“Adventure and intrigue, aye,” Dansby said, wondering if he should let some further hint of the addle trade aboard Tyche loose to further reel her in. “I’ll tell it all, later, if you like.”
“Later?” Rabbit asked. “Why not now?”
“Well, now, I’d hear about yourself. Lovely Rabbit and her brambles at the card table, yet, somehow, a miner also? There must be a tale there, as well.”
“Not so grand as yours, I’m sure.” Rabbit shrugged. “It was my father’s claim — he died. I work it now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Mining’s a hard life, but he taught me well.”
“Still, it must be harder for you, being so young — as I am,” he added so she wouldn’t take it as a criticism. “Thought too young, perhaps, by others, for the position — the work.”
Had she leaned a little closer to him? He thought she had, so he turned more to face her and leaned himself — yes, there it was. He kept from grinning — brambles at the card table, perhaps, but this Rabbit was all open meadow in other things.
“Some, I suppose,” Rabbit said, “but my tales are all of mining and smelting — you’d have no interest in those.”
“But I would — I’ve done a bit of mining, myself.”
Or learned enough of the jargon, Lesser Sewer providing a comprehensive education for any ships that might transport ore or metals.
Rabbit snorted, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and leaned even closer to him, almost whispering. “Panning on some world? In-atmosphere with a bright, warm sun overhead, and everything bright and cheerful?”
“A bit of that and a bit of rocks in the void, as well. I’m well-versed at working in the darkness.”
“Really? Because I cannot bear a man who merely scrabbles about on the surface.”
He leaned closer and looked into her eyes. If they were not well past the point of speaking strictly of mining, he’d buy all of Tyche a pint and a poke. “Oh, aye, deep — down where one doesn’t know the true value of what’s to be had until one opens things up a bit.”
Rabbit laid two fingertips on his knee, and Dansby suppressed another grin.
“How would you go about opening things up? To get the best … ore?”
“Set my charges deep,” Dansby whispered. “Feel the whole body … of rock … shake and tremble until it goes all to loose pieces.”
“Oh, aye, that’s the way of it.”
Twelve
Avrel Dansby was not, normally, a morning person, but a pleasant night — or early morning as the case might be — with a more pleasant companion made all the difference.
He stretched and found himself alone in the bed, which probably meant that Rabbit — and wasn’t that an even apter description of the little lass once he’d got her between the sheets — was down the hall in the bath.
They’d, neither of them, when they left the gaming room, felt any particular need for more than a simple room with a clean bed, so hadn’t sought out a larger, more extravagant establishment with a private bath. That might have been a mistake, he thought, as there was something to be said for a morning filled with soap and hot water after a strenuous night.
He sighed.
None of that here, curse it, as the shared bath was likely to be a series of stalls for the necessaries, and he wasn’t one to put on a show for the other guests.
He stretched again and sat up.
The compartment was small, with barely more room than was needed to house the single bed, and that only enough for one, though they hadn’t noticed to complain all night.
Little Rabbit had a way of nestling that made the space enough, rather like Kaycie in that —
Dansby’s thoughts broke off and he shoved down a spike of guilt.
Damn it, he and Kaycie had no real understanding. She refused, for the most part, to so much as talk with him about a real future, insisting that she’d only plan such things with Jon Bartlett and it would keep until such time as he could put Avrel Bloody Dansby away for good.
For his part, Dansby — and that was how he thought of himself these days — thought that time would never come. Being known as Jon Bartlett again would bring the Marchant Company down on him, set to destroy him as they had his whole family. Moreover, he couldn’t exact his revenge on the Marchants under his real name — there were still Bartletts out there, his uncles and others, who’d feel the Marchant’s wrath more than they had already, and he’d not bear that weight.
No, Kaycie wouldn’t discuss a future with him until that fantasy occurred, and if there was no future, then the present was what the present was, and a man had needs, after all.
