FORTUNE'S LIGHT

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Let’s go,” he told Lyneea.

  “Just a moment,” she said. “We mustn’t follow too closely.”

  “That will be fifty credits,” said the petmonger. “And a bargain at that, if I may say so.”

  “Perhaps some other time,” Riker told him. “When I’m feeling masochistic.”

  “Ah,” said the merchant, “but he will not be here some other time. Isakki are rare at any age, and as I have indicated—”

  “Now,” advised Lyneea, and started walking.

  “You do not understand,” said the petmonger, still appealing to Riker. “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! You cannot pass it up.”

  “No doubt we’ll live to regret it,” said the human, and using his long strides to advantage, he caught up with his partner.

  “I have a good feeling about this,” decided Lyneea. “A very good feeling.”

  “You think he’ll lead us to the seal now?” asked Riker.

  She nodded. “If we can believe our tailor friend, Kobar loves his knives better than he loves his own mother. He’ll want to keep his new acquisition in the safest place he knows of—along with his other valuables. A certain seal, for instance.”

  “Somewhere in town? Or at his madraga’s estate?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I’d say it’s in town—for Rhurig’s protection. Why keep the evidence where it might incriminate the whole madraga? In Kobar’s hands, it can hurt only him—a risk he’d probably assume for the sake of his kinsmen.”

  “But Kobar’s their third official,” said Riker. “It will make for a considerable scandal if he’s caught with Fortune’s Light. Why not put some retainer in jeopardy instead?”

  “Probably because a retainer would not be trusted with such an important task,” Lyneea told him, “even if he or she was capable of performing it. Obviously Rhurig has gone to great trouble to stop the merger. It is worth a certain amount of risk to make certain the seal stays hidden. And besides, Kobar may have insisted on handling this personally.”

  “Then why is he out buying knives for his collection,” asked Riker, “instead of keeping watch over the seal?”

  Lyneea turned to glance at him. “Because,” she said, “he is who he is. Even a madraga official may be governed by something other than logic.”

  Remembering Norayan’s tale, he could hardly disagree. “Good point,” he muttered.

  “Hold on,” said his partner. “Something’s wrong.”

  Up ahead, Kobar and his companions had stopped. The third official was holding up his package, and one of the others was pointing to it. Remarks were exchanged, which Riker and Lyneea had no hope of overhearing. Kobar frowned.

  “He’s not happy with his purchase,” observed Riker.

  “Apparently,” said Lyneea. “Maybe they’ve decided it wasn’t such a good deal after all.”

  “So we make ourselves scarce again.”

  “You’re catching on,” she told him.

  Kobar and his friends started back the way they’d come. Their discontent was increasing step by step, if the expansiveness of their gestures was any indication.

  “Just one thing,” said Riker. “Let’s not find another pet dealer, all right?”

  “It’s a deal,” agreed his partner.

  She’d already started toward a nearby winemonger’s booth when they heard the first small cries of surprise. Then came the full-blown screams and the rush. And before Riker knew it, the crowd was carrying him back, separating him from Lyneea.

  A moment later he got his first look at what prompted the riot: the isak cub that had been shown to him earlier. Apparently the damned thing had gotten out of its cage and was trying to make a meal out of somebody’s ankles—anybody’s ankles.

  In their haste to avoid the snapping, snarling little beast, the marketgoers were leaping onto some tables and overturning others, while the merchants were doing their best to keep their booths intact and their wares from spilling to the ground. It was chaos such as the marketplace in Besidia had probably never seen—and might never see again.

  Riker tried to work his way out of the press. He grabbed for one of the poles supporting a basket merchant’s display, missed. Someone fell, starting a domino effect, and by the time it got to him it had the weight of a half-dozen bodies behind it. Like a swimmer overtaken by a slow but inexorable wave, he went down, inadvertently taking a couple of others with him.

