University in Durbin, West Country

It was early evening before, exhausted and damp with sleet, he reached Harper’s office. He knocked, from habit, not because he was expecting anyone in the office this late, opened the door, and stopped, abruptly. Harper stood by the worktable, along with another lecturer and a contract. “Sir,” Martin said.

“About time,” Harper said impatiently. “Did you walk back?”

Martin carted the crate of specimens to the far end of the worktable from Harper and the others. He was hunting out Harper’s paperknife, to pry open the lid, when Harper snapped at him, interrupting his discussion with the other holder: “Leave it! Those are scientific specimens, I can just imagine what you’d do with them.”

Martin stepped back from the crate. “Sir. Will there be anything else?”

“Fetch us tea. And see if you can get back from that faster than from Stanford.”

He left the office, exhausted and furious, which was mostly how he felt these days. Just before noon, Harper had sent him three hundred kilometers east along the railway lines to Stanford, because Harper had forgotten to order some specimens he needed for a lab. No, they couldn’t just be sent for over the nexus. No, Harper wasn’t interested in hearing excuses about problems Martin might have traveling with a large box. Oh, and while he was on the train, he could get these clips read.

It was always like that. Not that exact issue, but shit like that. Day after day, Harper would never listen to a thing Martin told him. Plus he kept Martin working twelve and thirteen hour shifts, day after day, and, beyond that, kept giving him clips and links, heaps of files to study. Martin better know what was in these files and clips, too, because Harper interrogated him over them, frequently, and if he got anything wrong, Harper read him out fierce – hadn’t hit him, not yet, but he used words meaner than many holders used a stick.

Not to mention, Deja was always on about him getting back to the house hours past dinner every night: like it was his idea to stay late.

He was yanking the toggles of his jacket shut, moody over all this, when the contract from Harper’s office caught up to him. “I’m go with you. Help carry. I’m Dallas.”

“Martin.”

Dallas grinned. “I heard.”

Martin grunted. They came to the rear door of Barton, and Martin shoved through it, out into the dusk and sleet. He pulled up the hood of his jacket. Transit Security had gotten pissy over that again too, his pretty clothes. It was a nice jacket, heavy treated wool lined with quilted down. He wondered if he should ask Deja for some rougher gear, contract crap he could wear to work. Deja would never allow it, though. Deja wasn’t having his boy dressing like a cot. He cut through Van Eyck to get out of the weather.

Dallas, who wasn’t dressed nearly as well as he was, wiped sleet out of his eyes. “I heard you had mild winters here in the West Country.”

“We’re having a cold one. You’re from the North?”

“University in Bourbon.”

That was about as far north as you wanted to get, all right. Martin slipped a glance at Dallas. Taller than Martin, dark, he was thick with muscle, his round face friendly. His hair was short against his skull, the cut most cots had.

“You’ve got nice rocks up in the North Country,” Martin said. “My second holder had an estate in the Iron Mountains, up there.”

“I ain’t know rocks. We’re biology.”

That was odd. Why would a biology lecturer travel all the way from University in Bourbon to have tea with Harper? A senior lecturer, too – his robe had been all velvet, even the hood.

They came out of Van Eyck into the portico that crossed the gardens to the knot of buildings that was the library and Jefferson and Jowett. Sleet drummed the broad leaves of the bally trees. Wind whipped across the walkway, cold on Martin’s face.

“How’s this Harper?” Dallas asked. “Decent?”

“He ain’t hold me, he just rents me. He’s not the worst.”

“You’re rented out?” Dallas sounded surprised.

Martin knew what he meant. His clothing, his expensive haircut, his well-kept teeth: he didn’t look like a contract someone needed to hire out.

They came to the edge of the portico. The icy rain poured down. The University Dining Hall, across the way, shone yellow against the early dark. Cold and hungry, Martin hesitated, not wanting to go out into the wet again.

“You been in the system long?” Dallas asked.

Martin didn’t answer at once. Forever, was what he thought. He was tired. He was sick of all of this. “Since I was a kid.”

“I was ten,” Dallas said. Martin looked over at him. “Da lost his work. Mumma had part-time things, but that ain’t make the rent and feed us all. My aunt kept us a bit, but.”

They watched the downpour.

“Anyway,” Dallas said. “This university fella, one has me now, he ain’t bad.”

