Clean Sweep

by Ilona Andrews

  "It's always work with you," the russet-haired man said.

  "Some of us have to mind the safety of the realm," the blond said. A narrow smile curled his lips.

  "I've given the realm eight years of my life. It can bite me," his stocky companion retorted. "How far is it?"

  The slim man raised his left arm. A hawk dropped out of the sky and landed on his bracer. "We're almost there. Two blocks left."

  "Good. Let's get this crap and go home."

  They turned into the side street.

  "That bird smelled dead," Sean said.

  "Dead?"

  He nodded. "A couple of days at least. Tell me something. Why live on Earth when you can live here?"

  "Some people go to exotic places on vacation and fall in love with them. Some of them even stay and then, once the newness wears off, they find that this new place is just as rough and mundane as the one they left. Other people go to exotic places, visit, and then say 'That's nice, but I miss my house and it's time to go home.' Earth is home. There is no prettier sky, there is no greener grass, and there is no place that feels as right."

  He mulled that over.

  We made a right, then another right, and stopped before a large building. A rectangular doorway gaped in the middle, dark like the mouth of some beast. A gray-skinned woman blocked it. Her dark hair fell below her waist in thin dreads. She looked at us with gold eyes, saw my face, and smiled, showing a mouth full of sharp, triangular teeth.

  "Greetings, Dina."

  "Greetings, saar ah. Will the Merchant see me?"

  "Nuan Cee always has time for you." Saar ah stepped aside. "Come on in."

  The foyer opened into a large room. Large square tiles, gray with the familiar geometric border, lined the floor and climbed the walls. Green, blue, and dark purple plants grew here and there in ornate pots. At the far wall, a long slit spilled water across tile and it ran down the twenty-foot wall to fall into a narrow basin with a soft splash.

  A low table, carved from a solid block of volcanic glass, stood to the left, surrounded by comfortable, dark purple sofas. Saar ah led us to it, smiled and showed her shark teeth, then went to stand by the wall. We both remained standing.

  "What is she?" Sean asked me quietly.

  "I've seen her people a couple of times, but they are reclusive and usually keep to their own world. I can tell you that for saar ah to serve a Merchant, she would have to be really good. There are hundreds of vendors at the Baha-char, but only a few dozen of them are Merchants. Merchants handle significant transactions and to become one, you have to have a fleet and show a lot of profit. Some of them specialize in large shipments. Some like Nuan Cee, deal in rare goods. Basically, if you want something you can't readily buy on the street because it's hard to find or you need it in a large quantity, you go to a Merchant."

  "Anything I need to know about this particular Merchant?" Sean asked.

  "Nuan Cee is vain, fussy, and difficult." I glanced at saar ah. "Anything I left out?"

  A flash of shark teeth. "Excitable."

  "That too. He is also rich and very respected, and if he can't get what you're looking for, then what you're asking for is impossible." Chances were, Nuan Cee was listening to us and a little flattery never hurt.

  The gauzy lavender-and-blue curtain on the right parted, and a creature stepped into view. He walked upright but stood barely four feet tall, including the six-inch lynx ears. Short, silver-blue fur covered his frame like soft velvet, dappled with pale golden rosettes on his back and fading to almost white on his stomach. His face would've been feline if it weren't for an elongated muzzle that resembled a fox's snout. He wore a silk apron and jewelry made from small cream and blue shells. His large round eyes were bright with vivid turquoise irises.

  He smiled at me, showing sharp teeth. "Dina. Come sit, sit, sit."

  We sat.

  He glanced at Sean. "I see you have finally employed Saar ah."

  "He is a friend," I told him. "I don't need a bodyguard. I am not important like the great Nuan Cee."

  The Merchant smiled. "I do like to converse with you. You are always most pleasant." His furry face turned somber. "Have you news of your parent figures?"

  "No."

  He nodded. "I have kept my ear to the wind but there are no answers, only whispers too vague to sense. Should I hear something, I shall send word."

  That word would be expensive, but I would pay for it, whatever the price might be.

  "So how can this humble trader help you today?"

  "I'm looking to purchase a clutch of Anansi pearls."