  Nor could he easily get up again. Not with his legs pinned under an equally helpless Impriman, who was in turn pinned by somebody else. And to make matters worse, other marketgoers were trying to climb over him, in order to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the skittering isak. There were curses, grunts, even a couple of misplaced blows.

  Twisting and squirming, Riker managed to pull his legs free—but there was still no place to stand. So he did the next best thing. He worked his way over to the first booth he saw and slithered underneath its leather-draped table.

  Once he’d pulled his feet in after him and the heavy coverings had fallen back into place, Riker allowed himself a shudder of disgust. Crowds. He was grateful for the relative quiet, the relative peace afforded him by his shelter.

  In fact, he almost hated the idea of coming out again into the swirling madness of the marketplace. But he couldn’t forget that he’d come here for a reason. After a couple of seconds’ respite, he crawled out on the other side of the table.

  Riker had fully expected to have to excuse himself to the proprietor. After all, he was hardly an invited guest.

  But the merchant cast him no more than a sideways glance. He was too busy attending to a couple of marketgoers who’d found themselves sprawled across his knife collection.

  Abruptly, Riker recognized the face. It was the weapons dealer they’d observed in his dealings with Kobar. Small world, wasn’t it?

  Perhaps a bit too small right now, and a bit too crowded as well. He had to find Lyneea. And also the ones they’d been following, before they got away.

  Riker had already risen to one knee and was starting to get up the rest of the way when he realized that the weapons dealer’s wasn’t the only familiar face around here. Nor would he have to look very far for Kobar.

  Just a few inches, in fact—because Kobar, having pushed himself off the knife table, was staring Riker in the face.

  There was an excruciatingly long moment in which their eyes met and locked. An eternity, it seemed, in which something less than peaceful flickered, then flared, and finally flamed in Kobar’s gaze.

  “You,” he spat. “You’re the other human. Norayan’s other companion!”

  Riker realized then that his hood had fallen away. Hurriedly he put it back on.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, turning away. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You’re right,” cried Kobar’s friend, who had also recovered quickly enough, it seemed, to place Riker’s face. “It’s the one . . . what was his name? Reeker? No—Riker.”

  By that time, the human was slipping away—and trying to slip out of Kobar’s thoughts at the same time. If he moved fast enough, maybe he could lose himself in the crowd again. No, better—get out of the marketplace altogether.

  How had Kobar and his companion remembered him? It had been five years, and he didn’t remember them. Apparently his friendship with Norayan had been scrutinized more closely than he’d realized—at least by some.

  Riker brushed aside a double layer of leather and emerged in the next booth, where the crowd had already brought the table down. The rug dealer who ran the place was protecting his best pile of merchandise with outstretched arms. Seeing a narrow space between the backs of two other booths, the Enterprise officer started for it.

  “Not so fast, human!”

  He couldn’t help glancing at the source of the command—it was that insistent. Nor was he sorry afterward that he had turned around. For if he’d practiced more restraint, he might not have avoided the
knife that came whizzing at him end over end. As it was, it embedded itself in a support pole not more than a hand’s breadth from his cheek.

  Kobar and his companions—the three of them had been reunited, it seemed—were standing at the entrance to the booth, beside the overturned table. And each had an exotic-looking knife in his hand.

  “What are you doing?” asked Kobar. “Following me?” He took a step forward, making tiny motions with the point of his blade, as if he were carving something. “Admit it, Riker.”

  “Just calm down,” Will said, giving up on the idea of escape. By the time he squeezed himself through the opening he’d spotted, each of his adversaries could have taken a nice leisurely shot at him. And one of them was bound not to miss. “I think we have some sort of misunderstanding here.”

  By that time, the isak threat seemed to have abated. Those who only moments before had been scrambling for shelter were now attracted to the drama in the rug merchant’s stall.

  “Misunderstanding, you say?” Kobar shook his head. “I don’t think so. I believe I understand perfectly.”

