For Love of Mother-Not (2 page)

“Eighty,” the unseen competitor sounded.

She hadn’t counted on competition. It was one thing to do a child a good turn at reasonable cost to herself, quite another to saddle herself with an unconscionable expense.

“Ninety—curse you,” she said. She turned and tried to locate her opponent but could not see over the heads of the crowd. The voice bidding against her was male, powerful, piercing. What the devil would the owner of such a voice want with a child like this? she thought.

“Ninety-five,” it countered.

“Thank you, thank you. To you both, the government says.” The official’s tone and expression had brightened perceptibly. The lively and utterly unexpected bidding for the redheaded brat had alleviated her boredom as well as her concern. She would be able to show her boss a better than usual daily account sheet. “The bid is against you, madam.”

“Damn the bid,” Mother Mastiff muttered. She started to turn away, but something held her back. She was as good a judge of people as she was of the stock she sold to them, and there was something particular about this boy—though she couldn’t say precisely what, which struck her as unusual. There was always profit in the unusual. Besides, that mournful
stare was preying unashamedly on a part of her she usually kept buried.

“Oh, hell, one hundred, then, and be damned with it!” She barely managed to squeeze the figure out. Her mind was in a whirl. What was she doing there, neglecting her regular business, getting thoroughly soaked and bidding for an orphaned child? Surely at ninety her maternal instinct wasn’t being aroused. She had never felt the least maternal instinct in her life, thank goodness.

She waited for the expected rumble of “one hundred and five,” but instead heard a commotion toward the back of the crowd. She craned her neck, trying to see, cursing the genes that had left her so short. There were shouts, then yells of outrage and loud cursing from a dozen different throats. To the left, past the shielding bulk of the ornithorpe behind her, she could just make out the bright purple flash of uniformed gendarmes, their slickertics glaring in the dim light. This group seemed to be moving with more than usual energy.

She turned and fought her way forward and to the right, where a series of steps led to the platform. Halfway up the stairs, she squinted back into the crowd. The purple ‘tics were just merging into the first wall of office and shop complexes. Ahead of them a massive human shape bobbed and dipped as it retreated from the pursuing police.

Mother Mastiff permitted herself a knowing nod. There were those who might want a young boy for other than humanitarian purposes. Some of them had criminal dossiers on file that stretched as far back as her lifeline. Obviously someone in the crowd, a salaried informer, perhaps, had recognized the individual bidding against her and had notified the authorities, who had responded with commendable speed.

“One hundred credits, then,” the disappointed official announced from the platform. “Do I hear any more?” Naturally, she would not, but she played out the game for appearance’s sake. A moment passed in silence. She shrugged, glanced over to where Mother Mastiff still stood on the stairway. “He’s yours, old woman.” Not “madam” any longer, Mother Mastiff thought sardonically. “Pay up, and mind the regulations, now.”

“I’ve been dealing with the regulations of this government since long before ye were born, woman.” She mounted the last few steps and, ignoring the official and the boy, strode back toward the Processing Office.

Inside, a bored clerk glanced up at her, noted the transaction-complete record as it was passed to his desk-top computer terminal, and asked matter-of-factly, “Name?”

“Mastiff,” the visitor replied, leaning on her cane.

“That the last name?”

“First and last.”

“Mastiff Mastiff?” The clerk gave her a sour look.

“Just
Mastiff,”
the old woman said.

“The government prefers multiple names.”

“Ye know what the government can do with its preferences.”

The clerk sighed. He tapped the terminal’s keys. “Age?”

“None of your business.” She gave it a moment’s thought and added, “Put down
old.”

The clerk did so, shaking his head dolefully. “Income?”

“Sufficient.”

“Now look here, you,” the clerk began exasperated, “in such matters as the acquisition of responsibility for welfared individuals, the city government requires certain specifics.”

“The city government can shove its specifics in after its preferences.” Mother Mastiff gestured toward the platform with her cane, a wide, sweeping gesture that the clerk had the presence of mind to duck. “The bidding is over. The other bidder has taken his leave. Hastily. Now I can take my money and go home, or I can contribute to the government’s balance of payments and to your salary. Which is it to be?”

