by Sharon Lee
Miri nodded warily. "But people-" she began and chopped off her words as the door cycled to admit Handler and Sheather.
"It has been arranged," Handler told them, "that we shall all six dine in the so-called Grotto located belowstairs in this establishment. There is said to be music, which our elder brother will find pleasing, and there is also dancing, which we thought might be pleasing to our human friends. And," he said, voice dropping to what Miri thought must be intended as a whisper, "the form of the Grotto may be pleasing to all of us, since it is a likeness of a cavern system found elsewhere on this planet. We have bespoken the table for eight of the clock, and we hope that there will be sufficient time before the celebration for you to refresh yourselves, adorn yourselves, and be ready. We would not wish the event to begin with unseemly haste."
The humans exchanged a glance, and Val Con bowed.
"We thank you for your thoughtfulness. Six hours is more than adequate for our preparations. We shall be ready in the fullness of time."
"That is very well, then," Handler said. "If you will excuse us, we shall take our leave so that we may make analyses and also prepare for the evening. It does bode to be a time of some discussion."
The humans bowed their thanks and acknowledgements, Miri attempting to copy Val Con's fluid style and finding it much harder than it looked. The Clutch adjourned to their own quarters.
Miri sighed. "Well, I don't know how much adornment I'll be doing, though the refreshment part don't sound too bad. Maybe I can order a fancy new shirt out of the valet." She was talking to herself, not expecting an answer; Val Con's reply made her jump.
"You can't go like that, you know," he told her seriously. "Not into the most exclusive resort on the planet."
"Yeah, well, I can't go in any of the clothes the valet's peddling, either! Have you looked at the prices on those things? I could mount an invasion of Terra for the price of a pair of shoes. I'm here to pick up my money, remember? It's gotten so I gotta water my kynak so I can have a second drink. I sure can't go into debt to finance something I'll wear once in my life!"
Val Con tipped his head, brows bent together in puzzlement. "You would be very conspicuous in what you are wearing now," he said simply. "And Edger has said that the expense of the trip is his, since he counts a debt owed me, and because he had not thought to come to Econsey to research the local need for knives. Even if he wished not to extend his cognizance to you, I might pay-"
"No." She frowned stormily. "That ain't the way I do things. I can just stay in my room, beg off that it's a holy day or something."
"Now that would be an insult, after Handler went to the trouble and thought of arranging a place where we can all eat and enjoy." He paused, seemingly studying the air.
"It would be best not to wear a gun." As he spoke, he opened his pouch and brought out a slender polished stick, something like a Drumetian math-stick.
"Perhaps you could wear your hair to accommodate this." With a flick of the wrist, the stick separated, becoming the handle of a thin, deadly-looking blade, smoothly sharp along the curved edge, wickedly serrated along the other.
Another wrist-flick and the slender dirk was merely a polished stick: knife to ornament. He reversed it and held it out.
Miri hesitated. "I ain't a knife expert-just about know how to use a survival blade."
"If anyone gets close enough to grab you," he said, all reason, "pull it out, flip it open, stick it in, and run. It is not likely you will be pursued." He extended it further. "Simplicity itself, and a precaution only."
She looked from the knife to his face; when she finally accepted the thing, she took it gingerly, as if she much preferred not to.
"I," she announced, "am being bullied."
"Undoubtedly."
"Lazenia spandok," she said, rudely.
His eyebrows shot up. "You speak Liaden?"
"Well enough to swear and pidgin my way through a battle plan. And if ever anybody was a managing bastard, you are. In spades." She turned toward her room, experimentally flipping the hidden blade out and in.
Behind her, he murmured something in Liaden. She whirled, glad the blade was closed.
"That ain't funny, spacer!" The Trade words crackled with outrage. "I ain't a young lady and I don't need you to tell me to clean up my talk!"
"Forgive me." He bowed contrition and dared a question. "Where are you going?"
"To refresh and adorn myself. I've only got about five hours or so, after I decide what shoes to wear."
