Riah's Story Chapter 3

Hey everybody!! Thanks so much for your comments on the last chapter!! (Lol I check for comments at least as often as y'all check for chapters.) Here's the next!!

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“You wished to speak with me. Was there something in our original meeting or in the Consort's orders that was unclear to you?” He said it neutrally, but nonetheless the school officials seemed shaken. The'd given him the boy's school materials, which was helpful, but that was unlikely to be what the meeting was actually about.

The school president and his assistant looked at each other uncomfortably. “We received a report that you would not be living in the dormitory,” the president started hesitantly.

“That is correct,” he answered neutrally. He knew where this was going.

“And that you did not escort your ward to his first class this morning,” the assistant added.

He gave the two of them a cold stare, then let his gaze sweep the rest of the room. “You question me,” he said.

The room took a collective breath, but nobody seemed to want to say anything.

“I take it this meeting is over?” he asked them.

The president nodded rapidly. Giving the man a final cold smile, Mathias got up and left.

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The first person to show up for Charms after Riah was Jaden Taller, the average-looking blond-haired boy who'd been so rude in Rituals. The other boy ignored him, sitting down against the opposite wall and pulling out a thick book, and Riah was happy to return the favor, pulling out his borrowed Rituals text and finding the reading on the ritual they'd just studied.

It proved to be more interesting than he'd expected, explaining the theory behind the use of sand and the circle and the incantation. It also used a lot of vocabulary that he didn't have. Confused, he flipped back in the book to the introduction.

Rituals have three different essential elements, it said. The first is the arrangement of the caster, his position, orientation, and movement, all of which can be very specific and important. These things set up the circumstances and bounds of the ritual. The second is the incantation, the spoken element of the ritual. The words, intonation, and emotion of the incantation may each be different for each ritual. The final element is the material, or the objects and substances used in ritual. It is the most simple of the three elements, and typically requires the least of the witch, but may be expensive, difficult, or unpleasant to obtain. The material typically contributes to the power of a ritual or adds another dimension of meaning to it. Salt, for example, is typically used for cleansing, white sand for binding, and blood to add a symbolic element of life or sacrifice.

As a side note, bodily fluids of any sort can add great power to a ritual, but it is a chaotic power, and can be difficult to control. Such materials are not recommended for use by a novice witch. Witches are also advised to remain aware of the regional legalities of their materials. Federal law also applies. Improper use of bodily fluids, either improper use of an animal's bodily fluids, or improper or non consensual use of the bodily fluids of a human being, is a federal crime, punishable by imprisonment and in some cases death.

Good to know, Riah thought, startled. 'Improper use of bodily fluids' carried the death penalty, when cold blooded murder did not? Unless they're talking about murder and use of the blood? That was possible. Why would the fact that the motive included blood sacrifice matter to the courts, though? Giving the issue a mental shrug, Riah returned to his reading.

Every ritual must involve at least two of the three elements, but an element may be very simple, or much more complicated. An incantation, for example, may be a single word spoken in monotone, or an entire song, complete with full intonation and the emotion of the caster. It may even be silent. Similarly, the arrangement of the caster may have him simply standing in place, or may require him to perform a very elaborate dance. A material may be obtainable at a vegetable stand or may require a trip abroad. Typically, if one element is very complicated, the others are simpler. Few rituals require the witch to sing and dance at the same time, for example. That said, many of the most specific or most powerful rituals get quite complicated indeed, requiring many casters to complete many different parts. Others may be simpler, but require strength of mind, body, or voice that must be trained. It is for this reason that ritualistic witches at the highest levels typically specialize. A witch may choose to train his voice or body specifically, to better take part in a group ritual, or to study rituals more generally, such that he is capable of doing many rituals entirely on his own. Part of the purpose of this introductory course is give you a generalized view of rituals that may or may not lead you to a more specific interest.

Ritualistic magic is the most concrete of the four main branches of witchcraft, followed by brewcraft, charms, and finally base magic. Some find this tedious, but others find the rule-bound nature of rituals, charms, and brews freeing. For most of these, one can be sure to get the same result upon completion of the same procedure, and can therefore create something lasting and shareable in writing a ritual in a way that one cannot with base magic. Additionally, the power of a ritual is in its precision and focus, and not in the power of the caster. If you have any magic at all, you can cast a ritual with a little study, and get as good results as a more powerful caster with the same level of skill. There is a certain elegance and rightness to a perfectly cast ritual that is difficult to describe. That said, while a miscast ritual is likely to simply fizzle, it can also have unexpected and powerful results. It is for this reason that a license is required to cast a ritual without explicit supervision by an experienced licensed witch. It is highly recommended that you obey this law. If you choose to flaunt it, and the ritual goes badly, you may be liable for damages in addition to any penalties incurred by your disobedience.

Riah looked up from the reading, frowning. Were rituals really that dangerous? Master Tirdan had seemed to think so, too, from the way he'd explicitly prevented them from actually casting even the very basic ritual they were learning, but how much could really go wrong?

While he'd been reading, the corridor had filled with other students, leaning and sitting against the walls and chatting quietly. He'd been aware of them, but nobody bothered him so he'd ignored them. Now, though, he realized that there were nearly fifteen other students in the corridor. Where was the Master?

