Mnemonic
Title: Mnemonic
Author: verilyverity
Characters/Pairing: Ambrose, DeMilo, NPC
Rating: PG-13 - R
Summary: In occupied Central City, Glitch runs into an old friend.
Warning: Rife with melancholy and woe. In other words, here be angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Moreover, Leona informs me that her given name belongs to her too, and that The Powers That Be can go whistle. I maintain that you’d be crazy to argue with her.
Word Count: 4511
Author's notes: Chocolate and Champagn to my lovely betas,
blade_girl, theredoormouse and oddsbobs. This story is a sequel to Chemistry.
"Lurline's pert and perky tits, DeMilo!" bawled Leona. "Are you out of your Munchkin-sized mind?"
"Listen sweetheart, I just want to help Ivanovitch show the people a good time." DeMilo made an expansive gesture, grinning lecherously at her cleavage.
God. He was such a prick, sometimes.
Most times.
Leona hated dealing with DeMilo, but he was the most reliable bootlegger outside the Realm of the Unwanted. Besides, sleazy as he was, he had yet to try exacting payment in currencies other than Platinum, so she figured she could let the occasional ass-pinching slide. But tonight she'd had to wait up for him, and her patience was wearing thin. He'd swanned in forty-five minutes late, and what's more, he was the bearer of bad news. Well, for her, anyway.
"They're not looking for 'a good time,' jackass." she snapped. "They're looking for a way out, like everyone else. They come here to get soused, not high."
Leona knew she was grasping at straws-that the Red Herring's clientele would be perfectly content to find their "way out" in a snootful of atomized magic, because people were distressingly stupid-but if Alexei decided to start pushing the Vapours here, she'd have to leave. No way in hell was she going to become a pudding-headed sheep and louse up her chances of making it out of the city alive. Still, she needed this job. Tending the bar of a dive in the Sin District wasn't exactly the glittering career she'd had in mind when she'd daydreamed about moving to Central City as a kid, but it wasn't baking or whoring, and that was something. Besides, it was certain employment when most nothing else was these days; the good folks of the Shining City were finding more and more reasons to drink.
"You know what they're saying about that stuff," she ventured. "That it comes from the Tower."
As if Alexei'd care. There was money in those mists. Lots of it. She really must be desperate, she mused, to be appealing to DeMilo's better nature.
He snorted. "You better tell that to the Mystic Man. He's back in town, see? Got a ritzy place up in the square, only it gets real foggy in there late at night, y'know?"
Leona blinked, taken aback. If the Bitch of the West had got the Wizard in her pocket, they were all sunk.
"Anyway," he said, "it's up to Ivanovitch to decide whether or not to cut in on the very lucrative venture I am proposing."
Leona's shoulders sagged. She knew she'd lose if DeMilo pulled rank. Now she was as good as out of a job, and out of options, too. She couldn't afford the time to search for safe employment in the City. If she was ever going to leave, she'd have to do it now. Truth was, she should have gotten out ages ago, but prices were outrageous since the occupation began, and she could never save up enough to pay the forgers.
"Don't look so glum, honey," DeMilo said with a smile she supposed was meant to be ingratiating. "You know I always have an opening for a classy little piece like you if you find your current employment less than... congenial."
"Oh sure," she said acidly. "I'll come whore for you, get strung out on Magic Mists and end up being rolled out of First Lieutenant Zero's love shack in a bag."
DeMilo wasn't the only one who'd made her an offer of that particular kind. Leona didn't bother trying to convince any of them she had any reason to hold herself too high-and-mighty to make good money sucking the cocks of influential men. It was a wasted effort, so she let them think she wouldn't do it because of the risk, which was true enough, anyway. The ones with real power in the City these days were dangerous men-cruel and full-fed and used to getting their way. She couldn't be certain to avoid catching the eye of one of them if she went down that road, and from there it was a quick slide to being dead in a ditch somewhere. Possibly wrapped in a mink stole.
"Hey, hey, hey!" he protested. "I don't do none of that stuff. I ain't never made my girls do what they don't wanna do. Or who!"
"It's 'whom', you philistine."
"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I wouldn't slip you stuff when you don't wanna partake, and if you don't like the entertainment at our former mayor's fine establishment, you don't have to go." He drew himself up, puffing out his chest. "Antoine DeMilo takes care of his girls." And he actually seemed offended that she could ever think otherwise.
"You couldn't take care of a house plant," she snorted. "First sign of a Longcoat and you'd be hiding under my skirts."
"I'd hide under your skirts even without no Longcoats, baby," he leered.
"Look," she snapped, losing patience, "do you have my merchandise or not?"
"Oh. Yeah," he said, looking crestfallen. "Hundred fifty platinum."
"A hundred-" she gasped. "You are crazy, DeMilo. Seventy five. And it better not be that horse piss you brought me last time. The old man almost had an aneurysm when he tasted it."
"Lea. Doll-face! You're killin' me here!" he whined. "When have I ever sold you anything but the finest wines, liquors and spirits the O.Z. had to offer? One thirty."
Leona sighed. She knew Alexei'd never let her hear the end of it if she paid more than a hundred, but it was late, she was tired, and she was about to lose her job because the old fool would rather be rich than living.
"Fine," she said, throwing up her hands. "One thirty." It wasn't as if she planned on being around to hear his tirade anyway. Though with her luck, she probably would.
He raised an eyebrow. "That's it? One thirty? What, did Ivanovitch annex the tip jar again?"
She shrugged. "Today's your lucky day, DeMilo. You've found me in a generous mood."
"A 'generous mood'?" His lips twisted incredulously. "Ivanovitch'll have you out on that sweet little ass of yours when he sees the bill."