And she was gone, leaving him to wonder at the sudden bite of bereavement and at the impulse that had led him to address her in the intimate mode, reserved for kin. Or for lovers.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE DOOR CLOSED with a sigh that echoed her own, and she spun, flipping the stickknife onto the desk.
Nasty little toy, she thought, wrinkling her nose as her hand dropped to the grip of the gun on her leg. Just as deadly, surely, but somehow-cleaner? More straightforward? Less personal, maybe?
She shifted slightly, then caught sight of herself in the bed mirror and stuck her tongue out.
Miri Robertson, Girl Philosopher, she thought wryly.
Ilania frrogudon . . . . The echo of Tough Guy's murmuring voice contradicted her and she froze, biting her lower lip.
Liaden was an old language, far, far older than the motley collection of dialects that passed for a Terran language, and divided into two forms: High and Low. High Liaden was used for dealing with most outsiders, such as coworkers, strangers, nodding acquaintances, and shopkeepers. Kin were addressed in Low Liaden-long-time friends, children . . . But never a person considered expendable.
Yet at least twice he'd begun the motions that would have killed her, automatically, efficiently. She might have brushed her death a dozen times with him already; it had taken her time to realize what the mask of inoffensive politeness he sometimes wore was meant to conceal.
His other face-the one with the quirking eyebrows and luminous grins-was the face of a man who loved to laugh and who called heart-music effortlessly from the complex keyboard of the 'chora. It was the face of a man who was good to know: a friend.
A partner.
She moved to the bed and lay back slowly, imposing relaxation on trained muscles.
"A Scout ain't a spy," she informed the ceiling solemnly. "And people ain't tools."
She closed her eyes. Scouts, she thought. Scouts are the nearest there is to heroes . . . . And he'd said First-in Scout. The best of the best: pilot, explorer, linguist, cultural analyst, xenologist-brilliant, adaptable, endlessly resourceful. The future of a world hung on his word alone: Would it be colonized? Opened to trade? Quarantined?
Miri opened her eyes. "Scouts are for holding things together," she clarified for the ceiling. "Spies are for taking things apart."
And that babble he'd given her about tools!
She rolled over, burying her head in the basket of her crossed arms, and relived the moments just passed, when she'd known he was coming across the 'chora at her.
Gods, he's fast! she marveled. Suzuki and Jase would give a year of battle bonuses to have that speed for the old unit, never minding the brain that directed it.
Never mind the brain, indeed. She wondered why he'd checked himself those times she'd seen her death in his eyes. She wondered why he'd trusted her with that deadly little blade, why he'd spoken to her . . . And she wondered, very briefly, if he truly were crazy.
It seemed likely.
The thing to do with crazy people is get lots of room between you and them, she said to herself.
She rolled to her knees in the center of the great bed, bracing her body for the leap to the floor. Time to flit, Robertson. You ain't smart enough to figure this one out.
"Leave!" she shouted a moment later, when she'd moved no further. Damn Murph and the money. Damn the Juntavas and their stupid vendetta. Damn especially a sentence spoken in a language that might have been her grandmother's but never had been h
ers.
Yes, and then? Damn the man who had twice-no, four times-saved her life?
You're a fool, Robertson, she told herself savagely. You're crazier than he is.
"Yeah, well, it's a job," she said aloud, shoulders sagging slightly. "Keeps me busy."
She kicked into a somersault, snapping straight to her feet as the roll flipped her over the edge of the bed. On her way to the bathroom, she paused at the desk and picked up the little wooden stick. So easy to hide . . . She thought of Surebleak and the one or a dozen times in her childhood when such an instrument would have been welcome protection. Memory flashed a face she hadn't seen in years and her hand twitched-the blade was out, silent and ready.
"Aah, what the hell," she muttered and closed the knife, carrying it with her into the bath.
Sometime later, bathed, robed, and damp-haired, she called up the valet's catalog again. She frowned at the first selection, trying to place what was different, and nearly laughed aloud in mingled outrage and amusement.
No price was displayed.
