by Ann Maxwell
Kirtn and Rheba looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Because he was touching her, she could sense pictures and words from his mind, as he could from hers. It was a rare thing among Senyasi dancers and their Bre’ns, a thing that neither of them had found time to adjust to. The odd form of communication had come to them just short of death, on Loo.
“How many licenses to steal can we afford?” asked Rheba, even as her Bre’n asked the computer the same thing.
“Three-day licenses?” he muttered.
“That should be long enough. I hope.”
The computer queried its Onan counterpart.
“Twelve,” said Kirtn, deciphering the computer’s response.
Rheba frowned. “I’ll need protection. How much is a three-day license to kill?”
Kirtn whistled a query at the computer. Rheba winced at the amount that was displayed in answer. It was Onan’s most expensive license. Buying it would leave nothing for lesser three-day licenses.
“How much is a one-day license to steal?” she asked.
A credit figure blinked into existence above Kirtn’s head. She looked, added quickly, and decided. “One license to kill, three licenses to steal and two licenses to entertain on the streets. One day. How much?”
She held her breath. After they bought the power core—absolutely essential—and the most minimal ship supplies, they would have only 15,000 credits in their OVA. Dock fees were 1,500 credits per Onan day, and subject to weekly changes. That left only 13,500 for licenses.
The figure 12,750 shimmered in the air above Kirtn’s head.
“Close,” whistled the Bre’n, but the tones of the whistle said, “Too close,” and many less polite sentiments.
“We don’t have a choice, do we?”
He hesitated, then resumed stroking her hair, smiling as silky gold strands coiled around his wrist. “Will one day be enough?”
“It will have to be. Fssa, are you awake?”
The Fssireeme hissed softly. “Yessss.”
“Do your guardians’ memories recognize any of our shipmates as coming from races of thieves? Nothing fancy—strictly swipe and run. Although it would be nice if they were so light-fingered that the victims didn’t notice anything until they looked in a mirror.”
“The J/taals,” said Fssa simply. “They’re very fast. Or the Yhelle illusionists. In an emergency, they can go invisible.”
“And the rest of them?” she asked, waving her hand at the multiracial press of people throughout the ship.
Fssa sighed very humanly. “My guardians’ memories are very old, fire dancer. Most of these races weren’t fully formed then. They are as strange to me as they are to you.”
She scratched her arms, ignoring Kirtn’s frown at this sign that she had used her fire-dancer skills too recklessly on Loo. She had not had any choice then. She did not have a better choice now. She turned to the brown-furred, compact woman who was as inconspicuous and ubiquitous as her shadow.
As Rheba spoke, Fssa instantly translated her words into the language of J/taal. The process was so unobtrusive that both parties often forgot it was the Fssireeme who made communication possible.
“M/dere, we need money. Do you have any objections to turning thief? Licensed, of course.”
M/dere smiled. “Licensed, unlicensed, no difference. You’re our J/taaleri. What you command, we do. Although,” she added matter-of-factly, “we’re better killers than thieves.”
There was little Rheba could say to that. She had seen the J/taals in action on Loo. They were better at killing than most people were at breathing.
“May I suggest?” said M/dere.
“Yes,” said Rheba quickly. She was uncomfortable in her role as J/taaleri, focus of J/taal devotion. She did everything possible to shift the relationship to a more even footing. She failed, of course. J/taals were notoriously single-minded.
“The illusionists. They fight badly. Perhaps they steal well?”
Rheba scratched her arm fiercely. She was reluctant to ask the proud, aristocratic Yhelle illusionists to descend to thievery. On the other hand, they were wonderfully equipped for the job. “I don’t know where—or as what—the illusionists are,” she said finally.
“M/dur is bringing them.”
Rheba realized that she had been neatly maneuvered into a position the J/taals felt confident of defending. If they were out stealing they could not protect her. Protecting her was their reason for living.
M/dur arrived with the illusionists in tow. The two J/taals exchanged a look.