  Not perfectly, Riker thought, but well enough to put two and two together. To realize that the Federation might have sent someone to Imprima to investigate Teller’s disappearance. To recognize that Riker’s presence at the marketplace was hardly a coincidence. And to know that if the human was following him, he might also have caught on to his friend’s murder.

  Of course, to figure all that out, Kobar had to be guilty as hell, not only of the murder but of the theft of Fortune’s Light as well. Riker had satisfied himself of that fact—a limited accomplishment if he didn’t live to tell of it.

  And judging by the look in Kobar’s eye, he had every intention of silencing his accuser before he could make any accusations.

  Riker looked past his antagonist, scanned the faces in the crowd. Where in blazes was Lyneea?

  “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is,” he suggested. “Then we can work it out.”

  There was no point in confirming the Impriman’s suspicions. If he had any doubts, Riker was going to nurture them.

  Kobar smiled. “Can we? I doubt it.”

  “Surely you’re not thinking of killing an unarmed man?” Riker lifted his chin to indicate Kobar’s companions. “All three of you?”

  That drew a murmur from the clutch of onlookers. Kobar’s smile faded, and he pointed his knife at the weapon stuck in the support pole.

  “Take it out,” he said. “Then you’ll be armed, too. And I promise my friends will stay out of it.”

  Riker didn’t want to accept the weapon. If he did, it would mean a fight to the death; that was the nature of street duels on Imprima.

  And the advantage would almost certainly be Kobar’s. Riker could tell from his comportment that he’d done this sort of thing before—obviously with success.

  Of course he’d never fought Riker before. But even if the human came out on top, his victory would be a Pyrrhic one. Killing an official of Madraga Rhurig would draw attention to him, blow his cover wide open, and maybe make further investigation impossible.

  Not to mention the fact that Kobar’s friends would want to avenge his death. That, too, was the nature of street duels on Imprima.

  “Come on,” Kobar jeered. “What are you waiting for?”

  Riker shook his head slowly. “No,” he said evenly.

  Kobar’s eyes narrowed. “I always suspected you humans were cowards.” He spat. “Now I’ve got proof.”

  But Riker wouldn’t take the bait. He just stood there.

  Not that he wouldn’t have liked to take up the knife. He was itching to give Kobar a taste of what he’d done to Teller. But we can’t always do as we like, can we?

  “No,” he said a second time, as much to confirm his own resolution as to announce it to his enemy.

  What blossomed in Kobar’s eyes looked like genuine anger. Coming forward, closing the rest of the gap between them, he shifted the knife to his left hand. Then, with his right, he dug his fingers into Riker’s tunic, grabbing a fistful of the thick material.

  “You’ll fight me,” said the third official of Madraga Rhurig. “No matter how cowardly you are, you’ll fight me, or so help me I’ll gut you where you stand.”

  They were almost nose to nose now, Kobar’s gaze getting hotter and hotter. The human returned it as calmly as he could. Easy, Riker. It’s still three against one. Your best chance is to wait this one out.

  Then he felt the knife point in his ribs. At first there wasn’t much pressure behind it. But after a couple of seconds, it began to dig in.

  “Well?” said Kobar.

  Would he carry out his threat or was it a bluff? The human wasn’t sure.

  Even in the cold of the open-air market, he could feel a drop of sweat trickling down the side of his face. Riker’s mouth went dry as the knife point moved abruptly, cutting through his tunic. It must have cut flesh as well, because he felt a sharp, burning pain.

  For a moment, he believed that Kobar would gut him after all, that the old Riker luck had finally given out. Then the Impriman let up on the pressure. Opening the fingers of his right hand, he let go of Riker’s tunic.

  Finally he turned his back on the human and walked out of the booth, wiping blood—Riker’s blood—off his knife onto his trouser leg.

  It’s over, the human told himself. And it seems I’ve won.

  Suddenly Kobar turned and regarded him again. He spoke to his companions without looking at them.

  “Drag him out of there,” he snarled. “He may think he can avoid this, but he can’t.”

