Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  “Certainly they must,” she said, softly, from the doorway. “Your kin have died at their hands.”

  Almost, he laughed.

  “Yes. But that is not why the Department must be stopped,” he said to the rug and looked up to meet Natesa’s eyes.

  “I am old enough to know that Balance does not bring back the dead. If I murder worlds—slay the galaxy—yet my kin will not arise—” Tears, however, were arising, and he had been—must continue to be—very careful not to weep before his oathsworn. He closed his eyes, breathed deeply and calmingly, and again met Natesa’s black gaze.

  “However, Korval has—a contract. An ancient and explicit contract, which requires the one who wears this—” he showed her the ring on his finger, “to protect the population of Liad. Such assumptions as the representative of the Department of the Interior made, such policies and procedures as he revealed to me—Liad is in danger. If Balance does not go forth—and that with precision—innocents will be enslaved or worse.” He found it somewhat easier to breathe, thus retracing the chain of duty and right action he had laboriously forged in the aftermath of the Department’s . . . offer . . . to himself.

  The silence stretched, not uncomfortably, then Natesa spoke in her quiet, sumptuous voice.

  “I understand—and I thank you.” She straightened, and stretched, cat-like and supple.

  “Last seen, Mr. McFarland was attempting to convey the notion of vegetable to the cook,” she said. “I doubt he succeeded, but it is not unlikely that we have some sort of meal awaiting us.”

  Food. Pat Rin’s stomach clenched—and yet he must eat and remain healthy, so that he might see his Balance precisely placed. Once again, he looked up at Natesa.

  “I have taken your point regarding the necessity of a guard. I bow to the wisdom of my oathsworn.”

  “Ah.” She smiled. “We will endeavor not to leave you too often with strangers.” She moved an arm, gracefully inviting him to proceed her out of the room. “We mustn’t keep the cook waiting.”

  There were vegetables—a mess of indeterminate green leaves boiled with a piece of fat. As a dish, it was a failure—even Cheever McFarland scarce ate more than a fork full—yet at that it was not the worst of the offerings brought forth for the new boss’ delectation.

  The meat was old—a fact that the cook attempted to disguise by using a heavy hand with hot-tasting spices. Cheever didn’t even manage a fork-full there, and neither Pat Rin nor Natesa bothered to take a portion onto their plates.

  On the other hand, the rice was quite good, and the butter not, as Pat Rin had certainly expected it to be, rancid. He satisfied himself with a plate of rice, well-buttered, smiling as he saw Natesa do the same. Cheever manfully worked his way through the table, a fork-full here, a half-spoon there.

  The choice of beverages were three: a uniquely undrinkable hot brew that the serving girl had whispered was, “Tea, Boss;” beer, which Cheever drank without gusto; and plain cold water. After one disbelieving sip of “tea,” Pat Rin had water; Natesa again following his lead.

  “What they’re calling coffee ain’t no better,” Cheever said. “Worst excuse for ’toot I ever smelled in my life. Didn’t even bother to try and drink it.” He shook his head at Natesa. “We’re gonna have to figure out something about provisions.”

  “Security first,” she said, and he grinned at her, good-humoredly.

  “Boss, this woman don’t know how to live high. OK—security.” His big face got serious.

  “We ain’t in too bad a shape, everything considered. The old boss put a high price on his hide, so we inherited some good systems.” He used his fork to point at Natesa. “Not as good as she can do for us, but we don’t got to be worried about being overrun while she’s doing the upgrades. People . . .” He put the fork down and reached across the table to break off a piece of hard brown bread, the meal’s other outstanding success.

  “Got some decent people. What I mean by that is, they can be trained. Old boss doesn’t seem to have made himself real popular with the hired-ons, so we’re going in with them feeling grateful to us for doing them a favor. Gwince has the instincts of a pro. Barth’s probably steady as long as we don’t ask him to do too much work.” He buttered his bread.

  “Any one of ’em’ll sell us out to a high bidder, ’course—that’s the way they do business here. But we ain’t gonna see a high bidder ’til folks catch their breath—longer, if we don’t give ’em any reason to feel abused.” He grinned. “Which Boss Moran also made real easy for us.”