Rheba knew that behind the J/taals’ blue-green eyes information was being passed on. For an instant she envied them their precise, species-specific telepathy, a gift that had been both rare and prized on Deva. The few moments of mind dancing she had shared with Kirtn had made her appreciate the tactical possibilities of silent communication.
I’sNara, the feminine half of the Yhelle couple, watched Rheba with the patience long years of slavery on Loo had taught. Beside her stood f’lTiri, equally patient.
Rheba measured them, impressed by their altogether unnoteworthy exterior. Although elegant in movement, both of them were frankly drab in appearance, their exteriors a blank canvas on which their startling gifts drew a thousand forms.
As though sensing her appraisal, the illusionists stood without moving, their eyes unfocused, patiently waiting . . . slaves.
“Stop it,” snapped Rheba. “You aren’t like that. I’ve seen you mad enough to kill.”
F’lTiri almost smiled. His appearance changed so subtly that Rheba could not point to any single alteration, yet the result was profound. Before her now stood a man of middle years, thin, worn and very proud. Beside him stood a woman who was equal to him in every way, slave no longer.
“We gathered,” said f’lTiri, “that you wanted us for something. M/dur was polite but very firm.”
“Ummm,” said Rheba, scratching her shoulder absently, wondering how to put her proposition delicately. In Bre’n, it would have been possible, but the illusionists did not understand Bre’n. Universal was a very bald language, rather like Senyas. “We need money for a navtrix,” she said bluntly. “Everyone I asked suggested that you two would make crackling good thieves. Would you?”
I’sNara’s face twitched with smothered laughter. F’lTiri looked pained, then resigned. Rheba waited. They spoke between themselves quickly in their native language. Fssa heard and understood; he also was diplomat enough to save his translation for later.
“What kind of thieves?” asked f’lTiri neutrally.
“Ummm . . . ordinary,” said Rheba helplessly. “What other kind is there?”
F’lTiri’s voice was patient. “Are we to be yimon—”
“—electronic thieves—” whispered Fssa to Rheba.
“—or s’ktimon—”
“—arm-breakers—”
“—or mnkimon—”
“—kidnappers—”
“Wait,” said Rheba desperately, wondering what kind of culture named its thieves so formally. “Kirtn and I will do a little act on a street corner. When the crowd gets big enough, you’ll go through and take whatever you can get your hands on while the crowd is watching us.”
“'Pickpockets,” summarized Fssa in Universal.
“Liptimon,” said i’sNara and f’lTiri together.
Rheba muttered. Fssa did not translate her clinical Senyas.
“Would this do?” said i’sNara. The air around her dimmed, shifted, then cleared. A young, slightly grimy child stood in her place, eyes wistfully appraising her surroundings. She was the essence of innocence.
F’lTiri laughed. “That old cliché. You’d be spotted in a second. Nontondondo is sophisticated. Something more like this, I think.” His eyes narrowed and his face tightened as he concentrated on her.
The air around i’sNara shifted again. When reality settled back into place, i’sNara was a beautiful woman of apparent but not blatant wealth. On her shoulder was a fluff
y, sharp-fanged animal.
Rheba realized that her mouth had dropped open. She had not guessed that the illusionists could project their gift onto another person. But it was f’lTiri’s shrewd appraisal of Nontondondo’s populace that really impressed her. He was right; an innocent child would be the first person suspected. Nontondondo did not believe in innocence.
“Can you hide jewels and OVA tabs beneath that illusion?” asked Rheba.
“Of course.”
Rheba almost felt sorry for the people out in the streets. Almost, but not quite. Certainly not enough to change her mind. Anyone who came to Nontondondo knew what the rules were. “No stealing from licensed innocents,” she said firmly.
“Of course not.” i’sNara’s tone made it clear that she was shocked even by the suggestion. “Thievery is an honorable profession, calling for fine judgments and skill.”
Rheba swallowed hard and said only, “Then you’ll do it?”
“Will you license us?”
“I can afford one day for three thieves and one killer to protect you.”
“That’s me,” said M/dur. No one argued, even M/dere.
