The Agent Gambit

by Sharon Lee

  "Ah," Edger said. He inclined his head. "This gladdens me, Justin Hostro. It is true that I have not previously heard of your vast Clan-and I beg pardon for my ignorance. Happily, you have enlightened me and we may now deal together properly. Do you not feel that this is correct?"

  "Of a certainty," Hostro agreed, forcing his hands to relax from the clench he had abruptly found them in.

  "Know then, as an Elder of your Clan, that it has come to my attention that your kinsman, Herbert Alan Costello, has offered threats of physical harm-and perhaps termination-to three of my own kin." He waved a huge hand, indicating Watcher.

  "That this my kinsman did grave harm to Herbert Alan Costello is not forgiven, and shall in the fullness of time be punished. However, the threat of danger was offered before he struck, which circumstance alters the punishment that must be meted. I ask,"he concluded, "if you have knowledge of the nature of the disagreement existing between your kinsman and the two of my Clan who are not present."

  Hostro took a deep breath and let the rein on his temper out just a bit. "If one of those with whom you claim kinship is the woman known as Miri Robertson, then I must tell you that Costello was acting in accordance with my instructions to him that she be detained, and also her companion, if he still traveled with her."

  "Ah. And, if one Elder may ask it of another, in the interest of an equitable solution after fair judging: Why did you so instruct your kinsman?"

  "The woman is declared outlaw by my Clan and has recently, along with her companion, been responsible for the deaths of some of my kinsmen-as well as causing discontent between my clan and the-Clan of policemen." Briefly, he considered the pellet gun in the top drawer of his desk; recalled the ruined door and sat still.

  Edger was puzzled. "Was Miri Robertson then a member of your Clan? I would know the laws she has broken, that she adds 'outlaw' to her name while her life is made forfeit. Surely one or the other were sufficient punishment?"

  "She hired herself as bodyguard to one who was himself outlawed, slaying in this capacity many of my kin. Her life is ours to take, though she was never a member of the Juntavas."

  "She is not your kin, Justin Hostro, yet you pass judgment and seek to mete punishment?" Watcher looked at the T'carais worriedly: he did not like that note in the old one's voice.

  "That is true," Hostro said.

  Edger moved his massive head back and forth. "You baffle me, Justin Hostro. It is not so that we deal among Clans. Let me be plain, that there be no tragic misunderstanding between us: The woman Miri Robertson and the man Val Con yos'Phelium are adopted of the Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den. It is true that they are young and sometimes over-hasty in their actions. Possibly, they have wronged you in some manner. As Elders of our Clans it is our purpose to determine what harm has transpired and what balance may be made. My Clan is an honorable Clan; we pay what is owed. We are a well-traveled Clan and as such have found it good to allow other peoples their customs.

  "But know, Justin Hostro, that whatever wrong they may have done you, the knives of these two are not yours to take. If they are judged after deliberation to deserve death, their own kin shall deliver that punishment, not the Clan of the Juntavas. Is this thing clear to you?"

  "The Juntavas," Hostro snapped, "is a mighty Clan. We take what we will, as we see fit. Including the knives of the kin of the Spearmaker's Den."

  Majestically, Edger rose from the chair. Watcher dropped his hand to his blade.

  But the T'carais inexplicably stayed his hand. "You are of the Clans of Men," he boomed, "and thus hasty. Hear me further: In our history was there a Clan that meted judgment to a member of the Spearmaker's Den, against all tradition and without justice. Two persons from our Clan were thus dispatched to construct balance with this renegade family." He paused, taking the half-step that put him at the edge of Hostro's desk.

  "The name of that Clan is not now written in the Book of Clans," he said slowly. "Nor is that combination of traits any longer available to the gene pool. Think, Justin Hostro, before you take the knives of any of the Spearmaker's Den."

  Hostro did not speak. Wipe out an entire family? And he had claimed the Juntavas as family-countless thousands, yes. But those of the Clutch lived two thousand years and more . . . .

  "Have you heard me, Justin Hostro?" Edger asked.

  "I have heard you."

  "It is good. However, it has come to my notice that those of the Clans of Men have memories shorter even than the span of their years. Allow me to leave you a reminder of our talk." The Clanblade was then in the hand of the T'carais, flashing down-to slice clean into the steel of Hostro's desk and stand there, quivering.

