Chapter 10

Andakar's eyes scanned the bookcases that lined the apartment walls. Some were actually set into the walls. These apartments had been built back in a day when that sort of amenity was important. But even those weren't enough for Mattas' collection and he had to supplement the built-in shelves with ordinary do-it-yourself kits from the local home improvement center. Many languages, modern and ancient, were represented here. History, literature, philosophy, theology, art, music. Mattas had always been hungry for knowledge. Even as a boy, any money he acquired he spent on books.

Andakar had his own considerable collection, although not as large as this. For the moment, they were still in boxes.

"Mattas?" he called out.

His brother was in the kitchen, checking the progress of a pot of soup. He appeared at the door. "Yes?"

"I'd like to get some more of these bookcases, if that's all right."

Mattas was silent for a moment and Andakar turned to look at him to see if he was still there. "What?"

Mattas just smiled. "You sounded…well, not excited, exactly. You sound like you're…taking an interest in life."

Andakar frowned a little impatiently and turned back to look over another shelf of books. "If you say so."

He heard Mattas give a quiet snort. "What are you looking for?"

"I'll know when I find it." He took a book from the shelf and opened it. It was a reprint of a work of an ancient Ishvalan chronicler. He held it up. "Do you have a translation of this?"

Mattas joined him and glanced at the book. "Why? You can read the Old Tongue."

"It's not for me. It's for one of my students."

"Uh…you're teaching math, right?"

"It's not for my class. I was asked for material on Ishval that would not be normally available."

"Oh." Mattas lifted his eyebrows. "That's kind of impressive."

"That's what I thought." Andakar had thought a lot of other things, too, but he wasn't going to say them out loud. He contemplated the book in his hand. "I suppose I could translate it. Some of it, anyway."

Mattas started skimming over his library as well. "Here." He took down a book from an upper shelf and held it out. "You could translate some of these."

Andakar took the book from him. It was a collection of poetry by the eleventh century poet and priest, Rihir. "I'm not sure Amestrian could do them justice." He flipped through some of the pages. "This used to be Father's. I wondered where it had gone."

"He gave it to me when I moved out here. Oh, hey!" Mattas bent down and took a book bound in official-looking maroon leather. "Maybe he could use this."

"She," Andakar corrected him. He tucked the first two books under his arm and took this one. It was Mattas' master's thesis on the impact that ninth century trade between Ishval and Xing had on those countries' respective languages.

"It might be a little dry," Mattas admitted. "But I'm pleased with it."

Andakar tucked that one under his arm as well. "I'll let her decide what she can use." He looked over the bindings before him and his initial burst of enthusiasm, such as it was, began to fade.

Why Ishval? he asked himself again.

"What's the matter?" Mattas asked.

"Hm?" Andakar shook his head. "Nothing's the matter."

"I don't know. You were really into this, and then you kind of faded out for a minute."

A little exasperated, Andakar took another book off the shelf just to have something to look at. "I don't need constant monitoring, Mattas. I'm not a lab rat."

Mattas chuckled. "Okay. Fair enough." He folded his arms. "So tell me more about this student. She's doing a project on Ishval? History class?"

"Yes." Andakar put the book back and drew out another one. "She's…"

He hadn't realized how long he had fallen silent until Mattas spoke. "She's what?"

Mattas wasn't just trying to remind him to finish his thought, but to gently prompt him into explaining why he hadn't. Part of him wanted to let it all spill out. Why was this girl so interested in Ishval? Was it because her parents had gone there? Because they had died there? Was it in spite of the fact that they had died there?

Did she know?

Even he knew that was entering the realm of paranoia, which was not something he was ready to share with his brother, who would worry too much. "She's anxious to do a good job on this project."

Mattas shrugged. Andakar could tell he had the feeling that an issue had just been skirted around, but he let it go. "Well, why shouldn't she? It's for school."

"This is high school, Mattas. What's more, it's Amestrian high school. Even at the college level, you must see the differences in attitudes toward education between here and home."

Mattas made a non-committal sound. "A good student is a good student."

"There are students who are just good at getting right answers," Andakar replied. "And there are students who are genuinely eager for knowledge."

"Fine. I concede your point," Mattas said with a grin. He bent down to a bottom shelf. "Let her take a look at this. Just tell her to be careful with it."

He handed Andakar a vintage binding of a collection of Old Ishvalan fables. It would also need translating, but the illustrations were works of art. This had been one of their favorite books when they were little. Their father would read one story out of it every night before they went to bed, and once he read the last one, they would start from the beginning the next night. Andakar had nearly forgotten about it. It brought back a flood of memories and impressions from his childhood, back when these stories fed the dreams and desires that he already could barely contain. Sometimes he wouldn't even be able to fall asleep, he was so excited.

He wanted to be a hero.

He closed the book, locking away memories that had no place in his life right now. He stacked the books together. "This should get her started."

"Solf! My man! What's up?"