Well, not at the particular moment, but the thought of Rabbit just down the hall, perhaps in the shower — perhaps with only a bit of soap suds covering her —
Dansby rose and looked about for his clothes. He’d join her there, if only in the next stall over. Perhaps, if they were quiet — though that seemed a bit much to ask given his experience with her thus far — he might join her. The bit of excitement at a hidden tryst, should someone else come to use the bath, might —
He snatched up his clothes from where they’d fallen the night before and hurriedly slid them on. Best not to tarry for fear she’d finish before he got there.
Jumpsuit on to his waist, with boots and all else in hand — just enough on to not shock anyone in the corridor — he hurried out, brushing against the still opening hatch with a muted clink of coin from his pocket, and headed for the —
Dansby stopped, frowning. A clink? There should have been a bloody jangle, at least.
He felt at his jumpsuit pockets and pulled out not the eight pounds he’d cashed in for at the tables the night before, but only four coins, and those mere shillings.
Growing a bit frantic, he checked those pockets again, to no avail, then his boots — perhaps he’d tossed his coin in those — then back to the sleeping compartment and toss the whole place, small as it was.
The bed was on a platform, so nothing under it — nor anything in it, save soiled sheets and pillows. The rest of the room was bare floor and an empty, folding shelf next to the bed.
Dansby rushed down the corridor to the bath, mind tight with focused rage.
Eight bloody pounds he’d gone into that room with the night before and damned if he’d go back to Tyche with four bloody shillings — less than he’d left the ship with.
Only one of the shower stalls was running, which made it clear where the girl was.
He grasped the door handle and flung it open, yelling, “Where’s my bloody coin, then?”
A soapy figure launched out of the shower stall’s steamy interior to grapple with him, but Dansby could tell in a moment that it wasn’t Rabbit.
Rabbit had smooth, taut skin over lengths of supple muscle, while what grasped him now was rough, ropey strength and sinew, with droopy bits of age — and, while Rabbit and this figure did share the trait of long, nearly waist-length hair, hers was not white with age, and nor did it extend to a full, bushy beard.
Dansby realized this, and that a bit more circumspection might have been in order with regard to his search, as the soapy old man bowled him over and bore him to the station’s deck, all the while screaming in wheezy rage.
“Robbery! Robbery and rapine! Help! Help!”
The fall to the deck lost Dansby his grip on his half-donned jumpsuit, which slid down.
“Help! Robbery, rapine, and worse!”
“Station patrol’s on the way. Lucky you’re not dead, lad,” the boarding house’s owner said.
“I’d have had ‘im in another moment,” the old man added.
Dansby thought it likely that was the case, as he’d had trouble getting a grip on the soap-slippery old man as they’d rolled about on the deck, while his opponent had managed to lock an arm around Dansby’s throat in the struggle.
It was only the arrival of the hostel’s owner and a few other tenants that had saved him and separated th
e two.
“Look, I told you,” Dansby said, “I thought he was a girl.”
All eyes turned to the old man — still soapy, still naked, and still very much not.
“Not sure that makes things any better,” the owner said, “as a lass has a right to shower without some half-dressed bloke throwing open the bloody door on her.”
“No!” Dansby said hurriedly to stave off the dark looks and mutters from the crowd. “Not just any girl, see, the one I arrived with last night.” He nodded to the owner. “You remember her, yes?”
The man frowned. “Oh, aye.”
“Well, she was gone when I woke, see?” Dansby said.
The mutters turned less dark and more knowing.
“I see now,” the old man said. He came to Dansby’s side and put an arm about his shoulders — a disturbing thing, given their current state. “That’ll happen lad — you’ll learn.”
“Yes,” Dansby said, “but my coin is also gone — eight bloody pounds!”
The mutters turned even more knowing.
“Tale as old as time,” one onlooker said.
“Second-oldest profession,” added another.
“I see,” the owner said. “Does that satisfy you, sir?”
