Necessary Evils (Adventures in the Liaden Universe®?)

by Miller, Steve

  Daav drifted toward the back of the crowd, ears and eyes alert. Words moved around him, heard in snatches: "New boss . . . ," "free food, sometimes!" and "Possibly Juntavas, but work is work--" and not all the words were Liaden.

  The car stopped and two of the traveling security force moved forward to open the door. A man alighted, moving with pilot grace, his body language eloquently alert. The clothes he uneasily wore were those of a prosperous merchant of no discernible clan. His copper-colored hair was slightly shorter than current fashion, and brushed severely back from a pale, round face. His eyes were very blue.

  That electric blue glance swept the crowd and he bowed an encompassing bow, saying a few words to those closest. His hands moved subtly, coins and perhaps vouchers appearing between his fingers, vanishing as quickly, and the word moved through the crowd: "Day work tomorrow . . ."

  Perhaps it was the jacket, though certainly his was not the only leather on the street. Perhaps it was merely his height, notable even in this mixed company. Whichever, those very blue eyes paused in their efficient scan of the crowd, lingering a moment, and a moment more, on Daav's face. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't been recognized--and the man turned away.

  Security moved to enter the club, the man following, two more security at his back. The car swept away, spitting city-grit at the legs and faces of the unwary. Daav joined those who followed at a respectful distance; the night bouncer nodded at his jacket and let him enter the precincts of joy.

  *

  Within, there was some slight disarray, as the copper-haired man was ushered to a table hastily swept and settled for him near the center of the floor. Gravely, he sat, flanked by his security, as one of the staff ran for the bar and others came forward in ones and twos and made their bows, for all the worlds as if the delm of gaming hells had come to sit among them, and take their census.

  Daav slipped to the right before those sharp eyes might find him again, and made his way to the back of the room, and the various wheels of fortune.

  *

  "Buy some luck, Pilot?"

  The person who asked it was very nearly as tall as he was, with lush, if improbable, violet hair, and in such a state of expansive undress as must surely have put her health at risk, chilly as the house was kept.

  Daav considered his small pile of chips wryly, and glanced back to her. He'd spent a good deal of energy over the last few hours carefully building the pile, and then making it dwindle.

  "I'll be needing more than luck to turn this night around," he said gruffly, keeping to his character. "And nothing to spare for random results."

  She smiled, to his eye honestly amused, and slid bonelessly between him and the next player.

  "A bargain, then," she murmured, wrapping her hands around his arm. "If your luck changes for the better across the next three spins, you'll own I know my business and pay me double my usual fee."

  He grunted, considered his small holdings once more, and snapped his fingers. "Done," he said. "See you do your work well, to mutual profit." He divided what remained of his holdings into thirds with over-careful fingers, and dropped the first third onto the ship symbol. The lady wrapped 'round him reached down a long, naked arm and hefted his empty glass.

  "Wine for my pilot!" she called across to the smaller bar, and in a twinkling a fresh glass was by his hand.

  "Do you pay for that out of your fee?" he asked, and she laughed, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, violet hair ticking his chin.

  "Winners drink free," she murmured.

  "The stakes keep rising," he commented, and she laughed again, low in her throat.

  "That's life."

  "All bets frozen!" the croupier called and spun the wheel with a will.

  Lights flashed merrily, the ebon ball dancing among them. His provisional luck extended her slender hand and picked up the wine glass, sipping languidly before raising it to his lips.

  "To winning big," she murmured. Daav sipped, unsurprised to find the vintage much superior to that of his first glass, and she drank again before replacing the glass in its holder.

  The wheel stopped; there was a moment of stillness--and then an eruption of chimes as the wheel and the square claimed by his small pile of chips began to flash a matching, exuberant green.

  "We have," the croupier called, "a winner!"

  His luck let loose with an ear-splitting whoop, and reached up to cuddle his cheek in her palm. Her fingers were, surprisingly, calloused; the same pattern of callouses his own hands bore.

