Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  “Ah.” He took a hard, sudden breath, raised a hand as if to shield his face, and all at once recalled himself, snapping the arm down as he glanced aside. “Your pardon,” he gasped, as the hideaway slid from his sleeve into his hand.

  “Of course,” said his enemy. “You will wish time to assimilate—”

  Pat Rin brought the little gun up and shot him through the right eye. The body of the man collapsed forward, face flat on the table, his gun-sworn snatching at her sidearm as he fell. The boom of Cheever McFarland’s weapon and the rain of blood from the gaping hole in her chest were simultaneous.

  “You OK, sir?”

  Pat Rin took a breath which failed to fill his lungs, and tried another, finding his voice at last, remarkably steady, though somewhat light.

  “I am perfectly well, Mr. McFarland, thank you.” Absently, he slid the hideaway back into his sleeve and stood.

  “You’ll have to leave your jacket,” Cheever said apologetically. “The blood.”

  “Of course.” He unfastened the seal and stripped the garment off, dropping it into the merciful shadows along the floor. For a moment, he stared uncomprehending at the square of cloth Cheever silently held out. Clean-silk. It came to him, then, that his face might not be . . . perfectly . . . clean. He plucked the cloth up and used it thoroughly, then dropped it, too, into the shadows.

  “Is that Nova’s ring?”

  He looked up at the big pilot, then turned and plucked the thing off the table. Two perfect emeralds. Fools. And, yet . . .

  “Mr. McFarland, I fear we’re in a scrape.” He held up the counterfeit. “This is not Korval’s Ring, though those—” he swept his hand at the dead without looking at them—“claimed that it was. They also claimed that all of my kin are—are dead.” His voice was not doing so well, after all. He swallowed and forced himself to go on.

  “They named names, Mr. McFarland. And—we are neither of us children. Or fools. We both know that a man who tells one lie does not necessarily tell two.”

  Cheever’s face in the dim light might have been hewn from wood.

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “Just so. Balance is owing.” He slid the bogus Ring onto his left hand—onto the second finger of his left hand—and held it up to catch the sullen light.

  There was a brief silence before Cheever nodded his big head. “Gotcha. Now, let’s get outta here before their buddies wonder what all the noise was about.”

  At the door to the alleyway, Cheever held up his hand. Pat Rin obediently slipped into the shadows at the edge of the doorway, gun ready, as the big Terran moved silently out into the dark.

  Shivering in his thin silk shirt, Pat Rin counted to twelve, to twenty-four—to thirty-six, and the alley gave up neither sound nor light nor Cheever McFarland. Forty-eight, and Pat Rin began to consider the likelihood of alternate exits and how they might be guarded. Fifty-seven—and gravel scraped in the alleyway, as if purposefully scuffed beneath the heel of a boot.

  A heartbeat later, Cheever McFarland himself materialized, showing empty palms.

  “We’re clear, sir. The guards are accounted for.”

  Soundlessly and quickly. Pat Rin slipped his gun away. “Your work?”

  Cheever grinned and lowered his hand. “I ain’t that good.” He jerked his head to the right. “Your girlfriend did us a favor.”

  Girlfriend? There was the very slightest of motions in the shadows at the right. Pat Rin turned, and Natesa the Assassin allowed him to see her, bowing profoundly in her dull black leathers.

  Behind her Pat Rin caught glimpse of a face, a body in the weeds—the man who had accosted him at the casino . . .

  “Master. I hear there was a disagreement inside. Perhaps we may assist you.”

  She straightened, showing him a face expertly darkened, in which her eyes shone like ebony waters.

  “I understand that you have already assisted me,” he replied, and bowed in acknowledgment of the debt. “Have you taken any harm from it?”

  Amusement, rich and subtle, was conveyed in the curve of one leather-clad arm. “No harm in the least. They were unwatchful and arrogant.”

  He moved a hand, describing the building behind him. “There are two dead persons in the room at the end of that hallway. It would be best if they were not found.”

  “Housekeeping will deal with it,” she said calmly, and bowed once more. “Again, I offer transport and whatever you might require.” She straightened, eyes gleaming. “Master, there was no need for you to be in that room at all.”

