by Sharon Lee
“Elegant little thing, ain’t you?” she said wistfully.
In the act of unfolding his napkin, Pat Rin froze. How dare—Slowly, leisurely, he turned his head, and met her eyes, frowning.
It could not precisely be said that a frown of disapproval from Pat Rin yos’Phelium caused seasoned gamers to swoon. However, it was generally agreed among those who had reason to know that it was no easy thing to bear, that frown, nor that it brought forcibly to mind the recollection that Lord Pat Rin shot first at Tey Dor’s—and had done so for a number of years.
Ms. Audrey laughed, quite merrily, and shook her napkin out.
“Now, no offense meant—it’s a habit of business, like you doing a quick-and-dirty assess on my poor old rag rug, first thing you walk in the room.” She sighed, and looked up to bestow her pleasant smile on Cheever McFarland and his well-filled plate.
“That’s right,” she said comfortably. “Man your size has got to have his food. Enjoy yourself.”
“I intend to, ma’am, thank you,” Cheever answered easily. He shook his napkin onto his knee, picked up a fork and fell to.
Not entirely mollified, Pat Rin finished with his own napkin, extended a hand to his glass, raised it and essayed a exploratory sip.
It was a new wine, and a sweet one, with a faint, enchanting note of something reminiscent of ginger beneath. Pat Rin had a second sip and set the glass aside.
“The wine is pleasant,” he said to his hostess. “May I know the vintage?”
Audrey smiled. “We just call it Autumn Wine. It comes in from the country in lots of six, and I generally buy a couple dozen, if that many pass through. Some of our clients are partial, and some of the staff. We’ve got a few left from last season’s buy; I’ll be pleased to give you a bottle.”
A gift of wine. Pat Rin felt absurdly pleased as he inclined his head. “Thank you, I would like that.”
She nodded, and had an appreciative sip from her own glass. “That’s good,” she murmured, and shook her head. “Understand, this wine’ll turn, if you keep it too long into spring, and what you’ll have then is some nice smellin’ paint remover.”
“Ah, then I will remember to enjoy it soon, with warm memories of your hospitality.”
For a heartbeat, she stared at him, her mouth half-smiling, then she shook her head and returned to her meal.
At long last did Pat Rin address his own plate, and found the unfamiliar viands good—even very good. Nor did he wonder when Cheever McFarland rose from his place to refill his own plate.
“I wonder,” Pat Rin said softly, “if you know who makes the rag rugs. I have several in . . . my . . . house, and would be pleased to have more—or even to purchase some for trade.”
“Well, for that, Ajay Naylor makes ’em—has for years. But buying ’em for trade—there’s no profit there, Boss. The rugs is how she pays. Strictly barter, is Ajay.”
“Is she? But the trade I had meant was not necessarily local.”
“Gonna sell ’em at the port?” Audrey frowned at her plate consideringly. “Might do, I guess.”
“Do no ships come through the port?” Pat Rin murmured.
“Oh, well, ships. Sure they do. Once in a summer snowstorm. The trouble with trying to sell things to the ships is you gotta deliver the full order on time. Which means you need a safe road from here to there. Which you ain’t got.”
“And yet there is the Port Road, which runs through this territory and straight to the port,” Pat Rin pointed out.
“That’s right. And there’s six different territories between here and there. That’s a lot of toll—and assuming there ain’t a turf war goin’ on in one—or more!—when you gotta pass—not the way to bet, not with that bunch. Also assuming that somebody up an’ comin’ don’t decided to knock you over and make your profit his.”
“I see.” Pat Rin sipped his wine. “Then we will need to work to secure the Port Road, so that all may have equal access to trade.”
Audrey blinked at him. “Sure we will,” she said politely, and Cheever McFarland laughed.
“Don’t egg him on, ma’am,” he said, pushing his plate aside and reaching for his glass. “He’ll do it just to prove you wrong.”
“Thank you, Mr. McFarland,” Pat Rin said coolly, and turned back to his hostess.