The class was much more varied than Rituals had been, he noticed. In Rituals, the students had all been around his age. Here, the youngest student was probably only about ten years old, and the oldest a little older than Riah – maybe sixteen. Most were in the middle, twelve to fourteen.

Finally, a woman arrived, bustling in red-faced and out-of-breath. She was short and round, with patently fake red hair and too-bright lipstick. She moved like a flustered bird, smiling briefly at the class before pulling out the key to the classroom from a pocket of her skirt and unlocking the door with twitchy, rushed movements.

“Sorry I'm late, guys, I've just been so busy today,” she gushed.

“She's always late,” Riah heard a student mutter nearby as Master Dalten pushed into the room ahead of them.

“Maybe she's always busy,” another whispered, sounding skeptical.

“It's bloody rude, that's what it is,” a third said. Riah was inclined to agree, but didn't say anything.

The classroom was much larger than Master Tirdan's had been, and smelled noticeably of dried herbs and dust. It was set up with tables in rows, two students to a table. The walls were painted a pale green, and lamps like in the corridors floated at even intervals along the wall between windows that showed out to the side of the building and towards some sort of sports field in the distance.

“Can we choose our own seats today?” one of the younger students asked hopefully before they sat down.

“Normal places, please,” the Master answered firmly.

The kid sighed. “Okay.”

Gathering that the seats were assigned, Riah waited for everyone to get to their seats, and found that there was an open space near Jaden that was easy for him to get to.

Good enough, he thought. The boy didn't seem to like him much, but was apparently capable of simply ignoring him, which worked just fine for Riah. He took the available seat, and Jaden didn't say anything.

“Who's missing?” Master Dalter asked once everyone was seated.

Everyone looked around at their neighbors briefly before their attention was drawn to Riah's neighbor as he spoke up. “From here or from Barlin City?” Jaden asked insolently.

Okay, so maybe he won't just ignore me, Riah thought. Jaden's comment drew a lot of confused glances from the students, and the Master frowned at Jaden before looking at Riah.

“You're...” she looked down at a paper on her desk. “Zachariah Mordelle?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

She nodded sharply, then looked away from him and back at the rest of the class, seeming flustered. “Yes, well...class, does everyone have their homework?”

“He's from Barlin City?” one of the youngest students asked loudly.

“Does everyone have their homework?” Master Dalter repeated, voice too loud and a little shrill.

Woah, Riah thought. Panic much?

“Yes, Ma'am,” the students answered in a rough chorus.

“Bring it up, then,” she said, seeming to regain some of her composure. “I'll check everyone's, and then we can try them on Friday.”

Riah, of course, did not have the homework, and just sat in place as the rest of the class brought theirs up. Whatever the other students had done, it wasn't on paper – they all seemed to be bringing up bundles of sticks and other objects to the front of the room and putting them together in a sack to the side.

When everybody had sat back down, Master Dalter again got their attention and said, “Today we will be making basic water purification charms. Does everyone know what that means?”

Nods around the room, and Master Dalter continued. “Good. The procedure is on page thirty of your book. It shouldn't require anything that I didn't already ask you to bring to your lesson today. If you forgot to bring materials, come see me and I'll provide it, but expect that I will take that into account in my grading.”

Riah didn't have a book, let alone the materials, but Master Dalter either truly didn't realize that, or was faking it. At any rate she wasn't giving him any help. Riah got up, drawing every eye in the room except the master's, and walked to the front of the room, head high. He stopped in front of the master's desk, but still she didn't look up.

Biting back his annoyance, Riah spoke levelly. “Excuse me, Master Dalter.” She didn't look up, but the rest of the class was still staring at him. He ignored it. “I see,” he said, swallowing. Bitch. “I won't waste more of your time.” He turned away to return to his desk, and found the entire class staring at him.

God, I'm getting tired of that. He stopped and lifted his chin, speaking loudly enough for the room to hear. “I'm a convicted murderer,” he announced, holding up his wrists for all to stare at. “Master Dalter is refusing to teach me because I don't belong here. Does that satisfy you?” Not waiting for a response, he walked the rest of the way back to his desk and sat, leaning back to think and to avoid the still confused and curious gazes of the rest of the class.

What now? He might as well leave, if he wasn't going to be provided any materials. And leave permanently, he realized suddenly. He was damned lucky that the school fed them for free, or he wouldn't have anything. As it was, he still couldn't pay for more clothing or new materials. Unless the Masters provided it as Master Tirdan had, he wouldn't have it. And that includes paper, he realized. For the first time in his life, he was truly broke. No, poor, he told himself, refusing to flinch from it. Broke implies some minimal chance of changing the situation.

Jaden was staring at him, too. He didn't know how he could tell, but he knew it was true. Maybe he'd just seen it before sitting down. Riah ignored him, but finally the boy spoke up.

“Hey Jailbird,” he said. “Need help?”

That was unexpected. But Jaden had said he liked this class, Riah remembered. He'd said he liked to carve. “What's in it for you?” Riah asked, looking at him skeptically.

