Korval's Game

by Sharon Lee

  The Port Road ran more-or-less through the middle of Penn’s turf, and it was as safe as the rest of his streets. But . . .

  “We’re cut off by Ivernet to the north, and Whitman, on the east. I can hold my piece of road, OK, but there ain’t nobody gonna come walkin’ out of Ivernet’s turf. Whitman—I can talk to Whitman, if you want. She’s not somebody who snubs a profit, if you know what I mean. But Ivernet—sleet, Ivernet’s crazy.”

  “Ah. Nonetheless, I will be calling upon Boss Ivernet and offering him the deal. If the deal is not acceptable, then measures will be taken.”

  Penn shook his head. “You’re a braver man than I am,” he said.

  “Merely foolhardy, I believe.” Conrad leaned forward to put his cup on the desk, and came to his feet, smooth and graceful. Penn stood, too, feeling like his whole body was grinning.

  “It seems we agree in principle,” Conrad said, inclining his head. “Natesa.”

  The woman moved. Penn had time for one sharp spike of terror before he saw that it wasn’t a gun in her hand at all, but a portable radio.

  Shakily, he took it.

  “If you need to speak with me—a consultation, an emergency—simply push the ‘four’ key. If I need to speak with you for similar reasons, I will use my radio and yours will emit three tones, from low to high. Is this acceptable?”

  “Acceptable,” Penn croaked.

  “That is good. And now, I will take my leave and allow you to return to your work. Good-day, Penn Kalhoon. It is . . . a pleasure to do business with you.”

  “Good-day, sir. Ma’am.” He raised his voice, “Marj!”

  The door popped open so fast he knew she’d been listening at the knob. Her face was white all the way to the hairline, but she was grinning fit to beat all.

  “Marj, Boss Conrad and his ’hand are leavin’ now. Please take them down to the door.”

  “Yessir!” she said snappily, and turned her grin on the man and the woman. “Right this way, Mr. Conrad.”

  They followed her without a backward look between them and Penn sank back into his chair, taking pleasure in the simple act of breathing.

  After a while, though, his brain started in, like it always did, and he shook his head. Going to call on Ivernet, was he? That Natesa’d better be a damn good shot.

  DAY 345

  Standard Year 1392

  Jolie’s House of Joy

  Surebleak

  “HOUSES ON IVERNET’S turf?” Wyn, their host for the evening, shook his head regretfully. “There ain’t no houses on Ivernet’s turf, Mr. Conrad. We hear there ain’t much on Ivernet’s turf—least ways, not much anybody else’d want. Now, if you was going over to Whitman’s territory, we’d be right pleased to direct you to Mirabell’s House.”

  “Alas,” Pat Rin murmured. “My fancy is quite set upon visiting Boss Ivernet.”

  Wyn looked over to his partner, the Jolie from whom the House took its name. She sighed.

  “Mr. Conrad, Wyn’s right—there ain’t anything on Ivernet’s turf you’d want. We had—when was it, Wyn? Two years ago? Three? When them kids come through?”

  His broad forehead rumpled in thought. “Oh, hell, yeah, I remember them. Three years, it musta been—in the flat middle of winter.”

  Jolie nodded, leaned forward and touched Pat Rin’s sleeve lightly with pale fingers.

  “Two kids, it was. They made it outta Ivernet’s territory just like Wyn says, in the middle of winter, their feet wrapped in rags and not a whole piece of clothing between ’em. How they got past the tollbooths, we never did find out. Lost one right off—she wasn’t nothin’ but skin over bone, an’ so cold—we couldn’t get her warm, and I’ll tell you, we covered her over with every blanket in the house, with Nuce and Silbey one to a side. Nothin’ we did was any good—she was that worn out with the drugs and bad food and then running through the snow to get away. To get safe.” She turned her face aside, for all the worlds like a proper Liaden lady attempting to recover from a too-intimate display of emotion.

  “So,” she said after a moment, looking back to him, her blue eyes damp. “The second one hung on a while longer—long enough that we thought she’d make it. Long enough to tell us how it is over there.” She pressed her fingers more firmly onto his sleeve, and withdrew.