  Nuan Cee leaned forward. His eyes shone with predatory glee. His lips parted, revealing carnivore fangs in a disturbing smile. "Ooooh. You're going to ki...i...ill someone. Who is it? Is it someone I know?"

  "Probably not."

  He laughed like a cat sneezing and waved his paw-hands. "Very good, very good, keep your secrets, keep, keep. Now then, what have you brought in trade?"

  I'd brought a couple of things. My parents had traded with Nuan Cee; I'd watched them make deals since I was a toddler. Things like gold and jewels meant nothing to a rare-goods trader. After all, gold was just a metal that could be found on hundreds of worlds. Nuan Cee wanted something unique and rare. Something wrapped in legend. And to pay for Anansi pearls, that something had to be very special.

  Sean passed me the backpack. I unzipped it and pulled out three large bottles. Each had a yellow label with a portrait of an older man smoking a cigar. "Pappy Van Winkle's fifteen-year-old Family Reserve bourbon. Best small-batch bourbon in show at San Francisco's World Spirits. Nearly impossible to get."

  As an opening trade, it wasn't half-bad. It had taken me forever to get the bourbon, and I knew for a fact that Nuan Cee kept up with the alcohol trade on dozens of planets. This was my proof that I could procure something rare.

  Nuan Cee leaned forward, enthusiastic. "Interesting. Four pearls. Five for you. Your parent figures always brought me the best things, and I will be generous in their memory."

  Five wouldn't cut it. He wanted the bourbon, but not nearly enough. It was time for the real thing. Here's hoping it did its job well enough.

  I reached into the backpack and extracted a small jar wrapped in bubble wrap. I peeled the wrap off and set the jar on the table. Nuan Cee peered at the viscous yellow fluid within.

  "What would this be?"

  "A treasure." I leaned forward and moved the jar. The ray of sun from the window pierced the contents and the liquid glowed like molten gold.

  Nuan Cee's eyes sparked.

  "On Earth, far to the south of me and near the equator, lies a sea, a pure crystalline blue. At its north edge, where two continents touch, stretches an arid plain. As one moves farther from the water, the plain rises and turns into barren hills and desolate mountains. Between the mountains hide wadis, narrow fertile valleys, secreted from the world. It is an ancient land, named after a ruthless warlord. Legend says he was so devastating in battle that his enemies knew facing his army meant the end of their existence. They called this place Hadramout. It means 'death has arrived.'"

  Nuan Cee was listening.

  "Twice a year, simple artisans make the arduous trek through these mountains as their ancestors have done for seven thousand years. They climb the secret trails to the east, toward the rising sun, until they come to the valley where the sidr trees grow. The sidr are sacred to many religions. Muslims know them as trees of Paradise. Christians believe that when Man was cast from the Garden of Eden by God, it was the fruit of the sidr tree that first gave him sustenance. Its roots dig deep into the soil, so far it can survive the most ferocious floods and droughts. Every part of the tree is medicinal, every leaf is precious. But the artisans take none of it. Carefully, gingerly, they harvest the honey from the bees that feed on the pollen of those trees and make their long perilous journey back. The sidr honey they bring with them cures many ills. It is the essence of that ancient, savage land. It's very lifeblood. There is non
e rarer or more highly prized."

  Nuan Cee looked at the jar. "Twelve."

  I rose. "My apologies. I hadn't realized that great Nuan Cee had fallen on hard times. Forgive me. I meant no offense."

  Nuan Cee hissed at the insult. I reached for the jar.

  "Twenty," he barked.

  I pondered the jar in front of me. It felt like walking a tightrope. If the deal fell through, I had no idea where to go next. "I'm in great need. That's the only reason I'm willing to part with it. I bargain for my life, Merchant. You know my price."

  "Thirty-two," he said. "The full clutch. It is my final offer."

  I waited for the painful five seconds. "We have a deal."

  Twenty minutes later we left Nuan Cee's warehouse, pushing a heavy cart in front of us. Inside, in sealed crates, rested the Anansi pearls. Thirty-two. Enough to murder a battalion of Navy SEALs. Maybe two battalions.

  "Do Navy SEALs have battalions?" I asked.