Jaden smiled. “I share my book and materials with you here, and help you if you get stuck. You do my Rituals homework.”

Riah stared at him, thinking it over. He'd been a good student, once. Never cheated in his life. He snorted softly. People change. “You provide paper,” he answered. “Mine and yours.”

Jaden raised an eyebrow. “Paper?”

Paper was the cheapest of the school materials that Riah would need, and Jaden had to know that. Riah let his stare turn icy, and Jaden nodded. “Pen, too?” he asked.

Riah shook his head. He had a pen, at least. It had been in the clothes he'd worn into Barlin City.

“Good,” Jaden said, shoving his textbook over so Riah could see it. “Charms are a bit like Rituals, in that you've got to be careful about following the procedure right and using the right materials, but it requires just a bit more explicit magic, and the outcome's less certain.” He pointed with a finger. “This one requires barley straw, dried nettle flowers, and cedar. That's these three.”

He pulled out a box and two bags and opened all three. The box held a whole mess of dried-out, star shaped flowers, while the bags held straw wrapped up into a loop and tied, and a chunk of sweet-sharp smelling wood. “For future reference, Dalter has us bring them in just 'cause she's lazy. You get them from the basement of this building for dry stuff, and the Herblore and Brewing gardens or the greenhouses if they have to be fresh.”

So those he would be able to get, then. “Okay,” Riah said, watching as Jaden put all three materials on the table.

“Now, the barley wants to be in rings,” Jaden said. “That means you cut it real thin, crosswise, so that you get little circles. The cedar's supposed to be in curls. That requires carving. Which job you want?”

“Half and half,” Riah answered. If he was 'paying' for Jaden's time, he'd better learn how to do everything. “But I'll do the straw first, so I can watch you do the cedar.”

Jaden gave him a strange look. “Alright. Whichever of us gets done first can grind the thistle. That's easy.”

The class was kind of fun, actually, if he ignored the instructor. It was very physical, and not as repetitive or carefully-controlled as Rituals had been. Just sit at a desk, carefully slicing and carving and grinding and measuring, throw all the ingredients together in the proper proportions in a rough cloth sachet, and you were done until it was time to trigger it. The two of them were done with half an hour left in the two-hour class, and tagged their sachets with their names and brought them up to the desk.

“Fresh burdock leaves, dried burdock burrs, chia seeds, and a roll of linen bandaging for next time,” Dalter told Jaden. And just Jaden, he realized. The woman had carefully not addressed him.

“Think she'll grade mine?” he asked Jaden on their way back to the desk to clean up.

“Probably,” Jaden said. “If she didn't, somebody would notice. Even odds she finds invisible faults that mine somehow doesn't have, though. 'Specially since you called her out.”

“Great,” Riah said, before changing the subject as they got to the desk. “If you give me your pen, I'll use it on your homework. Do you usually write script or print?”

“Print,” Jaden said, jotting down something quickly in a notebook before shoving it in his bag.

“I'll do mine in script, then,” Riah told him, starting to clear up the materials they'd used.

Jaden raised an eyebrow, a slight smile on this lips. “Done this before?” he asked.

“Nope,” Riah said, putting the remainder of the cedar and barley straw back in their bags. “Just not an idiot. There are only four of us in the class. You might want to copy it in your own handwriting when I'm done anyway.”

“That would take time,” Jaden said cheerfully. “I am a fundamentally lazy person.”

Riah shook his head. “Your choice, I suppose. I'll do what I can to make them look different.”

“Paper,” Jaden said suddenly. “Just a second.” Digging in his bag, he pulled out two long scrolls and handed them to Riah.

“Thanks,” Riah said. He only needed one, but Jaden probably knew that better than he did.

“Education is the key to turning today's ax murderers into tomorrow's kindergarten teachers,” Jaden told him ironically.

Riah stared at him, then found himself starting to smile. “Indeed,” he said sarcastically. “I'm going to be a big fucking hero someday. Just ask the queen.”

Jaden stopped what he was doing and looked at him, suddenly frowning. “What on earth happened, man?”

“What do you mean?” Riah asked cautiously.

“I mean – you're fifteen,” Jaden said. “You really killed someone?”

I thought that's what you meant. And things had been going so well until then. Riah met Jaden's eyes and spoke bluntly. “He needed killing,” he said.

Jaden stared at him, mouth slightly open, seemingly at a loss for words. “Shit,” he said finally. “You really did.”

Idiot. “No, I made it up,” Riah said acidly. “They're temporary tattoos, and the manacles I was wearing this morning were the kind with the safety release.”

Once again, Jaden just stared for a second, but finally he snapped back, “Forget I asked.”

Riah just watched him as he grabbed his bag and left.

Asshole, Riah thought. Then the anger died, and he was left staring after the other boy. No, he thought. Normal human being with normal response to fucked up human being.

Grabbing his Rituals textbook and rolls of paper, he stood up to leave and walked out of the classroom. Once out in the corridor, though, he stopped by the door, realizing that he didn't know where to go.

“Zachariah,” a man's voice said suddenly.

Riah looked over, startled, and realized that the voice belonged to his new “Guardian”. “M'lord Greuster,” he greeted ironically.

