Chương 126: Chapter 147: Rope

On the next Sixthday I was practically skipping. My school life has settled to a fine dull hum, now that nobody is trying to kill me. Things are going my way there. My classes are easy and I'm wrecking the curve in every subject for all the high-placement advanced courses. I've stopped busting my ass with full-orchestra symphonic arrangements and I've moved to quartet arrangements and piano pieces, which opens up a whole lot of songs I was having trouble scoring to a full instrument spread.

My sport training is going really well, and sometimes I tamp my sorcery way down so I can get that authentic feeling of combating these other players at their own level, and sometimes for the hells of it I'll channel essence of thunderbeast and just dominate the field. I had a stupid fetch-quest come up in my literature class and now I'm only two XP away from leveling.

It was intended for some worldbuilding if you were coming to this school as a player that had not spent fifteen years living in this world and raised into its culture. Twice this last week I've dropped by the Uchislowi village and dropped off supplies. Just a few silver worth of bread makes a huge difference over there. The Greifir paladins and the Brunbling knights are working their way through the forest still, trying to establish a safe path to the center. It'll take them a while, but it's good progress.

Yesterday I had dropped by the dean's office and told them that if there was any more bullshit about the class rankings I would take them to court personally for negligence and incompetence. I know what my numbers are, and there's not going to be any more faffing about with doctored paperwork.

Meanwhile, speaking of doctored paperwork, there has been no problem with Skeici's transfer to Nathan's history class, and she's been sitting and staring and stewing while she watches her unrequited beloved, Nathan, having sweet whispered conversations with Princess Lachel Freckentop. Skeici's methods, the kidnapping, the hideout, the traps- they're all very reasonable for a third-year Nathan Harigold who has been pursuing his leveling.

But by scooting her over, I'm getting her involved two years early and Nathan does not nearly have the skills to stop her. It's not guaranteed, but it's got a high probability. And if if fails I'll put Lere Lowyer on the case, that girl knows more about poisoning than anyone else in this school. So with no new disasters, muggings, assassinations, "unfortunate accidents" or other setbacks, my week went fine! And now I'm going to have a wonderful day: First Sixthday of Springebb.

I'm going to spend the day in Broghton. Yesterday I told Professor Ryichsur that I'd be spending the weekend entirely on my mental health, recuperating my equilibrium, soothing my hostilities. and resting after the emotional difficulties I've been facing. Well, I told him I'd probably have one meeting with a real jerk, but other than that this is going to be nothing but Me Time. He was happy to hear it, very encouraging, and sent me on my way with his blessing.

I was not able to secure the next step in an affection quest for this, I'd been hoping to scam up some easy XP rewards from him just for minding my own therapy. But no such luck. The portal dropped me into the streets of Newtown, formerly the Fifth Quarter, of Broghton. I turned in place, taking it in. Fresh construction, buildings maintained with care, healthy-looking children playing in yards, and a healthy chatter of work being done in the shops all about.

People strolling were drawing to a slow and a stop and staring at me, probably because of the six-foot solar flare I had just stepped out of. Or because I've got the most famous face in the district. I gave a wave to everyone and closed the portal, and started striding over to the pub, the Golden Gift. It looked almost exactly as I had left it, except for the densely-packed crowd that was filling seats and trying not to be obvious about staring at me.

Every seat in the room was taken except for one, not far from the door, not far from the bar counter, with a mostly-clear view from any part of the pub. It was a high-legged chair, tall like a bar stool but with a comfortable back carved from a wide-grained wood with a pleasant caramel-colored varnish. It was sat at a half-table of the same height, with three legs. The table was flat to the wall with a half-circle surface that I could set a drink or a plate on.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," the owner of the establishment said.

"I sent out for that. We did not discuss arrangements, but on reflection I thought it probably best to give you a comfortable spot to sit from but that your, ah, petitioners probably should not be offered a seat, so as to encourage all to keep the line moving. It is easier to lose track of time when seated, after all." I winced a little.

"I can see the pragmatic necessity, but it feels tacky to sit down while everyone else is standing. I don't want anyone too uncomfortable on my behalf.. oh gods, have they all been waiting long?"

"Not so long. I put out a sign that said anyone queued up before first bell would be chased out to try again next week. I had them lining up not long after first bell, but at least nobody was sitting out here overnight." Well, I could not argue with his reasoning or his execution, so I took a seat and met with the first smiling face that swept up to me, to shake my hand and thank me for my help.

I told him the Pinking bankers were at least as much to credit for the fortunes here as I am, and his face scrunched a little.

"Ar, not to gainsay ye, milady, but the bankers took a fye -nan-cial risk in all 'a us. Ye went to prison. Fra where I sits, that makes ye not just a hero to the town, but pract'cly one 'a us." I had to laugh at that, and I tried to cover my mouth. I patted his shoulder, and thanked him for such kind words. He told me about his life before, he'd patched together a broom from some salvage and made his way by sweeping up businesses for a chance to sleep on the floor and a bite of breakfast before he left.

