Lee, Sharon & Miller, Steve - Liaden Books 1-9

by Liaden 1-9 (lit)

  "Ah, indeed," his father returned. He tipped his head. "Your lady captain speaks common Yxtrang very like a scout—or perhaps she speaks it like the scout."

  "I really ought to teach Nelirikk my personal name," Val Con said, musingly. He moved his shoulders, not a shrug. "I concede that the Common Troop had not been among Miri's languages before—recent events."

  "Ah, yes! The heroic flight of captured Yxtrang fighters against the over-advantaged foe, in which action you were wounded unto death! Pray, do not be coy, sir—tales of your prowess precede you. Commander Carmody holds you as an object of awe, and appears to consider you thoroughly deranged."

  Val Con laughed.

  "Yes, well." Daav shifted a step or two aside and stretched, carefully, Val Con thought, as would a man who was concerned that his back muscles might protest.

  "Tell me, if you would," he said, settling back from his stretch, "who is this puissant enemy with which Captain Robertson has beguiled my poor Yxtrang?"

  Val Con lifted a brow. "I thought they were yos'Phelium's Yxtrang?"

  "One feels a lingering tenderness," Daav told him earnestly. "They are such good children."

  "You relieve me," he said. "As for the enemy—" He paused, head cocked; saw his father stiffen, and turn his head. The gate at the end of the garden swung on its hinges; and very shortly the shadows relinquished Clonak ter'Meulen.

  "Half-an-hour and then some," he said, smoothing his mustache with loving fingertips. "Morning, Shadow."

  "Good morning, Clonak," Val Con replied, considering the pudgy scout. Something was…shifting…at the edge of his mind, as if the pieces to an old, old puzzle were snapping, at last and inevitably, into their proper places.

  "Clonak," he said again, hating what he was seeing; knowing that it must be true; "my father wishes to know the name of Korval's great enemy, that murdered his brother and his brother's lifemate. You can tell him that, can't you?"

  The older scout tipped his head. "Already did, but I don't mind repeating it: Department of the Interior. You remember that, don't you, Daav? Though I'm not certain I'd write Er Thom against their account; what I heard from Shan was that he had died of his lifemate's dying."

  "Which he would not have done," Daav pointed out quietly, "had Anne remained among us."

  "True…"

  Val Con took a step forward, drawing the eyes of both men.

  "You fed me to them," he said, and his voice was, perhaps, not quite steady. "The scouts gave me to the Department."

  Clonak stared at him as if he'd taken leave of his wits. "Well, of course we gave you to them, Shadow! Who else did we have more likely to trump them than a first-in, pure-blood yos'Phelium scout commander? Concentrated random action. Would we waste such a weapon? Would you? I didn't think so. Besides," he finished, crossing his arms over his chest. "It's the duty of the Captain to protect the passengers. Er Thom can't have missed telling you that!"

  "As close-kin, I ask that you not kill him," Daav said into the silence that followed this. "I allow him to be twelve times an idiot. But he is also my oldest friend, and I value him."

  Val Con closed his eyes, ran the rainbow, sighed—and opened his eyes.

  "Very well," he said, imposing neutrality, if not calm, on his voice. "It was my duty and I was suited to the need. But the plan has gone awry. The Department continues."

  "Yes, it does," Clonak said, as if to a half-wit, "but you are no longer its creature, eh? I see our weapon returned to us, increased three-fold; a Captain with an intimate understanding of the danger from which the passengers stand at peril." He flung a hand out, palm up. "And scarcely a heartbeat too soon, all doom having broken loose. The scouts hold themselves ready to receive your orders, Commander."

  Val Con shook his head. "Amuse yourself elsewhere. I've no patience for it."

  "Now, Shadow," the pudgy scout said sternly, "do not, I beg you, come the kitten. I took losses at Nev'Lorn—and so did you."

  Val Con blinked. "Nev'Lorn?"

  "Clonak, the lad's been ill and away from the news," Daav's deep voice was perfectly serious. "He hasn't heard that the Department of the Interior mounted an armed attack against a scout base and that dozens of his comrades are dead of it."

  The Department had openly attacked scouts? Val Con blinked again. The thing made no sense. The Department flourished precisely because it operated along hidden avenues, far removed from the ken of honest folk, and made no large, overt moves.