Leona spoke without thinking. "Like hell," she said. "I'm not sticking around this dump that long."
"Wait a minute," he cried. "Whaddaya mean you 'won't be sticking around'? A minute ago you were crackin' my nuts about working around Happy Mist and now you say you're gonna leave?"
Leona could have bitten out her tongue. Of all the double-dealing weasels in the O.Z., she had to spill her guts to DeMilo. And what did he care what she did, anyway? She had nothing that could make this information useful to him. He didn't need the kind of money he could get from her, and she hadn't thought he was that kind of pimp.
"Yeah, well..." What could she say that wouldn't give him more leverage? "I'm not working here if Alexei starts peddling that junk."
"So this is new?" he asked incredulously. "What're you gonna do for money?"
"I'll think of something," she muttered.
Aw, hell. He'd never believe that. Leona realized uneasily that DeMilo knew her much better than she'd like. It was her own fault, too. She'd stayed in the City far too long.
“Oh, something, huh?” He waggled his eyebrows. “You know I’m always interested in new business ventures in the City.”
Leona grabbed his lapels and jerked him in close.
“I. Am. Not. A whore!” she hissed, giving him a little shake.
“I know! I know!” he squealed. “I just mean whatever you’re cooking up-”
“Cooking up?”
DeMilo grinned. “You don’t have to be coy with me, sweetheart. You know I don’t stand on ceremony for inconsequentials like ‘Law’ and ‘Order.’ We could be useful to each other.”
“DeMilo,” she ground out, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“Whatever you got planned!” he cried. “I want in on it. You got brains, cupcake, but you don’t got no connections! The City’s dangerous for a girl like you. But you and me, we’d make a great team. Whaddaya say?”
Leona was dumbstruck. She contemplated letting him believe his surmise, but really, it would only complicate things in the end.
“I’ve got no game planned, DeMilo.”
“Aww, c’mon, Lea,” he tutted. “I know you better than that. You’d never quit the Herring without no backup. You’ll be dead in a week livin’ in the City without sure money.”
“Yeah,” she retorted hotly, “well I won’t be liv-”
She stopped abruptly, realizing too late what she was about to say, and to whom.
He frowned. "You’re gonna skip town?"
She froze. Damn it. Damn it!
"You are!" he said, astonished. "You're gonna cut and run, aren't you?"
"Don't be even more of an idiot than usual, DeMilo," she said, hoping to put him off. "To leave I'd need foreign identification papers and a visitor's visa good enough to fool Zero. I don't have that kind of cash."
"So you don't got no plans to leave the City?" he persisted. Nick Chopper's rusty tin balls. Why'd he have to pick now to grow a brain? Leona shifted uncomfortably under the look he gave her, which was far shrewder than he ought to be capable of.
"Ya know," he said casually, "if you're looking for more... economical travelling arrangements, I happen to be conducting business outside the City a week from Tuesday. The Longcoats almost never search my wagon."
He watched her expectantly, and Leona actually considered it for a minute. Hell, he sounded almost sincere.
"I just told you I don't have the money to leave," she said slowly. "What's in it for you?"
"Nothing!" he said defensively. "I'm always there when a friend's in need."
"Yeah, to pick over the bones. How dumb do you think I am?"
"Aw, no foolin', Lea," he said. "I'll take you outta the City. No charge."
She folded her arms across her chest. "Why?"
DeMilo fidgeted. “City’s no place for a girl like you these days," he muttered, shifting from foot to foot. "I don’t wanna see you disappear like those other girls who get caught out."
Leona regarded him suspiciously. It did not escape her that with all his touching concern, he didn’t offer to forget the Vapours deal. On the other hand, he knew perfectly well that she could take him, and that she would cheerfully carve out his most prized possessions and frame them if he tried anything funny.
She eyed him narrowly. "You going soft, DeMilo?"
"No chance of that while you're around, Duchess," he cackled.
She was disappointed, though she ought to know better. Maybe she was the one going soft.
"Aww, screw you," she muttered.
"Oh, honey!" he said, winking over his shoulder. "You just say the word!" And with that, he was gone.
Finally.
Leona made a moue of distaste and grabbed her coat.
* * * * *
Outside it was pissing rain. Sleety needles pounded the street and gathered in pools of dull, murky slush between the bricks, slicking them over with treacherous black ice. Despite the weather and the hour, there were still a few people out, staggering home to enjoy their black market oblivion. They never enforced the curfew in the Sin District-there wasn't any point.
Leona plodded through the icy sludge, lost in thought. She had a decision to make. She hadn't lied to DeMilo-exit papers would be damn expensive. So was everything else, for that matter, so without gainful employment she would have to move fast. She did some mental calculations. She'd be able to swing the forger's fee. Whatever was left over wouldn't be nearly enough, but she could make it last. There were a few Resistance moles left in the City who'd do it at no charge, but they always expected some service to The Cause in return. The Cause was just dandy, but she sure as hell wasn't going to die on that particular hill.
Leona came out of her reverie only to notice a Longcoat turning the street corner and ducked into an alley just in time. It was the greasy one who was always doing "contraband checks" whenever she happened to be out. It seemed she'd be taking the long way home. She continued three blocks out of her way onto a street outside Wandering Hands' patrol circuit. By now the rain had waned and frozen to a gentle snow, and the dingy streets were deserted.
Well, almost deserted.
