the people from their places in the street
by the turning of the night. Even the curb-dwellers were gone,
huddled over steaming vents or sleeping in the vestibules of
instant-money-machines when they could sneak past people who were
not willing to gainsay their entrance.
The Genie was not troubled by weather, and in
fact welcomed the ice and the frost—it cleared the air of its
summer haze, and made the streets more properly quiet. He leaned
against the dirty bricks of an old storefront on the Queen’s street
and tried to catch a glimpse of starlight through the spotty cloud
cover.
He felt them before he saw them, and watched
with remote curiosity as they walked past. They wore black leather
with silvered bits around their wrists and collars; they had hair
of various hues and shapes, and one carried a music-maker over his
shoulder, although at the moment it was thankfully silent. They
wore heavy boots, heavy coats, and grim expressions that were
meant, he thought, to be smiles; it was hard to tell.
They were the angry youth, with stunted
dreams of power that drove them to pettiness instead of greatness.
Every life must have a purpose—so the teacher had said—but these
man-boys were allowed none, and had grown wild in their
frustration. In a bygone age, they would have been the best of
soldiers, the best of followers. Here, in the now that the people
of this world had chosen, they were wasted.
He did not fear them, and they did not fear
him; but they, like their older counterparts, passed him by
quickly, although he did not ask them for coin. He smelled their
desires in the air; they hung like a cloud in a deadened sky. But
they asked nothing of him, and as they drifted past, the shadows of
their mutual companionship drawn tight about them, they were
forgotten. Minutes drifted; snow, too cold to be pretty, fell
wayward on the breeze.
A lone figure struggled along the icy cement,
heavily coated and somewhat bent. He watched her as she walked, and
knew her age by her awkward gait. He held out his hand in
supplication; she met his eyes, and the lines of her face drew into
a tight mask. She walked on, stopped and fumbled with her purse,
and walked back. It was obvious, from the state of her worn grey
coat and the rubber boots that she wore over swollen calves, that
she was not among the city’s wealthy, but she gave him the money
that he’d asked for before turning west again without a word.
He looked at the coins in his palm; one was
brass colored, three copper and two silver. They jangled as he put
them in his pockets, and vanished to the keeping place that only
the Genies know. He settled back against the red-brick and waited,
feeling the cold only because it was a curious thing.
When he heard the shout, he turned. The
streets were empty, or almost empty, and the noise carried easily.
Curious, he drifted westward, following the wind and the old
woman’s tracks.
She was there, and indeed it had been her
voice that raised the shout; her words came again, less strong and
less distinct. Surrounding her, like a pack of feral dogs, were the
angry young men. Their voices were muted but darkly cheerful;
violence was the taste of their dream.
He stopped when they became clear and
distinct from their background, and watched. The young men chose
not to see him, or chose not to care. But the old woman, struggling
on all fours like a child learning to crawl, looked up. Blood, from
a triangular cut in her forehead, dripped and fell into the folds
of her skin; her glasses were shards and wire on the sidewalk, and
it was obvious that she could not see clearly.
But her eyes found his nonetheless, widening
and narrowing in turn. “Please,” she whispered, as a foot caught
her ribs. “Help me.”
The young men turned and saw him. They looked
back at the youth who was obviously the pack leader; he shrugged
and spit to the side.
“Get lost.”
The Genie tried to take a step backward, but
found himself transfixed. Before he
by the turning of the night. Even the curb-dwellers were gone,
huddled over steaming vents or sleeping in the vestibules of
instant-money-machines when they could sneak past people who were
not willing to gainsay their entrance.
The Genie was not troubled by weather, and in
fact welcomed the ice and the frost—it cleared the air of its
summer haze, and made the streets more properly quiet. He leaned
against the dirty bricks of an old storefront on the Queen’s street
and tried to catch a glimpse of starlight through the spotty cloud
cover.
He felt them before he saw them, and watched
with remote curiosity as they walked past. They wore black leather
with silvered bits around their wrists and collars; they had hair
of various hues and shapes, and one carried a music-maker over his
shoulder, although at the moment it was thankfully silent. They
wore heavy boots, heavy coats, and grim expressions that were
meant, he thought, to be smiles; it was hard to tell.
They were the angry youth, with stunted
dreams of power that drove them to pettiness instead of greatness.
Every life must have a purpose—so the teacher had said—but these
man-boys were allowed none, and had grown wild in their
frustration. In a bygone age, they would have been the best of
soldiers, the best of followers. Here, in the now that the people
of this world had chosen, they were wasted.
He did not fear them, and they did not fear
him; but they, like their older counterparts, passed him by
quickly, although he did not ask them for coin. He smelled their
desires in the air; they hung like a cloud in a deadened sky. But
they asked nothing of him, and as they drifted past, the shadows of
their mutual companionship drawn tight about them, they were
forgotten. Minutes drifted; snow, too cold to be pretty, fell
wayward on the breeze.
A lone figure struggled along the icy cement,
heavily coated and somewhat bent. He watched her as she walked, and
knew her age by her awkward gait. He held out his hand in
supplication; she met his eyes, and the lines of her face drew into
a tight mask. She walked on, stopped and fumbled with her purse,
and walked back. It was obvious, from the state of her worn grey
coat and the rubber boots that she wore over swollen calves, that
she was not among the city’s wealthy, but she gave him the money
that he’d asked for before turning west again without a word.
He looked at the coins in his palm; one was
brass colored, three copper and two silver. They jangled as he put
them in his pockets, and vanished to the keeping place that only
the Genies know. He settled back against the red-brick and waited,
feeling the cold only because it was a curious thing.
When he heard the shout, he turned. The
streets were empty, or almost empty, and the noise carried easily.
Curious, he drifted westward, following the wind and the old
woman’s tracks.
She was there, and indeed it had been her
voice that raised the shout; her words came again, less strong and
less distinct. Surrounding her, like a pack of feral dogs, were the
angry young men. Their voices were muted but darkly cheerful;
violence was the taste of their dream.
He stopped when they became clear and
distinct from their background, and watched. The young men chose
not to see him, or chose not to care. But the old woman, struggling
on all fours like a child learning to crawl, looked up. Blood, from
a triangular cut in her forehead, dripped and fell into the folds
of her skin; her glasses were shards and wire on the sidewalk, and
it was obvious that she could not see clearly.
But her eyes found his nonetheless, widening
and narrowing in turn. “Please,” she whispered, as a foot caught
her ribs. “Help me.”
The young men turned and saw him. They looked
back at the youth who was obviously the pack leader; he shrugged
and spit to the side.
“Get lost.”
The Genie tried to take a step backward, but
found himself transfixed. Before he
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