The man ignored the disrespect and simply walked to him, holding out a packet of papers.

“Take these,” he said. “Your next class is in the Base Magic building, between this complex and the intermediate complex, in room number twenty-three. It starts in half an hour. Don't be late.”

The man turned and left, and Riah shook his head. Helpful. Looking at the pile of papers in his hands, he found that one of them was a map, and another a class schedule. The third was a thin bound packet labeled, “Welcome, Newcomer!” and appeared to be a list of guidelines regarding life at the school – things like meal hours, curfew, and where to go if you were sick. Finally a thicker bound packet was labeled “Community Guide,” and appeared to be mostly a list of rules and the consequences for breaking them.

Looking back at his class schedule, he found, indeed, that on Wednesdays he had Basic Rituals with Master Tirdan, lunch, Basic Charms with Master Dalter, a half-hour break, and then something called Base Magic 1, with Master – with Lord Greuster. He felt his stomach churn, a little. Lord Greuster was teaching one of his courses? That'd explain why it was him giving him the papers, but he had just started hoping that he'd be able to avoid the man.

Nothing that I haven't already survived, he reminded himself.

He had half an hour. There was that lounge on the first floor of the Rituals building – and Bat had said that each building had one. If that meant the “Base Magic” building, too, then he could find his classroom before settling down and thus ensure he wasn't late.

Why did he care if he was late, though? he realized suddenly. It wasn't like his grades would ever even go anywhere. Where could they go? He almost smiled. Riah, we're very disappointed with your performance this quarter. You're- what? What could they do to him? Put him in Solitary? That would hardly be square.

Maybe they'd try sending them to his mother? He snorted lightly, this time without any sense of amusement. Oh yeah. She'd care.

Nobody fucking did. M'Lord Greuster had made that damned clear, and Mr. Jogden the “dorm father” had only been concerned with 'controlling' him. Thereby showing me that they can't, he realized. He truly had nothing to lose. He had no parents to report to, no prospects for a career that hadn't already been ruined by his record, no anything beyond forty years in prison and his eventual release. Nothing he did here meant anything beyond being something to do. There really was nothing anybody could do to control him other than Greuster, and the man didn't seem interested in doing it. In that sense, he was freer than he'd ever been. Nobody to please, nobody to displease, no way to bungle his life further than had already been done. Unless I kill somebody else, at least.

What was he doing here? Sure, it was better than prison, for now, but what then? How long was he even going to stay? They couldn't have him serve his whole sentence here. He'd be too old, and anyway twenty years of schooling was expensive. And surely he'd be even harder to control, with training? Unless they were planning on assigning M'lord Greuster to him for the whole time?

He'd go to class, he decided. For curiosity's sake, if nothing else. He needed something to do. And he might as well be on time, if he was going to go. Especially given it's his Lordship, he admitted to himself. Just because the man claimed not to care about Riah's academics didn't mean he wouldn't resent him interrupting his class, and unlike anybody else who might care, he could actually do something about it.

I would not make my life difficult, if I were you, the man had said. It was probably good advice. You don't mess with me, your Lordship, and I won't mess with you. Shoving all the papers but the map into his Rituals textbook, he set out for the Base Magic building.

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That's it!! Hope you liked it! 

Marius' Story chapter 3

A/n: Hi everybody!! Thanks again for your lovely comments on chapter 2!! Hope you like chapter 3!! It's a bit short.

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It was not enough, Marius realized only half an hour later, staring at the smiling, utterly helpless child on the table in front of him. He'd changed Mo's diaper again and this time it was filthy, full of a uniquely foul-smelling olive green mess. He'd dug into his diaper bag to put her in a clean one and realized that he only had ten diapers total, and fewer washcloths – he'd have to wash the soiled ones today if he was going to have enough dry for tomorrow. The thought had sparked another, and he dug again in the diaper bag, this time looking for the little paper packets that contained Mo's formula.

One,two, three, four, five, six, seven...eight. Eight. And Mo had gone through two already, and he was going to have to feed her again quite soon. At this rate he'd be through six of the ten by the time the day was out. And don't babies eat at night, too?

He stilled, horrified. He needed cash, now, or the child would go hungry in less than a day.

Shit. He'd found the first job too easily, he thought, frustrated. Of course it couldn't work out perfectly. Nevermind that it's already the hardest job I've had in my life, and for the least pay.

Okay, think, he told himself. Think, think, think. Don't panic. He needed another job. By tomorrow. One that would pay him without the proper papers, and that either didn't interfere with this one, offered a bed, too, or paid enough that he could afford to pay rent and still buy food and baby formula. Oh, and that would either let him bring a baby along with him every day, or also paid enough that he could afford a babysitter.

In other words, I'm fucked. He couldn't find a job like that if he was looking in his world, and had a month.

Don't panic. Panic doesn't help. Funny how thinking 'don't panic' didn't do a lick of good.

Harlot, he realized next. Maybe she'll know where to start. But if he didn't clean out the diapers now, they'd still be wet the next morning.