  "Why?" he asked Clonak.

  "Why? Why else but out of concern for yourself!" He sighed, suddenly and sharply. "Shadia found the mark of a scout in a derelict orbiting an interdicted world, and filed the report, all according to regs. She didn't make the connection between yourself and the mystery scout, though others of us did. The Department caught the report off our bands and moved in, apparently having performed the same leap of logic." He shrugged. "They were that desperate to have you back, Shadow. Or, at least, they were desperate lest someone else have you."

  "You rate me high," Val Con said drily. "Certainly, the Commander would wish to recover—or neutralize—me before I became a threat to the Department. But to risk everything in an open strike against the scouts—" He shook his head. "That is not how the Commander does his math."

  "Might have gotten a new tutor," Clonak offered. "Or perhaps he finds himself strong enough to commence upon a second phase, and begins to be bold."

  Cold feet ran down Val Con's spine. That, now, was all too likely. The Department's Plan called for expansion, after all, and it might well seem the time to move, with Korval scattered to its various safeplaces. He was about to say as much to Clonak when a soft sound caught his ear, anomalous in the stillness of the predawn garden. He cocked an ear, waiting for a repetition, and raised his left hand in the scout's sign for wait.

  Nova set them a brisk pace down the quiet pre-dawn halls of Erob's clanhouse. Indeed, they were moving so swiftly as they rounded the corner into the main hallway that they very nearly knocked over the red-haired woman in working leathers who was striding in the opposite direction.

  Shan checked, boot heel skidding on the waxed wooden floor.

  "Miri?"

  She grinned. "Hey, Shan. Worked a treat!"

  He eyed her, astonished; Healer senses brought him a second astonishment in the luminosity of her pattern, by which time Nova had recovered both her balance and her glare.

  "I'm speechless," he told Miri, "which my sister will tell you is no common occurrence. Nova, here is Miri Robertson Tiazan, Lady yos'Phelium."

  Nova's glare solidified into disbelief. "You are Miri Robertson?"

  '"fraid so," Miri said, not without a measure of sympathy. She nodded, easily. "Pleased to meet you."

  "I—" Nova began. Shan, deciding that bad manners were the lesser part of disaster, interrupted her ruthlessly.

  "We're on our way to see how Val Con does," he said to Miri's amused gray eyes. "Would you like to accompany us?"

  "Can't—gotta find Aunt Emrith and give her some good news. Tell you what, though, if you're looking for Val Con, you'll find him in the garden at the end of the wing. He's having a talk with his father."

  "His father?" Shan blinked. "Miri—"

  "Daav yos'Phelium is dead," Nova, not to be outdone in any mode, including rudeness, interrupted.

  "No, he ain't. We just did the whole welcome-back-to-the-Line thing an'" Her eyes lost focus somewhat, and then widened.

  "Something's wrong," she said, and was gone, running back the way she had come.

  Shan was after her in the next heartbeat, Nova at his side.

  Wrong wasn't the beginning of it.

  Miri ran, her head full of gunfire, deadly shadows in the garden and Daav was down, Clonak beside him, and Val Con—Val Con…

  She slapped the doorplate and dove through the opening, hitting the ground and rolling for the cover of the hedge to the right. Gun ready, she surveyed the enclosure.

  Three dark, utterly still lumps in thre
e widely spaced locations 'round the garden were deaders. A single huddle near the ornamental boulder in the center was the scout named Clonak ter'Meulen, working with rapid ferocity over another leather-clad form. At the opposite end of the garden, the gate swung open on its hinges.

  Heart in her mouth, she walked over to the busy scout.

  "How bad?" she asked, as the door cycled behind her. She spun in time to see Shan and Nova whipping through, neck and neck, for all the worlds like they were running a race.

  "Nothing a 'doc won't put right," Clonak said, sitting back on his heels, and sighing in plain relief.

  "Right. Shan'll help you get him down to the med center." Spinning on her heel, she checked her inner sense of Val Con, locating him some distance from where she stood, his pattern a muddle of horror, stubbornness and sheer crazed adrenaline.

  "The Department of the Interior," Clonak said, and she didn't stop to hear anything else, but ran, ran as she had never run, not even when Klamath was coming apart around her, out the gate and after him.