Up ahead, Leona could see someone in a frock coat revolving slowly under a street lamp. He turned one way, then another, started forward and abruptly stopped, looked up at the street sign and back at the light. Finally, he stood still in his place, dropping his hands in defeat. He looked about him helplessly, pulling the jacket closer around him, and Leona noticed that it was open. Even from a distance, she could see the hardware that betokened him an Enemy of the State, and wondered idly what the poor bastard had done to piss off the O.Z's delightsome new queen. As she drew closer, his epaulettes enlightened her. He was one of the old guard-a refugee from Queen Lav's cabinet. Leona was used to seeing horrible things by now, and she'd heard the rumours of how Lavender's statesmen had been done by, but somehow, it was so much worse to run into a former bigwig lost on a street corner, a forlorn and bewildered figure in tattered livery. She ducked her head and made to hurry past, but then he turned around and she stopped short, almost losing her footing as recognition fell upon her like a blow. She swayed on her feet a little, watching red spots flare and fade against her eyelids.
No, no, no, no, no!
Maybe she was mistaken, she thought hopefully. She opened her eyes and looked. She shut them again.
No, no, no, no, no!
This was stupid, she told herself sternly. She was being stupid, and not helping anybody, and wasting time in the face of this entirely predictable and unsurprising development. She read the papers. She had followed his career. She knew that he hadn't the sense to come in out of a rain of fire beetles, and that she should have seen this coming.
But oh, it wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that they should get Ambrose, who'd made good. Ambrose, who'd got out of Gillikin, and gone all the way to Central City and broken records at the University and got noticed by the Queen and done any number of grand things, as she'd always known he would. Ambrose, the only boy in that two bit town who'd ever looked at her as if she were more than just a good lay.
Ambrose...
Ambrose and his brain.
Her legs carried her forward into the circle of pale light.
He started, as if he hadn't seen her until just then, and began to back away.
"No, wait," she begged, holding out her hand. Ambrose lurched backwards and stumbled against the lamp post. He scrabbled against the splintered wood, finally pulling himself up against it. Leona reached for him again and he scooted behind the post, eyeing her warily.
"Ambrose," she pleaded, circling around to the other side. "Ambrose it’s me-"
He threw his arms up to shield his face. "No," he whimpered, backing around the post, "please, no, please, no, please, no-"
Leona feinted left, Ambrose darted right, and she tackled him around the waist. He yelped and thrashed, his litany growing louder and more panicked as she struggled to pinion his arms.
"No, please, no, please, no, please-"
"Shh..."
Without warning, he pitched forward onto his knees and retched into the street. Leona sighed. Kneeling over him, she bent his head forward to rest in the crook of her arm and wrapped her other arm around his waist. When he finally let up heaving, he seemed to have no balance left. He slumped against her and buried his face in her coat, keening softly.
"I've got you," she murmured, holding him close. "I've got you. I'm here."
"Owooww," he moaned. "Owwoowooooww..."
Leona looked him over. His ears were purple and he was shivering violently. The obscenity that cut across his crown was frosted over, the skin around it was an awful bluish colour, and the double row of sutures was puffy and red. She pressed it gently until the metal warmed under her palm, and carefully wiped away the melted ice.
"Oowooww!"
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "Come on. Up you get." She hauled him to his feet and buttoned up his coat, then wrapped her scarf around his neck and pulled her hat down over his ears.
Ambrose made no protest as she took hold of his arm, and she managed to drag him home without much difficulty. She had steered him through the dingy foyer and up three flights of stairs to her landing when he started getting skittish again. He shrank back when he caught sight of her keys, and jumped at the click of the lock opening. He tried to make a run for it, but his coordination was off and it was all Leona could do to keep him from falling down the stairs. She wrestled him inside and locked the door behind her, hiding the keys in the umbrella stand.
As soon she stepped away, Ambrose lunged at the door. He pounded on it with his fists, tugged and jiggled the knob, and when it sank in that the door was incontrovertibly locked, he slid down the wall to sit hunched on the floor, wailing dismally.
"Nooo...nooooo..."
"Now, none of that," said Leona, crouching next to him. "Come lie down by the stove. You're all wet."
"Nooooo!" he yowled, thumping frantically at the door.
Leona hugged him round the middle, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Oh, it's not so bad," she said softly, rocking him a little. "It's better than outside."
Ambrose hiccoughed and shuddered.
"Okay, not by much," she conceded.
He allowed her to dispossess him of the hat and scarf and lead him into her tiny parlour. The rest of his clothes were harder. Eventually, Leona coaxed him out of the frozen shoes and socks, the sodden jacket, trousers and waistcoat and the threadbare linen shirt. He wouldn't part with the striped undershirt, but it was dry by then, so Leona let him keep it. She wrapped him up in all the blankets she had in the house and wheedled him into lying down on the sofa. When she was sure he’d stay put, she got up to get the coal. She returned with her fire paraphernalia to find him peeping at her over the back of the sofa.
Her lips quirked. “I’m not going to run off with your shoes,” she promised.
He watched her earnestly.
“I just went to get these,” she explained, holding out the little pile.
When Ambrose noticed the matches, his eyes went wide and round. Thinking fast, Leona threw them in the coal scuttle and, dropping it out of sight, she hurried over to show him her empty hands before he could set up another caterwauling. Touching seemed to upset him more, so she parked herself at the foot of the sofa, keeping her hands in his line of vision while he fretted. He was too tired to kick up much of a fuss, and when he finally closed his eyes, she retrieved the matches, holding them down at her side until she’d passed the sofa. She shoved fuel and crumpled newspaper into the little belly, then nursed the fire until it receded into the glowing coals. As she worked, she was careful to block the bright little window from Ambrose's view, staying between him and the stove until the door was safely latched shut.