  Pat Rin pushed his empty plate away and reached for his water glass. “How—” he began, and the door opened to reveal the doorman—one Filmin—and a young red-haired woman enclosed from throat to ankles by a tolerably good black velvet cloak. To her feet were strapped the daintiest of silver sandals.

  “Girl’s here, Boss,” Filmin announced, and, obviously feeling that he had fulfilled his duty with utmost propriety, departed, closing the door loudly behind him.

  The girl, rather quicker than Filmin, checked, her eyes sweeping the room. Pat Rin raised his hand, the ring glittering in the dull light.

  “I am the boss,” he said. “May I know your name?”

  Her eyes were ginger brown, her gaze straightforward and not at all afraid. “I’m Bilinda, Boss. From Audrey’s House.”

  Audrey, so he had gathered from the excellent Gwince, was the owner of the most profitable business in Pat Rin’s new territory. He thought that whorehouses were often so.

  “I see,” he said gently. “But, do you know, I did not request a companion for this evening.”

  “No, that’s OK,” Bilinda told him easily. “It’s all written down on the schedule. I can write it out for you, if you wa—” She stopped, her rather pale face suddenly ablaze, and her gaze not—quite—so fearless.

  Pat Rin frowned at her, wondering what the difficulty might be, then recalled the unlettered entries in the book he had found above stairs.

  “I can read,” he told Bilinda, and saw the fear edge out of her eyes.

  “However,” he continued, “I am not thin of company this evening. Nor do I foresee a need to follow the former boss’ schedule.”

  Bilinda frowned. “You don’t want me?”

  Pat Rin raised his hands soothingly. “It is a matter of business,” he said gently, “and nothing whatsoever to do with you, yourself. I regret that I did not know of the existence of the schedule and thus exposed you to the dangers of traveling at night.”He glanced at Cheever, who was sitting almost absurdly still.

  “Mr. McFarland will escort you to Audrey’s House. Also, if there is a fee—”

  Bilinda blinked. “Fee? For me? Nossir, Boss. That’s all part of the arrangement. This is how Ms. Audrey pays her Insurance.” She hesitated, then said, rather breathlessly, “I don’t mean no offense, but—if you ain’t gonna hold with the arrangement, does that mean Ms. Audrey’s outta business?”

  Across the table, he heard a slight sound, as if Natesa had sneezed. Pat Rin gave the girl a slight frown. “That is between Ms. Audrey and myself.” He inclined his head. “I apologize for the inconvenience, to yourself and to Ms. Audrey. Have a pleasant evening, Bilinda. Mr. McFarland?”

  “On my way.” Cheever came to his feet and grinned at the girl. “OK, Bilinda, time to go home.”

  There was, as the vernacular went, no percentage in arguing, which Bilinda was quick enough to understand. She gave Pat Rin a nod, and, on reflection, Natesa, too, and allowed Cheever to usher her out. The door closed—softly—behind them.

  Pat Rin closed his eyes, abruptly very, very tired.

  “Master?”

  He opened his eyes. “I believe I will retire for the evening,” he said with a languid wave of the hand. “The exertions of the day have quite exhausted me.”

  It was meant to ape the manner of the more insular and annoying High Houselings, but Natesa did not smile. Merely, she inclined her head and rose.

  “I will escort you to yo
ur bedroom and make certain that all is secure.”

  Someone had been at the bedroom. Here, as nowhere else in Boss Moran’s narrow, tawdry house, the floor was clean, the walls washed, the bed linens spotless. There was a rag rug akin to the one in his office next to the bed. He stood near it, watching Natesa make her circuit about the room.

  When at last she was satisfied, she moved to the door, paused on the threshold and inclined her head. “Master. Sleep well. One of us will be close by.”

  “Do not cheat yourself of sleep to guard mine,” he said, and she did smile, then, by which he knew she would not obey him.

  “Sleep well,” she said again, and stepped into the hall, pulling the door behind her. Within an inch of closing entire, the panel paused, and her voice wafted to his ear.

  “My name is Inas Bhar.”