  “There was every need,” Pat Rin corrected, and raised his hand. What light there was skidded off the bright enamel work, and Korval’s ancient sigil flared like a star in the alley. The assassin drew a breath, pulled the most obvious weapon from its holster and offered it to him across her two palms.

  “Service, Korval. I would stand at your back.”

  Pat Rin closed his eyes. Cantra’s own words, from the very Diaries of Korval, burned bright against the inside of his eyelids: In an ally, considerations of house, clan, planet, race are insignificant beside two prime questions, which are: 1. Can he shoot? 2. Will he aim at your enemy?

  Pat Rin opened his eyes and bowed, acknowledging his receipt of her oath.

  “Service accepted,” he said, and turned to his pilot. “Mr. McFarland, we are enroute.”

  The big man nodded and touched the butt of the gun thrust through his belt. “Yessir. I see that we are.”

  DAY 287

  Standard Year 1392

  Departing Teriste

  THERE WAS A Juntavas safe-house somewhere on Teriste; Natesa had wished to take him there. Which offer he of course refused, insisting that they—or at least he—return to Fortune’s Reward.

  “I will not leave my ship untended when there are enemies to hand,” he said, reasonably. At least, he thought he was speaking reasonably, survival dictating that one ought to speak reasonably—in fact, with all courtesy—to a Juntavas assassin.

  She considered him for a moment in silence, black eyes unreadable in her darkened face. She bowed then, honor to the delm, and Pat Rin felt a frisson run his spine, which she certainly saw—and it would not do to show weakness before such a one, when he must display only strength and absolute certainty—when he must be ruthless in the pursuit of his Balance . . .

  “After all,” Natesa murmured, “Korval is ships.” She looked to Cheever, who nodded.

  And so they three had returned to Fortune’s Reward, though in an order dictated by Cheever McFarland, who took to himself the task of ascertaining that enemies had neither subverted the ship-codes nor awaited them within the shadows of neighboring vessels. When the all-clear came, Pat Rin went forward, Natesa slightly behind and to his left, and thus they entered his ship.

  Cheever was already at the board, chatting with the tower as if the entire universe had not been altered in its course over the last hour—but, of course, for Cheever, the universe maintained. The two of them had been beset by cut-throats, whom they had dispatched with speed and efficiency. They had thereby gained a rather . . . irregular . . . ally, but Cheever seemed to hold the Juntavas in neither awe nor loathing, regarding them simply as another fact of life. And life went on.

  So it did.

  Standing in the center of the piloting chamber, Pat Rin took a careful breath, and turned toward the waiting assassin. His oathsworn.

  “I was unfortunately naive prior to raising this port,” he said, speaking in the mode between equals. “I seek now to correct an error.”

  She inclined her head. “Master, I am at your service.”

  “Then you will tell me if it is possible—or when it will be possible—to alter the name, ID, and port of origin for this vessel.”

  She pursed her lips, considering; indicated the busy pilot with a subtle move of her head. “Pilot McFarland already files an amended flight. He is wise in this, I think. We have this evening discommoded a player of whom I am insufficiently knowledgeable. Ignorance being an active
threat to survival, it is wisdom to retire to a less volatile location.

  “So. If you will allow me, there is a station within this sector where the modifications you mention may be made, easily and professionally.”

  “And the price?” he asked, which was only prudent, when buying from the Juntavas.

  Natesa’s dark eyes gleamed with amusement. “I have jurisdiction there. The legitimate expenses of a Judge on assignment are charged on account.”

  “I see.” He had taken her service, he reminded himself—necessity. And if, through her, he had also taken service from the Juntavas entire?

  Necessity.

  He took a breath, deep and calming, and looked down at his hands. Bright and bogus on the second finger of his left hand—the finger on which Korval-pernard’i had worn the true Ring, and, gods willing, wore it still—his newest adornment quite cast his usual jewels into the shade, as if they were mere paste, instead of . . .

  Instead of cash. Pat Rin shook himself, recalling that his earnings on the evening were slight, and all accounts closed to him. He looked up, to find Natesa watching him closely.