She looked over at him, curled up under her red quilt, and let out an exasperated breath. Well, this scuttled her plans for leaving under an alias-there was no way the Longcoats wouldn't recognize him. They'd have to sneak out.
"You had to get into politics," she said, shaking her head.
She got up and leaned over the arm of the sofa, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
"I could’ve told you it was a bad idea."
Ambrose snuffed drowsily, burrowing into the pillow.
Ah, well. At least she'd save money on the papers.
She brushed her hand over his cheek, and this time he didn't flinch away.
"I should've gone with you to Central City when you asked me," she said softly. "I ought to have known you couldn't keep out of trouble."
She stroked his head, carefully avoiding the gruesome metal teeth. His hair was tangled upon tangles, and hopelessly matted and snarled. She'd have to cut it off tomorrow, she reflected, absently tugging on one rough curl.
Ambrose opened his eyes and his face broke into a sudden, delighted smile. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and beamed at her.
"Boing!" he declared brightly, and her heart stopped a second, because it couldn't be. Leona had seen head-cases wandering along the Brick Road before, and they didn't remember. But then, most of them didn't talk either, or make it this far from the Tower alive.
"Ambrose?" she whispered tentatively.
He peered back at her owlishly, and it was so like him that for a minute she could almost imagine that they'd never broken him-that he was the way he'd always been. But when she put her hand out toward him, he startled and whined.
She dropped her hand and smiled bitterly. "Just a glitch, then."
He blinked. "Gl- glitch?"
"Yeah," she said sadly. "Glitch."
His brow furrowed.
"Glitch," he repeated softly, and lay down again, closing his eyes.
* * * * *
Leona got up before dawn to get food. She dressed quickly in the dark, debating whether or not to wake Ambrose. There was nothing to eat, and if she didn't get moving before the grocers sold out there wouldn't be for another two days. Even longer, if the rations were late like last time.
She lit a candle and considered the quilted heap on her sofa. She hated leaving him to wake up locked in a strange room alone, but taking him out in daylight and noisy crowds might be worse.
"Ambrose," she whispered, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades.
He made a sound of protest and withdrew further into the cocoon of blankets.
"Ambrose, honey, wake up." She lifted the candle to have a look at him, and he retreated from the light.
"Murrf," he whined, pulling the covers over his head.
Leona blew out the candle and drew the sheets back to rub his head.
"I'm going out to get something to eat," she said. “When I get back we'll have bread and milk."
"Glitch," he muttered sleepily.
Right.
"I'll be back soon, hon," she promised, kissing his forehead. "Try to stay out of trouble."
* * * * *
As she weaved through the crowds, Leona weighed her options. Smugglers would be less expensive than forgers, but they'd probably make her pay a risk premium to take Ambrose. The zipper would complicate things all the way down the Brick Road. But he was alive. He was alive, and not dead, and alive was better than dead. And he had spoken to her last night; he’d made sense... sort of. And he'd remembered, and learned a new word. They could go to Quadling Country, the two of them. She'd heard tell Azkadellia avoided the South. They could get out together. It wasn't such a long shot.
He could wear a hat.
Suddenly, the City didn't seem as bleak and dingy as before. Ambrose was alive, and not dead, and that very minute he was asleep in her third floor walk-up. He had made it all the way to Central City without getting himself killed, and he could remember people, and learn new words, and maybe other things too. And they would go to the Southern Guilds together.
Leona quickened her pace. With luck, she'd get home before he was up.
* * * * *
She had no luck.
It started sleeting again, she was detained for "identity checks" by two separate patrols of grabby Longcoats, and the damn food line was two blocks long.
When she finally got home, Leona found the door hanging open and a holy mess inside. The furniture was overturned, books and pictures were strewn all over, and all her dishes and clothes had been dumped on the floor. The kitchen faucet was on, and the water had flooded the counter and spilled over on to the floor. Ambrose and his clothes were gone.
Leona ran out into the street in a blind panic. It wasn't Longcoats, she told herself. They would have gone through the desk and broken more of her things. And they probably wouldn't have bothered to take his clothes. It wasn't Longcoats. He'd woken up in a strange place, careened around the house like a hysterical hamster and bolted. It wasn't Longcoats. Damn it all! Why had she ever left him there alone? And how the hell had he unlocked the door, anyway? Last night he could barely find the doorknob! She circled the block, and then the next.
She searched the streets for hours, covering most of the Sin District and half the swanky neighbourhoods around Central City Square, but she found no sign of him. She finally trudged home at dusk, miserable and foot-sore.
* * * * *
Leona went out looking every day that week, until she could no longer convince herself it was any use. Meanwhile, she blew her savings on discreet inquiries and the enforcers began to give her suspicious looks.
The following Tuesday found her rapping on the door of a certain gaudily painted wagon.
"Hey, DeMilo!" she called wearily. "You still good for a ride out of this hole?"
DeMilo stuck his head out the window and smirked. "For you, pigeon? Any time. Where you headed?"
"I don't care."
He looked at her a little funny, but all he said was, "Be in the alley behind the Black Cat half past second moon-rise tonight. Pack light."
Since they couldn't take the Old Route, it took them a week and a half to get out of sight of the City. To Leona's eternal surprise, DeMilo didn't try anything. He didn't even give her a hard time.
* * * * *
She eventually made it to Quadling Country. The Southern Guilds were lousy with resistance cells, but Leona didn't care about lying low anymore-the rebels had information and she had a shiny new reason to fight. She went from town to town, carrying messages, inventing and breaking cyphers and wheedling Longcoats into telling her things they shouldn't. In each place she stopped, she'd ask if anyone had caught sight or heard word of a head-case in a monkey suit passing through, but no one ever had.