  The croupier paid out of the bank, two golds and a stack of silvers. Daav had tripled his wager on that run, and he had no doubt that the next two would be winners, as well. After which, if matters progressed along the usual pattern of such things, his luck would undertake to get him drunk or elsewise besotted, and then stand by as her confederates relieved him of the house's money.

  It was usual in such cases, he knew, that the victim would then be left to wake up on his own and chart a no doubt unsteady course for home. There was no benefit to the house in murder, after all.

  Unless, of course, one's luck was a freelancer. In which case, she might be . . . interested in his mother's riddle.

  "Will you not wager again, Pilot?" his luck murmured from her affectionate nestle; one hand dropping from his arm to his thigh. "Our agreement was for profit over three spins." Her voice dropped. "Unless you have no need of the money . . ."

  The lady, Daav conceded, knew her business, and certainly he had gone to some pains to appear a pilot in . . . unfortunate financial circumstances. His boots were perhaps a bit more than respectably worn, portions of his dark trousers showed as much shine as his boots.

  Daav swept his palm on the worn fabric at his knee, just slightly lower than the spot on his leg his luck was gripping.

  He glanced at her; nodded at the croupier.

  "Let it ride," he growled, and his luck whooped. "My pilot knows how to play the game!" she shouted to the room at large.

  "Have done," he said, sharp and surly under the racket of the wheel spinning. "Unless you want to be relieved of your earnings by those whose profit is taken from the pockets of others? I assure you, I have a better use for my portion than losing it to a wolf pack."

  She laughed low in her throat. "Are you afraid of wolf packs, Pilot?"

  "If I was afraid of losing my winnings to a wolf pack," he answered. "I wouldn't have come here."

  He glanced about, hand negligently indicating the riff-and-the-raff about them, and carefully notincluding the semi-official head table where still sat the high-roller, done with receiving his subjects now, bereft of his security, but having acquired a companion of his own, to help him drink his wine.

  "Mmm," his luck murmured, twining so nearly 'round him it seemed she would soon be inside his jacket with him. What else she might have said, if anything, was lost in a explosion of light and sound as the wheel and the square holding his second wager declared him again a winner.

  "Excellent!" his luck shouted, and raised the wine glass to his lips. Drink he did, though not as deeply as she urged him, and she finished the last herself, before holding the glass high again.

  "More wine for my pilot!" she called, and scarcely had the words rang out than the glass arrived, larger than the last, Daav saw at a glance, and filled to the top.

  "Peace," his luck breathed into his ear, as she raised the glass for a sip. "I know you would be quiet, but I must advertise my skill for those others who might wish to employ me. I swear I will make only as much noise as will advance my own cause. Done?"

  "Done," he answered, and obligingly sipped from the glass she held up to him. Again, he drank rather less than she would have had him, and was pleased to see her drink again, and deeply, before returning the glass to the table.

  Himself--he considered his winnings, and of a sudden leaned forward, awkwardly, for being bound by his luck, and pushed the two-thirds of his original amount that he had held in reserve onto the ship square.


  "Let it all ride," he said, slurring his words slightly.

  His luck sighed so deeply her entire body quivered. The rest of the players pushed their wagers forward in silence. The croupier called the freeze and spun the wheel. Hard.

  It seemed the entire house held its breath while the wheel danced 'round, and at last came to rest, winner flashing.

  "A third win!" screamed his luck, forsaking his arm to propel herself into the air with a push on his shoulder, her fists beating the air. "Luck is where you find it!" she crowed.

  Daav turned slightly and she came to rest with her breasts pressed against his chest, and her arms around his shoulders. She came up on her toes, pressing into him and whispered in his ear.

  "Come over to my table, sweeting, and buy me a drink."

  "My winnings . . ." he protested, and she laughed, turning her head to look at the croupier. "Bring the pilot's winnings to Zara Chance's table," she commanded.

  "It shall be done at once!" The croupier swore, and turned to give orders to certain of the house's other employees, who were standing nearby. Zara Chance wove her fingers with Daav's and led him away from the wheel, passing through a wide and curious throng, some of whom made to touch her. She slapped those questing hands away, laughing her rich, lazy laugh.