“Who’s the third thief?” asked f’lTiri.
“Me,” said a voice from behind Rheba.
She spun and found herself looking into Daemen’s rain-colored eyes. “You?” she said, her voice rising. “You’re hardly old enough to be on your own, much less turned loose out there.”
Daemen merely smiled.
“You’re not as quick as a J/taal,” said Rheba, her voice under control again, “or as strong as a Bre’n or as skilled as an illusionist.”
Daemen’s smile did not change. “I’m lucky, Rheba. Lucky is better than good anywhere in the galaxy.”
Rheba made an exasperated sound and turned toward M/dere. In matters of strategy, she deferred to the J/taal woman’s greater experience. “What do you think?”
Although Daemen had spoken in Universal, Fssa had quietly translated for the benefit of the J/taals. The mercenary looked at Daemen for a long, silent moment, an appraisal that few beings could stand without fidgeting. But Daemen merely stood at ease, smiling his uncanny smile.
M/dere turned toward Rheba. “He survived Loo’s Fold?”
“I survived the Pit,” said Daemen quietly.
Rheba shuddered. The Fold had been bad enough, but the Pit was beyond belief.
“He survived the Last Year Night rebellion?” continued M/dere.
“Yes,” said Rheba.
M/dere’s aged copper eyes stared at the young man again. “Then he must indeed be lucky, for he certainly isn’t good.”
Reluctantly, Rheba agreed. Yet she had to look away from Daemen as she spoke, for it went against her akhenet grain to put at risk anyone who looked so vulnerable. “You’re our third thief, Daemen. But if you get into trouble, I’ll feed you to the clepts!”
“Be the best meal they ever had,” he responded, smiling.
Despite her uneasiness, Rheba could not help smiling in return. She hoped that Daemen’s victims would be similarly charmed, for she had no confidence in his skill, strength or judgment.
Grimly, she instructed the computer to trade stolen Loo gems for licenses to steal on Onan.
III
Nontondondo seethed. There was no sky, only a ceiling of energy shaped into words—demands, enticements, celebrations of every sin and pleasure known to the beings of the Yhelle Equality. The noise hovered on the threshold of pain for Rheba. Her eyes ached, assaulted by colors and shapes that she was barely equipped to receive.
She should have been blinded and cowed by the city, but she was not. Her hair lifted, rippling like a golden river in freefall, tendrils reaching, seeking the invisible currents of energy that shaped and reshaped the city each instant. Akhenet lines of power burned on her skin, traceries of gold sweeping up from her hands to her face, across her shoulders, down her torso, dividing into a single slim line over each hip.
Her gray robe concealed most of the lines, but Kirtn could sense their heat. It disturbed him, awakening a desire for her that should have been dormant for several more years. She was too young to accept him as a lover, too young to be sending out the subtle currents of energy that made him ache, too young to realize the danger of what she was doing. It had driven him into rez once before. Only her desperate skill and Fssa’s ability to absorb energy had saved Bre’n and Senyas from burning to ash and gone. He could not expect to be so lucky twice.
Resolutely, he turned his thoughts away from the body swaying next to him, the delicate traceries of desire that bloomed innocently on her skin. Too soon. Too young. A net of energy uniting them, burning them, fire-dancer passion like lightning in his blood.
With an angry sound he pushed through the crowd, forcing a puzzled Rheba to run to catch up with him. He could have told her what was wrong, but did not. The passion that eventually bound Bre’n mentor to Senyas dancer was something that each Senyas had to discover. Most made the discovery in time, before a Bre’n went into rez, killed a Senyas protégé and died.
Most, but not all.
Kirtn’s gold metal eyes searched the streets for the correct place to stage their act. He needed a corner where people were inclined to loiter, not one where they would be impatient at any delay. He rejected three possible places before he found one that had the right combination of space and relaxed pedestrians.
The act he and Rheba would perform required no props. Songs sung in Bre’n whistles had cross-cultural appeal. Rheba’s ability to manufacture hot or cold fire out of the air also had an appeal that was not limited to single races or cultures. Together, Bre’n and Senyas made an unusual display. He hoped it would be enough to excite the jaded tastes of Nontondondo’s habitués.