“Oh, yes,” the old man said, much to Dansby’s relief — both for the words and that he slid that still-soapy arm from about his shoulders. “Lad’s had a trying enough morning, I think.”
“I’ll call the patrol and tell them there’s no need then.”
Dansby nearly sighed with relief.
“I’ll see you on your way, though,” the owner added. “Enough excitement for this morning, I think.”
Dansby nodded. “Gladly, sir, though no fault of yours or your establishment for me wishing to see the back of it.” He stood and pulled up his jumpsuit, still carrying his boots and underthings — he’d find somewhere to dress once he was well away from here.
The owner cleared his throat. “There is, though, still the matter of the bill.”
Dansby’s hands froze in the sealing of his jumpsuit. “What? She said she had a room here already when we arrived.”
“Aye, she did,” the owner said, “but three days stay in arrears — with extra water, as the lass did like a stay in the shower, it seems.”
“I —”
“Three shillings we’ll call it, and done.”
“But —” Dansby scanned the crowd for an ally, but found only looks that were narrowing once more. “But she took the room, not I!”
“You’re last out of it,” the owner said with a shrug. He held out a hand, palm up. “Three shillings, or the Station Patrol is still on their way.”
“Bloody —” Dansby broke off at the dark looks from the crowd, all of whom were likely miners or traders who frequented the station often and knew the owner well. He’d be lucky to get away with a beating before the Station Patrol hauled him off, and if he were brought back to Tyche in such a state, for such a reason, he’d likely never see another liberty, nor a chance to get loose of the bloody Navy.
He reached into his pocket to pull out his last four shillings and dropped three of them into the man’s hand, then stalked off to the station proper and be well away.
“Bloody brambles.”
Thirteen
“I’m looking for a girl.”
“Two sections spinward, 23-F, Madam Terri’s — ask fer Anne an’ tell her Ollie sent yer, son, why she’ll —”
“No,” Dansby stopped the bartend, he was a different one from the night before, but Dansby’d hoped he might know of Rabbit’s whereabouts. “I’m looking for a specific girl — so high, with dark hair and —”
“Anne’s got wigs,” the bartend said, then frowned. “Have to slouch a bit, maybe.”
“No,” Dansby said. “What I mean is I’ve met the bloody girl already, and —”
“Have a picture? Anne’s got this headset’ll make you think yer —”
“Damn it, man, no!”
“No needs t’get huffy.” The bartend turned away and began racking clean mugs for the coming day. “Y’asks fer a recommendation and I gives one, is all.”
“I —”
“Leave off Ollie,” a new voice said. “He ain’t right.”
Dansby looked that way and found the woman, Grumpy, from the card game still at the bar’s end, still grumpy, and still, if he was any judge, in the same clothes and possibly nursing the very same mug of beer she’d had when he left with Rabbit.
“Am too!” Ollie said. “Anne showed me once! Put in a picture of me sis and damned if it weren’t like —”
“Thank you!” Dansby said. “I’ll keep her in mind — Anne, you say? 23-F, spinward, Madam Terri, aye?”
Ollie nodded. “Tell her Ollie sent yer.”
“I will, yes, thank you.” Dansby made his way to the bar’s end and Grumpy. “You remember the girl last night?”
Grumpy nodded. “Hard t’forget the either of you,” she said. “Took most of my last load’s profit off me.” Her eyes hardened. “You workin’ together?” She started to stand, but swayed and thought better of it.
“No,” Dansby assured her — the last thing he needed was to be accused of cheating in some collusion with Rabbit. “No, I’d never seen her before, but she, ah, borrowed a thing, and I’d like it back. Do you know where her own claim is, perhaps?”
Dansby doubted she was still on station, having taken him for all his coin she’d likely run off to her mining claim in the system’s belt until Tyche cleared the system. He had no thought of how he might find her to retrieve his coin before Tyche did sail, but wanted as much information as he could gather while the trail was still fresh. Perhaps he’d return to Corders Hole once he was back aboard Elizabeth and track the little bint down then.