  “Something else,” he said, showing her his right hand, all a-glitter with gemstones.

  She inclined her head. “It would be most profitable to sell those here. If you will, I may summon one to conduct the appropriate transactions. The money will await you at the service station we spoke of.”

  And he had only to trust her, he thought, and very nearly laughed.

  “Of your kindness,” he said, instead, and had the things off, jumbling them into her waiting palm. He hesitated, then, and raised a hand to the blue earring. His trademark, by which he would be known.

  “Hold,” the woman said, softly. “The rings are enough for now, Master. That—it is worth too little, if it must be sold without provenance.”

  He considered her, both eyebrows surprised into lift, but she only smiled, and bowed, and moved to the board, murmuring a request that the pilot open a comm line for her.

  “We got lift scheduled inside the hour, sir,” Cheever McFarland said over his shoulder, face as calm as always. “Any idea where we’re going?”

  “First, we must undertake certain renovations too long ignored—Natesa has the coords for the . . . preferred shop in the sector.”

  Unflapped, Cheever nodded. “And after that?”

  Well? Pat Rin asked himself, interestedly. And after that? He looked at the big man steadily.

  “After that shall depend upon necessity, pilot.” He moved a hand toward the hall leading to his quarters. “If you have no need of me, I shall retire now, and meditate upon my . . . requirements.”

  “Right.” Cheever nodded again. “I’ll give you a heads-up when we raise the station.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McFarland,” Pat Rin said, softly. He inclined his head, and walked away from the busyness of the piloting chamber, down the hall and into his quarters.

  ***

  ASKED, IF ANY were bold enough to do so, Pat Rin would have said that he was not a fond man. Of course, one had preferred acquaintances—even preferred kin—but one was not, after all, clan-bound. Certainly, he was no such weeping heart as might overload his personal databank with images of his kin, in all their faces and seasons.

  Indeed, a most thorough search of that same databank produced precisely six images, all unsatisfactory in the extreme.

  Six.

  Carefully, he arranged them on the screen, side-by-side, top-to-bottom; enlarging each as if he would read every line and nuance of the digital faces.

  Here: Shan, Nova and Anthora grouped, laughing, around the ubiquitous Jeeves. The picture was not recent—Shan was wearing Korval’s Ring in trust, which he had assumed upon Cousin Er Thom’s death; Anthora looked the merest halfling, and Nova—Nova scarcely looked older.

  Here was Quin, his own heir, caught in the midst of a race against his cousin Padi, Shan’s daughter. This image was of more recent vintage, though still some years behind the calendar.

  The next picture—that was recent, and Pat Rin spent some time looking into the faces of the two most dear to him in all the worlds. Luken bel’Tarda, his foster-father, sandy hair gone to gray, shoulders square in his second best coat, and Quin, who had gone from hooligan to young gentleman in the space of one image, standing before the hand-knotted Pasiryki carpet which was Luken’s pride and sole extravagance. Fortunes had been offered Luken, in exchange for that rug. Alas, fortunes interested Luken—not at all. Quin was dressed in traveling clothes, his dark hair painfully neat, the opal blue eyes which were his legacy from his mother wide and guileless. A kit-bag sat at his feet. After the picture was taken, Pat Rin recalled, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe, he had escorted his son to the excellent private school that now—that had had him in its keeping.

  Another: Not recent, though not as old as the image of his cousins and their housebot. His mother at study, various editions of the Code laid open on the table around her workstation; her face intent upon the screen.

  Another: His cousin Val Con, slouched in a chair before the fireplace in Trealla Fantrol’s family parlor, his legs thrust out before him and crossed at the ankle, a glass of wine held loosely in his left hand. He was looking directly into the camera, and gently smiling, eyes as brilliant as the emeralds in the counterfeit ring on Pat Rin’s finger.