Solf had opted to call Grey's cell phone rather than the restaurant's phone. Roa, the head waiter, would have given him a hard time, and the fewer people he had to talk to, the better.

"Hey." He gazed up at his ceiling from his supine position on the couch that he'd maintained for the past forty-five minutes. "Does my old man have reservations for tonight?"

"He does indeed. You want me to set an extra plate?" He could hear Grey's smirk.

"No. Definitely not. I just wanted to see if he was going to be there so I could avoid the place like the plague."

"That hurts, man."

"Sorry. Otherwise I would totally be there."

"Ah. You got a hot date?"

Solf glared up at the warm paneled ceiling above him. He apparently had a long-standing date with destiny that he had been putting off for years and she was now one ravenous bitch. "No. I just wanted to sit at your bar."

"Really? Bro, it's Thursday. You gonna get trashed on a school night?"

"I got tomorrow off, so, yeah. And I sure as hell don't wanna be anywhere my dad is."

"'S'cool." There were a few moments of silence that Solf didn't have the energy to fill. "You… got something on your mind?"

"Yeah, and I don't really want to talk about it. I figured I'd just poison it with alcohol."

Grey chuckled. "That don't work, amico. That shit rises up from the dead and it's all zombie mode and ugly. Kinda like you're gonna be in the morning."

"Well, I'm not out to impress anybody. I'm just planning on having a 'me' day."

"Oh, yeah? Solf, every day is a 'you' day."

Solf did not appreciate Grey's humor at the moment and he sneered at his phone in preparation to hanging it up. Then he put it back to his ear. "Where's a good place?"

"Oh, fine! You want me to endorse the competition? I ain't runnin' a charity here."

"Fine. Have a nice life."

"No, wait, wait, wait! I'm just playin'! You lookin' for a place that's got a decent bar where everyone knows your name and they're glad you came—"

"Uh, yeah, no," Solf said firmly.

"Okay." Grey laughed quietly. "Well, like I said, it's Thursday, so places won't be too crowded. Just the usual bar flies. There's that biker place over there by the stadium…I can tell by your stony silence that that's a no. Oh, hey, there's The Chateau. Kind of a fancy-ass name for a pub, but it's basically a pub. The food's good, too. I'd join you if I wasn't busy."

Solf groaned. "No. I know that place. It's kind of too much of a 'family' atmosphere and I seriously don't want to be anywhere where there's kids. Plus, it's run by someone who's related to someone I work with."

"Yeah, actually, I knew that, but I figured since it was a school night, your fine colleagues won't be out getting a jump on the weekend. And there won't be any kids sitting at the bar. Chris Mustang is actually a pretty down girl for an old lady. She's also got some pretty hot waitresses."

Solf could really not care less about hot waitresses as the moment, but he was starting to get restless and he really didn't want to be here. "Fine."

"Still, you know where to find me."

"Uh-huh." For a moment, Solf nearly gave into the temptation to spill everything into a sympathetic ear, but it was entirely too humiliating. Also, even though Grey was the closest thing he had to a friend, the man still treated information as a commodity. He somehow seemed to know everything about everybody. This was just a little too sensitive for the likes of him. "Thanks. Later."

"Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…"

Chris Mustang chuckled huskily and charitably left the rest unsaid. Solf had actually gotten through his first jack and coke before she sidled up to the corner of the bar he intended to occupy for the evening.

"It's a school night, you know."

"Not for me, it isn't," Solf replied.

He had to admit, he liked it here. It was neither highbrow nor lowbrow. He avoided it on weekends when Roy and Maes and their clique and a whole lot of other people descended upon the place. During the week he either couldn't indulge too much or he was at his father's for dinner.

Chris lifted a penciled brow. "Oh? Lucky you. Taking a long weekend?"

"The longest." Solf slid his empty glass toward her. "Same again."

Chris took his glass and started up another with her own hands. "You look down, sweetie. Life kicked you in the nads? Daddy giving you a hard time?"

Solf sighed. Maybe coming here wasn't such a good idea. Some people seemed to know a little too much about him. "Just stuff," he mumbled.

Chris gave his glass a more generous splash of bourbon that the other bartender had. "There's stuff and there's stuff."

She topped off the glass with coke and slid it toward him, but she held on to it as he tried to pull it closer. He gave her a puzzled glare.

"Do you know, I could have been your mother," she said in a casual tone that didn't quite fit what she said.

Solf stared at her. "Sorry?"

Chris let go of the glass and waved her hand. "Don't be. I'm not. Your father and I were pretty hot a very, very long time ago."

Solf wasn't sure he wanted to know that. "I'm not sure I wanted to know that."

"Just something for the history books, sweetie. The ones they don't print." She raised her shoulders. "But he craved money and prestige more than anything else and that gets old after a while."

"It's better than nothing."

"Maybe. I don't regret dumping him. No offense, sweetie."