Now he still pushes a broom, but it's his own broom and he has a home of his own, the businesses he visits pay him a wage for his work and he has a bank account.

"And if all holds as it has, I'm on track ta retire by fifty," he bragged.

"Or a bit later iffen I don't plan such a frugal retirement." In most places I've been, he'd still be considered desperately impoverished. But his life was on such an upswing right now that he was all songs and gaiety about it. And he really seemed happy with his lot, and while I'm not one to encourage people to malcontent, I did still want better.

"Right now Meadowtam is a dangerous place for newcomers to travel," I told him.

"But by this time next year, say, it should be quite different. If you take a shine to travel and new opportunities, the people there need a good broom just as much as Broghton does."

"A kindly offer kindly made," he said with a whiskery smile.

"But I was Broghton in dark days and I'll nah turn my back when the sun is shining!" He thanked me again, for helping, for listening, for being part of this community, and doffed his cap again before he left. I spoke to dozens more people. There was a little girl who was fascinated by the fabric of my dress, and I invited her to touch the skirt and run her hand over it. Her smile was luminous, and that was my first close-call tear-welling of the day. I was going to find out that I'm a sucker for kids.

Especially the one that was awed, to the point of a religious experience, when he found out that I was the one who invented the happy birthday song. In his eyes, that meant that I had invented birthdays, which meant that I had invented presents.

He was not old enough to remember when there were no presents, but he had heard about it, and somehow he had gotten himself convinced that this was how I saved Newtown- everyone was poor, and then I invented birthdays, and so everyone had presents, and now everything is good and everyone is happy. It was a tough two-hit combo. First, I was trying so hard not to laugh that it was making my eyes tear up, but also he was so earnestly grateful to me that it was deeply touching, too.

I can't laugh in this kid's face, but his mom is right behind him and she's on the verge of losing it but he's not looking back at her, so I'm the one that has to hold this eye contact and this is so heartwarming but it's so silly.... Don't ask me how I pulled it off, but I managed to accept his passionate thanks and I heard him out. But I needed to stop for a glass of water after that meeting. The owner of the bar brought me a glass of lemon water and a plate of fries.

"I heard that these are your favorites," he said. He did not mention what he probably had to spend on that lemon. I thanked him and proved they were my favorites by happily housing in on that whole plate, with a distinctly un-princess-like eagerness. After I daintily dabbed my lips clean, we went back to the receiving line.

The pub owner was clearly making bank by hosting me for free like this, a lot of the people in the line got a brunch or lunch after they spoke with me, and even when the house was standing-room-only he had people eating while leaning on the walls, or just getting a meal to go. I didn't mind him turning a profit. Entrepreneurial spirit was building this district up from nothing, and he was hosting me, and feeding me, for nothing.

Mid-morning, there was a young lady holding an infant who started weeping when she told me about what her life had been before the bank exploded. She needed a handkerchief, and I did not have one to offer, and she needed her purse, and so that's how I wound up holding her baby. The child stared at me from very close up, stock-silent and utterly fascinated. I gave him a little squeeze and he giggled. I restrained the urge to make silly faces at him. I need a little princessly decorum, at least.

And after that it became the thing to do, mothers asking me to hold their babies for a few minutes. Like my touch would give them a blessing. The good news is they were always so well-behaved, I never had to deal with any of them screaming at me or fighting me or crying. Most of them just looked a little dazed or immediately smiled, either one. I suppose that babies don't have many expressions, and I should be glad that all of these choose either confusion or happiness.

Besides, even if I've never had a kid of my own or taken care of anyone else's (I think the last baby I lifted before this day in Broghton was probably Filly Coltorn, and I would have been about three years old for that), I've still got a knack for it. Because unlike the rest of the people around me, I've had awareness since I was born. So I remember what it feels like. The wobbly neck, the blurred vision, the stomach pains, the general confusion regarding limbs and movement.

Not nearly enough to make me anybody's expert, but enough to effortlessly bypass all the easiest mistakes. I didn't even really think about it after a while, I would be having a lovely heart-to-heart with the parent, while I jiggled a baby on my knee and cupped the child close to me, supported and enclosed. Sometimes I could hear babies crying further off, in the pub or in the line that was trailing down the street outside, but fortunately never where I was at. There were lots of different reactions.

The mothers wanted me to touch or hold their children. The children wanted to touch my hair. The middle-aged men wanted to kiss my ring, the older folks tended to take my hand in the same way but press their foreheads to my fingers. Some stumbling mumbling awkward types would offer to pay me back the money they had gotten, but they never seemed relieved when I assured them I would not take a clipped coop from them. Those were some of the hardest to speak to, for me.