“Harper ain’t either.”

“You ever link to Netcon?”

Martin looked at him from the side of his eye. No one was near. But even so. “No,” he told Dallas. “I don’t ever do that.”

Dallas didn’t say anything more.

“Come on,” Martin said, and went out into the sleet.

He didn’t go in through the front – that was for holders. He took them through the loading dock, into the kitchen. Brie, who did baking, was rolling a barrel of flour from the storeroom. “Working late again, love?”

“I am.” Martin held the door for her. Dallas helped her manhandle the barrel into the kitchen. This was the main kitchen for the senior faculty and upper classmen – those who had housing on this side of the lake. It was always busy. Right now, with its cooks getting out tea, and starting dinner prep, the tempo was hectic – kitchen girls and bootboys dashing about, cooks and prep cooks slashing, chopping, washing, mixing, everything elaborate as a lunatic’s dance. Ellen, the main cook, waved a big fork at Martin, and poked a little bootboy, Evan, sending him to see what they needed.

“And do you want tea yourself,” Evan asked, “she say that too.”

“Of course he wants tea,” Brie said, using her pry bar to crack the flour barrel. “Martin’s always hungry. Come now, Evan.”

Evan grinned shyly and darted back through the kitchen’s rush. Though he should have been twelve before being sold from the orphanage, Evan didn’t look more than ten, all pointed chin and huge dark eyes.

“Sit,” Brie told them. “Take off your coats. Warm up. You haven’t told me who this is. Is he here to stay or just visiting?”

Martin gave Dallas’s particulars. He didn’t mention what Dallas had said about the Netcon link, nor did he plan to, ever. Netcon was a bank with information about the Revolution: why it was a good idea, how to find it, how cots could aid the Revolution, now, even before they joined it. Sabotage cots might do on their own, with their bootlaces and their attitudes, Martin supposed. What in shit was Dallas playing with, asking him that?

Dallas was laughing back at Brie. “Right, just here for your famous sunny weather.”

Ellen fetched a tray of cream cakes, jam sandwiches, and muffins with berries, also a pot of strong tea. Martin brightened. “Ellen. That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day.”

“You know I’d do anything for that sweet smile.” Ellen squeezed his cheek, and he laughed. She sat down across from him, pouring herself a mug of the tea. “What a day,” she said, with a sigh. “Everyone’s in a rough mood.”

“Tell me,” Martin said with feeling, and ate half a cream cake in one bite. She asked for details, and he told her about the trip down to Stanford, how much fun that had been, having to explain the crate to Transit Security. “They’re, a box of rocks? Do you think this is funny? Do you think Security checks are a joke? We’ll teach you whether this is a game, you—” he glanced at Evan, standing big-eyed behind Ellen, and broke off. “They were extremely emphatic,” he said, and ate another cream cake.

“What did you need, honey?” Ellen asked Evan. He had a question about the rack of lamb. After she answered it, he backed toward the meat ovens, his eyes immense. “Are you all right?” Ellen asked, once Evan was out of hearing range.

Martin moved his hand, pushing the question away. “They just smacked me around.”

“You can go to the infirmary, you know, if they did hurt you.”

“They ain’t.”

“It’s why we have an infirmary, Martin. To be used.”

“I’m not hurt, Ellen. Do I look hurt?”

She studied him. “You look a bit…something.”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m beat to shit working fourteen hour days for Harper all week and twelve hour days all End for fucking Strauss, that’s all. Now who’s giving you rough? What idiot would do that?”

She grinned at him. Don’t mess with the cook, everyone knew that rule.

While they ate, Ellen told them about the Lord Holders who had been giving her trouble all day, and Dallas told about the problems he’d had with the Trackbacks coming down from the North Country. Then Brie told about a boss in the South Country, who gone to take a stick to a field cot for something that was the boss’s fault, only the contract had taken the stick away from the boss and chased the boss down, pinned him to the ground, and whipped the skin off him instead. After that, Ellen told about contracts on an estate west of Durbin who had known their boss was doing sex with their holder’s sister, and while they couldn’t rat the boss themselves, they had nonetheless arranged, idly, casually, for the children of the estate, in the care of the nursemaid contracts, to overhear certain conversations. Two weeks later, the estate had a new boss.