  Justin Hostro managed to stare calmly at this for a moment before raising his eyes to Edger's.

  "As Edger for my Clan, Justin Hostro, I know that our blades are worthy-the youngest no less than the eldest." He reached forth a hand, plucked the knife from its nesting place, and returned it to its sheath.

  "Think on what we have spoken of, Justin Hostro. I shall return to you in one Standard hour and you may tell me what you have decided, so that we may talk further. Or begin to feud." He turned toward the door. "Come, Watcher."

  Abruptly, they were gone, leaving Mr. Hostro to gingerly finger the razor-edged gash in his desk.

  ONE JUMP BACK from Volmer, a dead ball of dust circled a cold sun, bands of rubble marking the orbits of what had been three-or even four-additional worlds. The sensors reported nothing else.

  Borg Tanser gave the order to initiate second Jump.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THEY EMPTIED A box containing dehydrated escargot and filled it with dried eggs, vegetables, a quarter-wheel of cheese, dried fruits, and tea. There was, to Miri's vast disappointment, no coffee.

  "What's wrong with Edger, anyhow?"

  Val Con grinned. "Possibly he did not expect you-and I don't like coffee."

  "Don't know why you didn't take him up on that offer and stay," she said, shaking her head. "I'd sure hang onto anybody took that much care of me."

  He bent to add a package of cocoa and another of dry milk to their supplies. "I didn't become a Scout in order to stay in one place all my life."

  Miri shut up. She knew she was on dangerous ground and she wasn't feeling up to any danger just then. "See any bread?" she asked.

  He straightened, frowning at the boxes piled high on all sides. "I don't think-" The frown lightened, and he pointed at a carton by her right hand. "Will crackers do?"

  "Suits." She pried open the top, hauled out a metal tin, and handed it to him, trying to not see that yellow and turquoise sparks were raining over her hand. "That okay for awhile?"

  "It seems to be enough food for a day or two," he said dryly. "Do you mind waiting here a moment? There is something else . . . ."

  "No problem." She waved him off, retrieving the bottle they had been sharing from beside a case of sardines. "But if I'm drunk when you get back, you gotta carry me home."

  He grinned. "A fair bargain," he said, and then the towering boxes swallowed him.

  Miri settled on the floor next to their supply box and closed her eyes, wine bottle forgotten in her hand. The ship had been in drive for-what? Four hours? There were only another four to live through. You're that tough, ain't you? she said to herself.

  Her thoughts settled on Val Con, where they tumbled like the colors in floor and walls. Talk to me when the drive goes off, huh? she thought. What the hell does that mean? Damn Liadens. Never straight with anybody . . . She shifted sharply, setting the bottle aside without opening her eyes, and revising her opinion of whether she could sleep for three weeks.

  She might even have drifted off, for she was not aware of his return, nor of the hand that hovered for an instant over her bright head before he took it away and sank to his knees before her.

  "Miri?" He spoke softly, reluctant to disturb her, but she started violently, eyes snapping open, shoulders tightening-and re
laxing instantly.

  Silently, he offered three things for her inspection.

  The first was recognizable through its flowing iridescence as a portable 'chora. The colors of the second thing writhed and shimmered too much for her to wrest sense from them. And the third-

  She took it from him, shaping her hands around it to be sure, then brought it to her mouth, blew a ripple of notes, and sawed them back and forth. She looked up to find him grinning, and she grinned back.

  "I ain't asking, notice, how you knew I play harmonica."

  "Is that its name? I had never seen one before. I thought perhaps you might know . . . ." He was still smiling, delight showing in his bright green eyes.

  "Harmonica," she affirmed, rubbing her fingers over the smooth metal sides. "Also, mouth organ." She squinted at the unidentifiable something. "What's that?"

  He turned it over in his hands. "A guitar. I think. Something with strings and a soundboard, at least." He came smoothly to his feet and slid the two instruments into the food box. "Would you like to put the harmonica in here as well?"

  "Do-" She frowned at him, loath to give the mouth organ up. "It's Edger's, ain't it? I better put it back."