Okay, so I wash the diapers, first. By hand. Using well-water. You have got to be kidding me. He'd been able to sit down for a total of about half an hour since he'd left for school that morning. It was strange to think that that was just that morning. His problems were so different that it seemed like a different lifetime. Different world, he reminded himself. In this one, they had wells. Ones with a bucket at the end of a rope, probably.

“Bighana?” he asked, hearing his voice shake. “Where's the well? And can you lend me a bucket? One you don't mind getting gross?... And maybe soap?”

“Don' use soap,” she said. “Stuff we have'll hurt'er worse than somewha' dirty clothes will. As for the bucket-” She pointed, and he saw a large, wooden basin tucked under the table. “I use it anytime I get ahol' of any unprepared meat and am throwing out the inedibles,” she told him. “But it'll work for you, too. The well's out this door and at the end of the alley to the left. Bring the chil' with you - I can' be distracted from my cooking if she cries. An' clean the basin out before you bring it back - I won' have my kitchen smelling like that diaper does. If you manage to get a bit o' coin, I'll throw your things in with those that the laundress does so you don' have to wash'em.”

Yeah, great. Cash always is the question. “Yes ma'am,” he told her. “...thank you.”

Lifting the more-or-less clean and content baby, he placed her in a basket before throwing both dirty diapers and the washcloths he'd used into the basin.

Damn it, I really do need a carrier, too, he realized. There was no way he could carry the basket and basin at the same time – the basin itself required two hands.

Breathing a heavy sigh, he picked up the baby in her basket and carried her to the door outside, then pushed the door open with his shoulder and set her just outside the door. Returning to the basin, he grabbed it and did the same thing. The alley was gross, he realized then. No shit running down the street, but piles of garbage outside each door, only some of them in bins, provided their own smell. Resolving to ignore it, he picked up Mo's basket again and carried it down the alley towards the well, then set her down on a patch of earth that looked dry and returned for the basin, carrying it past Mo aways before going back for the baby.

Putting Mo down next to the basin after the second relay, he paused for a moment to breathe and heard a dry laugh. Looking up, he saw an old, tattered woman grinning at him from a chair where she sat, making some sort of fabric with a hook and yarn. For a moment, he just stared, taking in her wizened appearance before looking around her. She was surrounded by cats of all kinds, from a basket of tiny kittens and their mother to a skinny tomcat almost as gray and wizened as his mistress. Bizarrely, though the cats clambered on every surface, and her clothing was full of their hair, none of them interfered with her work as she pulled yarn from the balls and hooked it into her work.

And she was laughing at him. He scowled at her, but she just grinned.

“Need a couple extra limbs, don't you lad?” she asked him.

He stared at her. Extra limbs? “What I need are a carrier, and cash,” he told her irritably.

“Ah, but you wouldn't need a carrier if you had a couple more arms, would you?”

She's crazy, he decided. And he didn't have the time. Picking up the baby basket, again, he resumed his last relay to the well.

“Such temper young people have these days,” he heard the woman say behind him, perhaps to one of the cats. “No sense of humor.”

Telling himself to ignore her, he kept going, and finally made it to the well. And now to draw up the water. Which he knew, in theory, how to do. In practice – did one just drop the bucket in? Studying the thing for a moment, he found as expected that the rope had a hook on the end that attached it to the bucket, and wrapped around a thick plank attached to a crank, such that when one turned the crank one could raise and lower the bucket. He also found that the well was not nearly as deep as he'd expected, which would make his hauling easier. But if he just dropped the bucket in, he ran the risk of it falling off the hook and being lost.

Instead, then, he pushed the crank to lift the bucket over the well, then slowly let go of the rope. The bucket didn't budge. Huh. He'd expected it to fall. He snorted lightly. Wooden well. Right. He was an idiot. Because a world that actually hauls water from wells and stores it in wooden barrels clearly ought to have metal ball bearings. Taking hold of the crank in both hands, he pushed and pulled, fighting the friction, and managed to lower the bucket down until it sank into the water. The movement irritated his already-sore back, but it was doable, and eventually he managed to pull the full bucket back up to the surface. Remembering a scene from a movie in his childhood, in which a weird old wizard had released the crank before grabbing the bucket and promptly and comically lost his hard-won water, he reached out for the bucket with one hand and pulled it onto the stone lip of the well.

There, he thought, panting a little. Yey for fresh water. It was even clean. Or well, as clean as one could expect from unfiltered well water. Unhooking the bucket, he started to pour its contents on top of the diapers and washcloths in his basin before realizing that if he did so, the filthy diaper would contaminate the merely wet and make his job that much harder. Setting the bucket down, he pulled the dirtier items out of the basin and set them aside before once again picking up the bucket and pouring it over the wet diapers in the basin. It was enough to fill the basin roughly one-third of the way.

Two more, then. Actually, one should be enough. He wasn't going to want the carry a full basin all the way to the trench afterward. And he was going to have to do it twice, since he'd probably want to rinse, too.

Putting the bucket back on the hook, he repeated the process, once again pouring water into his basin.