I could take their hands and tell them that I am touched by their generous offers and their sense of justice, but since the money was never meant for me, it would never be my money to ask for. I asked them to keep me in their prayers and their stories, but I am not the sort of woman that does for others so I can receive in kind later. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it did not, it is strange how often gratitude is one of the most complicated emotions we may deal with.

For every person who only wanted one or two minutes of my time to convey a brief wish of good fortune and good tidings, that just wanted to tell me with their own words to my face that I've been a blessing to them, there was someone else who needed to give me their story, like I was a priest taking confession. So many of them needed to stand before me with their various postures of intensity or tension, and unroll their summary of their life's story. Where they were before, the tragedies that shaped them.

Where they were the night that coins rained from the sky, and what they have done since. Telling me how a single golden coin, or three to four of them, had brought their life an escalating chain of miracles and fortune. One young man was trembling all over as he told his story, both fists clenching a handkerchief. He stared at the fabric square, he had only met my eyes briefly when he first walked in. He finished his tale, gulped loudly, and dabbed his forehead with the pocket-square.

"I just... I needed to say it out loud, to you. So I can be sure this is not all just a dream." I was not sure what he meant by that, but I recognized that this is important to them. And not everything needs to make sense to me, for it to be valid and worthwhile. I can sit and play my part, because this is clearly necessary for the healing of Newtown, formerly the Fifth Quarter. He walked away with his shoulders held easy, his head lolling as if lightheaded.

As if receiving his story had somehow absolved him of poverty. That really did not make sense to me, but there is probably something to it. Perhaps if you are raised in a society that insists that poverty is always the fault of the impoverished, it begins to feel like scarcity is sin. You think of destitution as punishment for wrongdoing, like a sentence being served.

And so to that mindset, I would be the hero that walked through and opened all the prison doors and declared that all sentences were commuted, all convictions were revoked. They had not been lifted from poverty, they had been freed from poverty, and they needed to speak to me as if I had broken them out of jail, not merely thrown money all over their roofs. But maybe, as usual, I'm thinking too much about it.

"Let's give the lady some space, " the owner of the pub said, stepping in as one petitioner left with their absolution.

"Let's let her get some lunch and then we'll pick back up." A platter of yeasty rolls, cheesy pasta, and steak well-done arrived with a beaming waitress. I tucked in so that I would not be keeping anyone waiting too long. The pub's tapman stopped at my side, not quite facing me. I could sense the energy, it was his turn. Last week he had told me a lot about the city, but now he seemed to feel the need to tell me about himself. He took a bracing breath before he started.

"I'm half-owner of the pub," he said.

"Before you came to Broghton, I was... sorry, I should say that I held the rights to the alleyway beside the tavern. Myself and a couple of interested associates had set a rope hotel and we-""I'm sorry," I interrupted.

"That cannot be what it sounds like. What is a rope hotel?" He grimaced.

"Right. Sorry. Ah, all right. We drove posts into the ground, and cut some grooves in. Then we bought a thick hawser rope and strung it between the posts, two rows, all down the length of the alleyway. For a copper bit, someone could rent a space on the rope. They drape their arms over it, to hold up their top half, and lock their legs, and they could fall asleep half-standing like that. Or, more accurately, pass out, almost all of our customers were quite drunk and could sleep in any position at all.

It's why the morning after is called a hangover. They would wake up stiff and sore, but they wouldn't freeze to death on the cold stone, we would not let anyone rob our customers in their sleep, and for a single bit they could get a night's sleep- can't beat the price." I stared, and I could not help looking utterly horrified. I did not want to be showing that on my face, but it would not go away.

"I- I- ah, that is," I stammered. He chuckled.

"It's all right. Folk much less posh than Your Ladyship would be horrified at these conditions. My gang and I, we took control of a single alley and after driving some posts and buying a rope, we were considered to be some of the more honorable and respectable businessmen on this block, because we wouldn't rob those that paid for their piece of that rope. Most rope hotels were just a sham because a sleeping mark in a standing position is easier to frisk and fleece. When you visited, two coins fell in our alleyway.

I told my gang that we should invest as half-owners of the tavern. They wanted to drink themselves stuporous. I told them that once we're part owners of a tavern they can drink for free all the time. I bought out their shares of the business a year ago, they're all in different lines of work now. I was guarding an alleyway from thieves worse than me when you blew up that vault. I controlled one alleyway, me and my friends. And everything since that night has been blessings. Thank you, milady."

In this world, being poor means so much more than not being able to buy things. It means being grateful that the gangsters running the shadiest-sounding overnight hostel in the world are honorable enough not to rob their customers. It means two coins split between a few friends could turn their entire lives around. How many Fifth Quarters are there out there, that have not had the benefit of a rain of gold? How many other people are living in devastating destitution and have not come to my attention yet?

Gods I wish I had more than a couple of years to get through this.