Chapter 21: A Troubling Sense of Responsibility

Ayla Rúth Harya

I sit across from Bordain in the yard behind Rare Delights, several empty plates of food between us. Together we watch Silas and Nugget play a game of catch and release with the chickens.

The cook and owner never stays long, but he likes to sit with me sometimes; usually, the only thing he talks about is food. Apparently, most of his patrons have a habit of ordering only from a select few dishes, which makes them eminently boring. So he treasures those who offer a challenge. So far, I have tried nearly a dozen of his “food fusion” experiments.

If there’s one weakness among elves, it is delicious food.

This time, however, Bordain is more contemplative than usual. Business is slow today, so he’s handed off the majority of his responsibilities to his apprentice, a freckled man who is too young to be growing so many white hairs in his goatee. Bordain rubs his leg absently as he watches the game:

The carbuncle chases the frightened birds in circles until he successfully shepherds them into the boy’s path. Then Silas dives after them, most of the time closing his hands over thin air. This time, however, Silas catches a white hen, looking like he’ll be carried up into the sky by her flapping wings as she tries to get away. When she is promptly released, she scurries to her place at Bordain’s feet where she clucks indignantly and keeps a wary eye on the game in relative safety.

“It’s amazing no one’s taken that carbuncle from him.” Bordain says, sipping from his tankard of ale.

I make a sound that says, “I’m interested and you should definitely continue.”

“Once upon a time it was in vogue for rich folks to keep one or two in cages to show off. Sommat believe that gem in their head makes ‘em lucky. Don’t know about that, but ain’t never seen one out in the open like this, getting on so well with a person.” He gestures at Silus with his ale.

Of course he is right. Carbuncles are notoriously skittish. And while they are indeed known to bring good fortune, they can just as easily bring misfortune. It takes a truly pure hearted one to forge a bond like what the boy has.

Bordain grins at me then leans in conspiratorially. “You know, I always took you for one of them quirky stoic types who only get sentimental about food. Do you know that someone asked me the other day when they saw me with you? They asked, ‘who’s the ice lady’? I just about fell off my peg leg laughing, then I said…”

I shoot Bordain a biting sideways glare and he realizes he’s skirting on thin ice. Abruptly, he clears his throat and takes the conversation elsewhere.

“Ahem, so it’s a shame, really. There’s more and more of this type coming from the fringe settlements—refugees like the boy.”

To signal this is an acceptable shift in subjects, I ask: “Why?”

“A lot of people are losing their homes these days. If it isn’t the late rainy season drying up the land, it's the elven raids, or monsters what make orphans and widows. When survivors got nowhere to go, oftentimes if they’re hard enough, they make their way here. Orphans like him have it roughest. Not a lot of jobs a kid like him can get to. Wish I could help, but I’ve already got all the hands I can afford.”

I try not to dwell on the child’s situation. What is the point of sympathizing? When we are finished here, we will part ways and never see each other again. That is the way things must be.

I stand and keep my voice firm. “It’s time to go, child.”

Bordain gets up also and thanks me for coming. As if in direct contradiction to my earlier thoughts, he says: “Bring back the kid and the ferret any time! You’re always welcome under my roof. Food’s on the house.”

The boy abandons his game with the chickens, but not before bowing to them with hands clasped, like someone thanking their opponents for a good game.

Bizarrely, all the chickens that had been playing line up in front of Silas and perform their own version of a bow. Only the white hen does not participate, rather clucking irritated as she abandons the safety under the table and heads toward her coop. I get the distinct impression that she is being a bad sport. The rooster who has been watching the game from the very start from a perch on the roof of the building, descends on the hen, berating her until she too takes a turn to bow.

Bordain and I exchange baffled looks. The cook scratches his chin. “You, uh, saw that too, right?”

When we leave, I head back to the market where I found him. I wish to leave him behind along with my curiosity and pity. I refuse to acknowledge any sense of responsibility. When I glance back, I notice his small figure trying desperately to keep up, clutching Nugget close to his chest. His eyes are wide and uncertain, yet filled with an inexplicable trust. I grit my teeth and brace myself to tell him that now that I’ve fed him he should go away.

Instead, once we are near the bustling market square, the sounds of haggling merchants filling the air, a shop selling brightly colored tunics catches my eye. I turn to study the boy’s rags. I feel the heavy bag of coin that Jace gave me—a small portion from the sale of everything that Marcus had in his wagon.

My plans to leave him right away dissolve. I can at least dress the child. Hopefully the vendor will not notice my inexperience trading in human money then overcharge me.

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“Let’s get you fresh clothes.”

The child follows me in the store and the vendor greets me with a smile, which falters when she notices the boy following me in. She almost shoos the boy away but I cut her off. “I need fresh raiments for the child.”

“Ah…” The woman fixes her expression. I can see her trying to piece the puzzle of how we are related. “Of course.”

This is very different than it is for my people. We have no orphans. A child who loses their parents is immediately adopted by a suitable family. The pride of our ancestors will not allow us to abandon one of our own.

The woman takes Silas’s measurements, her nose wrinkling at his smell, becoming startled when Nugget peeks out from under his shirt. She continues her work, muttering that pets ought to wait outside, but I can see she finds the carbuncle as adorable as I do and does not insist that he leave.