  Day 345

  Standard Year 1392

  Hamilton Street

  Surebleak

  "Boss Conrad's here to see you, Penn."

  Penn—Boss Penn Kalhoon, actually—frowned down at the balance sheet he'd been working on, and waited for the roaring in his ears to subside.

  Boss Conrad was here. He'd hoped—never mind now what he'd hoped; it was too late for hope. Reality was that the man who'd come blazing out of Moran's territory less than a Standard Month ago—the man the streeters called Boss Killer—was in his territory—in his house—and suddenly Penn Kalhoon was looking at ending the day early.

  Thera…Thera'd be OK, he told himself. Conrad targeted bosses; streeters and staff attached to a particular boss' household were, by report, safe as anybody ever was, so long as they had the good sense not to draw on Conrad or one of his 'hands.

  The exception to that'd been Deacon. Conrad blew the house, there, boss and crew—but did it so neither of the houses next to it blew, or took fire. They'd shimmied a little, maybe, when Deacon's crumbled down into its own cellar-hole.

  And, according to Penn's sources, Deacon had bought that special bit of attention fair and square by doing something stupid even by his standards, and sending a team onto Conrad's turf to take him out. The team never made it back to Deacon's territory, but they managed to screw up good before they all got shot dead: They killed Conrad's kid.

  After consideration, Penn had finally allowed that Conrad'd done just what he needed to do to Deacon, and not one bit less than Penn might've done himself, if it'd been his kid killed.

  He just wished the guy hadn't gone off his head and decided to wipe out every other boss on the planet, too.

  "Penn?" That was Marj, his second, still standing by the door and not exactly sounding calm. He sighed, capped his pen, closed the notebook, settled his glasses on his nose, and looked up.

  "OK," he said, voice steady. "Please show Boss Conrad in, and have Dani bring us some hot tea—I hear he likes tea."

  Marj was looking distinctly white around the mouth. "Penn, this is the guy who—"

  "Yeah, I know who he is," he cut her off. "And what I want you to do—no matter what happens—is cooperate with Boss Conrad. Got that? You level with him—explain how you're my second and you'll be glad to show him whatever he needs to see. Be smart, OK? You seen the reports—the only one he wants is me. He'll be good for the streets—you seen those reports, too. Be smart, Marj. Tell me."

  She swallowed, eyes wet. "I'll be smart, Penn."

  "Great." He nodded. "Now go get him. It ain't polite to keep a guest waitin'."

  The reports all had Boss Conrad peaking at the lower end of average tall, with brown hair and brown eyes, a blue earring, a glittery hand-ring, and a liking for pretty clothes. All that was true, but Penn was still unprepared for the slim and elegant person who followed Marj into the office, his 'hand walking quiet and solemn at his back.

  The 'hand—it was the woman. Natesa. Penn felt one of the knots in his gut loosen. Natesa was a pro; he didn't have to worry about a botched job. She'd be quick and she'd be clean. Not that the big guy's hand-cannons wouldn't've done the needful, but there'd been an awful mess left to add to Thera's upset.

  Much relieved, he stood up from behind his desk, keeping his hands in plain sight, and nodded politely.

  '"afternoon, sir. I'm Penn Kalhoon."

  Dark brown eyes considered him gravely from an ageless golden face. The reports put him in his thirties, which he probably wasn't any younger than. But he could've just as easy been ten, fifteen, even twenty years older. He inclined his head, more formal, somehow, than a standard nod of greeting.

  "Good afternoon, Penn Kalhoon. I am called Conrad. Please forgive me for disturbing you at your work." His voice was soft and pitched in the mid-range, real easy on the ear.

  "That's OK, sir. I've sorta been expecting you."

  The well-marked dark brows pulled slightly together. "Ah, have you? I wonder why."

  Penn shrugged. "My sources said you was tending in this direction." That was the truth—wasn't no use lying to the man. He was gonna need to know the state of things, and best he had it straight from the one who knew it best. Penn pointed.

  "I'd be pleased if you'd sit. Dani'll be up real soon with some tea."

  The eyebrows moved again, upward this time. "Tea would be most welcome," he murmured and did sit, graceful as a girl. His 'hand took up her post behind him.

