Pittsburgh and its outlying suburbs had been home to two million humans before the first Startup. Only sixty thousand remained. It meant whole sections of the city were nearly abandoned. Finding housing was easy — making it safe and livable was the trick.
Carl Moser was leading vocalist and bass guitar for his band Naekanain, Elvish for “I don’t understand,” which was usually the first thing humans learned to say. Moser had laid claim to an entire block of porch-front row houses on the edge of the Strip District. He was in a constant state of renovation as he merged the individual houses into a commune for artists. The place confused most humans since it presented twelve front doors to visitors. Since only the middle seven of the twelve houses had so far been merged into “main house,” it was sort of an intelligence test. The “front” door was the one painted Wind Clan blue with Moser’s name written out phonetically in Elvish on the lintel.
Moser threw open the door a few minutes after Oilcan rang the bell a third time. “Freaking hell, I’m going to take this damn thing off its hinges if no one else answers the frigging door.”
“Naeso sae kailani,” Briar barked somewhere in the back of the rambling house. The High Elvish was an extremely polite way to say “No way in hell.”
“Then answer the damn door!” Moser shouted back in English.
“It’s not my job,” Briar called back.
“Not my job, not my job,” Moser muttered in falsetto and then shouted, “Then freaking tell someone else to answer the door!”
“Floss Flower!” Briar shouted in Elvish.
“Shya.” The reply from the newest resident, a weaver, came from somewhere far to the right.
“You’re door guard from now on!” Briar shouted.
There was a pause in the clacking of a loom and then a slightly defeated “Shya.”
“Elves,” Moser growled quietly in English. “Always ‘who answers to whom.’ Who freaking cares as long as it gets done?”
“Anarchist,” Oilcan said.
Moser pumped his hand over his head. “Freedom!”
“You’ve gotta give for what you take.” Oilcan sang the George Michaels tune.
Moser launched into song. “Freedom! Freedom!” He jerked his head to indicate that Oilcan was to come in as he continued to sing, his fingers picking out chords on an air guitar. “You’ve gotta give for what you take!”
Merry eyed the Frankenstein monster of a room beyond the front door. Originally it was the living room with a large archway to the dining room and a staircase to the second floor. The stairs were completely walled off with plywood, and a steel garage door had been installed in the archway so the foyer could act as a barbican. All the enclaves out on the rim had similar fortified entrances, but usually more elegantly decorated. Oilcan tugged Merry gently inside and made sure the door was locked behind her.
The two houses to the right and four to the left of the building they entered had been merged into the great “main” residence. The load-bearing walls between the houses had been carefully breached so the dining rooms merged into one long room. Moser had paid someone that could cut ironwood to make him a twenty-foot-long table with nearly two dozen mismatched chairs around it. Platters of food were laid out for dinner.
“We’ve got meat!” Moser cried as Oilcan guided Merry into the dining room. Moser hit the automatic door opener on the wall, and the steel garage door rattled down into place. “You’re staying for dinner.”
“We won’t have meat if you invite all of Pittsburgh.” Briar came out of the nearest kitchen carrying another platter. She was wearing daisy-duke cutoff shorts and a halter top. She gave Oilcan a slight smile that vanished instantly as she glanced past him at Merry. “We’re not feeding her.”
“What?” Moser said.
“She’s Stone Clan.” Briar folded her arms. “We’re not wasting food on her.”
“Hey, hey, hey,” Moser said. “I caught the damn river shark. I bought the damn groceries. We’re feeding who I say we feed. Someone has to witness that I’m a mighty provider.”
“I’m not feeding a filthy Stone Clan bitch,” Briar snarled.
Oilcan was glad that the conversation was in English. By the way Merry was ducking behind him, she could still understand the tone of Briar’s voice.
“She’s Oilcan’s friend,” Moser said.
“I don’t care. .,” Briar started to protest.
Moser played his trump card. “Nagarou’s guest.”
Briar went still except for a muscle in her jaw that jerked with her irritation. “Fine,” she finally snapped. “But he’s not leaving her afterward.”
“No, she’s staying with me,” Oilcan said.
Briar stormed into the kitchen to crash pots and pans together.
Moser leaned close to whisper, “She’s so proud of Tinker saving us from a Stone Clan domi, you’d think Briar had given birth to her.”
Oilcan winced and whispered, “Please, never repeat that to Tinker. She’d freak.”
“I am not a stupid man,” Moser whispered.
“Yes, you are,” Briar grumbled as she came back out of the kitchen with two bowls of salad. “Sit. Eat.” She thumped the two bowls down and shouted “Food!” to gather the troops.
Moser had added to his “family” since Oilcan had eaten here last. The count was now fourteen adults, equally divided between human and elf. As always, the conversation slipped and slided in and out of English and Low Elvish, often changing from one to the other in mid-sentence. The food was mostly produce out of the commune’s walled-in garden, cooked into elfin dishes. The star of the meal was fillet of river shark grilled to flakey perfection.
“It was just little baby river shark.” Moser stretched out his hands as wide as they would go. “Boy, it put up a fight.”
“You’re lucky it didn’t pull you in and eat you,” Briar growled.
“Or the jump fish didn’t nail you,” Oilcan said.
“I told you I’m not a stupid man.” Moser served Oilcan another fillet. “I was fishing from the Sixteenth Street Bridge. It’s too high up for jump fish.” Because Moser loved to entertain, he grinned at Merry, trying to make her more comfortable. “Do you like it?”
“Yes, it’s very good.” Merry’s smile was incandescent. “I like Wind Clan cooking. So many flavors in every bite. There’s a lot of human food I want to try. Chiming of Metal said I have to have peanut butter.”
There was laughter from the humans and a chorus of “Peanut butter is wonderful!” from the elves.
“Wait, you know Windchime?” Moser asked.
“We studied together under Bright Melody of Fire.”
“You play an olianuni?” Moser shouted and slipped into English in his excitement. “You’re fucking shitting me!”
“No!” Briar snapped.
“We need an olianuni,” Moser said to Briar.
“Never!” Briar stood up.
Moser stood up, too. “We need an olianuni!”
“No, no, no!” Briar thumped on the table, making all the dishes around her jump and rattle.
“This is Pittsburgh.” Moser put his hands on the table and leaned toward Briar. “We are Pittsburgh. We don’t let the chains of tradition bind us.”
“I will not work with a lying Stone Clan bitch!” Briar cried and stormed from the room.
Moser sighed and sat down.
“Shouldn’t you go after her?” Oilcan asked.
Moser shook his head and picked up his fork. “Nah, she’ll just throw things at me and be ashamed about it later. I’ll give her time to cool down. Since the war broke out, the elves are the only ones with money to burn, and elves want the fucking works — the drums and guitars and the olianuni. The other bands are booking gigs, but not us. We have too many mouths to feed not to work.”