And now for washing, he thought, staring down at the diapers floating in the basin. Oh, this is going to be fun. Steeling himself, he plunged both hands into the freezing water and started work on the cleaner items, swishing one of the diapers around in the water until it was soaked, then wringing it out again, before dropping it back in and grabbing a washcloth to do the same. Soon enough, the few items were as clean as they were going to get that way, and he wrung them out a final time before draping them over the handle of the baby's basket and reluctantly starting on the dirtier items.

A moment later a happy squeal drew his attention, and he looked over at the baby to see that she'd pulled down one of the washcloths, and was chewing and drooling on it, clearly very pleased with her acquisition. He sighed, remembering that the cloth had just been cleaned, but in reality he couldn't help but smile. She was just so happy.

“You realize that's just a washcloth, right?” he told her.

Naturally, she didn't respond, and abruptly his anxiety from before returned, threatening to turn his thoughts to a mindless panic. He had literally zero money. How in God's name was he supposed to keep her alive? Shaking off the thought, he threw himself into the washing as he had with the dishes before, using the smell of feces and the painful cold and the tiredness of his hands and arms to drive out the unpleasant thoughts.

By the time he was done, the water was thoroughly gross. He really would have to rinse everything. Dump the dirty in the trench, he remembered. And he had to carry both basin and baby between houses to the street to do so.

“Me'n my cats'll watch the lil'un for a minute or two, lad,” the weird old lady from before called. “You go dump that.”

Hearing the offer, he stood up to look at her. Her cats and she? And yet he was grateful enough for the offer that he couldn't really care. Thank goodness. Picking up Mo's basket, he carried her back to where the woman was still working with her hook, noticing as he did so that she'd changed colors from the drab brown she'd been using to a slightly more interesting reddish color.

“Just set her here,” she said, indicating the area next to her chair.

“Thank you,” he said, putting the basket down where she said. She smelled like cats and old clothing.

She grinned. “So you're capable of being polite after all.”

He flushed, annoyed. She's offered to watch the kid. Don't tick her off.

She just grinned further. “You go on, lad. Granny's got the lil'un.”

“Thanks,” he said, trying not to sound short. Granny?

But already he was focused on the next part of his task. The basin was heavy– almost too heavy for him to carry all the way at once. Worse, the water in it was filthy, and was going to end up all over him. His tee-shirt was already soaked with dish water, and splashed some with the laundry water, and no doubt full of his sweat, but at least he could try to keep it clean, if this was what it took to wash it. Removing it, he found that in addition to the water and everything else, the shirt smelled like him. Unsurprisingly, so did he. But the water was too filthy at that point to wash anything in. Laying the shirt over the lip of the well, he once again set about carrying the basin to the street.

Having emptied the basin, Marius brought it back, reclaimed Mo from the weird lady, and set about refilling it and rinsing everything. It didn't take long, and soon he was ready to dump it again. As he was lifting it, though, he realized that this time the water, somewhat cloudy from rinsing, was still probably cleaner than his shirt. And he'd have to haul again to do another set of laundry, since he couldn't pay for it. Hesitating a moment, he finally threw his shirt in, rinsing it out as best he could. Pausing for a moment before ringing it out, he shrugged and instead used the shirt to wash his face and upper body before rinsing it out once more, ringing it out carefully, and draping it over Mo's basket with the rest. She's getting wet, he realized suddenly, seeing some of the water drip.

But now he really did have to go dump the water. Once again, he brought Mo to Granny.

“Will you take her again, please?” he asked her.

She smiled again. “Yes of course,” she said. “Granny's still useful, despite her age. I'm eighty-three, you know.”

Am I supposed to be impressed by that, or would that be insulting? Awkward, he smiled. “Cool,” he said. “I'm sixteen.”

“And a daddy already, I see,” she answered.

Oh, don't call me that. “Uh...sorta,” he said awkwardly. “Thanks....I've got to dump the water.”

She nodded, an amused understanding in her smile, and he left Mo and headed off again to pick up the heavy basin and head for the street.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When he got back from dumping the water, Marius found Granny cooing at a very fussy baby Mo. Groaning, he approached the two and picked the baby up under the arms to hold her up in front of his face.

“What now?” he asked her, frustrated. She seemed startled, and stared at him.

Granny frowned and spoke up sharply. “She's hungry and needs a diaper change,” she said. “Would you want to be lyin' in your own piss?”

Oh, and she blames me, Marius thought. “I'm just-” he snapped, before cutting off. Closing his eyes, he rolled his head back on his neck and took a deep breath, doing his best to release the frustration. It wasn't Granny's fault, and he certainly couldn't blame a five-month-old infant, tempting as it may be. The poor kid hadn't eaten in something like three hours. “Point to you,” he admitted tiredly, pulling the baby into his chest to cradle her more carefully in his arms.

“You're just exhausted,” Granny said more sympathetically. “Go on, Lad. You've a lot to do, I expect.”

“True,” Marius said, putting Mo back in her basket gently and transferring the wet laundry off of the handle and into the relatively clean basin where it wouldn't drip on anything. “Thank you,” he said to Granny, realizing as he did so that it was too short to sound sincere. Whatever. He couldn't do better. Picking up Mo's basket, he started his relays back to the inn.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

“The basin can jus' go back where it was, Lad,” Bighana said when he came back in. “And there's a rack in the closet upstairs if you want to hang yer clothes up to dry.” She was at the table this time, kneading some sort of dough. Another batch was apparently baking – the whole kitchen was hot as a furnace, and smelled like bread. Ran had apparently gone off somewhere. Hopefully she was playing.

