a KID called Dgod

The rumour came down the bench one ear at a time, and a KID called Dgod leaned in with everyone else to watch it travel.

It was the busiest seat in the alley that afternoon. Regulars sat hip to hip along a bench worn smooth at both ends from years of Beasts sliding on and off. When a KID called Dgod had stopped at the edge of the crowd with their newspaper under their arm, three of them had shuffled along without a word to make room. Now a KID called Dgod sat wedged near the far end with the paper folded on their knee and a tin cup of stair soup steaming in their hands. Overhead, the sky was a narrow strip between leaning stacks, and nobody seemed to need any more of it.

Chalk tallies climbed the wall behind the bench, one stroke for every Beast who had passed a rumour on without checking it. The strokes went higher than anyone could reach. Someone had clearly fetched a ladder.

Ottavio Senn stood at the end with a stub of chalk, watching each mouth as it moved. They were a Skull too, older, the knit at their jaw gone soft. They hadn’t drawn a stroke yet today, and they had the look of a Beast trying very hard not to hope.

The Piglet beside a KID called Dgod cupped a hand to a KID called Dgod’s ear.

“Mortar Yard’s run out of honey,” they whispered, thrilled. “No Slab tomorrow.”

They sat back, and the whole bench waited. One seat was left after a KID called Dgod’s, and that Beast was already grinning, ready to groan. Down the row, someone was bringing the soup pot along for second cups, close behind the rumour.

a KID called Dgod knew how it would go. They’d pass it on, the last seat would groan, cups would bang, and the pot would reach them with the whole row laughing together. They would be one of them. It was the thing they’d wanted since the moment they walked in.

But that morning on the stair, a Beast had passed them sideways and said “Source?”, and a KID called Dgod had answered “Just looking,” which seemed to do. Two cooks from the Mortar Yard had been on that stair too, grumbling. One batch of honey was running late. One batch, that was all.

Ottavio’s chalk lifted toward the wall.

“Can I ask the bench?” a KID called Dgod said. It came out louder than they meant.

Heads turned all the way up the row.

“It’s one batch,” a KID called Dgod said. “Running late. I heard the cooks this morning. There’ll be Slab, just later.”

Nobody banged a cup. The Beast in the last seat stopped grinning and looked at their soup. Two places up, someone shifted a little, not far, but a KID called Dgod felt the gap open like a draught.

The pot reached them. The Beast carrying it filled a KID called Dgod’s cup without a word and moved on.

Ottavio looked at a KID called Dgod and turned the chalk over once in their fingers. Then they looked at the wall and slid the chalk into their pocket, the stroke undrawn.

a KID called Dgod held the cup and stayed exactly where they were. Their heart was going fast. They had spoken before they’d finished watching, and they couldn’t remember ever doing that before.

The Piglet nudged them, quietly. “So who told it wrong, then?”

They both looked up the bench to the head seat. It was empty. A tin cup stood on it, still steaming, and nobody on the bench could say who had been sitting there.

The Mortar Yard worked in the dark, because concrete pours best while the air is cool. a KID called Dgod came in through the gate with their newspaper under one arm and an empty sack over the other, and stopped to watch for a minute first.

Builders moved between long troughs, raking grey mix flat with the backs of shovels. Someone had scratched a bridge into the dust on a trough lid, three arches and a lot of arrows. Along the far wall, brick moulds sat in a row, still warm, pressed full of Slab. The whole Yard smelled of toasting oats. Only oats. No honey in it anywhere.

Ottavio Senn was already there, leaning on a post by the ovens with their hands in their pockets. They nodded at a KID called Dgod, once, the way you nod at someone you haven’t decided about.

a KID called Dgod nodded back. Their heart did the fast thing again.

Back at the Intake the stove was banked and the bunks were made, and sometime after first light a knot of walkers was due in off the dark stretch past the estates. They would be cold and grey to the elbows, and they would want something solid in their hands. Wynn had already set out a bowl by the door for whoever came. a KID called Dgod had promised to fill it.

The cook was a broad Hare called Bettany, knocking bars out of the moulds two at a time. “Slab’s plain this morning,” Bettany said, before a KID called Dgod could ask. “Oats and salt. Take it or leave it. There’s stair soup if you’re fussy.”

a KID called Dgod wanted to ask the other thing. They could feel Ottavio listening from the post. If the honey had never been coming, the Bench had been right to shift away yesterday, and a KID called Dgod had shouted down a whole row for nothing. If it had, then somebody up that bench had told it wrong, and Ottavio’s chalk would have to land on them. Either way, a KID called Dgod would be the one who’d started it.

Bettany’s tray was too hot to set on the bench. a KID called Dgod unfolded the newspaper and spread it flat, and Bettany set the tray down on it with a grunt that might have been thanks. Then a KID called Dgod picked up a mould and started knocking bars loose beside them. It was easier to ask with their hands busy.

“The honey,” a KID called Dgod said. “Is it gone?”

“Gone?” Bettany snorted. “It’s one batch, running late. The cart’s stuck behind a dark stretch. Always was just the one.”

Ottavio pushed off the post.

“Run out,” Ottavio said. “That’s what came down my bench. Run out, no Slab tomorrow.”

“Not from this Yard it didn’t.” Bettany slapped another bar onto the newspaper. “Ask whoever said it.”

Ottavio took a hand out of their pocket. The chalk stub was in it. They turned it over once, the way they had yesterday, and looked at a KID called Dgod.

“You’ll be on the bench this afternoon,” Ottavio said. It wasn’t quite a question.

a KID called Dgod thought about the warm row, and the gap that had opened beside them like a draught. If they sat there today, someone would get a stroke on the wall, and everyone would know who had fetched the proof.

They filled the sack instead. Plain bars, two dozen, still warm through the cloth. The walkers would have a thinner supper than a KID called Dgod had hoped, but they’d have it, and they’d have it on time.

“I’ve got walkers coming in,” a KID called Dgod said. “After that, yes. I’ll be there.”

They shouldered the sack. It was heavier than it looked. They were nearly at the gate when Ottavio spoke again, quieter, mostly to the troughs.

“Somebody left a cup on the head seat again. Before I came down. Still hot.”

a KID called Dgod turned. Ottavio was already walking off toward the alley, chalk back in their pocket, to look before the bench filled.

a KID called Dgod stood there a moment with the sack on their shoulder and the newspaper left behind under Bettany’s tray. Then they went the other way, toward the Intake and the stove and the road. They walked a little faster than they needed to, and they didn’t stop wondering whose cup it was.