  DAY 50

  Standard Year 1393

  Lytaxin

  Erob’s House

  THE BREEZE SUBSIDED so gradually she couldn’t have said when it quit completely. She noted its absence; in so noting decided she had slept long enough—and awoke.

  For a moment she lay, eyes closed, listening to the silence, feeling the jubilant singing of blood through her veins, the sweet passage of air through her lungs. She stretched, luxuriating in the smooth slide of well-toned muscles. Sensuously, she stretched her mind as well, reaching out in that undefinable, definite way, to the pattern that was her perception of Val Con’s self.

  The pattern blazed with lucent purity, its byways and inroads fully integrated, absolutely, entirely and unmistakably Val Con; joyously intact. Throat tight with the beauty of him, Miri extended herself and stroked him, raising a crackle of startled lust, and a flicker of the particular bright green she understood to be laughter. Then, slowly—very slowly, as if relishing every instant of contact, she felt his fingers stroke down her cheek, and across her lips. Miri sighed, reached—and found him abruptly absent, though she saw his pattern as plainly as she ever had.

  Regretfully, she opened her eyes to Erob’s sickroom. The wall of medical gizmos was dark and silent; the tech’s noteboard standing blank and ready in its place, though no tech was in evidence. Nor was there any sign of the large-ish green person known to them both as her brother Sheather.

  Throwing back the quilt, Miri bounced out of bed and strode over to the door to check the lock. Locked, all right, and from the inside, too. She tried to figure out if that worried her, or ought to, then decided the hell with it: The door was locked from the inside, and Sheather, who had presumably arranged for that circumstance, was conclusively not in the room with her. Therefore, Sheather was on his own inside a Liaden clanhouse. That might’ve been worrisome, had the House in question not recently survived both a civil uprising and an Yxtrang invasion. At this stage in the proceedings, nobody was likely to get too upset about a little thing like a Clutch turtle wandering the halls.

  Which, come to think of it, sounded a whole lot more entertaining than sticking around a deserted sickroom. She wasn’t sick. If she’d ever felt better in her life, she couldn’t at the moment recall the occasion.

  She did feel a trifle grubby, which could be remedied by a shower, after which she intended to go for a walk, unless somebody came up with a compelling reason why she shouldn’t.

  Decision taken, she moved briskly in the direction of the ’fresher, stripping off her nightshirt as she went.

  ***

  THE SHIFT had thus far been quiet. Ren Zel had run routine systems checks, and done some general housekeeping. His mind did wander, now and again, to the impossibility of the cat in his cabin and the irrefutable evidence of that long, white whisker. At last, knowing what he would find, he pulled up the current roster of the pet library.

  As he had expected, there were no cats currently on file in the library. Certainly, there was no ship’s cat, free to wander the vessel, earning its passage by dispatching vermin. Useful as such creatures were, they had a tendency to get into unchancy places, resulting in fouled machinery and, more often than not, a dead cat.

  And even if the Passage did harbor a cat, who had let the creature into his quarters?

  He sighed and closed the roster.

  It was a puzzle, certain enough, and the only other possibility that occurred to him was that a crew member had smuggled a pet aboard. Though how they had kept it secret from all was another, just as knotty, puzzle.

  He sighed again and considered taking the whisker to the ship’s Healer, to see what she might scry from it. Lina was a Healer of no small skill, her lack of success with himself having to do with some sort of ‘natural shielding’ that he possessed. He understood that this was not entirely unknown. Unhappily, the shielding prevented him being Healed of the nightmares of battle, and the pain of his dying. Though he thought he was healing of that last wound on his own, if slowly.

  So, then, he thought. At shift-end, he would take the whisker to Lina. That was the best course, surely.

  Someone had been kind enough to lay in a couple shirts in her size. The same someone, Miri supposed, newly showered and thoroughly air-dried, who had been forethoughtful enough to shine her boots and make sure that her leathers were clean.

  The arrangements had a certain feel of Beautiful to them—the Compleat Captain’s Aide, Miri thought with wry gratitude, sealing the cuffs of her shirt. She stamped into her boots, put her hand against the plate and left the dressing room. Half a step into the main room, she checked, turned and frowned at the man lounging in the chair next to the tech’s station, his legs thrust out before him and crossed neatly at the ankle. He was dressed like she was, in working leathers, and boots buffed to a mirror finish. One irrepressible eyebrow rose at her frown.