“Thanks,” Marius said, shoving the basin back under the table and heading back out the door to pull Mo inside. The diaper bag was where he'd left it in the corner by the door. He threw it over his shoulder and grabbed his laundry and Mo's basket again before heading out of the stifling kitchen and dragging himself up the stairs.

As he got to the top, he realized that she hadn't told him which room was the closet he was looking for. It proved easy to find, though, as the corridor was a straight shot and only two doors were not labeled with a number. The first was the privy – he could smell it before he even opened the door. The second he guessed was the closet, and he was right – it was full of clean linens and cleaning supplies, and had a rack that had to be the one Bighana had mentioned. He hung up his laundry and headed the rest of the way to his room.

The sight of his bed was almost painful. No, no sleep. Change and feed baby. Then talk to Harlot, hopefully obtain job number two, change and feed baby, eat dinner, change and feed baby, then maybe sleep. And you don't get that job, you better hope begging is effective.

But once again, panicking wasn't going to be helpful, either. Right now, he had to feed the baby. That was all. Feed the baby.

And he was upstairs, and he'd forgotten to get water for her formula. Groaning, he grabbed one of her bottles and a packet of formula and headed back downstairs, leaving Mo in her basket in his room.

The rice water by this point was cold, but Bighana already had some more on the stove for him. He made up Mo's formula carefully before heading back up again.

Apparently his departure was the last straw, as far as the baby was concerned. He could hear her wailing before he got up the stairs.

“I'm sorry!” he called back to her. “I'm coming!” It felt idiotic, to be yelling at her from all the way down the corridor, but it was all he could do to cope with the wailing. God, I'm so not ready for this, he thought. And yet he had no options. There has got to be a way to find her family, he thought.

Finally, he got to the room and put the bottle down on the tiny table next to his bed before picking the squalling baby in both arms, settling her on his lap, and taking up the bottle again to push it into her mouth.

This time, she found the nipple of the bottle and quieted instantly, sucking down the warm mixture as fast as she could. He breathed a sigh of relief and readjusted her so that one of his hands supported her head and another held the bottle.

Both of her tiny arms had been curled to her chest, but as he watched she reached out and patted the side of the bottle with one tiny hand. Lifting a finger from his grip on the bottle, he stroked the hand gently. The fingers closed on his in a strong grip, and once again, she looked like an angelic being, completely innocent and utterly incapable of causing mayhem.

“Yeah, right,” he told her, smiling just a bit at the grip on his finger. “You and I both know the truth, don't we?”

She just kept eating.

“Uh huh,” he said. “Totally innocent.”

Jesus, I've gotta keep this kid alive, he realized suddenly. I have to.

She was a burden. Lliannan had shoved her at him without so much as a by-your-leave or even a warning. Without her, he could have gotten by with the food and housing he'd already earned for long enough to find his way back out of wherever he was. He wouldn't have to look for jobs based on the requirement that he brought a child on board.

She's a real darling l'il thing, Bighana had said. But cute didn't cut it. Puppies and kittens were cute, probably cuter, actually – they could play with you, and didn't drool. But nevertheless if Mo had been a puppy or a kitten, he'd've left her on somebody else's doorstep in a heartbeat, destined to die or not. Things die, and it wasn't his fault if they did. But Mo was not a puppy or a kitten. Mo had little hands and feet, a little face. Two arms, two legs, opposable thumbs, facial expressions. Smiles and tears. She was a person. Someday, if he could keep her alive, she'd walk, talk. It didn't matter that he didn't want the responsibility, or that it wasn't his fault. He had to keep her alive.

Focus. Don't panic. For now, she was fed. Now he'd burp and change her, and then he'd ask Harlot about other job ideas. Pulling the empty bottle out of her mouth, he wondered for a moment if she was actually getting enough before dismissing the worry. There wasn't anything he could do about it if she wasn't. Well, other than run out of her food even faster. But he wasn't going to run out of her food. He was going to get a job. And first, he had to burp her and change her diaper. Picking her up, he pulled a washcloth out of the diaper bag and threw it over his shoulder with one hand before positioning the baby on his shoulder and patting her firmly. This time, she didn't spit up much, and he was able to just fold up the washcloth for later use and get started on changing her.

He'd shoved her changing pad in the diaper bag, and it was easy to find again. He laid it out on his bed before putting her down on top of it and removing her diaper. It was just wet, and he just rolled it up and put it on his bedside table.

Shoot. He was supposed to clean her off before putting the next diaper on, and he hadn't gotten a wet washcloth when he'd gotten the formula. Just when I thought I was approaching competence. But he'd just cleaned some washcloths, and they'd still be wet. Leaving the old diaper where it was, he carried the half-naked baby back to the closet and fetched one of them back to his room.

Soon enough, Mo was clean and dry and fed, and he was ready to go talk to Harlot. Except that clean, dry, and fed apparently meant that it was time for Mo to fall asleep on him.

