Page 44 of Son of a Witch (The Wicked Years 2)

“Thanks,” said the urchin leader, “now we got a song, but we got no breakfasts. Come on, looters; we’ll go steal bread from the pigeons near the Ozma Fountains.”

“Surely there’ll be more food to go around,” said Liir. “I mean now the Wizard is deposed.”

The kids ran and laughed, as all kids can, even malnourished urchins. “What, because he’s not around to eat his own portion? We’ll see about that!”

Undaunted, Liir wandered about until he came to a small hostelry. A sign read SURGERY FOR THE SENSELESS, and beneath that hung a wooden image of scissors in the act of snipping off the heads of a bunch of daisies.

This time he knew enough not to go in the front door but to wander the alley behind till he found another entrance. A graceful young woman in a dotted purple cloak came to the door when he knocked. “I’m looking for an Arjiki girl, about sixteen, newly sprung from prison, and possibly in poor health. Would she have come here?”

“We tend the wrinklies here.”

“Well, then,” he ventured, “I’m here to offer my services.”

“We have no budget for a houseboy.”

“I don’t need funds. Just a place to sleep and something to eat from time to time. I can help take care of the senseless. I had an old Nanny who needed all kinds of assistance, and I know how. I don’t mind.”

“When we’re through with them, they don’t need much help,” said the woman. “They don’t care so much what goes right or wrong for them anymore, and that’s a blessing, don’t you think?”

“I suppose so. I’m merely looking to be of service,” he explained. My life started today, he wanted to add, but she looked too cross to take it all in.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the solicitor sent you to spy on us,” she replied. “We doctor the patients, not their last wills and testaments. We’ve been cleared of suspicion any number of times. Why are you tormenting us? Isn’t there supposed to be some relief of oppression now that the Wizardic administration has left the Palace?”

“I’m not from the Palace,” he said, affronted partly, but also impressed: could he seem that old and competent already?

“If you don’t go away I’ll set the cat on you.” She pulled down her sleeve; her left arm was raw with swellings and scabs. “Unlike some, he’s not very nice since he’s been neutered,” she said ominously. Liir had the feeling that if there was a cat in the house, it was really a Cat. He backed off.

“I couldn’t just come in and get warm?” he began, but she had shut the door.

DAYS WENT BY, and he was glad to have learned about the stale bread fed to the pigeons at the Ozma Fountains. He kept body and soul together there. Scrambling for food, he wasn’t as nimble as some of the street dodgers, but his legs were longer, so he made out all right. At night he had the benefit of the cape as a blanket, so he was warmer than some.

He asked about Nor, but the City was filled with itinerant children, and to the good burghers of Oz, tinker children were anonymous when they weren’t invisible. No one had noticed an Arjiki girl on her own, and push off, you, before we call the authorities.

He thought about Princess Nastoya, but what could he do? The famous Wizard of Oz, granter of wishes, wasn’t going to stage a comeback just so Liir could beg for help for that old She-Elephant. And there was no one else to ask.

Determined not to be cowed, Liir took to hanging around the army barracks just inside the south gate, known as Munchkin Mousehole, a reference to the diminutive stature of Munchkinlanders. The Emerald City Home Guard was better fed than

the poor under the bridges, that much was obvious. After a while Liir decided that membership in the Home Guard would relieve his hunger while he tried to decide what to do next. And maybe he’d find that devoting his life to service paid dividends.

Stuffing the old cape in a sack, pressing it as compacted as he could manage, Liir joined the throng of roughhouse boys on the parade grounds—the boys who played gooseball with soldiers at free exercise. The lads hoped to merit the gift of a cracker or a coin or a plug of tobacco, but Liir wanted more. He bade his time and steeled his nerve.

One afternoon a sudden hailstorm blew in from the Kells. Everyone scattered for cover. Liir ducked into a narrow archway hardly large enough to protect one. The soldier already there couldn’t be more than a year or two older than Liir, and so they fell into conversation as they waited out the storm.

The soldier, proud of his stature as Petty Fife in the Guard’s musical corps, told Liir where and how to apply, and what to say that would amuse the conscripting officers. “Don’t tell them you don’t know who your parents are,” he advised. “The officers are a high-strung bunch. They think that all the orphans who apply are really sent there by their parents, infiltrating the Guard for an eventual insurrection. If you’re really an orphan, lie. Tell them your folks can’t keep from screwing and they just had their twelfth baby, and you were kicked out of the family sty. That they’d understand; they’re screw-starved here, a lot of them.”

In time, Liir followed the advice, and learned it was sound. Though eight other gaunt-cheeked boys presented themselves in the same audience, only Liir answered smartly enough to be signed up. He was given a number, a cot, a cabin, a chit for meals, a key, a position title—Second Scrub—and a job, doing just that: potatoes in the commissary kitchen, morning, noon, and evening. The Home Guard ate little but potatoes, it seemed.

Still, there he was! Here he was! It seemed too good to be true. A smart uniform—someone else’s before it was his, for a few old stains hadn’t entirely washed out, and one sleeve had been replaced with a new one cut from a cheaper weight of broadcloth—but smart just the same. It came with a cap sporting a stiff silly brim in front, and a cocky periwinkle-colored tuft up top. The outfiteer also located a pair of boots, down at the heel and splayed at the toe, but serviceable enough, for they were conveniently overlarge and could take an extra pair of socks in the toe, which kept out the cold.

Once in a while Liir caught sight of the chatty fellow who had befriended him in the archway, but that soldier was assigned to a different division. In any case, Liir was determined to maintain a comfortable anonymity, so he didn’t go chasing for friends, neither in his own division nor beyond it.

One morning in the yard, when Liir was hauling sacks of potatoes from a delivery cart, he spotted Commander Cherrystone arriving in a brougham. The man appeared weary. Liir hung back and kept silent, but he invented reasons to linger in the area. He watched as the Commander spoke with a sergeant at arms. The Commander took a cup of coffee in a china cup and reviewed a construction site marked out for a new latrine or barracks or something. He then disappeared into a foreman’s shed with a roll of schemes under his arm.

An hour or so later he emerged, a cigarette between his gloved fingers. Liir approached Commander Cherrystone and reintroduced himself, a new politeness and reserve hiding what remained of his disapproval. Cherrystone might still be helpful.

“Yes, yes,” said the Commander, distracted. Liir wasn’t even sure Cherrystone remembered him, but the commander listened politely and said he would try to find out what he could about the details of carcass removal at Southstairs. “You mustn’t hold your breath though,” he said. “I’ve a lot on my plate. There is much to be done for the defense of our city.”

“There is? But we’re not at war? I thought peace was at hand.”

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