“Oh, all right,” the clerk agreed petulantly. He completed his entries and punched a key. A seemingly endless form spat from the printout slot. Folded, it was about half a centimeter thick. “Read these.”

Mother Mastiff hefted the sheaf of forms. “What are they?”

“Regulations regarding your new charge. The boy is yours to raise, not to mistreat. Should you ever be detected in violation of the instructions and laws therein stated”—he gestured at the wad—“he can be recovered from you with forfeiture of
the acquisition fee. In addition, you must familiarize yourself with—” He broke off the lecture as the boy in question was escorted into the room by another official.

The youngster glanced at the clerk, then up at Mother Mastiff. Then, as if he’d performed similar rituals on previous occasions, he walked quietly up to her, took her left hand, and put his right hand in it. The wide, seemingly guileless eyes of a child gazed up at her face. They were bright green, she noted absently.

The clerk was about to continue, then found something unexpected lodged in his throat and turned his attention instead back to his desk top. “That’s all. The two of you can go.”

Mother Mastiff harrumphed as if she had won a victory and led the boy out onto the streets of Drallar. They had supplied him with that one vital piece of clothing, a small blue slickertic of his own. He pulled the cheap plastic tighter over his head as they reached the first intersection.

“Well, boy, ’tis done. Devil come take me and tell me if I know why I did it, but I expect that I’m stuck with ye now. And ye with me, of course. Do you have anything at the dorm we should go to recover?”

He shook his head slowly. Quiet sort, she thought. That was all to the good. Maybe he wouldn’t be a quick squaller. She still wondered what had prompted her sudden and uncharacteristic outburst of generosity. The boy’s hand was warm in her gnarled old palm. That palm usually enfolded a credcard for processing other people’s money or artwork to be studied with an eye toward purchase and even, on occasion, a knife employed for something more radical than the preparation of food, but never before the hand of a small child. It was a peculiar sensation.

They worked their way through crowds hurrying to beat the onset of night, avoiding the drainage channels that ran down the center of each street. Thick aromas drifted from the dozens of food stalls and restaurants that fringed the avenue they were walking. Still the boy said not a word. Finally, tired of the way his face would turn toward any place from which
steam and smells rose, Mother Mastiff halted before one establishment with which she was familiar. They were nearly home, anyway.

“You hungry, boy?”

He nodded slowly, just once.

“Stupid of me. I can go all day without food and not give it a second thought. I forget sometimes that others have not that tolerance in their bellies.” She nodded toward the doorway. “Well, what are ye waiting for?”

She followed him into the restaurant, then led the way to a quiet booth set against the wall. A circular console rose from the center of the table. She studied the menu imprinted on its flank, compared it with the stature of the child seated expectantly next to her, then punched several buttons set alongside the menu.

Before too long, the console sank into the table, then reappeared a moment later stacked with food; a thick, pungent stew dimpled with vegetables, long stalks of some beige tuber, and a mass of multistriped bread.

“Go ahead,” she said when the boy hesitated, admiring his reserve and table manners. “I’m not too hungry, and I never eat very much.”

She watched him while he devoured the food, sometimes picking at the colorful bread to assuage what little hunger she felt herself, barely acknowledging the occasional greeting from a passing acquaintance or friend. When the bottom of the stew bowl had been licked to a fine polish and the last scrap of bread had vanished, she asked, “Still hungry?”

He hesitated, measuring her, then gave her a half nod. “I’m not surprised,” she replied, “but I don’t want ye to have any more tonight. You’ve just downed enough to fill a grown man. Any more on top of what you’ve already had and you’d end up wasting it all. Tomorrow morning, okay?” He nodded slowly, understanding.

“And one more thing, boy. Can ye talk?”

“Yes.” His voice was lower than anticipated, unafraid and, she thought, tinged with thankfulness.

“I can talk pretty good,” he added without further prompting, surprising her. “I’ve been told that for my age I’m a very good talker.”

“That’s nice. I was starting to worry.” She slid from her seat, using her cane to help her stand, and took his hand once again. “It’s not too far now.”

“Not too far to where?”

“To where I live. To where ye will live from now on.” They exited the restaurant and were enveloped by the wet night.