“You realize that that's annoying?” he told her, shifting her a little in his arms. “You could show a little gratitude before deciding I make a good sofa.”

Sighing, he picked her up carefully and started to put her in her basket. At first it seemed to work, but as soon as his hands left her, her eyes popped open and she started to cry. He picked her up again quickly, but it appeared the damage was done, and she cried pathetically as he held her to his chest, bouncing a little like he'd seen women do with other unhappy children. Jesus, what's wrong now? She was fed. She was clean. Two minutes ago she'd been ready to fall asleep. What did it matter if he put her down?

Fine. Whatever. If he had to carry her for her to sleep, he'd carry her. At least then she'd be quiet. Eventually.

Hearing the tone of his own thoughts, he sighed again, feeling guilty. He really didn't want to be the type of person that would resent a child's need for care. And he was all the kid had right now. If he resented her – there were other ways than poverty to make a child's life hell. Adjusting her gently, he pushed her up on his shoulder and stroked her hair with a hand, rocking back and forth.

“Okay, baby,” he said. “Okay.”

I'm not keeping her, he reminded himself. I just have to keep her alive until I can find her family. In a foreign city that didn't even have plumbing. Oh yeah, sure, he thought. I'll just have them put her in the computer system. Maybe they'll connect her with her parents in another district. What was he going to do, go door-to-door?

Go to the Elite, he remembered. What were the Elite? Maybe Harlot would know? Lliannan had said the word as if he should understand it, so maybe it was common knowledge, here?

As usual, thinking of the city he'd come in from was strange. I'm not hallucinating, he thought, finally. It had just been too damn long. The things he was seeing should've at least changed. Maybe, maybe, he'd still be able to find his way out of this place, get back to Malcolm- I can't take a baby to Malcolm! Am I crazy? - take the baby to a police station, get back to Malcolm, and resume his own life, but he'd have to find his way out. He wasn't going to just 'wake up'.

Funny how this morning, he'd actually thought that he had problems; that his life was difficult. Oh poor, pitiful me. My mother abandoned me and her husband's a drunk. Certainly it sounded awful, but it had nothing on his situation now. He stopped short, realizing. It had all sorts of connections to his situation now, actually. Mo's mother was gone, leaving her with him – a man not her father, with no real desire to keep her. You owe me everything, you hear? I didn't have to keep you! Your bitch of a mother-” He forced himself to smile. Clearly, the solution is to get drunk and blame the baby for the rest of my life. Unless his mother had left because Malcolm was a drunk? He'd always wondered which direction that went.

Focusing back on the baby on his shoulder, he realized she'd quieted. “Good girl,” he told her softly. “That's a good girl. You sleep.” Sitting back down on the bed, he lay back himself, resigned to stay put for just a moment with her. Once again, he found himself messing with her hair, pulling the little curls out one at a time and watching them spring back into place. Purple hair, he thought irrelevantly. That's different. Maybe I should dye mine.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

A short time later, lying on his back with Mo sleeping on his chest, Marius realized that he was falling asleep himself. And he really couldn't afford the time. Job, he remembered. Gotta get a job.

Careful not to jostle the sleeping baby, he hauled himself to a sit, nearly hitting his head of the sloped ceiling above his bed.

Try again, on the sleeping maybe? It was loud and hot downstairs in the kitchen. She'd probably sleep better here, if he could get her to do it. She was pretty thoroughly asleep, now. Maybe he'd get away with it? Tentatively, he leaned down, not pulling Mo from his chest until the last minute, and tucked her into the basket, finding himself holding his breath as he released her and stood up.

One second...three seconds...five seconds...Finally Marius let his breath out. He'd succeeded. Feeling like he'd jinx it if he stayed too long, he left the room quickly, careful to close the door quietly on his way out. Just outside, he realized that leaving the door unlocked with the child and all of his current worldly possessions inside might not be smart. The key was in the pocket of his jeans, and he locked the door before heading downstairs.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>.

A/N: That's it for now!! Hope you like!!

title, what title? It thinks I'm supposed to have a title? Umm...HIIIIIII!!!!!!

Hey everybody!! Just an update and a couple things you should know. I'm working hard on both fics, and should have something for y'all to read sometime in the next couple of weeks, probably from Riah's story. That "sometime in the next couple of weeks" could also be this weekend, I'm really not sure. I'm like seven pages into the chapter, but I never quite know when something's gonna feel like the quitting point. Sorry I can't be more precise than that. You should also know that I am constantly reediting old chapters - generally in small ways, but I've changed the first chapter of Riah's Story in ways that have bigger ramifications for the story since it was first published, so if you only read it when it was first published, you should probably read over it again. If the version in your mind still starts with a scene with Mathias Greuster talking to the King, you should probably reread - that conversation never "actually" happened, and it's somewhat important that it didn't. Other changes are smaller, little wording things, but I do publish them, so if you've noticed that, don't worry - you're not crazy. I realize that it's probably a bit annoying, to read a chapter when it comes out only to have it change a bit later, but I do feel like my writing and the story benefit from it, so...

Anyway, thanks everybody for your continuing support! I'll get the next bit up soon as I can!