  "Free luck is worth what you paid for it! Let us pass! Make way for Zara Chance and her winner!"

  *

  If the surly, black-haired pilot wasn't alert at his board, his lady-luck was going to undress him right in the booth, Clarence thought. Not that he didn't seem an adroit lad, and not a quarter so drunk as he was letting it be seen. But if the lady was one with the rumor him and his crew'd been chasing all over Low and Mid-port this last while . . .

  "You have a fancy for exotic hair, Boss O'Berin?" his own companion asked.

  "Could be," he answered, giving her a straight look. He'd asked for somebody who knew the news, whereupon the floor boss had gone to the back and ushered her out, introducing her as, "Mistress Ilda, quarter-owner."

  "Tell me about her," he said to Ilda now, angling his chin at the pair grappling in the booth.

  "Her name is Zara Chance," Mistress Ilda said promptly. "She is not one of our regulars, and if it was in my power, I would ban her entirely."

  "Shorts the house, does she?" Clarence asked.

  "Not in the least," Ilda returned primly. "Very prompt in paying her percentage, is Zara Chance, and lays down extra for the good wine, too."

  "But you don't like her," Clarence persisted, when she paused, his eyes on the couple in the booth. The pilot had managed to untangle himself from the lady, and was engaged in counting his winnings, which was not, Clarence thought, quite so adroit. He considered the man more closely, but he didn't have the look of either a port-cop or a bounty hunter.

  "I don't like her," Ilda agreed. "Zara Chance's winners have a way of disappearing, once she has had her way with them. Losing customers is, as I'm sure you'd agree, Boss O'Berin, bad for business." She sighed, and shrugged, reaching for her glass. "But she does not overfish the waters, you see, and my partners are inclined to turn a blind eye, out of respect for her percentage." She sipped. "Zara Chance knows her business; and her winners always win big."

  "Hm." Clarence picked up his own glass and had a sip, to be sociable. "Tell me about him."

  "I've never seen him before," Ilda answered, sounding just a thought regretful. "And I doubt I'll see him again."

  At the booth, the pilot had done fiddling with his coins. He pushed a sizable pile over to Zara Chance and slipped the balance away into various pockets. Where the lady put her share, Clarence couldn't have said, but she leaned over, her hand on the pilot's arm, and her lips against his ear.

  The pilot moved his shoulders; Zara Chance threw back her head and laughed, then slid out of the booth, pulling him with her.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Clarence saw Belle and Huang notice the pair of them, and ease into position.

  "Thank you," he said to Ilda. "You've been very helpful. I'm doing a full review, just to acquaint myself with the local franchises--staff'll be contacting you about a time for a business meeting. Right now, though--"

  Ilda nodded, leaning back in her chair. "My partners and I will be pleased to see you, Boss," she said formally. "And, speaking only for myself, if you can arrange it so that Zara Chance never comes to this Hell again, I'd be much obliged."

  "I'll see what I can do," Clarence told her, and stood up.

  The pilot and Zara Chance were out the door, Belle and Huang on their trail.

  " 'Til next time," he said and moved toward the door, not hurrying, both hands in plain sight. At the door he exchanged nods with the bouncer and stepped out into the street.

  He paused in the thin spill of light from Ilgay's sign and brought his arm up, a man checking the time, that was all. The tell-tales gave him Belle and Huang's position, some meters to the right, and on an intersecting course with the points occupied by Urel and Gounce.

  "Gotcha," he breathed, and ambled down the dark street, hands in pockets, the fingers of the right curled 'round the butt of his gun, not that he expected to need it. Staff knew what to do, now that the quarry was in sight. And it had been Belle, after all, who'd put together the pattern of the freelance luck and overlaid it with the pattern of pilots gone missing.

  By rights, Clarence acknowledged, he should have let staff handle the whole job. He'd weighed it, wondering if he'd be sending the message that there was a certain lack of trust in staff's abilities. In the end, though, he'd opted to take a personal interest, showing staff he wasn't afraid to put his gun where his orders were. Showing 'em that he was the Boss and that he took his port serious, just as serious as Herself had done. Pilots going missing on herwatch? Not bloody likely.