Author: verilyverity
Characters/Pairing: Ambrose, DeMilo, NPC
Rating: PG-13 - R
Summary: In occupied Central City, Glitch runs into an old friend.
Warning: Rife with melancholy and woe. In other words, here be angst.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Moreover, Leona informs me that her given name belongs to her too, and that The Powers That Be can go whistle. I maintain that you’d be crazy to argue with her.
Word Count: 4511
Author's notes: Chocolate and Champagn to my lovely betas,
blade_girl, theredoormouse and oddsbobs. This story is a sequel to Chemistry.
"Lurline's pert and perky tits, DeMilo!" bawled Leona. "Are you out of your Munchkin-sized mind?"
"Listen sweetheart, I just want to help Ivanovitch show the people a good time." DeMilo made an expansive gesture, grinning lecherously at her cleavage.
God. He was such a prick, sometimes.
Most times.
Leona hated dealing with DeMilo, but he was the most reliable bootlegger outside the Realm of the Unwanted. Besides, sleazy as he was, he had yet to try exacting payment in currencies other than Platinum, so she figured she could let the occasional ass-pinching slide. But tonight she'd had to wait up for him, and her patience was wearing thin. He'd swanned in forty-five minutes late, and what's more, he was the bearer of bad news. Well, for her, anyway.
"They're not looking for 'a good time,' jackass." she snapped. "They're looking for a way out, like everyone else. They come here to get soused, not high."
Leona knew she was grasping at straws-that the Red Herring's clientele would be perfectly content to find their "way out" in a snootful of atomized magic, because people were distressingly stupid-but if Alexei decided to start pushing the Vapours here, she'd have to leave. No way in hell was she going to become a pudding-headed sheep and louse up her chances of making it out of the city alive. Still, she needed this job. Tending the bar of a dive in the Sin District wasn't exactly the glittering career she'd had in mind when she'd daydreamed about moving to Central City as a kid, but it wasn't baking or whoring, and that was something. Besides, it was certain employment when most nothing else was these days; the good folks of the Shining City were finding more and more reasons to drink.
"You know what they're saying about that stuff," she ventured. "That it comes from the Tower."
As if Alexei'd care. There was money in those mists. Lots of it. She really must be desperate, she mused, to be appealing to DeMilo's better nature.
He snorted. "You better tell that to the Mystic Man. He's back in town, see? Got a ritzy place up in the square, only it gets real foggy in there late at night, y'know?"
Leona blinked, taken aback. If the Bitch of the West had got the Wizard in her pocket, they were all sunk.
"Anyway," he said, "it's up to Ivanovitch to decide whether or not to cut in on the very lucrative venture I am proposing."
Leona's shoulders sagged. She knew she'd lose if DeMilo pulled rank. Now she was as good as out of a job, and out of options, too. She couldn't afford the time to search for safe employment in the City. If she was ever going to leave, she'd have to do it now. Truth was, she should have gotten out ages ago, but prices were outrageous since the occupation began, and she could never save up enough to pay the forgers.
"Don't look so glum, honey," DeMilo said with a smile she supposed was meant to be ingratiating. "You know I always have an opening for a classy little piece like you if you find your current employment less than... congenial."
"Oh sure," she said acidly. "I'll come whore for you, get strung out on Magic Mists and end up being rolled out of First Lieutenant Zero's love shack in a bag."
DeMilo wasn't the only one who'd made her an offer of that particular kind. Leona didn't bother trying to convince any of them she had any reason to hold herself too high-and-mighty to make good money sucking the cocks of influential men. It was a wasted effort, so she let them think she wouldn't do it because of the risk, which was true enough, anyway. The ones with real power in the City these days were dangerous men-cruel and full-fed and used to getting their way. She couldn't be certain to avoid catching the eye of one of them if she went down that road, and from there it was a quick slide to being dead in a ditch somewhere. Possibly wrapped in a mink stole.
"Hey, hey, hey!" he protested. "I don't do none of that stuff. I ain't never made my girls do what they don't wanna do. Or who!"
"It's 'whom', you philistine."
"Yeah, whatever. Anyway, I wouldn't slip you stuff when you don't wanna partake, and if you don't like the entertainment at our former mayor's fine establishment, you don't have to go." He drew himself up, puffing out his chest. "Antoine DeMilo takes care of his girls." And he actually seemed offended that she could ever think otherwise.
"You couldn't take care of a house plant," she snorted. "First sign of a Longcoat and you'd be hiding under my skirts."
"I'd hide under your skirts even without no Longcoats, baby," he leered.
"Look," she snapped, losing patience, "do you have my merchandise or not?"
"Oh. Yeah," he said, looking crestfallen. "Hundred fifty platinum."
"A hundred-" she gasped. "You are crazy, DeMilo. Seventy five. And it better not be that horse piss you brought me last time. The old man almost had an aneurysm when he tasted it."
"Lea. Doll-face! You're killin' me here!" he whined. "When have I ever sold you anything but the finest wines, liquors and spirits the O.Z. had to offer? One thirty."
Leona sighed. She knew Alexei'd never let her hear the end of it if she paid more than a hundred, but it was late, she was tired, and she was about to lose her job because the old fool would rather be rich than living.
"Fine," she said, throwing up her hands. "One thirty." It wasn't as if she planned on being around to hear his tirade anyway. Though with her luck, she probably would.
He raised an eyebrow. "That's it? One thirty? What, did Ivanovitch annex the tip jar again?"
She shrugged. "Today's your lucky day, DeMilo. You've found me in a generous mood."
"A 'generous mood'?" His lips twisted incredulously. "Ivanovitch'll have you out on that sweet little ass of yours when he sees the bill."
