Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  Beside her, Merlin settled, chicken-fashion, atop the moss-covered root, his eyes slitted in satisfaction.

  Anthora let her head fall back against the Tree and spoke aloud, her voice breathless.

  “It was not a foretelling—it was a memory. I don’t know who—held like a babe!” She bit her lip, hard, curbing her baffled indignation. To be held like the merest novice, and then dismissed—put to sleep—as if her will were nothing—

  “The battle is over,” she continued, more or less calmly. “The enemy has been vanquished. The Passage is safe, and I—” Her voice broke here and not even she was certain if the cause was hysteria or fury—“I am not to worry!”

  LYTAXIN:

  Mercenary Encampment

  THEY WERE GRANTED quarters by Commander Carmody; good quarters, with a shower in one corner and a corporal before the door.

  Nelirikk, who knew the order of the Gyrfalks and how the soldiers were distributed in camp, understood that they were well-contained, surrounded by watchers, in case there should be trouble.

  He did not anticipate trouble, himself. Less so, after watching the gusto with which the recruits wolfed the sandwiches sent from the mess tent—explorer no less ravenous than Rifle.

  It was, largely, a silent meal. After, the recruits made use of the shower, brushed out and put on their battle leathers.

  Clean and fed, Diglon Rifle sat unconcernedly on the floor, his back against a cot, and rolled out his kit, preparatory to stripping and cleaning his weapon. Nelirikk approved—it was a common soldier’s duty to care for his weapons, as much among Terrans as among the Troop. More, the familiar task would soothe the Rifle, who must know as well as Nelirikk did that he was a single soldier, surrounded on all sides by those not of his troop, who had no reason to trust him.

  No, thought Nelirikk, sitting on his own bunk, a piece of fancy-work in his hands, the Rifle was not his most pressing problem. His problem was Hazenthull Explorer.

  She had argued against Daav yos’Phelium’s order that she bunk with her troop, leaving her senior alone and vulnerable, in the care of those who had been their enemies. It spoke much for the abilities of the scout’s father, that he had been able to enforce his will and see his order carried out, however reluctantly, while raising neither his hand nor his voice.

  Now, denying herself the simple solace of caring for her weapons—or even of sleep, though he could read exhaustion in the muscles of her face—Hazenthull Explorer, dressed and ready for combat, prowled the quarters from end to end and corner to corner.

  On her third circuit Diglon Rifle looked up from his task, tension growing. “Explorer?” he said, respectful and soldierly. “Duty?”

  Hazenthull checked.

  Head bent above his work, watching from the side of his eye, Nelirikk saw her understand the danger. Surrounded by those who had defeated them in battle, oathbound to a Liaden, soon to offer oath to another—it was unthinkable that these things be so. And yet, incredibly, they were so. It was the duty of command to accept these impossibilities as commonplace, with no breath of unease. For the good of the troop—large or small.

  So. “At ease, Rifle,” she said, firmly, but not too firmly.

  Comforted, he saluted, and returned to his weapon.

  From the corner of his eye, Nelirikk saw the explorer take a breath, turn cleanly on her heel and walk down the room, to where he sat, setting careful stitches in the gift he was making for Alys Tiazan.

  For seven or eight heartbeats, she stood over him. Nelirikk continued his work without looking up. At last, she moved soundlessly back, folded her legs and sat on the floor before him. He raised his head and met her eyes.

  Surrounded by the tattoos describing her honors and accomplishments, her eyes were dark brown; the shade, Nelirikk thought, of his captain’s favorite beverage. She jerked her chin at his hands.

  “What work?” she demanded, in the tongue of the Troop.

  Nelirikk smoothed it on his knee before holding it up for her to see. Her eyes widened as she recognized the device he was working into the patch—the device of the troop that had broken the back of the Fourteenth Conquest Corps.

  “There is a young soldier in the House of the captain,” he said, also in the Troop tongue, “who is worthy of this.”

  Hazenthull’s mouth thinned. “Soldier.”

  Nelirikk returned to his work, plying the needle with care. “As much as I am. Or you are.” He glanced up, switching to the dialect of explorers, in consideration of Diglon Rifle’s comfort. “Why do explorers march with common troop?”