  “Mr. Conrad, it’s a hell-hole over there. Saying Ivernet’s crazy don’t begin to cover it. There’s drugs—something they call ‘nirf’—and most take it because it cuts down on the empty feelin’ of not havin’ no food. There ain’t no houses, just like Wyn told you. Some work for whatever they can get—an’ mostly what they get is nirf. Nor ain’t there much in the way of business, like we got here in Boss Penn’s territory—or like you got yourself, sir, in your turfs!—’cause nobody knows when Ivernet’ll blow a gasket and him and his ’hands’ll come out on the streets, lookin’ to go huntin’, like they call it, and burn themselves down a buncha houses so they got enough light to see by.”

  It seemed an apt description of a hell-hole, Pat Rin allowed, grateful for the patient presence of Natesa, silently supping at his right hand. Apt enough that, had it been possible, he would have allowed himself to be persuaded to visit Boss Whitman instead.

  Necessity, however, existed.

  “I am forewarned,” he murmured. “But, as it happens, there is one thing that Boss Ivernet holds that is of interest to me. The Port Road runs through his territory.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Wyn said, sitting up a bit straighter, eyes bright with interest. “You after securin’ the Road?”

  “I am,” Pat Rin said, well-pleased with him. “I intend to have it open from the center-land to the spaceport, safeheld, with free passage to all.”

  Wyn whistled. “You talk to Penn about this?”

  “Indeed, it was the purpose of my visit. Mr. Kalhoon and I discussed the matter this afternoon, and were able to reach a mutually advantageous agreement,” Pat Rin said, and felt Natesa shift beside him. “Please do speak with him, yourselves, and ask what questions you may have. I am certain that a boss who administers as well as does Mr. Kalhoon must speak often with his people.”

  “Penn’s the best boss in nine territories,” Wyn assured him warmly, and shook his head. “Audrey told us you was a change-maker,” he continued, glancing over to his partner. “We tried, Jolie. Audrey said he was stubborn, too.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, she did. And she said he was good for business, which he won’t be, if he gets killed on Ivernet’s turf.” She glanced at him, a blush mantling her cheeks. “Not that it’s my decision, really, or to say that Ms. Natesa ain’t a pro . . .”

  “I thank you for your care,” Pat Rin said, sincerely, “but my plans are firm.”

  “And that’s why he’s a boss,” Wyn finished, slapping the table, and grinning, wide and pleased. “Tell you what, stop over with us again on your way back out. We’ll be happy to see the both of you.”

  Warmed, Pat Rin inclined his head. Audrey, of course, had provided the introduction to the house of Jolie and Wyn, as she had provided introductions to the other six whorehouses in the six territories that were now either his or allied to his. All the heads of household had been cordial, but none save Audrey—and now these—had shown any personal concern in himself. Indeed, why should they? Bosses came and bosses went, and even a boss who was good for business was bound to be murdered one day.

  “I thank you,” he said again, inclining his head. “It will be a pleasure to renew our acquaintance on my return.”

  “That’s fine, then,” said Wyn, coming to his feet, with Jolie at his side. Pat Rin stood, in respect of the host, and Natesa did, as well.

  “It’s time for us to go on the floor and make sure everybody stays calm,” Jolie said. “If you want company, just choose who you like—on the house. There’s a morning buffet laid out for the early guests and the one’s who’re late going home—you’re welcome to that, too.”

  “You are gracious,” Pat Rin murmured. “I do not myself desire a co
mpanion this evening, though perhaps Natesa might wish to avail herself.”

  “Whatever suits,” Wyn said. “I’ll take you on up to your room and make sure the doormen know who you are. Staff quarters, up the back of the house. We don’t get much trouble here, but sometimes a customer’ll take a shine to one of the staff and make a little bit o’ noise.” He waved a hand, indicating that Pat Rin should walk with him.

  He complied, being very careful not to look back at Natesa, who after all deserved what joy she might take, here in a place which was as safe as Surebleak came, on the eve of an enterprise of surpassing danger, if not outright stupidity.