All right, she thought, beginning the scan. If that's how he wants it. I hope I bankrupt him.
It took her longer to realize that she was trying to figure out which clothes might please him, which clothes might make him receptive to an offer to share that immense bed with her this evening.
"Pretty, ain't he?" she asked her reflection sympathetically, then sighed. Pretty and dangerous and fast and smart and crazy as the six of diamonds. She cursed herself silently, wondering why she hadn't recognized the emotion before. Lust. Not just simple lust, of the passing-glance variety, but lust of the classic Lost Week on Moravia kind.
Looking around her-and back at the clothes in the valet's tank-she wondered if he might be interested in a Lost Week sometime. Then she cursed herself some more. Since when did she have a week to lose?
CONNOR PHILLIPS'S SERVICE record, reluctantly provided by Salene, included a holo, which was duly copied and sent around to cops, firefighters, and disaster crews present at the "fire" at the Mixla Arms.
Sergeant McCulloh stepped forward immediately. "Yeah," she told Pete, "I seen him. Redhead kid, him, an' four turtles all left together." She corrugated her forehead in an effort to aid memory. "Said his name was something-or-nother-yos-something. Geek name. Dunno hers. 'Nother geek. Talkin' Trade with the turtles-something about all traveling together for a couple days . . . ." She shrugged broad shoulders. "I'm real sorry, Mr. Smith. Coulda kept the whole bunch right then, if I'd known."
"That's all right, Sergeant," the Chief of Police said, forestalling Pete's frustrated growl. "Now, did you overhear anything that might have indicated where they were going?"
The sergeant shook her massive head. "Nossir. Only that they should all go together."
"Well," the chief said, "that's quite a bit of help, actually. Four turtles and two humans traveling together? They'll be easy to spot." He smiled at his subordinate. "That will be all, Sergeant. Thank you for coming forward with that information. You've been very helpful."
"Yessir. Thank you, sir. Thank you, Mr. Smith." The sergeant whirled on her heel and marched out of the room, shutting the door crisply behind her.
"Great," Pete swore. "All we got to do, I guess, is put out an all-points on four turtles and two geeks and wait till we get a report."
"Actually," the chief said, leaning back in his chair, "that's close. We send out a picture and a note to report any combination of turtle and human. Instructions to observe and report to Mixla Headquarters. Under no circumstances are they to be taken."
"What!" Pete stopped in mid-pace, staring at the other man.
The chief shook his head. "Think about it. The boy's inventive-got himself a nice little diversion there: limited property damage, no risk to life-and if he's linked to the O'Grady incident, like you think, he's probably a tad dangerous." He propped his foot up on the desk top.
"Turtles occupy a very ticklish diplomatic niche. We can't afford to make them mad. And they will be mad, if they count the boy as a friend and some poor joke of a cop comes to arrest him." He shook his head. "The girl's an unknown, but it's a good idea to assume she's as dangerous as the boy-and the turtles are her friends, too."
Pete blinked thoughtfully. "So we wait till they're spotted and nailed, then hit 'em with everything we got so fast the turtles got no time to yell 'ho!' We can say 'sorry' later."
The chief nodded. "Exactly."
"Flawed blades." Edger was saying when Miri entered the room in the early evening. "And only flawed blades, my brothers! All that we have now-warehoused, do you recall, Sheather? Nearest the river?-and all that thrice-accursed cavern can spawn! Who could have imagined such a thing?"
"What use can any being have for flawed knives?" Handler asked, squinting his eyes in puzzlement.
"Ah, they are to be given to certain special individuals in the organization of this Justin Hostro. These individuals are entrusted with tasks having much to do with the honor and integrity of the organization. It is Justin Hostro's thought that a blade used for such a purpose need be used for that purpose alone and never for any other. More, it should be a weapon of impeccable crafting, that it not fail during the task itself.
"These knives fit the criteria Justin Hostro has set down most admirably, is it not so, brother?" This last was directed to Selector, who inclined his head.