“A better one?” Martin wondered, scrubbing cream off his plate with the edge of his thumb and licking his thumb clean.

“Oh,” Ellen shrugged. “Well. That one was serious bad, I hear. I suppose they reckoned any change would be better.”

Martin hadn’t met the boss yet that was better.

“What happened to that contract?” Evan was back, hovering behind Ellen. “That one in the South?”

Martin and Ellen looked at each other.

“The story ain’t say what happened after he beat that boss. What happened then?”

“Nothing good, sugar,” Ellen said. “Did you need something?”

“Jackie says his tea is ready. Martin’s tea.”

Reluctantly, Martin got up. “We need to get back.”

“That slam-ball playoff is tonight,” Ellen reminded him. “Don’t forget.”

Martin glanced at the windows, rattling with frozen pellets of rain. “Think they’ll hold it?”

“You think they wouldn’t?”

He grimaced. Evan fetched the boxed tea for the Lord Holders, and Ellen handed it to Martin, who gave it to Dallas. They went out through the service door. The storm was worse. Under Martin’s boots, the flagstones that paved the walks were slick with ice. But Ellen was right, bad weather and icy roads didn’t mean the university would call the tournament. Slam could be played in the sleet, and holders would love to play it that way – make them feel tough, give them an excuse to drink more, too. He scowled and walked faster, his head down.

“About time,” Harper said, as he and Dallas arrived.

“Kitchen was busy, sir.” Martin put the kettle on the hob. Dallas opened the box and put the food on Harper’s boneware plates. Meat sandwiches, something savory in a puff pastry, also fried spiced vegetable sticks. Martin brewed the tea weak, the way holders liked it, and served the sugar and cream on the side – few holders took either one.

“Sir,” Martin said, as Harper and the other holder tucked in. Harper scowled up at him. “It’s slam-ball tonight. If I might get along before it starts?”

Harper narrowed his eyes. Then he snorted. “No evidence exists to support the rumor that violence increases after sporting events. You know that, I suppose.”

“I can come in early tomorrow if anything else needs done here.”

Harper waved his hand. “Run home.”

The weather was keeping most students inside, at least. He walked quickly, sticking to the sides of the walkways, keeping his head down. He could hear them, on their terraces and verandas, already drunk, shouting cheers, whooping back and forth at one another. The muscles down his back were tight. He was glad to reach Deja’s back gate.

Deja was in the kitchen, talking to Pia about the menu. “Home early for once,” he said, as Martin came in. “What’s the occasion? Why are you honoring us?”

“That slam-ball game. Harper let me off early, so I wouldn’t have to come back during that.”

Apparently this was the wrong answer. Deja looked peeved. “Well. Maybe you’d like to join me for dinner anyway. Once this week would be nice.”

He stalked out of the kitchen. The door flapped behind him.

“Fucking knob,” Martin muttered.

“Martin!” Pia was horrified.

“What?” Martin looked up. “He ain’t hear that.”

“Hush! You shouldn’t – what if he did?”

Martin shrugged, angry. Lila came in, carrying a basket of used linens from upstairs, and looked back and forth between them. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Martin got to his feet. “How long until dinner?” he asked Pia.

“It’s hard enough with – do you have any idea what living here is like, with you putting him in this mood all the time? And now you want to make him worse?”

“I’m not putting him in this mood. This is not my fault!”

They glared at each other. Pia looked away first. “Half an hour until dinner.”

“Fine.” Martin went up the service stairs.

In his room, he undressed, hanging up clothes he could wear again – no sense making extra work for Lila – putting his trousers, which were sodden and filthy around the cuffs, into the laundry.

Deja came in as he was about to get in the scrub. “What happened to you?” he demanded, about the bruises down Martin’s ribs and on his arms.

“Trackbacks.”

“What were you doing dealing with Transit Security?”

Martin explained about the trip to Stanford and the box of rocks. Deja didn’t think the story was as funny as Ellen and Brie had. He was glaring at the bruises. “Who told Harper he could send my contract out of town to fetch packages? Security might have done more than beat you up. I never agreed to this.”

Martin said nothing.

“Have you done this before?”

“I do what I’m told, Deja.”

“Well, you don’t do it anymore.” Deja turned away, like that settled it.

