“Take first throw.”
He shook his head; one could refuse a courtesy. She gathered up the wands.
A chair moved. One of the passengers was coming over to them. Raen hesitated in her cast and then looked aside in annoyance, the wands still in her hand.
“I am ser Merek Eln,” the man said, and gestured back to the woman who had also risen. “Sera Parn Kest, my wife.”
Raen inclined her head as if this were of great moment to her. The betas seemed to miss the irony. “Kont’ Raen a Sul.” And with cold courtesy. “Grace to you both.”
“Are you . . . bound for Istra?”
Raen smiled, though coldly. “Is there anything more remote?”
Merek Eln blinked and swallowed. “The ship must surely start its return there. Istra is the edge of the Reach.”
“Then that must be where I am bound.”
“We . . . are in ITAK, Istran Trade . . .”
“. . . Association, Kontrin-licensed. Yes. I’m familiar with the registered corporations.”
“We offer our assistance, our— hospitality.”
Raen looked him up and down, and sera Kest also. She let the silence continue. “How kind,” she said at last. “I’ve never had such an offer. Perhaps I’ll take advantage of it. I don’t believe there are other Kontrin on Istra.”
“No,” Eln said faintly. “Kontrin, if you would care to discuss the matter which brings you here—”
“I don’t.”
“We might . . . assist you.”
“You aren’t listening, ser Merek Eln. I assure you, I have no interests in ITAK matters.”
“Yet you chose Istra.”
“Not I.”
The man blinked, confused.
“I didn’t divert the ship,” Raen Said.
“If we can be of service—”
“You’ve offered me your hospitality. I’ve said that I shall consider it. For the moment, as you see, I’m engaged. I have four games yet to go this evening. Perhaps you’ll care to watch.” She turned her back on ser Merek Eln and sera Kest, looked at Jim, who waited quietly. Azi were accustomed to immobility when not pursuing orders. “What do you know of Istra?” she asked him.
“It’s a hive world. A contact point with Outside. Their sun is beta Hydri.”
“The contact point. I don’t recall any Kontrin going there recently. I knew one who did, once. But surely there are some amusements to be had there.”
“I, don’t know,” Jim said very faintly, quieter in the presence of the Istrans than he had been Since the beginning. “I belong to Andra Lines. My knowledge doesn’t extend beyond the range of my ship.”
“Do these folk make you nervous? I’ll ask them to leave if you like.”
“Please, no,” Jim said hoarsely. Raen shrugged and made the cast.
It came up three stars. She took first throw. Twelve. Jim made his: two. Raen gathered thirty-six points. Jim took up the wands as if they were venomed, threw three whites. Raen won the dicing and automatically took game.
“Your luck has hit a sudden downward turn,” Raen said, gathering up the three wands. She passed them to him. “But there’s still margin. We’re at four hundred fifty-five to your four hundred sixty-two.”
He lost all but the last game, setting the tally at four hundred sixty-three to four hundred fifty-seven. His margin was down to six.
He was sweating profusely. Raen ordered a drink for them each, and Jim took a great swallow of his, all the while staring at a blank corner of the room, meeting no one’s eyes.
“These folk do make you uncomfortable,” she said. “But if you win— why, then you’ll be out among them, free and very wealthy. Perhaps wealthier than they. Do you think of that?”
He took yet another drink and gave no answer. Sweat broke and ran at his temple.
“How many games yet remain?” she asked.
“We dock three days from now.”
“With time in the evening for a set?”
He shook his head. This was to his advantage. He still had his lead.
“Twenty games, then.” She glanced at the Istrans, gestured them to seats on opposite sides of her table, between him and her. Their faces blanched. There was rage there, and offense. They came, and sat down. “Do you want to play a round for amusement?” she asked Jim.
“I would rather not,” he said. “I’m superstitious.”
Azi served them, all four. Jim stared at the area of the table between his hands.
“It’s been a long voyage,” Kont’ Raen said. “Yet the society in the salon has been pleasant. What brings you out from Istra and back, seri?”
“Trade,” Kest said.
“Ah.”
“Kontrin—” Merek Eln said. She looked at him. He moistened his lips and shifted his weight in his chair. “Kontrin, there’s been some disturbance on Istra. Matters are still in a state of flux. Doubtless— doubtless you’ve had some report of these affairs.”
She shrugged. “I’ve kept much to myself of late. So trade took you off Istra.”
There was a hesitation, a decision. Merek Eln went pale, wiped at his face. “The need for funds,” he confided. His voice was hardly more than a hoarse whisper. “There has been hardship on Istra. There’s been fighting in some places. Sabotage. One has to be careful about associations. If you’ve brought forces—”
“You expect too much of me,” Kont’ Raen said. “I’m here on holiday. That is my profession.”
This was irony even they understood as such.
They said nothing. Kont’ Raen sipped at her drink and finished it. Then she rose and left the table, and Jim excused himself hastily and withdrew among the azi who served.
The thought occurred to him, not for the first time, that Kont’ Raen was simply insane.
He thought that if she gave him the chance now to withdraw from the wager, he would take it, serve the ship to the end of his days, content in his fate.