  Jerkily, she came to her knees, then stopped, because he was in front of her, hands out, inches from disaster.

  "Miri, if it gives you pleasure, keep it. Edger named you kin, and this ship is Clan property, belonging to all equally. If you would repay Edger for the gift, play for him when next you meet."

  "I don't steal from my friends," she insisted. "And Edger only said I was his sister because of-" She caught herself, dropping her head into her hands. "If this ain't the stupidest damn way to make a space drive!"

  "Because of?" he asked, though he knew what the answer would be.

  "Because of you," she said, and he longed to touch her, so worn did she sound. "He made a mistake. Said the knife you gave me-back in Econsey . . . " She couldn't finish it.

  Val Con took a breath and let it out, very gently. "Edger thought I had knife-wed you," he said, keeping his voice even. "A reasonable assumption, from his standpoint, though I had not spoken to him, as would have been proper in a young brother. The fault is mine. I did not think. And I am sorry to have caused you pain."

  He balled his left hand into a fist to keep from touching her and continued. "Of this other thing: Edger would not have named you sister only to rescind the honor. He has accepted you into his Clan. Whether we are wed or no, you carry a blade given you by one of his kin and he considers you worthy of it." He sighed when she still did not uncover her face, and tried once more.

  "I can attempt to explain all I know of the tradition and customs of the Clutch and of Edger's Clan, though it will take a bit longer than either of us might find comfortable sitting on the floor here. Will it suffice you at this moment to know that Edger does not allow unworthy persons into his family; and that being named kin is a great burden and a great joy?" He bit his lip and leaned back, wondering if she had heard him at all.

  "What this means in practical terms, right now, is: Does the harmonica please you? If so, you must take it and strive to master it, to the betterment of the Clan. It is no less than your duty."

  "Yaaah!" Her whisper carried the inflection of a scream. She looked up suddenly and shook her head. "Well, it just goes to show you that things're never as bad as they look. When I started this run, I didn't have anything-no unit, no money, no place to go. Now, when I think I got even less, it turns out that somewhere along the line I picked up a husband, a family and a-what? hundredth share?-in a space rock powered by the looniest drive going. Two families," she amended and snapped to her feet, harmonica gripped tightly in her hand.

  "Maybe they oughta lock me up, 'cause I sure don't know what I'm doing." She looked down at him for a moment, then waved her hands helplessly and spun away, marching unsteadily out of the storeroom.

  Val Con came to his feet slowly and bent to retrieve the box.

  "Three families," he murmured.

  THE BOUNCECOMM BEGAN to chatter, bringing Jefferson, cursing and on the run.

  He scanned Hostro's incoming instructions and jabbed the button for a hardcopy. Cursing ever more fluently, he cleared the board and warped a message to Tanser. The machine chattered, went silent, and chattered again before spitting back the message he wanted to send. The ship was in drive.

  Curses exhausted, he set the comm to resend the message every ten minutes until received by Tanser's ship, and then sat staring at the screen, stomach tight.

  Abruptly, he thought of his son; and, shaking his head, he tried to assure himself that the message would reach Tanser before Tanser reached the prey.

  * * *

  THE STUFF EDGER used for soap was sand. Miri used it liberally, relishing the minor pain, then unbraided her hair and washed that, too.

  Music filled the poolroom, though she hadn't thought a portable 'chora had that kind of range on it. There was, as far as she could tell, no order to the play list. Terran ballads mixed with Liaden chorales mixed with bawdy spacing songs mixed with other things the like of which she'd never heard mixed with scraps of see-sawing notes that sounded like the melodies of children's rhyming games.

  On and on and on and on it went: Val Con playing every shard of music he'd ever heard. In some ways, it was worse than the drive effects.

  The music broke and came back together, jagged-toothed and snarling, reminding her of the language he'd cursed in. She struck out for the edge of the pool as he added a new element to the sounds he was making-a high-pitched, whispery keening, twisting and twining through the hateful main line, sometimes louder, sometimes not, resembling, it seemed to her as she levered herself onto the lawn, one of the Liaden songs he'd played earlier.

  And then it changed, shifting louder, intensifying until the breath caught in her throat: a wail that rattled the heart in her chest and the thoughts in her head.

