19.5 Fic: One Night in Midnight

It was golden hour, and a callow young man with dusty shoes and a backpack full of books was walking down Flint street in northeast Midnight.   Removed from the street by a few yards of rough, grassless turf, several small dwellings were smashed together in an amalgamation of wood and steps.   He stopped, facing the third one. Cleared his throat but not his smile, and held a hand to his mouth for effect.   "I'm home!" and he ducked down.   BANG   The door slammed open and a brown and grey blur streaked toward him. He barely crouched down in time to catch the floppy-eared, slobbering, tail-wagging hound dog intent on barking his ears off.   "Rosie! What, you miss me or someth-Whup!"   His balance was poor, and the dog's pressure on his shoulders as she tried to climb him knocked him sprawling backward in a tumble of giggles.   "Rosie! Rosie!"   She was too busy circling and licking his face, he threw two arms around her neck, smashing kisses on her muzzle.   "Rosie-posie-got-your-nosie!"   “Kauê?”   "Home, dad!" He pushed himself up and straightened his backpack. Rose continued to smell his trouser legs and shoes like they held the answers to all life's mysteries as he walked in.   It was a simple house, a stove in the west wall that shared heat with the neighbours, table and three mismatched chairs near the south-facing front wall, simple kitchen near the stove with strings of vegetables hanging above it.   Opposite, a large patch-rug covered most of the floor, and a full corner of the room was occupied by a mass of black iron pipes, valves, gaskets, switches, and more complex machining parts. Shelves, made of enormous metal hinges hammered in with nails, held an equally broad assortment of tools and a huge travel box for them.   The whole of the place smelled like fish. His stomach grumbled.   "You're done early today." This from a man cleaning a whitefish at the table. At full glance, he was taller, fuller-bodied mirror of the youth dumping his books out on the rug, the same warm brown skin, dark eyes and hair, only a minor height difference. At second, his jaw was squarer, his nose hawkish, his cheekbones wider and absent the freckles on his son’s. His caloused hands kept working.   "Yeah, Dame Kendral had me helping with the translations, got an easy batch."   He looked at the machining corner.   "Melody's not home yet?"   "She works late today. So you get dad's cooking, ah?"   He closed a fist in the air and pulled it down in a silent Yes!   "So pleased to hear it. We will need water."   "But-!" ineffective gesturing to the scattered tomes.   "You can read after dinner."   He opened his mouth but knew there was no point arguing. He compromised by stacking the volumes in the order he planned to devour them, running fingers over their spines, flipping the corners of their pages to hear the sound.   "It will get dark soon."   "I'm going, I'm going. Rosie? You wanna go for a walk?"   If the volume of her barks was any indication, she did.   He grabbed two buckets from near the door on the way out, dog at his heels.   The well was only a couple blocks down, if it was open. It had been closed twice last week, for some reason. Everyone had a theory.   "The water was switched for gelatinous cubes" was his favourite so far.   "Corpse in the reservoir" was probably more likely.   Lights started to come on as he walked, streaking in thin lines through shuttered windows. There were no lamps in this part of town. No working ones, anyway. There were a few on Swit street, tall lanterns that hadn't shed any light since before he was born.   And he was almost sixteen.   The well was unlocked. He hauled the cover off, hooked the first bucket on, and started cranking it down. He watched it descend, wondering how deep it went. Were all the wells of the city connected? Who cleaned up all the crap people threw in there?   Rats, probably.   Nah, Rats don't like water, he reminded himself, listening for the splash and feeling the tension increase as the bucket filled.   Hauling it back up made him wish he hadn't brought a second. This was going to be murder on his arms.   He had a suspicion that was why it was always his chore.   He pulled the first bucket off the hook, moving slowly to avoid spilling, and shooed Rosie away from it.   "I'll pour you off some at home, just wait - hey, hey" He snapped a finger, pointing at her. "Leave it."   She sat, whining a little.   "Good girl."   He set up Bucket 2, Bringer of Aching Shoulders, and glanced back down at her. Somehow her eyes had gotten bigger.   For a second he considered letting her have a drink. He could just refill it. Or not say anything. With the way this mutt washed their faces all the time they probably ate a little dog drool every day anyway.   Then he saw the lengthening shadows, and decided finishing up quick was more important. Only an idiot walked home in the dark with his hands full.   There was no good way to hold his armsas he walked. If he let them fall against his sides, they spilled water down his legs. If he held them away, his shoulders lit afire and their weight seemed to double. In front? At risk of knocking his knees.   Somehow he made it back inside with a burn in his arms and shoulders that was almost pleasant. He stooped to set them down and rolled his shoulders once before dragging Bucket 1 over to the kitchen.   His father looked up and eyed the second bucket.   "How much soup you think I'm making?"   "That one's for washing up," he explained, grabbing a large bowl from a shelf and putting it on the floor. He sloshed a helping for Rose and only spilled a little before upending the rest into the massive pot over the stove. "Saves a trip. Can I read now?"   The older man shrugged, dumping potatoes, onions, hot peppers, and tomatoes into a smaller pan.   "Those books aren't much use if you can't, ah?"   Kauê rolled his eyes, but did so on his way to the pile on the rug.   He pulled up as close to the stove as he could get without being in the way, and flopped on his stomach.   "What you got today?"   "This one's a journal. Dame Kendral recommended it."   "Whose journal?"   "Some soldier. She was bilingual, and she switches back and forth. Dame Kenley said it'll help me get the hang of this alphabet."   "A soldier, ah?"   He nodded, flipping to where he'd left off before.   "What languages?"   Crap.   He tried to make his voice casual.   "Common and... Abenean," he finished in a mumble.   His father's head snapped up. He looked at him sidelong. Kauê pretended not to notice.   "What you wanna learn Empire language for?"   "Work, dad."   "Pah." He turned back to cleaning up the fish mess. "Evil words from evil people."   "It's just a language, pai. It didn't hurt anyone."   He knew the mistake before he was finished saying it.   He tried to tune the oft-repeated lecture out, but there wasn't much else to listen to. So he started mouthing along with the diatribe about the empire and its march on the world.   ...And nearly erased our "entire language, I know." It was hard to suppress the eye-roll.   His father frowned at him.   “Kauê."   "Yeah?" I thought I was allowed to read, now.   "I know you want to know everything. You are learning so much, and I'm so proud. But,"   He hesitated, at war with himself.   "I only don't want you to lose sight of where you're coming from."   I've never even been to Chult, though.   "I won't. Promise."   His stare was held a long moment, then his father went back to making dinner.   "You are getting too old for that name."   Kauê sighed, "Then give me a new one."   "I can't do that."   Worth a shot.   "I already chose your first name. And you don't want to use your mother's family name."   Do we have to talk about her? I was in a good mood.   "If all your names come from me, it's too much. You have to have a mix. For balance. So you can make your own direction."   He was getting irritated again.   "If your grandparents were here, they could give it to you, maybe. Or a priest of Ubtao. But there is none here."   Kauê sighed, this conversation never went anywhere. He left his father to his muttering, went back to the journal.   The Dame was right, it was helpful. The author was writing in two languages, but using the Common alphabet for both. A soldier, she was pressed into the Abenese legions near the end of the Old Empire. It was full of descriptions of places long since forgotten, smashed to rubble by the Cataclysms that ended their conquest. He’d squinted and softly sounded his way through nearly the whole thing and had the gist of at least a dozen new Abenese words when the front door opened again.   The water dripping off her horns and coat took him by surprise. He hadn’t even realized it started raining.   “Welcome home,” they chorused. Kauê returned his eyes to the pages for a moment while his father crossed to the doorway. Rolled his eyes at the sound of a smooch.   “I had to swim here,” Melody declared, hanging her dripping raincoat on its peg and hauling her massive pack past him to her workshop space. He raised his eyes from the journal to watch.   Melody cut a striking figure in their plain apartment, but she would do so in a Lord’s court, too. Tall enough to bend in the doorway, with dusky purple skin and jet-black hair falling in waves to her shoulders, and flickering green eyes. Her mouth was wide, loud, sharp, and breathed life back into the moody room.   Melody set the pack down with a heavy clang. She straightened, sniffed the air.   “Moqueca?”   “Good weather for it, ah?”   “You can say that again. How long until it’s ready?”   “Few minutes.”   “Great.”   She grabbed a chair and dragged the pack over to the workshop. Kauê closed the journal and scooted over.   “You brought home quite a haul today,” Melody observed, nodding at the pile of hardbacks on the rug. He nodded. “All except.... this one” he indicated a heavy volume bound in red leather, “came in today. What’s the thingumy?”   “Pressure arm,” she sighed, “Damn thing’s got a leak somewhere, fucked if I can find it with the shop lights going out every two minutes, though.”   She busied herself with some viscous gel and an air tube. He had just settled in to watch when,   “Kauê, ready in one minute.”   “In a sec.”   “You want burned fish? It needs bowls.”   Melody looked up and winked, “We can work on it after dinner.”   He grinned and scambled up, tripping over his own limbs on the way to the cupboard.   Spoons, bowls, towel for the pot. Seriously, it took thirty seconds, dad couldn’t do it between stirs? But annoyance cleared with the stream of mouth-watering steam coming off the dish as it was set down. He slid into a chair so fast he almost fell off the other side.   Melody chuckled at his clumsiness. His dad was filling a bowl for him before he could object that he could do it himself. Whatever. He was starving.   “Careful,” Melody blurted, “it’s hot-!”   “Ow!”   He fanned his mouth like it could heal a burn.   Tsk. His dad shook his head. “She warned you.”   “Thorry mom.”   He was too busy getting up to grab a mugful of extra water to chug to clock the stunned silence that had fallen over the table.   When he sat down again, He cocked his head. Melody was covering her mouth with one hand, her eyes shining.   “You okay?”   “I’m great.” She dropped her hand, smiling through the mist.   “Okay.” He shrugged. Blew softly on the stew. Took a more careful mouthful. Had an idea. Raced to swallow and almost choked.   “Kauê!”   “I had an idea!”   They stared at him.   He pointed across the table and spoke before he could be reprimanded for that, too.   “You can give me my name!”   She blinked. His father stared.   “That’s fine, right? I know she didn’t know me my whole life, but it’s pretty close to half of it. We can round up, right?” He turned to face her. “Listen, I’d be cool with being Kauê forever, everybody else just keeps their first name, but if I have to have another one I want someone who actually gets me to pick it. Dad won’t, so... please?”   She swallowed.   “I’d be honoured.”   Also you’re the only reason dad started smiling again and I owe you one for that.   His father reached a hand across the corner of the table to squeeze Melody’s. She wiped at one eye with a finger.   “Aw c’mon, don’t be weird about it.,” he said, averting his eyes to watch the steam coming off of dinner, “Just pick something cool.”