  Her eyes shifted. “Command had left planet. We fell in—”

  Nelirikk tied off the green thread. “I meant,” he said, interrupting her ruthlessly, “why were explorers fighting alongside common troop?”

  She glared at him. “That is for the senior to tell.”

  As chain of command went, she was correct, Nelirikk allowed, threading his needle with crimson. It was . . . useful . . . that soldierly behavior made it impossible for Hazenthull to answer a question she would rather not; explorers not being always at one with soldierly behavior. Still, Nelirikk did not begrudge her the stratagem.

  Needle at the ready, he glanced up.

  “The captain will require things. Things that run counter to the order you know.” He moved his head, a short jerk toward the busy Rifle. “Far out of the order that one knows.”

  Hazenthull sighed. “She will take us out of context,” she said, sounding as weary as she looked. “She is fortunate. Half her work has been done for her.”

  For what context was there, Nelirikk thought, for being abandoned to the enemy—the victorious enemy—while Command ran to save itself? He bent a moment to his work, concentrating on keeping his stitches small and even.

  “The captain will require that the vingtai be erased.” He raised his head again, giving her a plain sight of his naked face. “As you see. The healing units have an erasure program.” He stopped short of telling her that the procedure was painless, though that was the truth as he knew it. Acquiring vingtai was excruciating; it seemed somehow wrong that they could be effortlessly and painlessly wiped away during the course of one brief sleep inside the healing unit.

  “The captain requires this because her troop is the enemy of Yxtrang,” Hazenthull said slowly, working out the process of Command’s thought, as explorers were taught to do. “Soldiers who think they are Yxtrang, who wear the rank marks and hold the traditions of the Troop, will not fight strongly against Yxtrang.” She frowned.

  “Explorers can backtrack the captain’s thought and understand the requirement. But, he—” she cocked her head toward her Troop—“he is only a Rifle. He will not understand.”

  “You are second in command,” Nelirikk told her ruthlessly. “It is your duty—or the duty of your senior, if he is able—to make him understand. I suggest that the best strategy is to lead by example.” He saw her draw a sharp breath, but did not allow her to speak.

  “Captain Miri Robertson does not accept mediocrity. She expects superior performance. Occasionally, she demands more. You will adapt—”

  “Or die,” Hazenthull snarled, as if it were a challenge, and not a truth they both knew in their bones.

  “Or die,” Nelirikk repeated, calmly.

  Hazenthull looked down, possibly at her hands, folded tightly together on her knee.

  “The senior . . .” she began, and paused, throat working. “Protocol linked us, junior and senior—you know how it is done. Before it did, he had been twice across the sea of stars, marking many worlds for the future conquest of the Troop.”

  “He brought much glory to the Troop,” Nelirikk said, when he had set an entire row of stitches and she had not spoken again.

  “Much glory . . .” she repeated. “I am junior to him in all ways—in glory, in knowledge, in understanding. When the order came down that we should accompany the Fourteenth as . . . when we had the order, he first sharpened his grace blade, and had me sharp
en mine, and while we sat together over this task that we hold in common with all soldiers, from creche to command, he talked to me of battle. He said that a soldier must always be prepared to die, that—that duty demanded that the death not be wasted, but served the living good of the Troop.” Another silence, not as long as the first, then a rapid burst of words.

  “The senior—that he has not received the Starburst—regardless, he is a Hero. To allow him to . . . just die, when Command had betrayed us, would be to go against everything he had taught me. It is not to the good of the Troop that such a soldier die, uselessly and in defeat, when there is so much more . . .”

  From outside the door came the sound of the corporal’s voice, issuing challenge.

  “Scout Captain Daav yos’Phelium,” came the reply.

  Hazenthull came to her feet, face toward the door, muscles betraying eagerness. Nelirikk put his work aside and had also risen by the time the scout’s father entered.

  His face was bland; his muscles betraying nothing more than a reasonable alertness, yet Nelirikk felt compelled of a sudden to move within restraining distance of Hazenthull Explorer.