He lost two points of his margin the next evening. The tally stood at four hundred sixty-seven to four hundred sixty-three.
There was no sleep that night. Tomorrow evening was the last round. No one in the azi quarters offered to speak to him. The others sat apart, as if he had a contagion. It was the same when one approached termination. If he won, they would hate him; if he lost, he would only confirm what they believed, the luck that made them what they were. He crouched on his mat in a corner of the compartment, tucked his knees up to his chin and bowed his head, counting the interminable moments of the final hours.
vi
Jim was at the table early as usual, waiting with the wands and the dice. The Istrans arrived. Other azi served them, while even beta crew arrived in the salon to watch the last games. The whole ship was shut down to skeleton crew, and those necessary posts were linked in by monitor.
Jim looked at the table surface rather than face the stares of free men who owned his contract, who had come to watch the show. They would not own it after this night, one way or the other.
There were light steps in the corridor, toward the door. He looked up, saw Kont’ Raen coming toward him. He rose, of respect, the same ritual as every evening. Azi set drinks on the table, as every evening.
She was seated, and he resumed his chair.
What others did in the room now he neither knew nor cared. She cast the dice for the first throw; he did, and won the right to begin.
He won the first game. She won the next. The sigh of breath was audible all about the salon.
The third game was hers, and the fourth and fifth.
“Rest?” she asked. He wiped at the sweat that gathered on his upper lip and shook his head. He won the sixth and lost the seventh and eighth.
“Four sixty-nine to four sixty-nine,” she said. Her eyes glittered with excitement. She ordered ice, and pause
d for a drink of water. Jim drained his glass and wiped his face with his chilled hand. The cooling did not seem enough in the salon. People were crowded all about them. He asked for another drink, sipped it.
“Your stakes are greater,” she said. “I cede first throw.”
He accepted the wands. Suddenly he trusted nothing, no generosity of hers. He trusted none present. Of all the bets which had been made on the azi deck, he was sure now how they had been laid. The looks as the Kontrin tore away his lead let that be known . . . who had bet on him, and who against. Some of those against, he had believed liked him.
He cast. Nothing showed but black and white; he declined and she cast: the same. It was a slow game, careful. At twenty-four he threw a black . . . chose to play the throw against her thirty-six, and won not only the pair of ships, but also the black, wiping out his score. His hands began to sweat. He played more conservatively then, built up his score and declined the next black, dreading black in her hand, which did not show. He reached eighty-eight. She held seventy-two, and swept up a trio of stars to take the ninth game.
It stood at four hundred sixty-nine to four hundred seventy, her favor.
“What do you propose if we tie?” she asked.
“An eleventh game,” he said hoarsely. Only then did it occur to him that he might have proposed cancellation of bets. She nodded, accepting him at his word. He must win tenth to force an eleventh.
She gathered up the wands. The living chitin on the back of her hand shone like jewels. The wands spilled across the table, white, white, white.
Game, for the winner.
She offered him the dice. She led; the courtesy was mandated by the custom of the game. His hand was sweating; he wiped it on his chest, took the dice again, and cast: six.
She took up the cubes for her own turn, threw.
Seven.
“Game,” she said.
There was silence. Then those in the room cheered . . . save the azi, who faded back, reminded that escape was not for their kind. Jim blinked, and fought for breath. He began to shiver and could not stop.
Kont’ Raen gathered up the wands and, one by one, broke them. Then she leaned back in her chair and slowly finished her drink. Quiet was restored in the room. Officers and azi remembered that they had duties elsewhere. Only the Istran couple remained.
“Out,” she said.
The couple hesitated, indignant, determined for a moment to stand their ground. Then they thought better of it and left. The door closed. Jim stared at the table. An azi never looked directly at anyone.
There was a long silence.
“Finish your drink,” she said. He did so; he had wanted it, and had not known whether he dared. “I thank you,” she said quietly. “You have relieved my boredom, and few have ever done that.”
He looked up at her, suicidal in his mood. He had been pushed far. The same desperation which had kept him from withdrawing from the game still possessed him.
“You could have dropped out,” she reminded him.
“I could have won.”
“Of course.”
He took a last swallow from his glass, mostly icemelt, and set it down. The thought occurred to him again that the Kontrin was quite, quite mad, and that out of whim she might order his termination when they docked. She evidently travelled alone. Perhaps she preferred it that way. He was lost in the motivations of Kontrin. He had been created to serve the ships of Andra Lines. He knew nothing else.
She walked over and took the bottle from the Istrans’ table, examined the label critically and poured again, for him and for her. The incongruity of the action made him sure that she was mad. There should have been fresh glasses, no ice. He winced inwardly, and realized that such concerns now were ridiculous. He drank; she did, in bizarre celebration.
“None of them,” she said, with a shrug at all the empty tables and chairs, the memories of departed passengers, “none of them could dice with a Kontrin. Not one.” She grinned and laughed, and the grin faded to a solemn expression. She lifted the glass to him, ironic salute. “Your contract is already purchased. Ever borne arms?”
He shook his head, appalled. He had never touched a weapon, seldom even seen one.