“What’s your name?” He spoke without looking up at her, preferring instead to study the dim storefronts and isolated, illuminated shops. The intensity of his inspection seemed unnatural.

“Mastiff,” she told him, then grinned. “ ’tis not my real name, boy, but one that someone laid upon me many years ago. For better or worse, it’s stuck longer with me than any man. ’tis the name of a dog of exceptional ferocity and ugliness.”

“I don’t think you’re ugly,” the boy replied. “I think you’re beautiful.”

She studied his open, little-boy expression. Dim-witted, dim-sighted, or maybe just very smart, she thought.

“Can I call you Mother?” he asked hopefully, further confusing her. “You are my mother now, aren’t you?”

“Sort of, I expect. Don’t ask me why.”

“I won’t cause you any trouble.” His voice was suddenly concerned, almost frightened. “I’ve never caused anyone any trouble, honest. I just want to be left alone.”

Now what would prompt a desperate confession like that? she wondered. She decided not to pursue the matter. “I’ve no demands to make on ye,” she assured him. “I’m a simple old woman, and I live a simple life. It pleases me. It had best please ye as well.”

“It sounds nice,” he admitted agreeably. “I’ll do my best to help you any way I can.”

“Devil knows there’s plenty to do in the shop. I’m not quite as flexible as I used to be.” She chuckled aloud. “Get tired before midnight now. You know, I actually need a full
four hours’ sleep? Yes, I think ye can be of service. You’d best be. Ye cost enough.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, abruptly downcast.

“Stop that. I’ll have none of that in my home.”

“I mean, I’m sorry that I upset you.”

She let out a wheeze of frustration, knelt and supported herself with both hands locked to the shaft of the cane. It brought her down to his eye level. He stood there and gazed solemnly back at her.

“Now ye listen to me, boy. I’m no government agent. I don’t have the vaguest notion what possessed me to take charge of ye, but ’tis done. I will not beat you unless you deserve it. I’ll see to it that you’re well fed and reasonably warm. In return, I demand that ye don’t go about braying stupid things like ‘I’m sorry.’ Be that a deal?”

He didn’t have to think it over very long. “It’s a deal—Mother.”

“That’s settled, then.” She shook his hand. The gesture brought forth a new phenomenon: his first smile. It made his tiny, lightly freckled face seem to glow, and suddenly the night seemed less chilly.

“Let’s hurry,” she said, struggling erect again. “I don’t like being out this late, and you’re not much the bodyguard. Never will be, by the looks of ye, though that’s no fault of yours.”

“Why is it so important to be home when it’s dark?” he asked, and then added uncertainly, “Is that a stupid question?”

“No, boy.” She smiled down at him as she hobbled up the street. “That’s a smart question. It’s important to be safe at home after dark because the dead tend to multiply in direct ratio to the absence of light. Though if you’re cautious and never grow overconfident and learn the ways of it, you’ll find that the darkness can be your friend as well as your enemy.”

“I thought so,” he said firmly. “I’ve thought so for”—his face screwed up as he concentrated hard on something—”for as long as I can remember.”

“Oh?” She was still smiling at him. “And what makes you think that it’s so besides the fact I just told it to ye?”

“Because,” he replied, “most of the times I can ever remember being happy were in the dark.”

She pondered that as they turned the corner. The rain had lessened considerably, giving way to the mist that passed for normal air in the city. It didn’t trouble her lungs, but she worried about the boy. The one thing she didn’t need was a sick child. He had cost her enough already.

Her stall-home was one of many scattered through the seemingly endless marketplace. Stout shutters protected the nondescript façade, which occupied ten meters at the far end of a side street. She pressed her palm to the door lock. The sensitized plastic glowed brightly for an instant, beeped twice, and then the door opened for them.

Once inside, she shoved the door shut behind them, then automatically turned to inspect her stock to make certain nothing had disappeared in her absence. There were racks of copper and silver wares, rare carved hardwoods for which Moth was justly renowned, well-crafted eating and drinking utensils, including many clearly designed for non-humans, cheap models of Moth itself with interrupted rings of flashy floatglitter, and various items of uncertain purpose.