“You will understand that I have not had much time to go over such records as I have . . . inherited . . . from the late Mr. Moran, so I wonder if you might tell me if there is a bank within my territory?”
Her eyebrows pulled together in a puzzled frown. “Bank?”
It was seldom that Pat Rin had cause to question his abilities in Terran, but she was so plainly at a loss, and that over an inquiry after an institution that must surely be well known to so astute a businessperson . . . Hurriedly, he sifted his vocabulary for the correct word to convey his meaning—and the word was “bank”.
“Bank,” he said again, softly, certainly—but her puzzlement did not abate. “Forgive me. An . . . institution . . . which keeps large sums of cash in trust for customers, which makes capital loans, receives collateral, pays out interest—”
“Oh!” Understanding dawned. “Gotcha. Pawn shops. Sure, you got two established and one making a start.” She frowned, briefly. “Pays out interest, now—that’s opposite the way it’s been done. The shop charges you interest, see, to keep your item instead of selling it. No percentage in them paying out interest, when they gotta store the stuff, too.”
Beside him, Cheever McFarland shifted, but when Pat Rin looked, the pilot was found to be gazing raptly at the artful arrangement of flowers.
“A pawn shop is a different enterprise entirely,” Pat Rin said carefully. “The institution that I envision holds cash in trust for members, and loans cash to other members, to whom it charges interest. The institution then pays interest to its depositor-members, in payment for its use of their funds.” He was about to go on to elucidate the more arcane functions of banks, but he saw from her face that he had said quite enough. Audrey obviously thought he was raving.
She had recourse to her glass, and sat holding it in her hand, looking at him out of considering blue eyes.
“OK,” she said at last. “Just who would be running this joint—this bank?”
Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. “A board of trustees.”
“Uh-huh. And the reason they don’t take all the free money and leg it for Deacon’s turf would be?”
Ah. You have forgotten where you are, he told himself, and sighed ruefully.
“Ordinarily,” he answered Audrey, “I would say, because of the contracts and laws binding upon them. I quite see that such contracts and laws would be unenforceable under . . . present circumstances.”
“It’d be tough,” she allowed. “We don’t have much to do with contracts and laws—not here, an’ not on any other turf I ever heard of.” She frowned and had a bit more of her wine.
“I like the idea,” she said slowly. “I can see how it could work. But these trustees of yours—they’d have to be people who weren’t tempted by big stacks of cash, and that ain’t anybody I ever met.”
“Many people are tempted by large sums of money.” Pat Rin frowned. Surely, he thought, there was something, some mechanism, aside from law and honor, which would insure the safety of the investors, and the honesty of the trustees?
“How if,” he murmured, his eyes now on the flower arrangement as well, but seeing something rather different—Mr. dea’Gauss seated in his office, holding forth on the structure of a particular fund that Pat Rin had wished to invest in, outlining the various failsafes and protocols . . .
“How if the procedures required the keys of at least three trustees in order to access the money itself? If the trustees are all businesspeople of consequence . . .”
“And, better yet, if they all hate each other,” Audrey said, suddenly smiling. “This could work. It could work. It’ll take some planning and some finagling, but it might be possible.” Her smile widene
d into a grin. “Just moved from the Impossible pile to the Maybe pile. You’ll be a trustee, yourself?”
“Indeed I will not. The bank—best call it a—a mercantile association—it should have nothing to do with the boss or the boss’ office. Ideally, it should be a separate entity, protected by those laws and contracts we have both agreed are unenforceable at the moment.”
She stared, then laughed, and looked aside to Cheever McFarland. “He like this all the time?”
“No, ma’am,” Cheever said seriously. “Some days he’s downright ornery. He sleeps, occasional. And, from time to time, he likes a game.”
“Does he?” She looked back to Pat Rin with interest. “Cards?” she asked, then corrected herself, “No, you’re a boxman, ain’t you? Dice.”
Pat Rin sighed, and spared a glare for Cheever McFarland, who was once again studying the flowers. To Audrey, he inclined his head, slightly.
“I am . . . familiar . . . with most types of gaming and gambling practiced in the galaxy.”
