CHAPTER
NINE
John strode from the Commissar’s Daughter, singing.
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
What shall we do with a drunken sailor?
It seemed to him that there was another line, a line in which you were supposed to answer the question about what to do with the sailor in question, but John couldn’t remember it for the life of him.
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” he tried again.
He had a bottle in his hand. He inspected the bottle further and was disappointed to learn that it was empty. He thought it might be a beer bottle, but it was of no use to him now. He tossed the bottle in the general direction of a heap of trash.
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor!” he shouted at the trash. “No, really, I want you to tell me!”
“Go home, Abbott!” someone shouted, and pushed him.
“I have to sober up, first!” he shouted back. “Ruth might kill me!”
Ruth had never been drunk a day in her life. Not that she was opposed to alcohol as such—her family had been Catholic, and wine was part of their thing. And it wasn’t that John was much of a drinker, either, but Ruth never lost control. Not of herself, not ever of the girls.
Not of John.
“That’s not fair,” he said to himself. “That’s judgmental.”
He was leaning on something; what was it? A plastic wall? Was this his khat, had he made it home? Nyoot khat. Staggering back two steps from the plastic, he looked up to try to take it all in at a glance, and found it was not a khat enclosure wall. This was a building, at least two stories, though he had a hard time counting, but he saw the tarpaper on top of the building, gray in the dim white light of the . . . wherever the white light came from.
Was it day? He shaded his eyes. No, the light came from the tops of poles. Streetlights.
“What shall we do with a drunken sailor?” John took a deep breath and started marching for home. He walked a block, then another, crossed graveled streets, shook a fist at a car that honked at him, and then he was standing beside a tall gray wall. Another house? Trying to see the top, he fell. Lying sprawled on the damp gravel, he could see that this was the stockade wall.
“Something really bad,” he mumbled, climbing to his feet. “We’ll do something really bad to the sailor. We’ll carpet bomb the bastard. He got sick, he riled up the natives, we’ll carpet bomb him.”
He had gone the wrong way. John turned around and marched in the other direction. A passing cycle struck him in the shoulder, spinning him completely around. John kept doggedly going.
“We’ll take all his money. Then he’ll be our slave, and we can make him work in a real shithole. Make him solve riddles in a squalid dump and have to suck up to macho salesmen. Stupid sailor. What shall we do with a drunken sailor?”
“Shut up!” Something struck John in the side of the head and he fell.
Patting around on the gravel, he found a boot. It was old and tattered, but still heavy. Someone had thrown a boot at him.
So that was the answer, then. You threw a boot at the drunken sailor.
John vomited.
With his stomach emptied, he felt a little better. Shaky, but his vision seemed to stabilize. He climbed to his feet again. He wished he had a loaf of bread to gnaw on, but even better would have been directions.
“A loaf of waham.”
No, that wasn’t right? Hanket?
“But Arrowhawk is small,” he told himself. “There aren’t that many directions to go in, and not that far to go.”
He picked a direction that seemed familiar, and started walking.
We’ll give him a raise until he’s sober!
We’ll give him a raise until he’s sober!
We’ll give him a raise until he’s sober!
We’ll give him a raise until he’s sober!
That seemed right, or at least close. Only there was something about keelhauling. And the captain’s daughter, wasn’t she in there?
“What about the Commissar’s Daughter?” He laughed at his own joke. Only he wasn’t back at the Commissar’s Daughter, so where was he?
Words swam in front of his eyes.
“Company House. Company House! Hell and donuts, I’m back at Henry Hudson Post!”
Something struck the back of his head and knocked him down. “Stop throwing boots!” he yelled. He tried to roll over and find the person who had hit him with the boot, or find the boot, and he couldn’t find either.
But then there was a man there, two men. And they were both kicking John. He couldn’t see them clearly; all three of them were covered by the shadow of the maglev station overhead.
“Hey!” He lunged at one of his attackers, and got himself wrapped around the man’s knees. John leaned heavily into his hold, trying to drag the man down. He’d wrestled a little bit in high school, but that had been years ago, before John’s big growth spurts, and he was too sober to remember the fancier moves.
No, too drunk.
He tried to drag the man down with his weight, but he was getting punched in the head, and hit with a stick.
Bang! Bang!
John saw two quick flashes of light, and they burned his eyes. Then he fell to the ground. He heard feet running away.
“What shall we do with a coward?” he yodeled. “Keelhaul the Commissar’s Daughter!”
“Mr. Abbott.” A shadow loomed over John, blocking out all the light.
“Ruth, I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”
“You are quite drunk.”
“Yeah, but I did it for the family. I had to drink, to impress the traders. That’s what Fossil told me. Faucet. Forceps.”
“Faisal.”
“Fffffffffffffffffffffffff. And I think he was right. But I’m really late, and it’s really drunk.”
“Let’s get some water into you,” Ruth said. “I’d give you coffee if I had any, but you can get that at home. Let’s at least dilute the alcohol in your stomach.”
She handed him a water bottle and he drank. “Thank you.”
John handed the bottle back, belched, and threw up again.
“Well, that will help, too. Mr. Abbott, I’m going to lift you onto my shoulder, and then you and I are going to walk together back to your khat. If you can stand on your own feet, that will be helpful.”
“I walked here, didn’t I?”
“More or less.”
“You’re not Ruth, are you?”
“On the count of three, Mr. Abbott, here we go. One, two, three.”
The person hoisted and John stood. He lurched and almost fell over his helper, but then he caught his balance.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Abbott.”
“Only one person in the whole universe calls me Mr. Abbott,” John said. “Unfortunately, I can’t remember who that is.”
“Faisal Haddad,” the person said.
“You’re Faisal.”