Then she assesses my own clothes and purses her lips, consideringly. Then she chooses a selection of tunics and linen pants that look finer than the rest. Ah, I see. She has determined that I have the money for it, and is testing my limits. She lays out three outfits.

I pick the one that is less flashy than the others—a plain blue tunic with silver trim, black pants, and sturdy leather shoes. I ask her how much and she tells me. I have no idea if this price is acceptable, but I keep a straight face and say nothing. I have seen Jace negotiate this way to great effect. The woman has no tolerance for the uncomfortable silence, and she quickly adjusts the price.

“That is acceptable.” Then I count out the coins and put them in her hand. “Is there somewhere the boy can change?”

The woman scoffs indignantly. “Absolutely not! You will ruin them. And I must say, wandering around with a filthy child will draw unwanted attention. You must give him a bath and a haircut first.” Her tone carries a warning, hinting at the social repercussions of being seen with Silas in his current state.

It is true. Now that I have begun this makeover, I can’t let him change until he is clean. Which means that I have put myself in a predicament. My desire to be rid of him versus the growing sense of responsibility. I cannot abandon him until I have finished what I started.

The vendor snorts derisively at my ignorance, then I see her expression shift from wariness at my intentions with Silas to something softer. “Wait here.” She says, and goes to the back of the store, returning with new garments. “These were left here by a previous customer. I was going to reuse the fabrics for something else, but… Have the boy change into these. They can serve as a temporary solution until after he is clean.”

By the end, the vendor was much more welcoming than she had at the beginning. The woman led us to the changing room. While I waited for Silas, she recommended a barber near a bathhouse where I could take care of “the situation.”

The rest of the day was occupied with this project. I felt growing pressure. I needed to be done with this. I was angry at myself for becoming so involved.

In the end, Silas looked like a respectable young man. No longer did anyone cast judgmental glances as we walked the street.

Silas turned out to be wiser than a boy his age should be. I never got the chance to tell him to leave. When my uncertainty and frustrations reached a critical point, he touched my arm and smiled. Then Nugget jumped on my shoulder and licked my cheek. Feelings of peace flooded me, and I knew that they were saying goodbye.

I watched them walk away until I lose sight of them in a crowd. Then I go back to the Golden Pony feeling frustrated and miserable. I bathe and change, letting my hair down. I wish I could talk with Jace. He is already in his room. Of course I let him know I’ve returned so he doesn’t worry, but I refuse to talk about it when he asks me what’s wrong.

He is too perceptive for my own good.

Night falls. I skip dinner and lay in my bed unsure how to feel. Unsure how to think.

A persistent tapping at my window tears me from my thoughts. I cross the modest room—much less opulent than the Zephyr—and reach the window.

“Nugget?” The carbuncle is skittering back and forth on the sill. Its eyes are wide and desperate. When it sees me it claws at the glass. My heart sinks with a bad feeling. I open the window. “What’s wro—”

I don’t get the words out before the carbuncle jumps at my face. As soon as it makes contact, visions and emotions flood my mind.

From Nugget’s perspective with his head peeking out from Silas’s shirt, the boy runs along the alleys of dilapidated buildings. The damp smell of the gutter rises with every step Silas takes, his ragged breaths mingling with the distant clink of coins in the marketplace. The cold air cuts into his lungs as he looks over his shoulder. Homeless people lining the gutters look up but do not stir. The boy looks over his shoulder. Three men in grays and blacks that blend with shadow sprint after him and are gaining on him quickly.

Silas rounds a corner. Another man in black grabs him by the waist. Then a sack descends. Silas urges Nugget to get away. Nugget refuses. He doesn’t want to leave him, but Silas insists.

“Run away. You mustn’t be caught. Go to the forest. Back to the home you left for my sake. I’m sorry.”

Nugget sends a thought back. “But you are home.” He follows in the shadows, where the men can’t see him. Another one comes, angry that the others let the carbuncle get away.

So he kicks Silas. Again, and again.

Pain. Fear. Despair. Nugget can feel everything Silas does. Nugget snarls. He follows. He will not abandon.

Time skips. There is only darkness and muffled, gruff voices.

“The kid ain’t talked yet?”

“No. I thinks he have to be mute. Didnae make a sound when we kicked him.”

“How long do we have to keep hurting him?”

“Boss says until the ‘bunkle shows up. Go ahead and take off the hood. It’s not like it matters now anyway.”

The sack lifts. My eyes are seeing through Silas’s. I look up from where I’m sprawled on the ground. A hole in the ceiling lets in the light from the stars and the rift in the sky. There’s a broken statue of Mara casting eerie shadows. Four men stand in a semicircle. Their faces are cruel and annoyed.

The perspective shifts again to Nugget. Running. Not to safety, but to the one person who might care enough to help. The redhead elf, whose soul sings with blinding storms and fathomless rage.

The vision fades, but the emotions remain, along with the knowledge of the exact route that the carbuncle took from the ruined church.

For a heartbeat, I stand frozen, my breath catching in my throat. Nugget’s plea pulses through my veins, his fear merging with my own.

I don't have time to think of the implications that Nugget—and by proxy, Silas—know that I am an elf. I should shoo the carbuncle. They aren’t my responsibility. What do these thought matter, though? I am already holding my sword and sprinting out of my room and down the stairs. Then all thought shrinks to the point of a sword. My eyes see only red, and the faces of the men I need to kill.