Chapter 23
Some mornings, Slant woke sore and beaten, bruises reaching into his core to punish his slowness or arrogance. That morning was more pleasant: he had taken down the Gangers flawlessly, and his fence had taken the lockbreakers for a month’s rent. It annoyed him to think he might end up taking the lockbreakers from another criminal, but what else could he do?
Slant headed to the kitchen for something he could throw together into a breakfast: maybe he'd buy some proper food, ensure full stomachs all round. Sol knows his mother would love roast beef and parsnips again, like they used to have when...
He killed that thought: it wouldn't get breakfast made. Reaching right back into the cupboards, he found a piece of salted ham fresh enough to divide between them, and some dried peach segments. If he fried the ham with some of the herbs his mother loved to tend, it would do.
When he was done cooking, he shouted, “Breakfast's ready. Come and feast!”
“I'm coming, I'm coming,” his sister shouted from her bedroom down the hall. She sloped into the kitchen with her trainee Cleric robes just about on. Average height, thin from their poor diet, Tower still had enough energy to roll her eyes at him.
Slant brought the ham over to their small dinner table, and served the meals up. Tower ate without speaking, reaching for the peach slices rather than the meat.
“How's training?” Slant asked his sister.
“All right.”
He waited. Tower nibbled on her peach slice.
“That's all you have to say?”
She shrugged. “It's training. I read old, obscure laws and learn them by rote. I can tell you the rules for a Merchant building a new Fishing town if you want?”
“But you're getting along okay, getting the results you need?”
“They wouldn't keep taking me if I wasn't, would they?” she asked angrily.
Slant gave up then. “I suppose not. Where'd mother get to? Mother?” he shouted.
There was no response.
“Mother?”
“Just go and see her,” Tower said. “You know she won't answer.”
He shot her an annoyed look, but knew she was right. Standing, he walked down the narrow hall, past their small bathing room and to their mother's room.
“Mother, breakfast is ready,” Slant said, louder in case she hadn't heard.
Once more, there was no response.
He knocked. “Mother?”
A groan came this time, though he didn't know whether he was being warded off or invited in. Given her history, Slant opened the door, stepped inside.
Her bedroom was dark despite Sol’s brilliance, thick curtains covering the windows because she only felt safe in abject darkness. To her, darkness meant Sol was protecting her and Lun wasn't prowling the earth dropping horrors. She had many issues related to this theory. The Mentalist he'd bought one session from last year had said the only cure was extensive therapy. Doctors didn't recognise mental illnesses as within their purview, so Mentalists were Merchants by another name.
His mother lay on the bed with her head under the sheets. The room stank of urine: she'd had another accident. Slant closed the door to save Tower seeing this.
“It's time for breakfast,” he said jovially. “Let's get you up and washed, how about that?”
“No! No, I can’t. He's out there!”
“Lun isn't out here, Mother.”
“Don't lie! You're a liar! I know he is,” she hissed from under the sheets. “Sol is trapped in the sky, and his Acolytes are busy with the big problems. Lun can't go near them, so he leaves little problems, pans that burn and mice that judge.”
Slant took a step into the room. His voice was soft as he says, “Mother, I've cooked breakfast without being burned. Why don't you come out and have some, sit with Tower and I?”
“Tower...” she said, tasting the word. “I... No, I can't, I can't, I can't! And I won't!”
Slant turned and waited for her to stop thrashing, preferring not to see her thin, naked form when the sheets billowed. She wore herself out after a few seconds and sat panting, her greasy hair splaying out from beneath the sheets, whispering, “I can’t,” over and over.
“Alright. I'll bring it in here. We'll eat breakfast in here, shall we?”
“Put salt around it,” his mother insisted. “Salt is pure. Salt keeps out the bad things.”
“I remember. I'll put salt around it.”
Slant left, closing the door gently. Tower was leaving her room, her ancient and much-repaired satchel across her back and those books that wouldn't fit inside wrapped in fabric so they wouldn’t fall from her grip. The only new things in the house were her red-fringed robes, and they would only be needed for the next two years, one way or another.
