His name was Anjemalti Kristefyon; he was nine years old, his mother was dead, and his Uncle Indemion hated him.
There were blows, and hard words about faulty genes, for his mother had mated with no man of the Crew, but with a Grounder, and had exulted in the spindly, half-blind boy that union produced, to her brother's cold disgust.
The blows were hard to take, but the words were harder, especially when they dealt with his mother, so that he cried aloud and felt acid in his own heart. And the acid grew until the day he drew his boy's blade and launched himself at the man, surprising both by drawing blood, by the strength and determination of the attack.
The beating that time was very bad.
Not long after, his uncle took him to Prongdil. They walked a dismal port-fair to a stinking tavern, his uncle's hand brutal about his arm. The place grew quiet as they entered, then erupted noisily as they marched toward the back of the room.
"Hey, Olbi, look at this! A father and son act!"
"A half-wheel for the little one, don't he look fresh!"
"Fresh! Unplucked, I'll warrant—a whole wheel for the virgin!"
"As if you'd know what to do with him! Beautiful mouth, eh?"
This last drew a bit of laughter and he felt his face heat, though he barely knew why. His uncle pulled on him roughly then, and he stopped.
The person behind the table stared at him, then shifted her gaze upward, eyebrows lifting.
"He's a bit undergrown, for twelve."
"His father was thus, mistress; and the child favors him."
"I see." She raised her glass and drank, placed it carefully aside, and beckoned with a broad-fingered hand. "Come here, boy."
His uncle pushed him and let go. Anjemalti hesitated, reluctant to go to the woman, willing almost to run through that noisy mob. . ..
"Ah-ha!" The woman laughed, extended a long arm and drew him close. "He thinks he may not like me—and he knows he doesn't like you." The hand on his arm was neither cruel nor kind; the fingers that tipped his face toward the meager light and stroked his cheeks and hair flesh, warm and efficient.
"What's your name, boy?"
"His name is Anjemalti," his uncle said hurriedly, and the woman glared at him.
"Can he speak for himself, or are you peddling damaged goods, as well as underaged?"
"He can speak, mistress." His uncle's voice was almost subdued.
"Good." She brought her gaze back to him, ran judgmental fingers down his throat, casually unsealed the first several fastenings of his shirt. "What's your name?"
"Anjemalti Kristefyon," he said, and jerked his head irritably. "Stop that."
"A touch of spirit, is it? Now, Anjemalti, who is the man who brought you here?" She continued to unseal his shirt, slipped her hand against his flesh and probed, laughing when he flinched away.
"My Uncle Indemion."
"Is he?" She touched a bruise and frowned slightly; began to close his shirt. "Do you know that your uncle has brought you here to sell, Anjemalti? He beats you, I see, so maybe it's just as well. My clients are quite genteel—most of them—and would hardly think of beating so well-favored a boy. Though I'm not sure you'd do in a bordello, Anjemalti—no, I'm certain of it—too much spirit. How old are you?"
"Nine years, Standard."
"Ah, yes, underaged . . ." She glanced over his head. "I'll give three full rounds of gold. My final price."
"Three rounds, mistress? But he's worth far more than that! Undergrown he is, yet you admit he is not ill-favored. Surely so well-traveled a lady as yourself knows of a person or two with more—sophisticated—inclinations. . .."
"I do not dicker," she said flatly. "My price is three rounds, which you take or you leave. I advise you to take it, myself, or cut the lad's throat and accept the loss."
Hesitation. "I accept the price of three full rounds of gold. Be warned, though, mistress—he has a brooding and murderous nature. Beating is what he understands best; I suggest your clients be made aware of it, that they do not endanger themselves by failing to keep him pliant."
The woman was standing, one hand still encircling Anjemalti's arm. With the other, she fished in her pouch, extracted three yellow coins, and tossed them, negligently.
"Fee paid," she said tonelessly, as Indemion snatched the money out of the air. She stepped away from the table, pulling Anjemalti with her, and brought him safely through the quiet bar and out into the port.
* * *
He woke, sweat-soaked; abandoned his bed and dragged on old, soft trousers and a faded shirt, not bothering with the lights until he was in his workshop. Here, he must have light, for he could not see well enough in the dark to do the intricate electronic tinkering.
He shook his head irritably as he sat at the bench. Edreth had found his 'assistant's' dark-seeing nothing short of wonderful, while Indemion Kristefyon had seen proof of inferiority in his nephew's shortened range of vision. And now this fanatic girl, crying out for anyone to hear that, blind as he was, the Tomorrow Log held his name.
"The Tomorrow Log!" He picked the wounded spider up; sat staring at it with unseeing eyes. The Tomorrow Log was a tale for children; a supposed prophecy, passed down from the First Captain. Even if it existed, the name of a sold-off and despised half-breed would hardly appear, attached with any honor.
"My name is Gem ser Edreth," he told the spider tautly. It was not so bad a name, nor had Edreth been so bad a master, merely wishing, as he had, to pass on his skills and understandings to a worthy successor. For the universe is wide and full of strange custom, so that even the profession of thief is on some worlds honorable. Always supposing, of course, that one worked for oneself, as Edreth had done, and took care to avoid entanglements—and the doing of favors.
Especially the doing of favors. And most especially favors for the like of the Vornet.
Gem opened the tiny mechanical thing carefully, probing inside with a power-pik barely thicker than a cat-whisker. Edreth had professed wonder at Gem's patience for such tasks, as well, but encouraged him to pursue the interest, saying that even the most successful of thieves might some time require a more mundane trade.
It occurred to Gem, in that far, objective bit of his mind not at this moment concerned with the ailments of mechanical spiders, that Henron had become a less-than-satisfactory base of late. The attentions of the Vornet alone would make departure prudent. Add the crazed Ship-girl—what was her name? Corbinye?—to the equation and prudence argued for even precipitous withdrawal. After all, Lady Ro, of which he owned a third, was in port; and Dart was due within a three-day.
Still, it went against one's pride to turn his back on mere difficulties. Corbinye, he had dispatched already. The Vornet was rather more problematic, but it would not do to become known as one who had run from them.
"Anjemalti Kristefyon is sold, dead and gone," he told the spider, resealing the cover and setting it on its many legs; "and Gem ser Edreth does not run from his enemies."
He touched the control pad on his wrist and the tiny insectoid obeyed the impulse, dancing as he directed.