“Well.” She finished her wine and put the glass down. “What’re you doing here?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Rusticating.”
She didn’t smile. “Plan on sticking around?”
“Surely that’s my business.”
“Was,” she said, her voice almost stern. “But then you set yourself up as boss. That changes the rule of play.” She raised a hand, as if she’d felt his outrage.
“Hear me out, just hear me out. Nort Moran was a stupid, selfish animal, and the whole territory’s best off without him. Vindal—that was the boss before—she was smart, but she wasn’t tough. Word was she didn’t even try to pull when Moran walked in on her. You—you’re smart and you’re tough—and we need you. You’re gonna be good for business—this bank idea of yours, for one; and putting the gab-rag back on the street. That’s for day one. Who knows what you’ll come up with by the time you’re on the street a week?”
“Who, indeed,” Pat Rin said politely, sternly suppressing the shiver. For the second time in his life, he was being offered a Ring. Gods. At least, this offer was made with honor—or so he thought—perhaps leavened with a healthy dose of fear.
Audrey nodded. “Right. Right. You’re the boss. An’ I’m outta line.” She sighed, and pushed back from the table. “Just—think about it, OK?”
Apparently, their luncheon business was concluded. Pat Rin inclined his head and rose. “I will think about it. My thanks for a most delicious and convivial meal.”
“You’re welcome,” Audrey said, matching his formality. “I hope it’ll be the first of many.” She glanced up to Cheever McFarland. “Mr. McFarland, my pleasure.”
“No, ma’am. My pleasure,” the pilot assured her, gallantly, which won him an easy laugh before she led them back through the hallways and spacious rooms to the main entranceway.
There were rather more people about now, the clients obvious by their less grand—and more concealing—clothing. That several of the clients took him for a new addition to the house was plain from the stares of interest he intercepted. He sighed to himself, and followed his hostess, coming up to her side when she stopped a sleek young man dressed only in a pair of scarlet synth-silk trousers, and a purple sash. The young man favored him with a wide smile.
“Villy, love, run down to the pantry and bring a bottle of Autumn Wine up for the boss,” Audrey said, quite loudly enough to be heard across the room. In fact, several heads turned in their direction—clients and residents alike.
The young man’s smiled dimmed considerably, but he nodded briskly enough. “Sure thing, Ms. Audrey. Back in a sec.” He was gone, running lightly on bare feet.
“He’s a good boy,” Audrey said comfortably to Pat Rin. “Your wine will be here in a flash.”
“Ms. Audrey,” he said, softly, but with genuine feeling. “You must remind me never to dice with you.”
She laughed, and patted his arm. “Let them get a good look at you,” she said, her voice as soft as his. “Your security’s right behind you. Besides, it’s been a long time since anybody was stupid enough to draw in my house.”
There was a light patter of feet against floorboard, and Villy was back, bottle in hand. He presented it to Ms. Audrey with a flourish and prudently faded away.
“OK.” Audrey presented the bottle with a similar flourish, smiling as he took it from her hands.
“Thank you,” he said, pitching his voice to be heard.
“Glad to be able to oblige,” Audrey assured him, also in carrying tones. She smiled impartially around the room and they went on.
In the entrance hall, Cheever opened the door and examined the street.
“Clear,” he said, over his shoulder. Pat Rin bowed to Ms. Audrey—the bow between equals—turned.
“Oh,” she said. “One more thing.”
He looked back, eyebrow up.
“I’ll lease that rug from you for six months. Can you have it here tomorrow?”
***
THROUGHOUT THE AFTERNOON they entertained a steady trickle of customers—most, so Pat Rin thought, come to look the new boss over. It was peculiarly unnerving, to be thus on display, and it required every bit of his considerable address to carry through, moving unhurriedly among his customers, answering questions with gentle and attentive courtesy.
Beside himself, the Sinners Carpet was the item of most intense interest. He lost count of how many times he displayed the knots; elucidated the fabric; told over its curious history—and revealed that, beginning on the morrow, it was on lease to Ms. Audrey, for a period of six months, Standard. Often enough, this led to a discussion of the concept of “lease,” as it had with Audrey.