"It is, indeed, as if the Cavern of Flawed Blades were created and discovered only for this bargain we have struck with Justin Hostro."
Val Con, perched on the arm of a chair set a little apart from the circle of Clutch members, grinned at the undercurrent of venom in that comment and glanced up as Miri's door sighed open.
She was dressed in a dark blue gown that sheathed her like a second skin in some places, and flowed loose and elegant, like a fall of midnight waters, in others. On the right side, her hair was arranged in a complex knot through which was thrust a slender, gleaming stick; the rest of the copper mass was allowed to fall free. Her throat was bare, as was one arm; her hands were innocent of rings.
He stood as she approached Edger, and faded back toward his own room as she made her bow.
"Yes, my youngest of sisters," the T'carais boomed, recognizing her immediately. "That color becomes you-it sets off the flame of your hair. A wise choice, indeed."
Miri bowed her thanks. "I wanted to thank you for the chance to have this dress. It's the prettiest thing I've ever worn."
"The artistry of you is thanks enough. You and my so-beautiful young brother-where has he gone?" The big head swiveled.
"Here." Val Con smiled, coming silently back into the room. "I had forgotten something."
He was beautiful, Miri saw. The dark leathers were gone, replaced by a wide-sleeved white shirt, banded tight at the wrists, lacy ruffles half-concealing slender hands. There was lace at his throat, and his trousers were dark burgundy, made of some soft material that cried out to be stroked. A green drop hung in his right ear, and a gold and green ring was on his left hand. The dark hair gleamed silken in the room's buttery light.
He bowed to her and offered the box he carried. "I am sorry to have offended you."
"It's okay." She took the box and cautiously lifted the lid.
Inside shone a necklace of silver net, holding a single stone of faceted blue, and a silver ring in the shape of an improbable serpent, clutching its jaws tight around a stone of matching blue.
She stood very, very still, then took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes.
"Thank you. I-" She shook her head and tried again. "Palesci modassa." That was the formal phrase of thanksgiving.
Val Con smiled. "You're welcome," he replied, since it seemed safer to stay with Terran. He touched the necklace lightly with a forefinger. "Shall I?"
Her mouth quirked toward a grin. "Sure, why not?"
First she slid the ring onto her left hand, then raised both hands to hold her hair off her neck.
He slid the necklace around her thro
at with a skill that hinted at past experience, then gently took her hair from her hands, arranging its cascade down her back. Miri bit down on a sudden surge of excitement and managed to keep her face expressionless as he came to her side and bowed to Edger.
"I think that we are prepared to celebrate, elder brother," Val Con said. "Does it please you to walk with us?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHARLIE NARANSHEK slipped his service piece into the sleeve pocket of his dress tunic. He always carried it there, though his employers at the Grotto had supplied him with a large and very ornate weapon, with instructions to wear it prominently. It was a matter of feelings. Charlie felt better on his shift as bouncer when he knew that his daytime gun was at hand. He got the heebie-jeebies whenever he thought about having to draw and aim the pretty piece he wore on his belt.
Feelings, Charlie thought, slamming the locker door, were important. Clues to the inner man. It was smart to pay attention to one's feelings, to act with them.
He raised his hand as he passed the desk. "Night, Pat."
"Hey, Charlie?" She waved him over, spinning the screen on its lazy Susan so he could see the bright amber letters. "Take a look at this, willya? Something you might run into down on the second job."
He frowned at the letters: Be On The Lookout . . . .
"Four turtles and two humans? Are they crazy?"
Pat shrugged. "Who knows? Don't you think the turtles would eat the Grotto up? That fancy no-grav dance floor?" She wiggled her shoulders in a uniformed parody of a dance that may have been in fashion on some steamy jungle world where spears and canoes were still considered pretty radical stuff.
Charlie grunted. "Sure. But it's not no-grav; it's low-grav." He shook his head at the screen. "'Observe, but do not contact. Report whereabouts to Headquarters, Mixla City . . . continue observation . . . Considered armed and dangerous'?"