Leona spoke without thinking. "Like hell," she said. "I'm not sticking around this dump that long."
"Wait a minute," he cried. "Whaddaya mean you 'won't be sticking around'? A minute ago you were crackin' my nuts about working around Happy Mist and now you say you're gonna leave?"
Leona could have bitten out her tongue. Of all the double-dealing weasels in the O.Z., she had to spill her guts to DeMilo. And what did he care what she did, anyway? She had nothing that could make this information useful to him. He didn't need the kind of money he could get from her, and she hadn't thought he was that kind of pimp.
"Yeah, well..." What could she say that wouldn't give him more leverage? "I'm not working here if Alexei starts peddling that junk."
"So this is new?" he asked incredulously. "What're you gonna do for money?"
"I'll think of something," she muttered.
Aw, hell. He'd never believe that. Leona realized uneasily that DeMilo knew her much better than she'd like. It was her own fault, too. She'd stayed in the City far too long.
“Oh, something, huh?” He waggled his eyebrows. “You know I’m always interested in new business ventures in the City.”
Leona grabbed his lapels and jerked him in close.
“I. Am. Not. A whore!” she hissed, giving him a little shake.
“I know! I know!” he squealed. “I just mean whatever you’re cooking up-”
“Cooking up?”
DeMilo grinned. “You don’t have to be coy with me, sweetheart. You know I don’t stand on ceremony for inconsequentials like ‘Law’ and ‘Order.’ We could be useful to each other.”
“DeMilo,” she ground out, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“Whatever you got planned!” he cried. “I want in on it. You got brains, cupcake, but you don’t got no connections! The City’s dangerous for a girl like you. But you and me, we’d make a great team. Whaddaya say?”
Leona was dumbstruck. She contemplated letting him believe his surmise, but really, it would only complicate things in the end.
“I’ve got no game planned, DeMilo.”
“Aww, c’mon, Lea,” he tutted. “I know you better than that. You’d never quit the Herring without no backup. You’ll be dead in a week livin’ in the City without sure money.”
“Yeah,” she retorted hotly, “well I won’t be liv-”
She stopped abruptly, realizing too late what she was about to say, and to whom.
He frowned. "You’re gonna skip town?"
She froze. Damn it. Damn it!
"You are!" he said, astonished. "You're gonna cut and run, aren't you?"
"Don't be even more of an idiot than usual, DeMilo," she said, hoping to put him off. "To leave I'd need foreign identification papers and a visitor's visa good enough to fool Zero. I don't have that kind of cash."
"So you don't got no plans to leave the City?" he persisted. Nick Chopper's rusty tin balls. Why'd he have to pick now to grow a brain? Leona shifted uncomfortably under the look he gave her, which was far shrewder than he ought to be capable of.
"Ya know," he said casually, "if you're looking for more... economical travelling arrangements, I happen to be conducting business outside the City a week from Tuesday. The Longcoats almost never search my wagon."
He watched her expectantly, and Leona actually considered it for a minute. Hell, he sounded almost sincere.
"I just told you I don't have the money to leave," she said slowly. "What's in it for you?"
"Nothing!" he said defensively. "I'm always there when a friend's in need."
"Yeah, to pick over the bones. How dumb do you think I am?"
"Aw, no foolin', Lea," he said. "I'll take you outta the City. No charge."
She folded her arms across her chest. "Why?"
DeMilo fidgeted. “City’s no place for a girl like you these days," he muttered, shifting from foot to foot. "I don’t wanna see you disappear like those other girls who get caught out."
Leona regarded him suspiciously. It did not escape her that with all his touching concern, he didn’t offer to forget the Vapours deal. On the other hand, he knew perfectly well that she could take him, and that she would cheerfully carve out his most prized possessions and frame them if he tried anything funny.
She eyed him narrowly. "You going soft, DeMilo?"
"No chance of that while you're around, Duchess," he cackled.
She was disappointed, though she ought to know better. Maybe she was the one going soft.
"Aww, screw you," she muttered.
"Oh, honey!" he said, winking over his shoulder. "You just say the word!" And with that, he was gone.
Finally.
Leona made a moue of distaste and grabbed her coat.
* * * * *
Outside it was pissing rain. Sleety needles pounded the street and gathered in pools of dull, murky slush between the bricks, slicking them over with treacherous black ice. Despite the weather and the hour, there were still a few people out, staggering home to enjoy their black market oblivion. They never enforced the curfew in the Sin District-there wasn't any point.
Leona plodded through the icy sludge, lost in thought. She had a decision to make. She hadn't lied to DeMilo-exit papers would be damn expensive. So was everything else, for that matter, so without gainful employment she would have to move fast. She did some mental calculations. She'd be able to swing the forger's fee. Whatever was left over wouldn't be nearly enough, but she could make it last. There were a few Resistance moles left in the City who'd do it at no charge, but they always expected some service to The Cause in return. The Cause was just dandy, but she sure as hell wasn't going to die on that particular hill.
Leona came out of her reverie only to notice a Longcoat turning the street corner and ducked into an alley just in time. It was the greasy one who was always doing "contraband checks" whenever she happened to be out. It seemed she'd be taking the long way home. She continued three blocks out of her way onto a street outside Wandering Hands' patrol circuit. By now the rain had waned and frozen to a gentle snow, and the dingy streets were deserted.
Well, almost deserted.