  Penn sank down into his own chair, wondering what to say now, and was saved from making an immediate decision by the arrival of Dani with a tray full of cups, pot, and cookies. She got everything down on the desk with no spills, which was pretty good, considering how bad her hands were shaking, and shot him a look from wide, scared eyes.

  "Thanks, Dani," he said easily, like he was having lunch with Thera. "We'll take it from here."

  "Yessir, Boss," she whispered, and fled, closing the door a little too hard behind her.

  Carefully, Penn poured tea into one of the cups, sipped it, and bit into a cookie.

  Having demonstrated his good will, he filled another cup and passed it across the desk.

  "I thank you," Boss Conrad murmured and took a sip, then favored Penn with a straight look. "I hope that you will forgive me if I come quickly to the purpose of my call," he said.

  Penn swallowed the rest of his cookie.

  "Sure," he said, and his voice sounded a little edgy to himself. "You're a busy man."

  "As you are," Conrad said. "So, then—quickly: I am here to offer you an opportunity to enter into a partnership with me."

  Penn blinked, thinking he'd heard it wrong, and dared a quick look up at the pro. She smiled slightly, and inclined her head.

  "Um," Penn said, and had another swallow of tea to clear the sawdust out of his mouth. "What kind of partnership?"

  "A perfectly unexceptional sort of partnership—or so I persist in believing, despite those who have felt they would rather die than accept it." Conrad sipped his tea. "I envision free passage and trade between my territories and your own, and a pooling of our various resources, for the betterment of all. You will continue to administer your streets, as you have been doing so ably for these last ten Standards. I will administer my streets, and hope to do as well."

  Penn blinked again, then shook his head with a half-laugh. "I'm sorry. See, when you walked in here, I knew my day was done. Gonna take me a sec to focus." Something struck him and he looked into Conrad's smooth, calm face.

  "You didn't offer this deal to all the—all the other bosses, did you?"

  "In fact, I did not. The late Boss Deacon did not impress me as someone with whom it would be advantageous to associate. The rest, however—yes. I offered them this precise deal."

  "And they turned you down?" Penn rubbed his nose. "How dumb are these guys?" He waved a hand. "I know, I know. Dumb enough." He closed his eyes, turning the deal around in his head, looking at it fro
m this angle and that, seeing profit, growth, and— a snag.

  "I worked hard to make my streets safe," he said carefully. "Some of those turfs you picked up are pretty rugged, according to my sources. The tollbooths don't keep all the trouble out, but they keep it down."

  "True enough. We are in the process of developing a street patrol, which will eventually work to keep trouble to a minimum. In the meanwhile, we may leave the tollbooths in place, as checkpoints only. Travelers would be required to stop and submit to a search, as they are now, but no cash would change hands."

  "OK, that's a workaround—we can do that."

  "Good. I wonder how you feel about trading people as well?"

  Penn froze. "Trading people?"

  Boss Conrad moved his hand; his big ring sparkling. "Gently. I only meant that it might profit you if—for an instance—I were to ask a master brewer who lives inside my territory to come to you for a time, to teach the craft to one of yours. Likewise, I am in need of assistance in the matter of inaugurating schools, such as you maintain. Now, we have a system of…itinerant teachers, who wander from street to street, teaching those who would learn how to read. I wish to do better than this, but I must be taught how."

  "I get it," Penn grinned, excited now. "An' if your master brewer, say, didn't want to leave home, maybe I could send my student over to him for a while."

  Conrad smiled, faintly. "Precisely."

  "OK, so far this is easy." Penn looked at the other man seriously. "What's the catch?"

  Another smile, slightly less faint than the first. "The catch is that I wish to secure the entire length of the Port Road, and I will require you to guarantee safe passage for all along that portion which runs through your territory. I will undertake likewise."

  The Port Road ran more-or-less through the middle of Penn's turf, and it was as safe as the rest of his streets. But…

  "We're cut off by Ivernet to the north, and Whitman, on the east. I can hold my piece of road, OK, but there ain't nobody gonna come walkin' out of Ivernet's turf. Whitman—I can talk to Whitman, if you want. She's not somebody who snubs a profit, if you know what I mean. But Ivernet—sleet, Ivernet's crazy."