  She reached her piled belongings and crumpled them to her chest. Slowly, bent as if against the stormwinds of Surebleak's winter, Miri sought refuge in the bookroom.

  THE SHIP HAD been at rest for perhaps fifteen minutes when she entered the control room, her hair still loose and damp from her bath.

  "I give you good greeting, Star Captain," she told Val Con's back in what she hoped was much improved High Liaden.

  "Entranzia volecta, cha'trez," he murmured absently, his attention divided between board and tank.

  Miri wandered over to the map table. Avoiding the silent 'chora and the guitar, she set down the cheese.

  "How," she wondered, pulling out her knife, "am I gonna learn High Liaden if you keep answering in Low?"

  "Do I? I must be having trouble with the accent."

  Her brows rose. "You got the makings of a nasty temper there, friend."

  He leaned back, hands busy on the board and eyes on the tank. "I am usually considered patient," he said softly. "Of course, I've never been tested under such severe conditions before."

  She laughed and sliced herself a sliver of cheese. "Very nasty temper. Sarcastic, too. It ain't my fault you don't remember your milk tongue."

  He made two more adjustments to the board and stood, then came over to the table. She whacked off a slab of cheese and offered it to him on knife point. He took it and sat down on the bench near the 'chora, one foot braced on the seat.

  "Thank you."

  "No problem." She sliced a piece for herself and sat astride the second bench. "What did you say, just then?"

  One eyebrow lifted. "Are the roots so different?"

  "Oh, I got 'good greetings' okay, but there was another word-sha . . . "

  "Cha'trez," he murmured, nibbling cheese.

  "Right. What's that?"

  He closed his eyes, frowning slightly. When he finally opened his eyes, he sighed a little. "Heartsong?" He shook his head briefly. "Not quite, though it has the right flavor."

  She blinked and changed the subject. "How many languages you speak?"

  He
finished his cheese and dusted off his hands. "At the level at which I speak Terran-five. I know enough of nine more to ask for meat and bed. And Liaden. And Trade."

  "All that?" She shook her head. "And you speak Terran better'n most born to it. Little weird, though, you not having an accent."

  He shifted, reaching to take up the guitar and fidgeting with the knobs projecting from the top. "I had one once," he murmured, turning a knob and plucking a string, "but when I was put on-detached duty-it was not considered politic for me to speak Terran with a Liaden accent."

  "Oh." She took a breath. "My friend, you ought to chuck that job."

  "I am considering it."

  "What's to consider?"

  "How it might be done." He plucked another string. Twong!

  She stared at him. 'Tell 'em you're all done now, detached duty is over and you'd like to go back and be a Scout, please."

  Plonk! He shook his head, listening to the vibration of the string.

  "It is not possible they would agree to that. I've lived too long, learned too much, guessed a great deal . . . ." Bong.

  "They'll kill you?" Plainly, she did not believe it, and he cherished the effort she made to keep her voice matter-of-fact.

  He ran his fingers in a sweep across the strings near the bridge and winced at the ensuing discord. Numbers were running behind his eyes: He should not be having this conversation; he should not have helped Miri in the first place; he should not have gone back for her-that was what the numbers seemed determined to say. And now his life was forfeit. He tried to ignore the numbers. CMS was at .08.

  "Val Con."

  He looked up, holding the guitar across his lap by its fragile neck. The numbers were running faster, switching from one Loop to the other, almost too rapidly for him to scan.

  Death and danger. Disgrace and death. Dishonor and destruction. . . .

  His muscles were tightening, his breathing quickened-and still the numbers raced.

  "Val Con." Rising concern was evident in her voice.

  He shook his head, struggling for words. "It is most likely that they will kill me," he managed, fascinated, watching the numbers flash, reverse themselves, and flash again as they counted the reduced chances of his living out the month, the week. . . . "Though it is true that my Clan is a powerful one, which reduces somewhat-" It was hard to breathe; he seemed to hear himself out there somewhere, while back here, where the truth was, where he was, he felt heat and a need to hide. "-the chance that they would kill me outright." His mouth was too dry; the rushing in his ears amplified the sound of his heart pounding against nearly empty lungs.