"None taken, believe me." He hoped she would go away and see to her other customers, but she stayed there, contemplating him, which was a little hard to ignore. "Um, no offense, sweetie, but I came here for some solitary misery nursing."

"I can see that."

"Okay…so…"

"Oh, honey, don't you know misery loves company?" Chris said with a coaxing smile. "I'm an old-fashioned bartender. I have a degree in Woe Management and Take-It-To-My-Grave-Discretion. Come on! Dish!"

"No!" Solf retorted petulantly. "This is personal!"

Chris shrugged and waved a hand. "Suit yourself."

She began to move away and as she did Solf experienced a feeling like watching the last rescue helicopter flying away as he sat on the roof of a house surrounded by rising flood waters. He took a quick glance around the bar. There were only about a half dozen faces around there and none of them were familiar.

Even as he wondered why the hell he was doing so, he began, sounding louder and more desperate than he meant to, "I've got—"

Chris sidled back, making it look like she was tidying that potion of the bar. "Yes?" she prompted quietly.

Solf lowered his voice. "I've got—or I've been told that I've got—a kid."

The towel wiping the bar counter stilled for a moment and Chris' head nodded slightly. "Oh." She smiled. "Congratulations!"

"Uh, no." Solf scowled "This is not a good thing."

"I see." Chris cast him a somewhat less than sympathetic look. "So what makes your situation any worse than any other baby daddy?"

Solf stared at her, outraged. "I am not a baby daddy!" he hissed. "I'm not even convinced it—she—is mine!"

"There are tests, you know."

"Yeah, well…" Solf picked up his drink with a nod of certainty. "You can bet that's the first thing I'm doing when she gets here."

"Hm. What sort of relationship do you have with the mother?"

"Non-existent," Solf muttered. "She died a couple of weeks ago and her family's dumping the kid on me."

Chris's eyes widened. She glanced around her, noting that the other patrons were clustered at the other end of the bar, watching whatever sports spectacular was on the television. Then she leaned closer to Solf. "Okay, this isn't even remotely light-hearted gossip anymore. This is serious shit. You mean to tell me that there's a child out there that nobody wants and you're whining about having to nut up and do something out of the goodness of your heart or at least out of the considerable depth of your wallet to help this poor child out?" Her eyes narrowed. "I oughta kick you outta my bar, you worm!"

Solf gaped at her. "Excuse me?"

"My daddy bailed on us when I was twelve so you'll have to forgive me if I don't cry in your beer with you," Chris said, the heat of her rant having cooled. "Has it occurred to you to stop thinking of this as a personal dilemma and starting thinking about it as taking a moral stand?"

Solf threw his hands up. "Why is everybody getting up my ass about morals? I don't even have a choice to make because my job is on the line! You know what?" He slid off the bar stool. "I'm outta here. What's my tab?"

"Oh, sit down, you big baby!" Chris scolded. "Believe it or not, I know what you're going through."

"Bullshit!" Solf muttered.

"No, no. That's the straight up truth. My nephew was thrust on my hands when he was six years old and I had not the slightest idea what to do with him."

Solf paused, intrigued. "Really?" He was hardly close enough to Roy, or any of his co-workers for that matter, to be privy to intimate details of their lives. He sat back down. "I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes. And let me tell you, it was awkward," Chris went on. "At the time I was running an agency that offered certain intimate solutions. That's what it was called, actually. Intimate Solutions. Sounds like I was selling underwear."

"No shit?" Solf grinned. "You were a pimp?"

"Certainly not!" Chris snapped. "I took meticulous care of my ladies! I ran a very clean, very discreet, very high class escort service. I made sure my people had medical benefits and paid vacations. But…" she sighed. "I did sort of feel just a little bit dirty after so many years. So I switched from escorts to Demon Rum." She spread her arms. Then she gave a soft, nostalgic laugh. "But you know, I suppose I did already have a certain maternal instinct. I was always available to my ladies with a shoulder to cry on. So when Roy came along it ended up being not so much of a stretch."

"Well…" Solf pulled his drink back toward himself. "As awesomely heartwarming as that story was, it doesn't really do me any good."

Chris rolled her eyes. "'Cause it's all about you, of course. Listen, Solfie—"

"Don't call me that! Makes me sound like a poodle."

Chris smiled, leaving Solf to wonder what sort of picture she was conjuring up in her head. "I'm not sure what it is you want me to tell you, hon. I am certainly not going to suggest a way out. I will tell you that all you can do is your best."

"Wow. Thanks." Solf pressed the cold glass to his forehead. "You know, the longer this sinks in, the—" He drained his glass and stood up. "Forget it."

"The more scared you get."

Solf stilled. Chris regarded him with the look of some ancient goddess of fate. "That's what you were going to say, wasn't it?"

"Tch!" Solf took some cash out of his wallet and set it on the counter. He didn't want to wait around to sign any charge slips. "That was totally not what I was going to say." He turned and walked out.

That was totally what he was going to say.