  The last image was the oldest of all, blurry with the photographer’s lack of skill. It showed four persons in formal tableau, paired two-by-two. On the left, tall Anne Davis, kind-faced and smiling, her hand resting on the shoulder of a yellow-haired man of extraordinary beauty—Er Thom, her lifemate. Beside Er Thom, lean and dark and diabolic—Uncle Daav himself, holding the hand of a slight and elegant lady, her tawny hair caught back from her face by a carven comb, her green eyes aglow with joy. Aelliana, Daav’s lifemate. Val Con’s mother. Dead—they were all four dead; had been dead long before Plan B had been called. It was a portrait of ghosts he studied so intently, and had been so for years . . .

  Six images, incomplete and old—which, if the representative of the Department of the Interior was to be believed, was all that he had now, of his kin.

  He sat for some time, staring sightlessly at the screen, trying to think of a way—any way—to gain news of his kin without endangering those who might yet remain unmurdered.

  Fortune’s Reward carried a pinbeam. He was in possession of a beam-code, meant for use in the irregularly scheduled roll calls, as well as other codes, which in happier times would rouse Luken; the Dutiful Passage; Nova; dea’Gauss; and the master computer at Jelaza Kazone.

  He dared invoke none of them, he decided after a period of cold and close reasoning. The Department of the Interior had located him, offered their preposterous deal, and their messenger had died as a result of their impertinence. These facts in no way guaranteed that the Department’s interest in himself had likewise died. Indeed, he rather thought that their interest might grow significantly warmer, when it was discovered why their messenger, and his team, had not reported in.

  Certainly, the Department of the Interior was monitoring his accounts. Certainly, they monitored Korval’s known bands and, perhaps, if only one adult had fallen to them, the lesser known bands, as well.

  Pat Rin shivered, closing his eyes. He dared attempt to call—no one. More: he dared not be taken by the Department alive, to then be compelled to betray whomever yet remained at large.

  And, above all, he must not allow his desperate desires to blind him to the possibility that the Department’s messenger had indeed told him nothing more than the plain truth, and that he, Pat Rin yos’Phelium, was the last of his clan.

  He opened his eyes, blinked several times to bring the faces of his kin into focus, and pulled the keyboard to him.

  He left the images on the primary screen, opened a second screen and, typing uncertainly with fingers that were none too steady, began to compile a list of . . . Korval’s . . . necessities.

  ***


  THEY HEARD HIM out—the pilot and the assassin—as he outlined his requirements and his plan. When he had finished, the pilot whistled, long and low.

  “So, you’re gonna vanish, and build up reserves?”

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “In essence.”

  “It is a bold plan—and difficult,” the assassin said in her turn, her slim fingers woven together upon the table. “I wonder, Master, about the necessity of a working spaceport. I wonder—will a primitive port—even, a very primitive port—serve you? You might then shape it to your needs.”

  He thought about that. A spaceport was necessary—he would need ships; he would need to build, dock, and maintain ships. And yet, spaceports invited the galaxy, and it was equally imperative that he remain beneath the range of Korval’s enemy. Until he should reveal himself, at a time and place of his choosing.

  “A primitive spaceport has some advantage to us,” he told her. “But not so primitive that it may be not be upgraded—quickly.”

  “I understand.” She looked down at her hands, then into his eyes, her own as deep as starless space.

  “Let us then posit a world which is primitive in many ways, yet its barbarism allows—opportunity for manipulation. A strong-willed person, capable of conceiving and implementing a plan, might do whatever he wished, eventually.” She sighed, which he thought was not like her. “I know of such a world.”

  Pat Rin glanced at Cheever McFarland, who waved a big hand, indicating that he was attending the conversation, but had nothing to add.

  So.

  He considered Natesa the Assassin, her quiet hands and unquiet eyes.

  “I believe you are not entirely pleased with this world,” he said softly. “Why not?”

  She moved her shoulders—closer to the fluid and ambiguous Liaden gesture than an honest Terran shrug. “I have—no jurisdiction there,” she said, matching him soft for soft. “I—perhaps—have contacts there, tenuous contacts, at best. I know the language, as do you. I know of a . . . relatively secure landing place, so that we need not alert the port to our presence—but jurisdiction?” She met his eyes squarely. “No one has jurisdiction there.”