The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [191]
"Be sharpish, boy. We'll not wait for you."
If he can make it back in time, he won't be singing, but he'll be marching with them, carrying a sarod.
"One more sweet face in the troupe never hurts. Think of this as the last part of the audition. A Golden Songboy has to have the strut. How proud can you walk, my boy, how pretty and proud?"
The wiry old bandleader's hand on his shoulder, on his neck. A glance at the half-naked youth on the bed.
Kertel holding Doumani's gaze, long lashes unblinking.
"I think you'll fit right in, my boy."
So Kertel reaches the corner of Poonma Way and Khunds Road rapt in his reverie of anticipation, with only the briefest glance down the wide tree-lined avenue, over the river of people pouring up now from the glass and iron edifice of Battidarmala, to the stark shadows of docklands beyond, to Bangma Bay and the sword of shimmering sunset. He's busy pushing his way through the streaming mob, weaving crosswise to the flow and cursing the crush of it, when the wave of light rips through his world, and everything is gold as sunset, red as blood, and burning.
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Forfend the Heavens' Rending | CONRAD WILLIAMS
WITH HER HANDS beneath the armpits of the wounded man she deemed unconscious, Safiya was completely unprepared for the victim of the salp-dog attack to speak.
"Where did you get that gun?"
His unexpected and perplexing words shocked her into dropping him and jumping back. He grunted at the impact with the paving stones, then recovered enough to climb shakily and slowly to his feet.
"Where did you get that gun?" he asked again, gesturing at the weapon whose butt protruded from Safiya's shoulder bag. His ankle was bleeding badly.
Why was he so concerned with weapons? Hardly the common reaction of an injured man..
"You were bitten," she said, her eyes wide. He didn't seem to care. Or perhaps he didn't know. He was not from Riarnanth. She knew about fabric and this man's simple dhoti, beneath the grime, was of a better cut than the city's usual parade of garments. And what was he thinking with these sandals? Nobody she knew wore sandals like that in the city. The streets were too rough, too thronged for straps like this. The man would be lame inside a day.
"I just need to clean it. It will be fine."
"But the salps."
He sighed and closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose with fingers that were thin and long. She saw something of her father in him then, the deceptive power in hands that had always been used to turn pages in library books.
"My name is Safiya. What's yours?"
No response. She persevered.
"I can get salves from my workplace. We have many. There are a lot of minor injuries at the factory. And I might be able to find you some shoes while we're there."
He looked down at his feet. He seemed to come to some decision. His face relaxed. "That would be helpful. Thank you."
"I can dress your cuts, but I can't do anything for the toxin. You should see a healer. We have excellent marrow leeches in Riarnanth."
"I'm all right. I have immunity."
He gazed at her as she drew her breath sharply. He had underestimated the woman, whose familiarity now opened itself to him; she was the woman from the hide factory. He had seen this same expression on her face as she stood across from the officious little man in the office.
Her hand moved to tighten around the pistol's grip, but she did not yet withdraw the gun fully. "Who are you?" she asked. He saw her making connections, putting things together that might or might not be true. "The Festival," she said. "What's happening?"
He pressed his lips together, as if reassuring himself that he would not answer, and then found himself opening up. He was late for Djudrum Lane. They would be going ahead without him now, his own death subcontracted to street vermin. He had come all this way just to turn into a clown, a sideshow for children to laugh at while the main festivities unfolded.
"I don't know yet," he said. "I had an