“She isn't coming out, is she?” Tower asked wearily.
He stepped away and took his sister, by the sleeve, into the kitchen. “No, no, she isn't. I think it's going to be another bad day.”
“Of course it is: Sol came up today.”
“That is not on, Tower. You know she's ill and–”
“Yes, I fucking know she's ill, Slant,” Tower hissed, pulling herself from his grip. “But do you? Really? You're about to, what, put a circle of salt around the plate so she can eat whilst she sits in her own filth? How is that going to help her? Playing along with her fantasies hasn't made her any better.”
“If I don't play along, she just won't eat,” Slant replied. “Should I starve her, Tower?”
She doesn't answer, looked down guiltily.
“Sol, I... I can't take this,” he said, walking across the kitchen. “You're the lucky one, you know? You get to deal with her at night, when she knows Lun isn't out to get her. I'm the one who scrubs her and hold her down when she tries to go for the knives.”
“Don't judge me. Don't you dare,” Tower said. “I'm not the one who comes home beaten half to death after doing Lun only knows what all night. Yeah, that's right, I can tell when you've put make-up on, or when you're 'too ill' to cook. You can't judge me when you spend every night crushing people.”
“My evening work earns enough money to keep us here!” Slant shouted.
“And isn't it worthwhile?” Tower hollered back.
Slant roared and slammed his fist onto the kitchen surface. The loose cupboard doors shook. The frying pan slipped to the floor, crashed loudly. From her bedroom, his mother screamed, terrified that Lun had come to get her.
Tower shook her head and left, loudly slamming the door behind her, which earned another scream from their mother.
Cursing his temper, Slant returned to his mother’s bedroom. But the door wouldn't open. He tried it again, but she had blocked it somehow.
“Mother? Mother, open the door!”
“Lun is out there, and he plans to take me, plans to make me evil and cruel, plans to make me into a Dark Acolyte to burn the heavens clear!” she shrieked back, the words smashing together.
Slant lowered his voice and said, “Earn?”
The shrieking stopped. His mother listened cautiously.
“Earn, are you in there?” he asked, his throat already feeling weird for mimicking a deep voice. “It's me.”
Slant heard scraping wood. The door opened a crack. His mother, thin as an excuse, looked out with hope in her eyes. “Shell? Shell, is that you?”
“Earn, it's me. I'm here,” Slant lied, pretending to be his father. He hated having to do this, but it was all that calmed her when she was in such a state. Tower hadn't caught him doing it yet, and she really would freak out, hate him, if she did.
His mother opened the door and threw herself at him, wrapping her arms and legs around his body like a child. She wept and said, “Oh Shell, I missed you! Where did you go? Where did you go?”
Slant didn't tell her the truth. He couldn't, not when she'd left her room from having it barricaded against him: he couldn't remind her that a Gang Lord had broken into their house and killed his father, that she watched her husba
nd choke on the knife in his throat. Seeing Shell die, the Mentalist had said, was the catalyst for her current state. Reminding her of that would only make things worse.
Instead, he hugged her back, whispered that everything was okay. And right there, at that moment, it was. She would fall asleep soon after she ate, after Slant cleaned her and her bedding, and then would forget about Shell's ‘visit.’ It would be like a dream, a pleasant joy the real world simply couldn't match.
“I'm here, I'm here,” he whispered, patting her back. “Come on, let's have breakfast.”
She stepped back and smiled. “Yes, let’s. Slant said he made some before... well, he must have gone out. Did he go out?”
“He went out to go to work,” Slant said. He got away with this ruse because he had the same rough build, tall brow, and dark hair as his father. That was a mixed blessing, as he was reminded every day how much he missed his father. “He left us some breakfast.”
“He's a good boy,” she whispered before leading Slant into the kitchen. Neither Slant nor Shell replied.