  Looks like I spoke too soon, Riker chided himself.

  Without hesitation, Kobar’s friends came to get him. Each of them took an arm and dragged him out of the rug merchant’s booth.

  Nor did he resist much. What for? It would only have postponed the inevitable.

  With the crowd packed in like this, he couldn’t run. Lyneea could have helped, but where was she? Hadn’t she noticed yet what was happening here?

  As Kobar’s companions thrust Riker forward, the crowd cleared away and formed a circle around a portion of the market’s winding lane. It was big enough for what Kobar had in mind, but barely.

  “Last chance,” the Impriman warned him. He gestured to one of his friends, who held out his knife, handle first.

  Riker didn’t take it. Don’t give in now, he told himself. You’ll find another way out of this.

  “Suit yourself,” said Kobar. And subtly altering his grip on his weapon, he advanced on the human.

  The attack wasn’t meant to be clever. It was intended to humiliate with its straightforwardness.

  But Riker didn’t intend to be humiliated. Or, for that matter, to be skewered on Kobar’s point.

  At the last moment, he sidestepped the attack and, for good measure, struck Kobar a two-handed blow that sent him staggering.

  The Impriman looked at him with newfound respect. “So,” he said. “You can fight.”

  Will didn’t reply. It was more important to concentrate on staying alive.

  Kobar took another swipe at him—this time, one with a little more thought behind it. Riker had to jump back quickly, using all the space the crowd would give him, then shuffle sideways to avoid the real attack. For a trained duelist almost never intended his first assault to be his best one, and Kobar was obviously a trained duelist.

  Sure enough the Impriman followed up with a long, hard lunge, expecting to hit flesh and bone. But with Riker already on the move, his point found nothing but empty air.

  Cursing, he rounded on the human again. Riker kept dancing along the perimeter of their space, brushing against the ring of onlookers as he moved.

  Kobar feinted. Riker refused to be deceived, refused to react and yield the advantage to his adversary.

  Another feint, better than the first, but the human didn’t swallow this one either. Kobar was getting impatient, Riker decided. He would be less cautious, less picky
about his openings.

  He was right. Kobar didn’t wait long to strike again. He started his attack slowly, hoping to lull Riker into overconfidence, then put all his weight into a sudden rush.

  It was a rash thing to do when time was on his side. But Riker wasn’t about to tell Kobar that. Timing it so that his adversary just missed him, he whirled and chopped down on Kobar’s wrist.

  The Impriman cried out in pain. His weapon fell to the ground.

  When he went for it, Riker kicked it between the legs of someone in the crowd. Kobar took the opportunity to slam into the human’s midsection, carrying him off his feet. As they fell together, Riker grabbed his adversary’s tunic and planted a heel in his solar plexus. Then, as he rolled backward, he pushed his leg out and sent Kobar flying.

  In a fraction of a second Riker was on his feet, not because he feared a reprisal from Kobar—he had landed pretty hard if his grunt was any indication—but because Kobar’s friends were still in the first rank of onlookers, and both still had knives.

  In another fraction of a second, he’d located one of them. The Impriman was starting forward, weapon in hand. Riker braced himself.

  Where was the other?

  The human never saw the blow. The next thing he knew, his cheek was pressed against the frozen mud of the lane, and there was a ringing in his ears.

  Someone turned him over, dropped down on top of him. The same someone pinned Riker’s shoulders to the ground with his knees. Snowflakes fell into his face, big and soft and dreamy. He tasted blood as he recognized the face looming above him: it was Kobar’s.

  “Filthy muzza,” the Impriman spat, his clenched teeth making the words hard to understand. His eyes flashed green fury. “Filthy muzza of an offworlder bastard. Here’s what you get for putting your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

  As if from a great distance, Riker saw him raise the knife. It occurred to him that he should try to grab it, but he couldn’t seem to reach high enough. For a long time it hung there like a sickle moon, Kobar’s features twisting with rage just below it.