Up ahead, Leona could see someone in a frock coat revolving slowly under a street lamp. He turned one way, then another, started forward and abruptly stopped, looked up at the street sign and back at the light. Finally, he stood still in his place, dropping his hands in defeat. He looked about him helplessly, pulling the jacket closer around him, and Leona noticed that it was open. Even from a distance, she could see the hardware that betokened him an Enemy of the State, and wondered idly what the poor bastard had done to piss off the O.Z's delightsome new queen. As she drew closer, his epaulettes enlightened her. He was one of the old guard-a refugee from Queen Lav's cabinet. Leona was used to seeing horrible things by now, and she'd heard the rumours of how Lavender's statesmen had been done by, but somehow, it was so much worse to run into a former bigwig lost on a street corner, a forlorn and bewildered figure in tattered livery. She ducked her head and made to hurry past, but then he turned around and she stopped short, almost losing her footing as recognition fell upon her like a blow. She swayed on her feet a little, watching red spots flare and fade against her eyelids.
No, no, no, no, no!
Maybe she was mistaken, she thought hopefully. She opened her eyes and looked. She shut them again.
No, no, no, no, no!
This was stupid, she told herself sternly. She was being stupid, and not helping anybody, and wasting time in the face of this entirely predictable and unsurprising development. She read the papers. She had followed his career. She knew that he hadn't the sense to come in out of a rain of fire beetles, and that she should have seen this coming.
But oh, it wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that they should get Ambrose, who'd made good. Ambrose, who'd got out of Gillikin, and gone all the way to Central City and broken records at the University and got noticed by the Queen and done any number of grand things, as she'd always known he would. Ambrose, the only boy in that two bit town who'd ever looked at her as if she were more than just a good lay.
Ambrose...
Ambrose and his brain.
Her legs carried her forward into the circle of pale light.
He started, as if he hadn't seen her until just then, and began to back away.
"No, wait," she begged, holding out her hand. Ambrose lurched backwards and stumbled against the lamp post. He scrabbled against the splintered wood, finally pulling himself up against it. Leona reached for him again and he scooted behind the post, eyeing her warily.
"Ambrose," she pleaded, circling around to the other side. "Ambrose it’s me-"
He threw his arms up to shield his face. "No," he whimpered, backing around the post, "please, no, please, no, please, no-"
Leona feinted left, Ambrose darted right, and she tackled him around the waist. He yelped and thrashed, his litany growing louder and more panicked as she struggled to pinion his arms.
"No, please, no, please, no, please-"
"Shh..."
Without warning, he pitched forward onto his knees and retched into the street. Leona sighed. Kneeling over him, she bent his head forward to rest in the crook of her arm and wrapped her other arm around his waist. When he finally let up heaving, he seemed to have no balance left. He slumped against her and buried his face in her coat, keening softly.
"I've got you," she murmured, holding him close. "I've got you. I'm here."
"Owooww," he moaned. "Owwoowooooww..."
Leona looked him over. His ears were purple and he was shivering violently. The obscenity that cut across his crown was frosted over, the skin around it was an awful bluish colour, and the double row of sutures was puffy and red. She pressed it gently until the metal warmed under her palm, and carefully wiped away the melted ice.
"Oowooww!"
"Yeah, yeah," she muttered. "Come on. Up you get." She hauled him to his feet and buttoned up his coat, then wrapped her scarf around his neck and pulled her hat down over his ears.
Ambrose made no protest as she took hold of his arm, and she managed to drag him home without much difficulty. She had steered him through the dingy foyer and up three flights of stairs to her landing when he started getting skittish again. He shrank back when he caught sight of her keys, and jumped at the click of the lock opening. He tried to make a run for it, but his coordination was off and it was all Leona could do to keep him from falling down the stairs. She wrestled him inside and locked the door behind her, hiding the keys in the umbrella stand.
As soon she stepped away, Ambrose lunged at the door. He pounded on it with his fists, tugged and jiggled the knob, and when it sank in that the door was incontrovertibly locked, he slid down the wall to sit hunched on the floor, wailing dismally.
"Nooo...nooooo..."
"Now, none of that," said Leona, crouching next to him. "Come lie down by the stove. You're all wet."
"Nooooo!" he yowled, thumping frantically at the door.
Leona hugged him round the middle, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Oh, it's not so bad," she said softly, rocking him a little. "It's better than outside."
Ambrose hiccoughed and shuddered.
"Okay, not by much," she conceded.
He allowed her to dispossess him of the hat and scarf and lead him into her tiny parlour. The rest of his clothes were harder. Eventually, Leona coaxed him out of the frozen shoes and socks, the sodden jacket, trousers and waistcoat and the threadbare linen shirt. He wouldn't part with the striped undershirt, but it was dry by then, so Leona let him keep it. She wrapped him up in all the blankets she had in the house and wheedled him into lying down on the sofa. When she was sure he’d stay put, she got up to get the coal. She returned with her fire paraphernalia to find him peeping at her over the back of the sofa.
Her lips quirked. “I’m not going to run off with your shoes,” she promised.
He watched her earnestly.
“I just went to get these,” she explained, holding out the little pile.
When Ambrose noticed the matches, his eyes went wide and round. Thinking fast, Leona threw them in the coal scuttle and, dropping it out of sight, she hurried over to show him her empty hands before he could set up another caterwauling. Touching seemed to upset him more, so she parked herself at the foot of the sofa, keeping her hands in his line of vision while he fretted. He was too tired to kick up much of a fuss, and when he finally closed his eyes, she retrieved the matches, holding them down at her side until she’d passed the sofa. She shoved fuel and crumpled newspaper into the little belly, then nursed the fire until it receded into the glowing coals. As she worked, she was careful to block the bright little window from Ambrose's view, staying between him and the stove until the door was safely latched shut.