“Yes.”
“You recommended that I get drunk.”
“I said it might be necessary. And that’s why I waited around the Commissar’s Daughter to see how it turned out. And I’m glad I did.”
John walked several wobbly steps and then got command of his legs. His mouth was a sand pit and his head hurt. He detached himself from the other man, rested his hands on his knees for a minute, and took deep breaths.
“How do I look?” John asked.
“You are a handsome fellow, and very charming. But I try not to mix business with pleasure.”
“Someone attacked me.”
“Yes, I caught the tail end of that.”
“You shot them.”
“I shot at them. If I had shot them, we would be looting the bodies right now.”
John chuckled. “Thank you. Did you see who they might be?”
“Unfortunately, it is dark under the train. I saw that there were two of them.”
“I really want more of that liquor,” John said, “but water would probably be better.”
“I’m all out of that, too,” Faisal said. “But we are going to pass a pump in a moment. The water is excellent—we basically live on top of a watershed, surrounded by lakes and marshes, and the water table is right beneath our feet. If you had a peg leg, you would drill a well with every step.”
“A peg leg.” John giggled.
“Yes, you’re still drunk. Here’s the pump.”
They stood in a small square where two streets crossed. In the center was a concrete pad, and in the middle of the pad, surrounded by waist-high steel railings, was a post that terminated in a hinged handle and a spout. John staggered to the pump and pulled the handle up.
Nothing happened.
“You have to get the water started. Look.” Faisal pumped the handle up and down several times, and then water burst from the pump’s mouth in a strong stream.
“What is this, the middle ages?” John cupped his hands in the flow, and the water ricocheted off his palms and sprayed him in the face. He laughed, and it felt good, so he stuck his head entirely under the water. Trickles running around his head sneaked into the corners of his mouth, he lapped at water that sloshed down into his palms, and he started to feel a little more sober.
Sober enough to realize that he was drunk.
“Well, I have to go home,” he said. “I’m a little unsteady; would you mind accompanying me, Mr. Haddad?”
“No,” Faisal said. “You’re Mr. Abbott, I’m Faisal.”
“That’s bullshit.” John shut off the pump. “Either it’s Faisal and John, or it’s Haddad and Abbott, you pick which. Or else I will never hire you.”
It was hard to focus on the other man’s face, but John thought he saw a smile. “I guess you’re going to have to call me Mr. Haddad, then.”
“You find things, Mr. Haddad,” John said. “How much will it cost for you to find my house?”
“I will do that as a kindness.”
“That’s bullshit again. You’re a professional, and you saved my bacon.” John was pretty sure he was sober enough to make this decision. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks.”
“Deal.” Faisal pointed. “It is this way.”
“I knew that.” John dug into his wallet and, with a little help, counted out fifty dollars. Then he started walking and quickly found he was taking giant steps. He shortened his stride, but then Faisal seemed to pull out ahead of him. Finally, John gave up and accepted the fact that Faisal would yo-yo past and then wait for him to catch up.
Eventually, he recognized his khat and gate.
“Thank you, Mr. Haddad.”
“We’re going inside, Mr. Abbott. Do you wish to let me open the gate with your key?”
“I can do it.” Only he couldn’t, not after three tries. Picking the keys off the ground after dropping them, he finally gave them to Faisal.
Faisal opened the gate, shut it behind them, and then shuffled up the front walk with John. John did his best to walk with a straight spine and shoulders held back, and a relaxed smile on his face.
Ani was lying on the porch; she raised her muzzle, sniffed the air, and whimpered.
“You have trained your dog to distrust strangers?” Faisal suggested.
“I think she’s smelling the booze,” John said.
The door opened. The front room of the house was dark, and Ruth stood in the doorway. “I certainly smell the booze.”
“I did tell you I was going out to meet traders,” John reminded her.
She said nothing. Her eyes were hard and small.
John felt punched in the stomach. “Are you . . . I did this for us!”
“Did you?” Ruth’s voice was cold.
“This is my fault,” Faisal said. “Please forgive me, Mrs. Abbott. My name is Faisal Haddad, and I met with your husband to help him collect information about how to trade for your family account in Weave. The Company and its traders are all very tight-lipped about the process, and I understand that your husband and you wish to augment your salary.”
“Who are you?” Ruth asked.
“I live here,” Faisal said. “I undertake odd jobs. I am an interpreter, and a guide, and sometimes even a private investigator.”
“He saved my life tonight.” John leaned against the doorframe.
“I am the one who suggested to your husband that the way to make friends with the traders was to be willing to drink with them. Just once, naturally. Mr. Abbott resisted, but I am very persuasive, and he is committed to making a good life for the family.”
“Just once,” Ruth said.
John lurched through the doorway and she let him. He felt his head getting light, so he lay down on the foam sofa in the front parlor. He felt the dog’s she hair pricking the skin of his neck. “And then he saved my life!” he called to Ruth.
Faisal sounded very far away. “He was getting mugged, and I chased the thugs off. No big deal.”
“I can’t believe there are muggers in Arrowhawk Post.” Ruth also sounded distant. And tiny.
“Well, Lord of Lights, it is a wilderness trading post, not a picnic. Sadly, I did not get a good look at any of the attackers. These belong to Mr. Abbott.”
“John’s got an energy pistol. This is a revolver.”
“Yes, I sold him this one. It is a reliable gun. He should not walk at night without protection, and neither should you. Also, do not leave the post unarmed. Have you considered hiring a guard? If you are only going to employ one person at this time, that is the hire you should make. Before a gardener or a housekeeper.”
“Before a teacher?”
“Maybe after a teacher. But some people will take you for a rich woman, and try to take advantage . . .”