  Which is how he happened to miss the subtle gleam in the night black eyes thoughtfully considering him as he quit the room.

  ***

  SHE CAME TO HIM naked, which she had not done in his several dreams upon the subject, bearing a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Pat Rin, roused from his labors with the log book, himself divested of jacket and most of his weapons, opened the door to her knock and stood, quite plainly staring.

  “Is something amiss?” Natesa’s rich voice held an unsubtle note of laughter.

  “Not in the least,” he assured her, recovering his address with a quick mental shake. “I was merely trying to recall if I have ever before seen you stand weaponless.”

  “Ah,” she smiled this time, and showed him the glasses. “May I come in? Jolie believes this to be quite drinkable.”

  “Does she?” He stepped back, allowing her to pass, and watched her walk to the table, marveling at the subtle beauty of her, slim and far too alluring in her creamy, soft shirt and form-fitting black trousers. Forcefully, he moved his eyes, and closed the door.

  When he joined her at the table, she had already closed the log book and put it to one side, making room for the glasses and the wine.

  “But I am not entirely unarmed,” she murmured as he came to her side, “as you are not entirely unarmed.” She slanted an amused glance into his face. “Even in the presence of friends, we are vigilant. Certainly, we are deplorable.”

  “And very likely deplored,” he agreed, as she produced a wine knife from her waistband and addressed the cork.

  “I wonder why you are here,” he said then, watching her long, clever fingers ply the knife. “Do not mistake me—I am pleased to share wine with you! It is only that I had thought you destined this evening for the pleasures of the house.”

  “Ah, yes.” A sparkling glance from black eyes as she extracted the cork and set the wine to breathe. “That was not well done of you.”

  “Was it not?” he asked, which was simple idiocy. Better to have denied having taken any action. Much better to have failed to understand her.

  “No,” she asserted. “It was not.” She reached for a glass; her sleeve brushing his—the veriest whisper of cloth against cloth, and nothing to answer for the bright flicker along his nerves.

  The wine was poured, neatly and without fuss. Natesa handed him a glass. She held the other, but did not yet drink, only stood there looking at him, her face serious.

  “You deny yourself the pleasures of the house, do you not?”

  He inclined his head, allowing amusement to show. “Certainly. I am the boss and there is ever work awaiting me.”

  “Yes, of course.” She raised her glass—a Terran toast—and he followed suit.

  “To our success upon the morrow.”

  “To our success upon the morrow,” he repeated, and they drank.

  “Do you have concerns of tomorrow’s outcome?” he asked her, after they had sipped again, savoring the vintage, for true wine it surely was, and nothing like the mis-named if pleasant Autumn Wine.

  She laughed lightly, and sat, all grace and elegance, in the room’s only chair. Pat Rin leaned a hip against the table, and looked down into her face. His fingers itched with the desire to stroke her soft cheek—which was beyond idiocy and well into madness. He had another small sip of wine, recruiting what sanity remained to him.

  “Success is never assured,” Natesa said, speaking seriously, for all her seeming gaiety. “And tomorrow we go against an opponent who is neither predictable nor trained, which mixes in additional danger.”

  “We have known these things,” he pointed out, “and made plans accordingly. We do not go to Boss Ivernet naked; and there will be back-up within reach.”

  “All true—and yet we are well-advised to go lightly. Indeed, was I not already certain of your answer, I would ask you to reconsider and remain at holiday here while Mr. McFarland and I, with a small team, go in to smooth the way.”

  He did not immediately reply, being engaged in a thoughtful study of her face. She returned his regard, widening her eyes a little, her lips curving into a slight and unmistakably seductive smile.

  He understood then that she meant to punish him for his temerity in leaving her to the pleasures of the house. He breathed in, deep and careful, deliberately cooling the growing warmth of his blood. Balance was her right, as it seemed she considered that he had transgressed. But Balance did not require him to act the fool.

  So, business: “We had gone over this. It is my intention to offer to deal with every boss; extreme force being reserved for those who violently refuse. We cannot simply murder a man on his reputation. It may be that he is . . . misunderstood—although I grant that seems unlikely. However, we cannot discount that it may be possible. Shall we try to number between us those who now believe that Jonni was my true-son, his dead mother my wife, from whom I was long separated by malicious circumstance?”