  "No. SEALs have teams, which are organized into warfare groups. Each team has several platoons in it, usually six. The Army has battalions. Was any of that story true?"

  "About the honey? Yes. It's the most expensive honey in the world and it's harvested in Yemen."

  He grunted. "How much did it set you back?"

  "That jar he has is one kilo, so about two point two pounds. It goes for about ninety dollars a pound. With shipping, it ends up being around two fifty per large jar. Of course, you have to know where to buy the real thing..."

  Sean stared at me.

  "What?"

  "Two hundred and fifty bucks?"

  "Well, it's honey, not white truffles. There is a price ceiling there."

  "What happens when he realizes you sold him a jar of honey he could've gotten for two hundred and fifty dollars?"

  "I sold him the rarest, most expensive honey on planet Earth. Exactly as advertised. He will use my story to resell it for thousands in whatever currency he wishes. If he decides I got the better of him, it will just make him respect me more."

  Sean shook his head.

  "Besides, if things went sour, you would totally spring to my rescue. I'm sure if you did some ferocious growling..."

  Sean stopped and peered down the alley. I listened. A quiet melody floated on the breeze, beautiful and sad. It came from the dark archway just ahead. Sean pushed the cart forward, forgetting I was there, and stopped before the door.

  A man leaned against the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a mane of graying hair, he watched us from the shadows. The light caught his eyes and they flashed with telltale yellow. A werewolf.

  Next to me Sean went really still. He wasn't afraid. He just waited, loose and ready, watching, listening.

  "What unit?" the man called out.

  Sean didn't answer.

  "I asked you a question, soldier. Where were you stationed?"

  "Fort Benning," Sean said. "I didn't fight for your world in your war. I fought for my country in mine."

  The man stepped forward. Weather and age had chiseled his face. He looked grizzled, scuffed around the edges like an old gun, but no less deadly. He inhaled deeply.

  "Alpha strain. You can't be more than thirty. That would make you Earthborn." He slumped a little against the doorway. "Well, how about that. We achieved viable offspring after all. Come inside. You're my life's work. You have nothing to fear from me."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The inside of the shop was neat, its wares arranged under glass, along the counter, and on the walls with military precision. Knives in wooden display stands, curved crescent weapons, metal canisters of unknown purpose, leather harnesses and belts, boots, jewelry, boxes filled with dark orange powder, vials with turquoise liquid... Stepping into this place was like walking into another world.

  "Gorvar!" the older werewolf growled.

  An enormous blue-green animal padded through the other door. The creature's head, even with massive ears and a thick dark mane, came up to my chest. The lines of its head and the long body said wolf, but the difference between an Earth wolf and this creature was like the difference between a puppy and the leader of a pack. On our world, it would be the king of all wolves.

  "Go watch the cart," the werewolf said.

  The wolf padded out the door.

  The older werewolf took a glass cup filled with small round spheres, each about the size of a walnut, from the counter, plucked one out, and held it between his index finger and thumb. "Know what these are?" he said to Sean.

  "No."

  "Cluster bombs."

  The werewolf gently placed the sphere back in the glass, looked at the cup, and hurled the contents at Sean.

  Time stopped.

  My chest began to rise as my lungs sucked in air in panic.

  The shiny glass spheres flew through the air.

  Sean moved, a blur slicing through the room like a knife.

  Some invisible omnipotent being pressed Play on the remote. I exhaled and blinked. Sean's left hand held the spheres. His right pressed a knife to the older werewolf's throat.

  The older man raised his hand slowly and checked his wrist. Blue symbols glowed under his skin.

  "Point six seconds. You are the real thing." He grinned, baring white teeth. "The real thing."

  "I think you might be crazy," Sean said.

  "You have no idea how amazing it is that you're alive. Sorry about the scare. They're not armed. No detonators. I just had to know." The werewolf took a sphere from Sean's hand and tossed it on the ground. It rolled harmlessly on the floorboards. "I sell them as souvenirs. Own a piece of tech from the dead planet. The tools of our own destruction available for twenty credits each to the discerning shopper."

  He smiled and took a slow step back. Sean let him go and dropped the knife back onto the counter. I hadn't even seen him pick it up.

  The older werewolf crossed the shop, slid open a panel in the wall, and took out a glass pitcher filled with dark purple liquid.