When at last Barth arrived to take up his post as night guard, Pat Rin felt he had been, in the idiom of Shan’s mother, spin washed and hung out to dry. His head ached, and he wanted the study of his house in Solcintra, with its comforts of books, and comm screen, and a chair that cherished the contours of his body—wanted it so fiercely that his sight misted and he bent his head, biting his lip.
It is gone, he told himself, grimly. Everything and everyone—gone, dead, destroyed, unmade. Believe it. Make your Balance your focus, or you will surely go mad.
“You all right, sir?” Cheever McFarland’s voice was soft, for a wonder, and carried a strong note of concern.
Pat Rin straightened. He must not display weakness before his oathsworn. He took a breath. “I am perfectly fine, Mr. McFarland,” he said coolly and strode up the sidewalk, toward the “mansion” he called his home.
The door was opened to them by Gwince, grinning good-naturedly.
“Evening, Boss. Mr. McFarland. Natesa said to tell you, Boss, that the work you wanted done is in process. Cook asks when you want to eat supper. Printer’s boy brought a package for you. Natesa put it in your office.”
Pat Rin closed his eyes, there in the tiny vestibule of his house, and tried to recall what tasks he had particularly wished Natesa to accomplish. Ah. That would be the upgrading of Boss Moran’s security arrangements. Very good. News of the delivery from the printer was also welcome—he had two persons of honor on the day, which surely found him richer than yesterday. What had been the—yes. Supper.
“Please tell the cook that Mr. McFarland, Natesa and I will dine in one Standard Hour. Mr. McFarland has a bottle of wine, which we will wish to drink with the meal.”
She took the bottle from Cheever, eyebrows twitching in what might have been surprise, but she merely murmured a respectful, “Yessir, will do.”
“Thank you, Gwince,” he said and began to turn away, then swung back. “I wonder, do you know Ajay Naylor?”
Gwince looked surprised. “Sure, Boss. Everybody knows Ajay.”
“Alas, not everyone,” Pat Rin murmured. “I have not had the honor, an oversight that I wish to rectify. Do you think you might ask her to call on me at the store tomorrow, mid-morning?”
Now, Gwince looked puzzled, even faintly alarmed. “Sure, I can do
that.” She sent a glance into Cheever McFarland’s face, but apparently found nothing there to ease her distress.
“Um, Boss—just so you know. Ajay’s like four hunnert years old. She ain’t—well, she ain’t—” Gwince stumbled to a halt, regrouped, and produced a rather faint, “She makes rugs, see? And trades ’em out for stuff she needs.”
Gods, what a filthy place! Pat Rin thought, furiously. As if I would murder an old woman—His fury flamed out, leaving him cold and shaken. While it was true that he had not yet murdered an old woman, who could say where the necessities of his Balance might take him? Gwince was within her rights to be wary of his reasons for wanting Ajay Naylor. He sighed and met her eyes.
“I have business to discuss with Ajay Naylor,” he said, mildly, and was absurdly pleased to see the alarm fade from her eyes.
“Right,” she said, briskly. “Mid-morning tomorrow, at the rug store. I’ll tell her, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said again, and walked down the short hallway, Cheever McFarland a large and ridiculously comforting presence at his back—and paused on the threshold of the front parlor.
Last seen, this chamber had been very nearly as grubby as the printer he had interviewed there. This evening, while the furnishings must still dismay any person of taste, other matters had undergone a change for the better.
The floor, for instance. This morning, it had been a dull and slightly sticky gray. It now flaunted its true color for all to see—a pale, and not unbecoming blue—and showed a small, repeating pattern of a darker blue—flowers, perhaps, or some sort of decorative insect.
The walls, which had this morning been of a dinginess in competition with the floor, had been washed, revealing that they had, at some all but forgotten time in the past, been painted a blue to match the floor. The ceiling, likewise relieved of several years of grime, was discovered to be white, the central globe-shaped light fixture yellow. The effect was unexpectedly pleasant—rather like walking into a sunlit sky.