The corner Kirtn finally selected was already occupied by a group of jugglers who were more numerous than competent. Kirtn watched them for a long moment, wondering which of the Equality’s thirty-one planets they called home. The longer he watched, the less he believed they were any part of the Equality at all. They somehow reminded him of the awkward peoples he and Rheba had found on their flight from Deva’s death, cultures barely able to chin themselves on their planet’s nearest moon. Their worlds hung like soap bubbles against the enormousness of space, iridescent, fragile, quivering with life. And so alone.
“Kirtn? What’s wrong?”
Rheba’s voice pulled Kirtn out of his thoughts. Bre’n discipline returned to him, holding him aloof from all emotions . . . like a planet caught in darkness, held in place by invisible lines of force.
“We’ll use that corner,” he said, turning to M/dur, the male J/taal who had preempted the single license to kill.
Fssa’s translation was instantaneous, unobtrusive. The J/taal mercenary slid into the crowd, followed by three silver-eyed war dogs. Silence spread behind them. J/taals and their clepts were well known in the Yhelle Equality.
Kirtn never found out whether or not the jugglers knew the language of J/taal. M/dur appeared on the corner, pointed at the jugglers and then at the street. The jugglers bunched up as though to contest the eviction. Then the avid silence of the crowd warned them. Quietly, quickly, they vacated the corner.
Rheba looked at Kirtn questioningly. He sent the illusionists into the crowd. When the act began to attract attention, they would return veiled in illusion. Then they would begin to steal.
Daemen also walked into the crowd, his slim body swallowed up almost instantly in the press of people.
“Ready?” asked Kirtn.
As an answer, Rheba began drawing on the currents of energy that laced Nontondondo’s sky. Immediately her hair fanned out, swirling and rippling in vivid display. Less obvious, for she was not working hard, were the whorls of akhenet lines beneath her brown skin.
Energy blossomed at her fingertips, streamers of colored light that flowed into shapes. Kirtn’s pure whistle slid through the street noise like sun through darkness. He gave the audience a simple song, a child’s tale of hi
dden treasure, Fifth People and friendship in unexpected places.
The energy pouring from Rheba’s fingertips took on the ghostly glimmering associated with the Fifth People, that category of intelligent life which was rarely glimpsed and then only out of the comer of one’s eyes. Fifth People seemed to hover soundlessly around her and Kirtn as though waiting for the child hero of the song to appear.
A few people stopped to watch, called by the Bre’n whistle and held by the languid sliding shapes created by a fire dancer. As the tale progressed, more people wandered over and stopped to enjoy. By the time the story ended—replete with monsters, heaped gems and heroism—a small crowd had collected. Unfortunately, there were not enough people to safely rob more than one or two. For really effective stealing to take place, a much bigger crowd was needed.
Kirtn’s song changed to a lilting work tune that had been popular before Deva’s situation became so desperate that its people forgot how to sing. Rheba’s Ghost figures solidified into Bre’ns and Senyasi working together, calling storms or sunny days, curing sickness, lifting girders and force fields into place, building and laughing and singing, always singing, for Deva had once been filled with song.
The compelling rhythms of the work song drew more people to the corner where Rheba and Kirtn performed. The akhenet lines beneath her skin pulsed more brightly now, responding to the increased demands of her performance. New energy forms appeared, cascading from her hands like supple gems, then condensing in recognizable Bre’n and Senyas forms. It was hard work for her, much harder than warming soup or lighting a dark hall. Not since she had played Chaos in the Black Whole had she tried to manipulate energy in so many distinct shapes.
Kirtn felt her hair stream out and wrap caressingly around his arm. Currents of energy ran deliciously through him, touching every cell. Desire flared—and died instantly, crushed beneath Bre’n will. He looked away from her, knowing that she had noticed neither the caress nor his response. Her face was taut, still, concentrated wholly on creating figures to people his songs.