She looked over at him, curled up under her red quilt, and let out an exasperated breath. Well, this scuttled her plans for leaving under an alias-there was no way the Longcoats wouldn't recognize him. They'd have to sneak out.
"You had to get into politics," she said, shaking her head.
She got up and leaned over the arm of the sofa, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
"I could’ve told you it was a bad idea."
Ambrose snuffed drowsily, burrowing into the pillow.
Ah, well. At least she'd save money on the papers.
She brushed her hand over his cheek, and this time he didn't flinch away.
"I should've gone with you to Central City when you asked me," she said softly. "I ought to have known you couldn't keep out of trouble."
She stroked his head, carefully avoiding the gruesome metal teeth. His hair was tangled upon tangles, and hopelessly matted and snarled. She'd have to cut it off tomorrow, she reflected, absently tugging on one rough curl.
Ambrose opened his eyes and his face broke into a sudden, delighted smile. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and beamed at her.
"Boing!" he declared brightly, and her heart stopped a second, because it couldn't be. Leona had seen head-cases wandering along the Brick Road before, and they didn't remember. But then, most of them didn't talk either, or make it this far from the Tower alive.
"Ambrose?" she whispered tentatively.
He peered back at her owlishly, and it was so like him that for a minute she could almost imagine that they'd never broken him-that he was the way he'd always been. But when she put her hand out toward him, he startled and whined.
She dropped her hand and smiled bitterly. "Just a glitch, then."
He blinked. "Gl- glitch?"
"Yeah," she said sadly. "Glitch."
His brow furrowed.
"Glitch," he repeated softly, and lay down again, closing his eyes.
* * * * *
Leona got up before dawn to get food. She dressed quickly in the dark, debating whether or not to wake Ambrose. There was nothing to eat, and if she didn't get moving before the grocers sold out there wouldn't be for another two days. Even longer, if the rations were late like last time.
She lit a candle and considered the quilted heap on her sofa. She hated leaving him to wake up locked in a strange room alone, but taking him out in daylight and noisy crowds might be worse.
"Ambrose," she whispered, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades.
He made a sound of protest and withdrew further into the cocoon of blankets.
"Ambrose, honey, wake up." She lifted the candle to have a look at him, and he retreated from the light.
"Murrf," he whined, pulling the covers over his head.
Leona blew out the candle and drew the sheets back to rub his head.
"I'm going out to get something to eat," she said. “When I get back we'll have bread and milk."
"Glitch," he muttered sleepily.
Right.
"I'll be back soon, hon," she promised, kissing his forehead. "Try to stay out of trouble."
* * * * *
As she weaved through the crowds, Leona weighed her options. Smugglers would be less expensive than forgers, but they'd probably make her pay a risk premium to take Ambrose. The zipper would complicate things all the way down the Brick Road. But he was alive. He was alive, and not dead, and alive was better than dead. And he had spoken to her last night; he’d made sense... sort of. And he'd remembered, and learned a new word. They could go to Quadling Country, the two of them. She'd heard tell Azkadellia avoided the South. They could get out together. It wasn't such a long shot.
He could wear a hat.
Suddenly, the City didn't seem as bleak and dingy as before. Ambrose was alive, and not dead, and that very minute he was asleep in her third floor walk-up. He had made it all the way to Central City without getting himself killed, and he could remember people, and learn new words, and maybe other things too. And they would go to the Southern Guilds together.
Leona quickened her pace. With luck, she'd get home before he was up.
* * * * *
She had no luck.
It started sleeting again, she was detained for "identity checks" by two separate patrols of grabby Longcoats, and the damn food line was two blocks long.
When she finally got home, Leona found the door hanging open and a holy mess inside. The furniture was overturned, books and pictures were strewn all over, and all her dishes and clothes had been dumped on the floor. The kitchen faucet was on, and the water had flooded the counter and spilled over on to the floor. Ambrose and his clothes were gone.
Leona ran out into the street in a blind panic. It wasn't Longcoats, she told herself. They would have gone through the desk and broken more of her things. And they probably wouldn't have bothered to take his clothes. It wasn't Longcoats. He'd woken up in a strange place, careened around the house like a hysterical hamster and bolted. It wasn't Longcoats. Damn it all! Why had she ever left him there alone? And how the hell had he unlocked the door, anyway? Last night he could barely find the doorknob! She circled the block, and then the next.
She searched the streets for hours, covering most of the Sin District and half the swanky neighbourhoods around Central City Square, but she found no sign of him. She finally trudged home at dusk, miserable and foot-sore.
* * * * *
Leona went out looking every day that week, until she could no longer convince herself it was any use. Meanwhile, she blew her savings on discreet inquiries and the enforcers began to give her suspicious looks.
The following Tuesday found her rapping on the door of a certain gaudily painted wagon.
"Hey, DeMilo!" she called wearily. "You still good for a ride out of this hole?"
DeMilo stuck his head out the window and smirked. "For you, pigeon? Any time. Where you headed?"
"I don't care."
He looked at her a little funny, but all he said was, "Be in the alley behind the Black Cat half past second moon-rise tonight. Pack light."
Since they couldn't take the Old Route, it took them a week and a half to get out of sight of the City. To Leona's eternal surprise, DeMilo didn't try anything. He didn't even give her a hard time.
* * * * *
She eventually made it to Quadling Country. The Southern Guilds were lousy with resistance cells, but Leona didn't care about lying low anymore-the rebels had information and she had a shiny new reason to fight. She went from town to town, carrying messages, inventing and breaking cyphers and wheedling Longcoats into telling her things they shouldn't. In each place she stopped, she'd ask if anyone had caught sight or heard word of a head-case in a monkey suit passing through, but no one ever had.