Martin scowled after him. Then he climbed in the scrub. Fucking idiot, he thought, squeezing soap from the jet. It was the almond-scented soap, Deja’s favorite. Martin didn’t like it much, himself. He had scrubbed up and was letting the water run over his face when Deja suddenly shut the tap down. Martin shook the water out of his eyes and looked at him. “I didn’t hear you say ‘yes, sir’,” Deja said, suspiciously.

Martin wiped his face on the back of his wrist.

“Say it,” Deja ordered.

“Fucking shit,” Martin said. “You know I can’t.”

Deja glared at him. “I know you had better. And right now, too.”

Martin edged out of the scrub, collected a towel, and dried his face and under his arms. He was keeping a wary eye on Deja’s hands. “You rented me to him. He tells me to do something, it’s no way I can say no. You know that.”

Deja stepped toward him. Martin backed away, but he couldn’t back far: the scrub wall was just behind him. “I’ve got your contract,” Deja said. “You do what I say.”

“Right,” Martin said. “Except during the day. When he holds me.”

Deja stepped closer. Martin lowered his head. This is not my fault, he wanted to say. Except reminding Deja of that would not help. “Get in the bedroom,” Deja said.

Martin drew in a breath, a small one. “Sir.”

***

He was in Harper’s office early the next morning, as he had promised. Dallas was there, making tea.

“Morning,” Martin said warily, going to the worktable to bring up Harper’s lab schedule. Part of his job was setting up Harper’s labs; Harper usually left notes about other work to do.

Dallas brought him a mug of tea, lots of cream and sugar. “Anything I can help with this morning? My holder and yours gone to Paris for the day, I’m help you out if you need it. Harper says you’re to run his labs.”

Martin looked over his shoulder. “What? Run his shitting what?”

“It’s a problem?” Dallas raised his eyebrows.

“I’m a fucking stonecutter. I ain’t run labs.” He sat down at the worktable, swore again, and got up to look for Harper’s clips.

He had an hour before the first lab: basic geology, for first-year students, identifying rock samples. With Dallas’s help, he got that set up and didn’t fuck its running too badly. The second lab, geophysics, held in mid-afternoon, was more advanced. He and Dallas set it up, and Martin ran Harper’s notes over lunch, which he and Dallas ate in the contract mess in Franklin. Ellen wasn’t cook here; Stephen was. Pork stew for lunch, flat bread and raisin cake. If you wheedled Stephen, you could get seconds. Anyway, Martin could. He did have to hear shit from the other cots about this, but that was a small price, in his opinion.

“If you’re not in geology,” Dallas said, after Martin, exasperated, had put aside his handheld, since it was no way he was learning enough geophysics to run this lab in the time he had, “what are you doing in this contract?”

The other cots snickered. Dallas glanced up; Martin flicked them an annoyed glance.

“Martin ain’t need to do the work,” Link said. “Martin’s decorative.”

They laughed some more. “Come over here closer,” Martin invited. “Say that again.”

“Ooo,” Link said. “What do y’plan to do, sweet boy? Smile at me?”

Martin felt heat creep up his neck. He looked Link in the eyes. He didn’t look away until they stopped laughing. Then he pushed aside his plate and left.

Dallas caught up outside. Martin didn’t want to hear about what had just happened, which he knew he had mishandled: Link had been messing, he should have joked back, you would think he had never been in a dorm in his life. So before Dallas could speak, he said, “While we’re on it, what’s a North Country biologist doing paying a visit to some West Country geologist? Speaking of shit what ain’t make sense?”

Dallas didn’t speak at once. When Martin glanced over, he saw, or thought he saw, Dallas fighting a smile. “What?” Martin demanded.

Dallas gave him a surprised look. “Nothing. Farris has questions on fossils. That’s why they’re up at Paris. That museum, in Paris, it has specimens they want to look at. Fossil plants.”

Martin studied him narrowly. He supposed that could be true. Why wouldn’t a biologist want to ask a geologist about fossils? Only Martin was good at telling when people were lying to him, and Dallas was lying.

Dallas smiled. He had his own charming smile.

Martin looked away, toward Barton Hall. “Well. We’ve got nothing to do till the lab. Come on. I’ll show you some places I mess about in when I’m ditching work.”

Dallas grinned at him. “You ditch? No.”

“Come on, you fucking sow.”

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