  She inclined her head. “True. Yet I would not see you put yourself in unnecessary danger. If Boss Ivernet is harmless and maligned, then no harm is done to him by sending an emissary first. If he is as has been reported, sending a forward team means that your life is preserved.”

  She finished her wine and stood. Gently, she set the glass on the table, and turned to face him, resolution in her eyes.

  Pat Rin put his glass down, straightening away from the table—too late, she had swayed one step and was close, her hip grazing his side, her hand rising, slowly and stringently in sight, toward his cheek.

  So much for Balance, he thought. So much for honor and right action. Desire electrified his blood. He looked up into her eyes, and knew he was lost—knew that he must not lose.

  “Inas,” he whispered. “Inas, do not.”

  Her hand paused. “Why?”

  “Because—because I hold your oath,” he managed, though his voice shook shamefully. “I would not dishonor you.”

  Something moved in her face; in his distress, he could not have said what.

  “Ah,” she said, softly, her breath warm against his cheek. “I see.” Her hand moved; a light finger touched the gemstone in his ear, then she stepped back, bowing in the Terran mode, innocent of nuance.

  “Pat Rin, goodnight. Sleep deeply. Dream well.”

  “Sleep well, Inas,” he returned, and watched her go lightly away from him, and let herself out of his room.

  DAY 346

  Standard Year 1392

  Industry Street

  Surebleak

  GWINCE GUIDED the car to what passed for a curb, set the brake and looked up. Pat Rin could see her worried frown in the reflection of the rear view mirror.

  “Boss, I ain’t likin’ this street too much.”

  Which only proved her a woman of superior sense, Pat Rin thought. In his recent travels, he had seen bad streets—even very bad streets.

  This street was—an affront to the honorable, a blight upon the eye; a dismay upon the soul.

  Burned out buildings lined both sides of the pitted road, broken windows gaping like fanged entrances to black and bottomless gullets. There were no trees, nor flowers, as there had been seen on some of the streets under Penn Kalhoon’s care; there were no people; no vehicles on the street, saving their own.

  One house stood, unburned and unbroken, along the whole doleful thoroughfare: A glowering gra
y pile, protected by a rusty fence which had been draped with a glittering net of metallic spikes.

  “Very well,” he said, steeling himself, and turned to meet Natesa’s eye. She inclined her head, novice to master, with no discernible irony.

  “Gwince, please contact Mr. McFarland and have him bring his team in close. Natesa and I will see if Boss Ivernet is at home.”

  Gwince bit her lip. “Boss, it might be a good idea to wait ’til Mr. McFarland gets here.”

  “Call now,” he said, patient in the face of her concern. “Surely, they will not open fire without first discovering who we are.”

  He was wrong.

  He had taken precisely fifteen steps up the shattered walkway toward the house, Natesa at his back, when the first pellet snarled past his ear. He found his target, fired and leapt in the same instant, coming down heavily on his shoulder behind a pile of broken concrete that might once have been part of a wall.

  The air was full of pellets, snarling and whining, pinging off his scant cover. Pat Rin leaned out, found a target, fired and ducked back, face dusted with concrete. He leaned out again—and froze.

  Natesa lay, exposed and unmoving, on the walkway leading to the house. Even as he stared, disbelieving, a pellet chipped the stone by her head. He could not tell if she were alive—no, her hand! Surely, her fingers had twitched toward her fallen weapon?

  More pellets stormed and he ducked again, measuring the distance with his eyes, ignoring the old, self-taunting voice telling him he was too slow, far too slow. He would not fail in this. He would not leave her out there to die.

  Carefully, he holstered his gun. Carefully, he got his feet under him. The storm of pellet fire lessened; he focused on the still figure lying on the broken pavement, took a breath—and ran.

  Fleet and desperate, he reached her side, lifted her in his arms and hurtled back toward the dubious shelter of broken concrete.

  He almost made it.

  DAY 51

  Standard Year 1393