  The scout paused, and looked up into Hazenthull’s face, his hands folded together at belt level.

  “I’m sorry, child,” he said, in Terran. “He’s dead.”

  DAY 307

  Standard 1392

  Blair Road

  Surebleak

  IT WAS INSURANCE DAY in Boss Moran’s streets, and Jim Snyder, the boss’ new second-hand man, made it a point to hit the pavement early, collar turned up against the cold morning wind. He’d been third-hand man last Insurance Day and while the events of that day had resulted in Jim’s elevation, he was determined to learn from the downfall of his predecessor.

  And what he had learned, first and above everything, was that the boss expected Insurance Day to go easy and smooth, no problems, no short-pays, and no excuses.

  Bosses in general were a touchy breed, which only made sense, when you thought about it. Bosses had all the responsibility of keeping order on their turf, collecting the insurance, putting the bouncers on the borders, setting the tolls—and seeing that collected tolls was turned in—it was a job of work being a boss, no argument there, and anybody took it on, in Jim’s opinion, had a right to be a touch irritable.

  It could be that Boss Moran was a thought touchier than most. Jim couldn’t precisely say: he’d been just a tad when Boss Tourin owned these streets, and Boss Randall hadn’t lasted long enough to make much of an impression. Boss Vindal had held on couple, four years—Jim’d run a toll-booth under Boss Vindal. It hadn’t been bad; he couldn’t off-hand remember her shooting anybody for shorting on the tolls. But, push come to shove, maybe she hadn’t been such a good boss, ’cause when the smoke cleared off their meeting, it was Boss Moran standing and the late Boss Vindal being carted off to the crematory.

  Sometimes, all the fatcats would meet on neutral ground and rework the boundaries, trading around this business street for that manufacturing block. It was important to have a strong boss protecting your interests when that happened—even though it hadn’t happened lately. Give her a couple beers and Jim’s Aunt Carla could tell stories that would raise your hair right straight up on your head, about the days when she’d been just a tad and lived on Boss Henrick’s turf. That was before the fatcats had one of their meetings. Boss Tourin had got made at that meeting, and everything from Blair Road over to Carney—part territories from Boss Henrick and Boss Tiede—got swopped out and called his turf. There’d been a period of shakedown, and one of the bosses—Aunt Carla switched between Henrick and Tiede when she told it, depending on how much beer she’d had—got to thinking he’d been cheated when he sat down after the meeting to do the math. Lot of guns on the streets back then, as Aunt Carla had it, and the crematory’d done real well.

  But they didn’t have them kind of problems no more. Not on these streets. Boss Moran had held the turf for going on three years and if he occasionally shot his second-hand for a minor screw-up in addition, or made a public example of some shopkeeper whogot behind on his insurance payment—well, that showed he was a strong boss. And you needed a strong boss to protect your interests, else some other boss would make a move on the turf—and there wasn’t no percentage for anybody in that.

  First stop on the morning was Wilmet’s grocery. Jim opened the door with a shove, and the bell hung on the wire overtop clanged in protest. Old Wilmet came hurrying out from the back, and stood twisting his fingers together while Jim made a leisurely circuit of the place, on the spy for any improvements to the premises, or new equipment. He helped himself to a pretty good apple, and kept on inspecting, til he’d eaten all the fruit except the brown spots. He dropped the core to the floor and nodded at Wilmet like he’d just noticed him.

  “Insurance day,” he said, hooking his hands in his belt. He saw the other man’s eyes dart down, following the motion, saw him look real hard at the gun on Jim’s belt, before he looked up and nodded, quick and sort of jerky.

  “So it is,” he said, and his voice sounded a little jerky, too, Jim thought. That was good. It was important that the streeters kept a healthy respect for the boss—and for the boss’ ’hands.

  Making a show about it—stretching it out just a little—Jim reached into his pocket and pulled out the Book. The grocer was looking a little grey around the mouth. Jim licked his finger and leisurely leafed through to the right page. It took him a couple minutes to review the payment schedule—Jim could read, but it wasn’t a strong point—nodded, and looked up. The grocer was sweating now. Jim let himself smile on one side of his mouth, like the boss did when he wanted to make you squirm. Useful tactic; and Jim knew personally that it worked a treat.

