged and Dace froze.
“Only two?” Makker purred. “And no rags to return?” He sucked on his teeth. “That won’t do, Dace.”
“I know it won’t, ser. I know. I’ll get the rest, I swear it. I can squeeze maybe eight padpols a week out of the household. That would be six weeks, if you agree, ser.” From the glint in Makker’s eyes, Dace didn’t think agreement was likely. “Or, I could work for you. Geddie says she works for you.”
Makker scowled. “Sorry, boy, you’re not cut out for the work Geddie does. And six weeks!? Where would I be if I let six weeks pass between when money was due and when it was paid?”
Dace quivered on his crutch. Fear, shame, terror—they were all coming together. He didn’t think he could stay on his feet much longer.
“Ser,” he whispered, “ser, I’ll do anything.”
“Hear that, Kiff? This one knows how to make good. No froggin’ questions, no froggin’ buts, just plain anything.” The Mrsevadan returned his attention to Dace. “There is something you can do for me. Something only you can do. I want that wand you told me about—the black one with the dragon—and I want it tonight.”
Tonight? Dace’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He forced a swallow and tried again: “Tonight? I can’t—”
“Can’t, Dace? Can’t? You said anything. You wouldn’t want to go back on your word, would you?”
Kiff eased forward. He made a fist and stroked it like a lover.
Look at me! Dace wanted to shout. Do I look like a thief? Instead he collected his nerves and said: “That dragon’s gold. It’s worth a lot more than five shaboozh … three.”
“Shite for sure it is, and if you can find three froggin’ shaboozh between now and midnight, bring them here. If not, bring me the froggin’ wand.” Makker leaned forward in his chair. “Unless you were lying about the wand.”
Suddenly Dace understood why muskrats thrashed themselves bloody when they were trapped.
“I don’t know—”
“Yes, you do. Bring me the froggin’ wand, Dace. I’ll throw in a book of rags, no charge. Or, we can call it quits.”
Kiff unmade his fist. He smiled; the yellow gem glinted.
Dace felt his head bob and somehow he made it back to the hot, bright street. The smart thing to do was hie himself across the White Foal River. Makker’d never find him in the swamp; he’d send Kiff to the changing house, instead. Dace would sooner die than imagine Kiff threatening Chersey or the children.
Muskrats in a trap—
“Dace!”
Geddie was coming out of the tavern, not down the stairs. Dace wondered where she’d been, why he hadn’t noticed her.
“Oh, your poor face! You should’ve come to me. I could’ve told you other things to offer Makker.”
“Too late now.”
“Yeah. You want to come upstairs?”
Dace thought of the cot, of sex … of the opah they’d shared, and needs got the better of him.
“You figured out how you’re gonna steal that wand?” Geddie asked when they were naked and sated.
“I can’t.”
“You’ve gotta. Makker’ll kill you … or he’ll have Kiff do it.”
Dace could handle the idea of being dead, it was the idea of dying—of being killed—that terrified him. “I can’t. They took me in, made me part of their family. I can’t steal from them.”
“It’s not stealing; it’s saving your froggin’ life.” Geddie extracted herself from the cot. She prowled through her belongings and produced an opah rag. “Want some? I’ve got wine left” She brought it and the rag back to the cot.
He hadn’t forgotten his silent oaths, but what did oaths matter to a man who’d be dead by midnight? His tongue had healed from the last time he’d used the drug. He didn’t get the mule-kick exhilaration when he sucked the wine-soaked rag and eyed an undampened corner. But Geddie had made her feelings known about folks who took their opah without wine and, anyway, after a few moments, it no longer mattered. Opah was singing through his veins. It took the edge off his despair and told him that if the wand was worth more than five shaboozh, well, then, his life was worth more than any wand—
There was daylight left when Dace made his way down the stairway. He had a plan, a bright, opah-fueled plan that took him to Perrez’s iron-locked door.