“Claim?” Grumpy asked.
“Yes, or whatever it is you miners call your things, then?”
“Miners?”
“Yes, she said she was a miner, took over after her father passed — perhaps it’s his claim, or —”
Grumpy laughed.
Of all the ways Dansby had imagined this morning, being laughed at by Grumpy while he stood in an empty bar with but a single shilling in his pocket was not on the list of possibilities.
“What?”
“That little bint? A miner?” Grumpy laughed harder. “Only been on Corders Hole for a few days. Done nothing but play cards, that one — well, cards and men. Playing them both, it seems. Come in on a little boat of her own, no bigger than it should be, but from out-system.” She steadied the renewed swaying her laughter had brought on and squinted at Dansby. “You sure you don’t know her? Word was she had a fellow with her — no, saw him once, I think.” She peered at Dansby. “He had a good beard.”
A visit to Corders Hole’s mining quay netted Dansby nothing new about his quarry.
Oh, they remembered Rabbit clear enough, there not being many of her sort to dock in Corders Hole’s rougher parts, but they could offer nothing other than when she arrived and that she’d already gone. Oddly, they remembered her companion well enough.
“Young man,” one of the pilots told him. “Broad in the shoulder.” He eyed Dansby almost apologetically. “Fine beard, he has.”
“Yes, yes,” Dansby said, “I’m aware of the fellow’s beard, but do you have the girl’s name or where they’re bound?”
The pilot shook his head. “Didn’t speak to them much — boat that small hadn’t no need of a pilot, you see? The fellow did have an odd way of speaking, though, I remember that.”
It was nearing time for him to reboard Tyche or he’d have a party out searching for him, and Dansby’s temper was growing short. “A girl who looks like that and it’s all about the fellow she’s with that you remember?”
The pilot sniffed. “You’re a judgy one, ain’t you?”
“Please, man,” Dansby said. “I’m sorry — look, it’s important I find her.”
“Well, I didn’t much speak to her, you see?�
� He waved a hand at the quay. “Busy, aye? But he took the berth — twenty-three there — and his way of speaking. Hard to forget a man’s name when he says it all the time, see? So, I know the ship from the records — and the man from his speech — but I’ve nothing for you on the girl.”
Dansby went to quay and dock twenty-three, a little protrusion from the station to allow more of the miners’ small ships to dock when they weren’t bringing in a full barge, but found it empty, with no further clues as to Rabbit, her current whereabouts, or the destination of his own eight pounds.
Shoulders slumped, head bowed, and hands in his pockets — fingers of one idly playing with the single shilling coin that now represented all his worldly goods aboard both Corders Hole and Tyche — he made his way slowly back toward the Naval quay and the prospect of both more weeks of mind-numbing labor aboard the ship and that he might be unable to do a thing about the addle smuggling.
Near Tyche’s docking hatch, a spacer in a torn and stained jumpsuit sat against the bulkhead, one hand outstretched, palm up, in supplication. One hand because the other sleeve of that jumpsuit hung empty.
Dansby shuddered.
Too much time aboard Tyche could put him in such a state if the ship saw a real action. Arm seared off by some enemy’s shot and dumped on some distant station by a Navy either uncaring or unnoticing of a loyal spacer’s fate. They’d either not supplied the man with a prosthetic when he was injured or he’d fallen on such hard times that he’d sold or lost it. It was a measure of Dansby’s own despair that he didn’t consider the man might have left the thing in his rooms so as to garner more sympathy, and coin, in his labors.
At least, Dansby thought, I’ve Elizabeth to get back to, and needn’t rely on the bloody Navy for my welfare. He fished his final shilling from his pocket as he passed the man and set it in the beggar’s palm. It would do the other far more good than it would him, like as not. There’s busted where a shilling will help your world and busted where a guinea won’t, and I’m the latter, sure.
Spacer, Smuggler, Pirate, Spy Box Set Page 22