  "Go ahead, look around. This is as close as you'll come to Auul. Like it or not, this was the planet that breathed life into your parents. Your heritage."

  Sean slid the spheres back into the cup and turned, scanning the surroundings. He looked like a man who'd just found out his much-admired ancestor was a serial killer and was now standing in his tomb, unsure how he felt about it.

  "Name is Wilmos Gerwar, 7-7-12," the older werewolf said, adding three ornate glasses to the pitcher. "Seventh Pack, Seventh Wolf, Twelfth Fang. Gerwar stands for Medic."

  "No last name?" I asked.

  "No. Used to be more complicated than that. Used to be you had a tribe and would list your ancestors for four generations after your name. But when the war started, it was decided that short was best. Besides, it didn't matter much who you were anymore. People died so fast it only mattered what you did. I was the thirty-second Gerwar in my Fang. It was a long war."

  Wilmos took the glasses and the pitcher to a small table and invited me to sit. I slid onto the padded bench. Beast curled by my feet. Wilmos filled the glasses and pushed one toward Sean.

  "No thanks," Sean said.

  Wilmos took a swallow from his glass. "This is Auul tea. I know a former Boom-Boom—that would be heavy-artillery gunner—who owns land in Kentucky. He's got five acres of this stuff. Exports it to a half dozen dealers, what few of us are left in the Galaxy. I wouldn't poison you. And I would never poison an innkeeper." He held the glass out to me. "We all need a refuge once in a while."

  I took a sip. The tea tasted tart and refreshing and strangely alien. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was a hint of something not quite Earth-like about the flavor.

  Sean took the third chair and tasted the tea. I couldn't tell by his face if he liked it or hated it. His gaze kept going to a spot in the corner. There, under the blue glow of a small force field, lay a suit of armor. Dark gray, almost black, it looked like a chainmail made of small, sharp scales, if chainmail could be thin like silk. On the shoulders, the
scales flared into the plates. The faint image of a maned wolf marked the chest, somehow formed by the lines of the interlocking scales. It looked like a suit of armor, but it couldn't possibly be one—it was too thin.

  "I'm fourth generation," Wilmos said. "My parents were werewolves and their parents and theirs were also. When I was young, I never thought I'd have to serve. We had beaten Mraar. I was looking toward a peaceful future. I was a nanosurgeon. Then the Raoo of Mraar reconstructed the ossai and made the Sun Horde. Damn cats. Our secret weapon was no longer secret and we knew the end was coming. It would be long and bloody, but it was inevitable. Most people turned to work on the gates. I was working on those who would keep the gates open."

  He drained his glass and refilled it. "There were two dozen of us, geneticists, surgeons, medics. We bred the alphas from scratch. Anybody ever call you probira?"

  "No," Sean said. His gaze darkened. "Maybe. Once."

  "Before the war, Mraar's main export was cybernetics. You know what Auul's was? Poets." Wilmos laughed. "We were big on arts and humanities. It was all about family and proper education. Our civilization had produced thousands of books on how to properly rear your offspring so they would become 'beautiful souls.' If a child hadn't composed a heroic saga by age ten, the parents would take him to a specialist to have his head examined. Even in war, we'd win a victory and then spend twice as much energy writing songs about it. Moon-gazing and soul-searching was highly encouraged. When I was a little younger than you, I spent a year alone in the wild. Only took a small backpack with me. I felt like I was too soft and wanted to see if I could be hard. Almost like I needed to punish myself, you understand?

  Sean nodded. I guess maybe he did. I'd never had an urge to live in the wilderness by myself, so he was on his own there.

  "Your parents were conceived and brought to term in an artificial environment. What's the saying on Earth?" He glanced at me.

  "Test-tube babies."

  "Yes. That. We'd tried implanting embryos into volunteers, but the new modifications were simply too different. We had reengineered the ossai, and this new, improved alpha ossai conflicted with the ossai already inside the surrogate mothers. When we were lucky, the pregnancy ended in miscarriage. When we weren't, it killed the mother." He paused. "There were those who had serious doubts about the wisdom of growing babies outside the womb. They questioned their... humanity."