Page 22 of Throwing Fire

“It’s a polishing cloth,” she says.

“For what?” The place seemed pretty clean to me. I’m not sure what Tiancha would be polishing.

“Her nails. Didn’t you notice how she likes to decorate them? She was saying that it’s hard to get her nails smooth, ‘cause ... well, they’re not really nails, are they?”

No, they’re not. I’d assume that the rats’ claws are made of keratin, but maybe that assumption’s as assholic as any other. They certainly look stronger than normal nails.

“Anyway, I thought I’d try to make her a really fine-grain polishing cloth. I don’t know if it will work since I didn’t have anything to test it on.”

“It’s the thought that counts, kitten.” And it is a thoughtful gift. Shows Kez was paying attention, and made an effort. I slide my arm around her shoulders, hug her tight and kiss her temple. “You made me proud tonight.”

She cuddles and smiles but doesn’t say much as we walk through the Night Market down to the beach. The Night Market’s noise more than makes up for her silence. It’s hopping now: signs and graffiti fluorescing in the black light. Alleyways packed with hawkers, shoppers and Islanders just being seen. And there’s a lot to see. When we were here three weeks ago, most of the men and some of the women were walking around topless. It’s warmer now; more clothes have come off. When a couple strolls past us wearing nothing more than matching fluorescent purple stickers smaller than Kez’s palm over their groins, I have to laugh.

“I’m getting you some of those, kitten,” I tell her.

“Only if you wear one with me.” She tips her head back on my shoulder and grins up at me. I shake my head at her.

Our destination is a bunch of straw huts lit by two burning fuel cells. Fucking surfers. Kez walks around the huts a few times, then spends a minute making a complicated knot in the fringe of straw hanging over the doorway of the first hut. When she’s done, she takes my hand and leads me back towards the Night Market.

“What was that, kitten?” I ask.

“I left a note for Jale. She’ll call me. They’re all out.” She glances down the beach, out at the dark water. I follow her line of sight, but I can’t see anything but waves, and I see pretty fucking well in the dark.

“That safe?” I ask. I know from personal experience that these waters are full of predators.

Kez grins up at me, her eyes and teeth glinting in the light from the Broken Moon. “Maybe the Bra don’t taste as good as you do.”

I bump her with my elbow, reel her back in with the hand she’s holding when she stumbles on the rippled sand.

“Ow,” she complains. “If I break an ankle, you’re going to have to take my runs.”

“Gladly,” I say. What I don’t say is that if we don’t find who’s behind the tag on her head, I might have to take her runs anyway. Running is part of my kitten’s soul, and I don’t want to take it away from her, even temporarily. But a hundred thousand hard credits is a big tag, and a big incentive for someone to try to hurt her, and the time she’s most vulnerable is when she’s running. “I’m a better runner than you are anyway.”

She batters my shoulder indignantly, until we’re both laughing.

Kez’s friendSlip meets us at the edge of a square marked out by hoverropes. The Night Market’s crowd breaks and ebbs around the corners of the square, but enough gawkers are still clustered around the hoverropes to tell me that Slip’s been performing while we’ve been playing with the rats.

Slip, who lives up to his name in that he’s a tall, lanky, night-owl pale kid, greets Kez with a rap of knuckles, and when she doesn’t protest, pulls her into a loose hug across the hoverropes. A lot of Kez’s street-rat friends are touchy-feely with her, so I don’t object. I know she doesn’t like it, though, and sure enough, she steps back double-time. She doesn’t glance at me to check for disapprovalanymore, which I’m glad about. I want her to be secure with me, to know that I trust her completely.

Once Kez steps back, Slip looks at me uncertainly. I offer the kid my knuckles. The street-rat greeting still irks me, but I’ve discovered that not doing it makes them distrust me. So I control my irritation and let the kid knock his knuckles against mine.

Slip snaps open the hoverropes so Kez and I can cross into his cleared square of sand. Close to the middle there’s another kid sitting cross-legged on a woven mat. He’s a few years older than his partner, maybe mid-twenties, and lacks Slip’s mane of dirty-blond braids. Like Slip, he’s shirtless, but unlike Slip, who is as skinny as Kez, this kid has decent upper-body development. He’s sitting inside a complicated instrument, with bowls and pads spread around his knees like the petals of a flower. I’m surprised when he unfolds himself and stands up to greet us. The instrument sways and rattles, but rises with him, hanging from straps at his shoulder and waist.

“Hey, g,” he says, holding his fist out to Kez.

She knocks knuckles with him, then turns to me. “Snow, this is Albie. Alb, this is Mister Snow.”

Alb makes an awkward bow to me, his instrument swinging around him. “Mister Snow.”

I nod to acknowledge him, not sure why I didn’t get the knuckle-rap, but I’m not complaining.

“Didn’t think you were gonna make it, g,” Alb says to Kez.

Kez tilts her head. Her big blues glint, reflecting silver and gold. Moonlight and firelight. “Why’s that?” she asks.

“Heard you were carrying a tag. A big one.”

Kez rolls her eyes. “Are you drumming or not?”

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