  From up ahead came the sudden sound of an scuffle. He heard Belle's voice, raised, and a shot.

  Swearing, he leapt into a run, gun out, damn it all, and swung 'round the corner, dodging into the cover of a broken doorway.

  *

  "We're followed," Zara Chance said, low, and sent him a glance so hard he felt it strike the side of his face in the darkness. "Your backup, Pilot?"

  If he had thought that tonight would have been anything other than a simple reconnoiter run, it might well have been his backup, Daav thought. Though his people might not have been quite so noisy.

  Still, it was nice to be able to tell the lady the truth.

  "None of mine. Most likely they're sent from the house to recover its loss."

  A small pause while she gave that consideration. "It may be so," she allowed, eventually, "though Ilgay isn't known for bringing its business to the street."

  "They might change policy," he offered. "For a stiff loss."

  "Hm," she answered, and suddenly grabbed his arm, swinging him 'round to face back the way they'd come, and the silence between them was filled with a vibro-blade's grim promise.

  Blast. Well, and it likely was recovery crew from the house, or a wolf pack with its nose on cash. Either way, fighting at the lady's side could only increase her regard for him, which must be to his advantage. Daav slipped a slim dagger from his boot, the sound of hasty footsteps growing louder.

  A man came briskly 'round the corner, stuttered to a halt, and then danced back as Zara Chance lunged, vibro-blade humming like a live thing. She pursued, and he swung to one side, missing the kick, slapping at his vest, and around the corner came his mate, shouting, gun out. A shot went over Daav's head and he swept forward, meaning to knock the gun away, when yet another person arrived, copper hair gleaming in the meager light, gun out and leveled.

  "Put the knife down and stand away from the pilot, hands where I can see them," he said in calm, no-nonsense Trade. "Make me ask twice and it won't be so civil."

  "Since we are being civil . . ." She thumbed her weapon off, crouched to place it on the ground, and flung herself sidewise, hitting Daav hard enough to send him staggering toward the man with the gun. Startled
, he tucked and hit the ground rolling, heard a shot whine somewhere overhead and heard the red-haired man snap, "I'll mind him--don't lose her!"

  There came the sound of boots against gritty tarmac, and Daav continued his roll, snapped to his feet, turned to pursue--and froze, the sound of a safety being disengaged ludicrously loud.

  "I have," he said over his shoulder, "business with the lady."

  "Mine comes first," the red-haired man answered. "Drop the knife, why not?"

  Daav sighed and turned to face him. "Because I happen to be fond of it and don't want to risk nicking the edge, if you must know."

  A grin flickered, ghostly, across the pale face. "Put it away, then. Tell me where."

  "Left boot," Daav said obligingly, and bent to slip the blade home. He could no longer hear sounds of the chase, and silently cursed himself for losing his contact like an idiot.

  "That lady's bad trouble," the man with the gun said, when he straightened. "You get on home or to the guildhall or wherever you're wanted and let us take care of her."

  Daav felt his temper flicker, not to mention a lively spurt of curiosity about his solicitous captor.

  "Perhaps you think I'mnot bad trouble," he said, allowing his voice to take an edge. "That would be a mistake."

  The other man cocked his head to one side, hair glinting like metal in the dim light. He shifted the gun, but notably did not snap the safety on. "What's your name, Trouble?"

  "Daav," he said shortly, feeling the curiosity rise above his irritation. "And your own?"

  "Clarence. Your lady-friend is a link to a bunch of pilots going missing on this port. That's my concern. I can't afford to lose pilots--it's expensive and it's bad for business, and it's going to stop."

  "I agree with you upon every point. Stopping it is precisely the reason I am here; exactly the reason I agreed to go with Zara Chance to meet her 'recruiter'; and . . . "

  "Where's your backup?" Clarence interrupted. Daav blinked, and said nothing.

  "You came down here by yourself, without backup?" The safety went on with an emphatic snap and the gun disappeared into a pocket, as if Clarence no longer considered him a threat. Daav was inclined to feel insulted.