  “So,” he said to Wilmet. “’at’s twelve, cash, this month, and the boss’ll have the rest in chocolate, sugar, ’toot, and pot meat. Case lots—you know the play.”

  The grocer’s face was so gray now that Jim kind of wondered if the man was going to pass out. He did pull a stained rag out of his pocket and mop his forehead with it.

  “Twelve cash, sure, yeah. Just a sec.” He scurried into the back. Jim helped himself to another apple, not as good as the first one, but the best he could find in the basket.

  Wilmet was back, bills clutched in his hand, and counted them out, one through twelve, right there between the carrots and the potatoes.

  “The kid’ll take the goods to the boss’ house,” he said, looking down at his money. “Everything delivered before lunch, Mr. Snyder.”

  Jim nodded, dropped the unfinished apple to the floor, fished the pencil out of his other pocket, and made a tick-mark on Wilmet’s page. Then, he put the book and the pencil away, picked up the cash and stowed it in the folder the boss had given him, slid that away, gave the trembling grocer a cheery nod.

  “You’re covered ’til next month, Wilmet. Profit to the boss.”

  “Profit to the boss,” the man repeated, at a whisper.

  Jim grinned and strolled out, slamming the door so hard the bell tore off its wire.

  By mid-morning, Jim had called on and collected from all the streeters listed in the Book, except for the hardware store, which he’d deliberately left ’til last because it was just a couple doors up from Tobi’s, where he figured he’d grab a bite and a brew before taking the day’s receipts back to the boss.

  In no real hurry, feeling kind of warm and peaceful in the pit of his belly, Jim strolled ’round the corner, heading on down to the hardware store.

  Something bright and colorful pulled at the edge of his vision and he glanced across the street, expecting to see maybe one of Audrey’s Scarlet Beauties, out on an early job.

  What he did see rooted his feet to the ground and left him staring.

  It was—a store. Jim guessed it was a store. But it was like no other store he’d seen in his life. The big front window was not only unshuttered, it was clean, so you could see right into the brightly lit insides, and coun
t—one, three, eight, nine, twelve rugs, some hanging around the walls, some laying down on the scrubbed plastic floor. Rugs in colors Jim had no name for. Rugs woven in patterns so complex his eyes crossed trying to look at them.

  As if that big, bright, risky window wasn’t enough, the door to the joint stood wide open and a thin little rug showing vines and flowers in dark red, bright blue and yellow was laying half on the store’s floor and half on the crumbling walkway, where anybody who went into the store would walk on it. Standing just inside the doorway was a man Jim might have mistaken for one of Audrey’s, if he’d seen him maybe at Tobi’s: Darkhaired and on the short side, almost girl-slender, he was dressed in a pretty blue jacket, with a gleaming white shirt under it. His britches were a darker blue than his jacket and fell smoothly to the break of his shiny black boots. He was standing with his hands behind his back, gazing out at the street as if the view of the crumbling tarmac and shuttered, dusty storefronts was—interesting.

  Looking at him, Jim found himself counting backwards, trying to remember exactly when he’d changed his shirt last.

  As if he’d felt the incredulous weight of the stare on him, the little man looked up, meeting Jim’s eyes across the street. Jim clamped his jaw and glared, so the guy would know he was lookin’ at somebody important on the turf.

  The little man—he sort of bowed, inclining from the waist an inch or two, then turned and walked into his store.

  His impossible store.

  “How the sleet long has that been there?” Jim demanded of Al, the hardware guy, a couple minutes later, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the rug store.

  Al shrugged. “Couple days.”

  “Couple days?” Jim boggled, remembering the storefront as he had last seen it—empty, ’course, its previous occupant having been a streeter Boss Moran had used as a public example, three, maybe four Insurance Days ago. As third-hand man, Jim had been in charge of the clean-up crew that stripped the joint—shoe store, it had been. He remembered, now. He glowered at Al, trying to regain some of the vanished feeling of warm accomplishment.