She laughed and set the glass down.
And rose.
“Come,” she said.
Later, high in the upper decks and the luxury of the Kontrin’s staterooms, it came to what he thought it might.
BOOK FOUR
i
“Commercial,” Moth muttered, and steepled her wrinkled hands, staring at them to the exclusion of the several heads of Houses who surrounded her. She laughed softly, contemplating the reports of chaos strewn in a line across the Reach.
“I fear,” said Cen Moran, “I lack your perception of humor in the matter. This involves Istra, and the hives, and the surviving Meth-maren. I see nothing whatsoever of humor affordable in the combination.”
“Kill her,” said Ros Hald.
Moth turned a chill stare on him, and he fell silent. “Why? For trespass? I don’t recall that visiting Istra is grounds for such extreme measures.”
“It’s a sensitive area, Istra.”
“Yes. Isn’t it.”
The Hald broke eye contact. Moth did not miss that fact, but glanced instead at Moran and the others, raised querulous brows. “I think some Kontrin presence there might be salutary, provided it’s discreet and sensible. The Meth-maren’s presence is usually quiet toward non-Kontrin.”
“A hive-world,” said Moran, “another hive-world, and critical.”
“The only hive-world,” said Moth, “without Kontrin permanently resident. We’ve barred ourselves from that . . . sensitive . . . contact point, at least by custom. Depressing as Istra is reputed to be, I suspect we simply lack enthusiasm for the necessary privations. But majat don’t seem to mind being there, do they? In my long memory, only Lian had the interest to visit the place after the beta City was set down there— and that was very long ago. Maybe we should reconsider. Maybe we’ve created a blind spot in our intelligence. Reports from Istra are scant. Perhaps a Kontrin should be there. It surely couldn’t hurt their economy.”
“But,” said Kahn a Beln, “this Kontrin, Eldest? There’s been trouble across the Reach. And the Meth-maren, of the hive-masters— of that House— the simplest prediction would tell us. . . .”
“We will let her alone,” Moth said.
“If it were put to a vote,” said Moran, “that sentiment would not carry. Thon would be the logical choice, trustworthy. The Meth-maren, no.”
Moth looked at him steadily. A measure would have to be written up formally: some one of them would have to put his name on it as proponent. Someone would have to risk his personal influence and the well-being of his agents. She did not estimate that Moran quite meant it as an ultimatum: he was simply kin to the ineffectual Thons. There were more meaningful, more inflammatory issues on which opposition could rise. When challenge came, if it came in the Council at all, it would not be like this, on a directive for assassination; such things did not make good rallying points. Assassinations were usually managed by House or executive order, quietly and without embarrassments.
“Let her alone,” Moth said, “for now.”
There was a small and sullen silence at the table. Talk began quietly, drifted to other matters. There were excuses made early, departures in small groups. Moth watched them, and noted who left with whom, and reckoned that not a few of them were plotting her demise.
And after me, she thought with a taut, hateful smile, let it come.
She spread upon the table the reports which had occupied the committee, all the various problems with which the Council had to deal: over-breeding of azi, population stresses and economic distress among underemployed betas, turmoil in the hives, killings of greens and the lately-recovered blues by reds and golds on Cerd
in. The Thon House, hive-liaisons in the place of Meth-marens, proved ineffectual: the reports skirted that fact and covered truth with verbiage.
And, persistently, reports that reds sought out Kontrin and made gifts, trespassed boundaries, turned up in beta areas.
There was a proposal put forward by the House of Ilit and the econbureau that this surplus be consumed by the modest ship-building industry of Pedra. It gathered support; it was very possible that it would pass. It would alleviate conditions that created discontent on several worlds.
Moth studied it, frowning— remembered to push a button, to summon the young man waiting— and sat leaning her mouth against her curled hand and staring moodily at the persuasive statistics on the graphs. The Hald entered; she was still pursuing her train of thought, and let him stand, the while she read and gnawed at her finger.
At last she shifted the reports into three stacks and then into one, and put atop it a dry monograph entitled Breeding Patterns among the Hives.
“Commercial,” she chuckled again, to the listening walls, and looked up sharply at young Tand Hald. “Kill her, you would say too. I’ve heard that Hald point of view until my ears ache. You’re nothing if not consistent. Where’s Morn?”
Tand Hald shrugged, stared at her quite directly. “I’m sure I don’t know, Eldest.”
“Pol with him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know that either. Not when I left him.”
“Where did you part with them?”
“Meron.” He failed to flinch. The eyes remained steady. “Pol involved himself with amusements there. Morn went his own way; I went mine. No one controls them.”
She gazed at him steadily, broke contact after a moment. “You want her taken out.”
“I give the best advice I have.”
“Why are you so apprehensive of this one subject? Personal grudge?”
“No. Surely your agent who watches your other agents would have turned up any personal bias in this.”
She laughed softly at the impertinence. The youngest Hald had been with her too long, too closely. She was not diverted. “But why then? What interference has she ever attempted in Family business? She’s never made an economic ripple; she only— travels, from time to time.”
The Deep Beyond: Cuckoo's Egg / Serpent's Reach Page 29
