For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [5]
“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 nonhumans, cheap models of Moth itself with interrupted rings of flashy floatglitter, and various items of uncertain purpose.
Through this farrago of color and shape, the boy wandered. His eyes drank in everything, but he asked no questions, which she thought unusual.
It was in the nature of children to inquire about everything. But then, this was no ordinary child.
Toward the rear of the shop front a silver box stood on a dais. Its touch-sensitive controls connected the shop directly to the central bank of Drallar and enabled Mother Mastiff to process financial transactions for all customers, whether they came from up the street or halfway across the Commonwealth. A universal credcard allowed access to its owner’s total wealth. Banks stored information; all hard currency was in general circulation.
Past the dais and the door it fronted were four rooms: a small storage chamber, a bathroom, a kitchen-dining area, and a bedroom. Mother Mastiff studied the arrangement for several minutes, then set about clearing the storage room. Ancient and long-unsold items were shoveled out onto the