to send you back. He's a great distance from here, and to reach him you'll make an arduous journey. That's why you must be trained. Do you understand me now?" She leaned over and peered at him. "Or are you stupid as well as young?" "I'm not stupid," Michael said.
"Parts of the Realm are quite beautiful, though few humans cross the Blasted Plain to see them. The Sidhe appreciate beauty. They leave the ruins for humans."
"Are you human?" Michael asked.
Lamia's white skin purpled slightly. "Not now."
"Are you a Sidhe?"
"No." Her laugh was a deep grumble in her massive torso. "Now you have had your questions. Any more and-"
"If I don't ask questions, how will I learn?"
Before he could flinch, her arm struck out like a scorpion's tail and her hand slammed against the side of his face. He spun across the charred floor and fell into a mound of ashes, raising a cloud. She pushed through the cloud and grabbed him with both hands by the shoulders, lifting him clear and dangling him over the floor. Gentle, almost sweet, her voice reached him through the haze as if she were miles away.
"You'll go to Halftown. You'll take instruction from the Crane Women. Got that?"
"The hotel-"
She shook him once, making his bones pop. "You don't deserve the luxury. The Crane Women are called Nare, Spart and Coom. Tell me their names."
He couldn't remember.
"Again, then. Nare, Spart, and Coom."
"Nare, Spart."
"Coom."
"Coom."
"They're expecting you. They'll teach you how to survive. Maybe they'll teach you how to see and hear and remember, how to judge situations better. Think that's possible?" She held him with one hand and brushed him down with the other. Her touch was feverishly warm. She set him down near the table and looked up longingly at the burnt-out rafters.
"It was the middle of a banquet," she said. "They took us by surprise. We used to have parties here often. It was beautiful."
Michael tried to control his trembling but couldn't. He was terrified and furious. He wanted to kill her.
"Go," she said. "Tell the innkeeper and his wife that Lamia no longer needs their services. Take yourself over to Halftown. The Crane Women. What are their names?"
"Nare, Spart and Coom."
She grunted. "Go, before the Sidhe return."
He fled from the ruined wing, through the hall and across the entry to the front door. Book bouncing against his hip, he ran down the road to Euterpe until his lungs were about to burst. His face was streaked with tears of rage. He stopped by a cracked, glazed boulder and pounded on it until his hand bled. "God damn you, God damn you!"
"Better be quiet," the wind whispered. He jumped and whirled around. Nobody.
"Remember where you are."
He screamed. Something luffed his hair and he looked up. There, translucent as a spider's web, was a narrow and colorless face. It rotated and vanished.
Cupping his hands over his mouth, smearing blood on his chin, he stumbled and ran the rest of the way to Euterpe with little concern for his lungs or his legs.
Risky accepted his explanation with seeming indifference. Brecker nodded and accompanied him upstairs to the room. "You didn't come here with anything, so there's no luggage for you to pick up," he said. "But you can help me clean it." They swept the floor in silence. Michael was confused by the token labor.
"It's not my dirt," he said. "I've only been here one night."
"We all do our bit," Brecker said. "It's what keeps us going."
"Even when there's nothing to do?"
Brecker leaned on his straw broom. "Where'd you get that bruise?"
"Lamia hit me."
"Why?"
"I don't know why," Michael lied.
"For asking dumb questions, likely." Brecker resumed his sweeping. "It's a hard land, boy. Wherever you came from, it seems you led an easy life among reasonable people. Not here. Mistakes cost." He held a pan down for Michael to sweep dust and mica flakes into. "Mistakes cost dear."
Savarin was climbing the stairs as they descended. Michael
"Parts of the Realm are quite beautiful, though few humans cross the Blasted Plain to see them. The Sidhe appreciate beauty. They leave the ruins for humans."
"Are you human?" Michael asked.
Lamia's white skin purpled slightly. "Not now."
"Are you a Sidhe?"
"No." Her laugh was a deep grumble in her massive torso. "Now you have had your questions. Any more and-"
"If I don't ask questions, how will I learn?"
Before he could flinch, her arm struck out like a scorpion's tail and her hand slammed against the side of his face. He spun across the charred floor and fell into a mound of ashes, raising a cloud. She pushed through the cloud and grabbed him with both hands by the shoulders, lifting him clear and dangling him over the floor. Gentle, almost sweet, her voice reached him through the haze as if she were miles away.
"You'll go to Halftown. You'll take instruction from the Crane Women. Got that?"
"The hotel-"
She shook him once, making his bones pop. "You don't deserve the luxury. The Crane Women are called Nare, Spart and Coom. Tell me their names."
He couldn't remember.
"Again, then. Nare, Spart, and Coom."
"Nare, Spart."
"Coom."
"Coom."
"They're expecting you. They'll teach you how to survive. Maybe they'll teach you how to see and hear and remember, how to judge situations better. Think that's possible?" She held him with one hand and brushed him down with the other. Her touch was feverishly warm. She set him down near the table and looked up longingly at the burnt-out rafters.
"It was the middle of a banquet," she said. "They took us by surprise. We used to have parties here often. It was beautiful."
Michael tried to control his trembling but couldn't. He was terrified and furious. He wanted to kill her.
"Go," she said. "Tell the innkeeper and his wife that Lamia no longer needs their services. Take yourself over to Halftown. The Crane Women. What are their names?"
"Nare, Spart and Coom."
She grunted. "Go, before the Sidhe return."
He fled from the ruined wing, through the hall and across the entry to the front door. Book bouncing against his hip, he ran down the road to Euterpe until his lungs were about to burst. His face was streaked with tears of rage. He stopped by a cracked, glazed boulder and pounded on it until his hand bled. "God damn you, God damn you!"
"Better be quiet," the wind whispered. He jumped and whirled around. Nobody.
"Remember where you are."
He screamed. Something luffed his hair and he looked up. There, translucent as a spider's web, was a narrow and colorless face. It rotated and vanished.
Cupping his hands over his mouth, smearing blood on his chin, he stumbled and ran the rest of the way to Euterpe with little concern for his lungs or his legs.
Risky accepted his explanation with seeming indifference. Brecker nodded and accompanied him upstairs to the room. "You didn't come here with anything, so there's no luggage for you to pick up," he said. "But you can help me clean it." They swept the floor in silence. Michael was confused by the token labor.
"It's not my dirt," he said. "I've only been here one night."
"We all do our bit," Brecker said. "It's what keeps us going."
"Even when there's nothing to do?"
Brecker leaned on his straw broom. "Where'd you get that bruise?"
"Lamia hit me."
"Why?"
"I don't know why," Michael lied.
"For asking dumb questions, likely." Brecker resumed his sweeping. "It's a hard land, boy. Wherever you came from, it seems you led an easy life among reasonable people. Not here. Mistakes cost." He held a pan down for Michael to sweep dust and mica flakes into. "Mistakes cost dear."
Savarin was climbing the stairs as they descended. Michael
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