  “The door,” she said, trying to sound severe, “was locked.”

  “It was,” Val Con admitted. “And it is locked now. I hope you don’t think me lax in such matters.”

  It took a major effort of will not to laugh out loud, which was, of course, what he wanted. Instead, Miri managed quite a credible sigh while she surveyed him.

  He looked like his pattern, she thought—new-made and shiny; so beautiful it made a body’s throat close up and her heart start acting funny. In fact, he looked miraculously well for a man she’d been told was going to have to devote some considerable time to relearning how to walk. Val Con raised his other eyebrow.

  “Is there something wrong, cha’trez?”

  “Depends,” she said. “We having another one of those dream sequences?”

  “Dream—Ah. Jelaza Kazone.” He smiled. “I believe it safe to assume that we are now both present in . . . contiguous reality.” He tipped his head, considering. “Mostly contiguous reality.”

  “Mostly’s more than we had last time,” she allowed, drifting over to his side. She cleared her throat. “You don’t happen to know where Edger and Shan are, do you?”

  “Alas. Must we locate them immediately?”

  She looked down into his face. “You got anything better to do?”

  “Yes,” he said. She saw familiar lightning weave through his pattern, and shivered.

  “Yes, is it?” Her hand rose, not entirely on her order. Softly, she stroked the well-marked, mobile eyebrows, ran her fingertips along the high line of his cheek . . .

  “Cha’trez?” His voice was not quite steady. Miri stroked his cheek again.

  “Scar’s gone, boss,” she murmured, tracing the place where it had been.

  “Many scars are gone. I am—Miri . . .” He took a hard breath. “Miri, let us make love.”

  “Here?” she asked, teasing him, like her own blood wasn’t hot with desire.

  He reached up and captured her hand. “Why not?” he murmured, and kissed her fingertips before slanting a glance of pure mischief into her eyes. “The door is locked.”

  ***

  IT WAS THE CUSTOM of Emrith Tiazan, Erob Herself, to take a turn or two through the atrium prior to seeking her bed. As this had also been the custom of her father who ha
d been delm before her, the room’s cycle had long been set opposite the day-night cycle of the outside garden, where the seedling of Korval’s Tree held dominion.

  Here, there were more convenable plants, mild-mannered and conducive of an easy sleep. Korval’s Tree promoted madcap dreaming, of a kind unsuitable in old women who had lost a third of her House in the late warlike disturbances.

  Alone with her thoughts and her dead, she ambled along the sweet-smelling ways, pausing now and again to admire the progress of certain favorites. Her shoulder muscles began to loosen under the suasion of the mock sunlight; her houseboots made a soft shuffling sound against the shredded bark path; the first notes from the singing waters wafted ’round the next curve, teasing her ears. Comforted by all that was gentle and usual, Emrith Tiazan’s face relaxed into a smile.

  She followed the path around, and the full song of the waters rushed to greet her. She paused, as she always did, face turned up toward the false sun, eyes closed in pleasure, before moving across the little stone bridge to her especial spot, a stone nook, surrounded by simple rock plants, enchanted by the joyous waters.

  Which was this evening filled very nearly to overflowing by two large, green . . . things.

  Emrith at first thought them twin boulders, brought in and disposed by some well-meaning but mad gardener. Then she saw the extended foreleg of the smaller, culminating in a three-fingered hand. She walked closer, discovering other details—beaked faces with nostril slits, horny green hides, and a shell-like substance partially encasing each large torso. Both appeared asleep. Or dead. Emrith Tiazan stared at them a long time, by her lights. She didn’t even wonder where they had come from—to whose orbit, after all, did any of the strange, uncomfortable or dangerous oddities of the universe attach themselves?

  Eventually, she sighed and did something that she had done only once before in this garden—she reached in her pocket and thumbed on the remote.

  “My delm?” An Der sounded startled, as well he might, she thought, sourly.

  “Find Shan yos’Galan,” she said, striving for an appropriate calmness. “Bring him to the singing waters in the atrium. I believe I have found that which belongs to his House.”