by Sharon Lee
It was usual in such cases, he knew, that the victim would then be left to wake up on his own and chart a no doubt unsteady course for home. There was no benefit to the house in murder, after all.
Unless, of course, one’s luck was a freelancer. In which case, she might be . . . interested in his mother’s riddle.
“Will you not wager again, Pilot?” his luck murmured from her affectionate nestle, one hand dropping from his arm to his thigh. “Our agreement was for profit over three spins.” Her voice dropped. “Unless you have no need of the money . . .”
The lady, Daav conceded, knew her business, and certainly he had gone to some pains to appear a pilot in . . . unfortunate financial circumstances. His boots were perhaps a bit more than respectably worn, portions of his dark trousers showed as much shine as his boots.
Daav swept his palm on the worn fabric at his knee, just slightly lower than the spot on his leg his luck was gripping.
He glanced at her; nodded at the croupier.
“Let it ride,” he growled, and his luck whooped. “My pilot knows how to play the game!” she shouted to the room at large.
“Have done,” he said, sharp and surly under the racket of the wheel spinning. “Unless you want to be relieved of your earnings by those whose profit is taken from the pockets of others? I assure you, I have a better use for my portion than losing it to a wolf pack.”
She laughed low in her throat. “Are you afraid of wolf packs, Pilot?”
“If I was afraid of losing my winnings to a wolf pack,” he answered, “I wouldn’t have come here.”
He glanced about, hand negligently indicating the riff-raff about them, and carefully not including the semi-official head table where still sat the high-roller, done receiving his subjects now, bereft of his security, but having acquired a companion of his own to help him drink his wine.
“Mmm,” his luck murmured, twining so nearly ’round him it seemed she would soon be inside his jacket with him. What else she might have said, if anything, was lost in a explosion of light and sound as the wheel and the square holding his second wager declared him again a winner.
“Excellent!” his luck shouted, and raised the wine glass to his lips. Drink he did, though not as deeply as she urged him, and she finished the last herself, before holding the glass high again.
“More wine for my pilot!” she called, and scarcely had the words rang out than the glass arrived, larger than the last, Daav saw at a glance, and filled to the top.
“Peace,” his luck breathed into his ear, as she raised the glass for a sip. “I know you would be quiet, but I must advertise my skill for those others who might wish to employ me. I swear I will make only as much noise as will advance my own cause. Done?”
“Done,” he answered, and obligingly sipped from the glass she held up to him. Again, he drank rather less than she would have had him, and was pleased to see her drink again, and deeply, before returning the glass to the table.
Himself—he considered his winnings, and of a sudden leaned forward, awkwardly, for being bound by his luck, and pushed the two-thirds of his original amount that he had held in reserve onto the ship square.
“Let it all ride,” he said, slurring his words slightly.
His luck sighed so deeply her entire body quivered. The rest of the players pushed their wagers forward in silence. The croupier called the freeze and spun the wheel. Hard.
It seemed the entire house held its breath while the wheel danced ’round, and at last came to rest, winner flashing.
“A third win!” screamed his luck, forsaking his arm to propel herself into the air with a push on his shoulder, her fists beating the air. “Luck is where you find it!” she crowed.
Daav turned slightly and she came to rest with her breasts pressed against his chest, and her arms around his shoulders. She came up on her toes, pressing into him and whispered in his ear.
“Come over to my table, Sweeting, and buy me a drink.”
“My winnings . . . ” he protested, and she laughed, turning her head to look at the croupier. “Bring the pilot’s winnings to Zara Chance’s table,” she commanded.
“It shall be done at once!” The croupier swore, and turned to give orders to certain of the house’s other employees, who were standing nearby. Zara Chance wove her fingers with Daav’s and led him away from the wheel, passing through a wide and curious throng, some of whom made to touch her. She slapped those questing hands away, laughing her rich, lazy laugh.
“Free luck is worth what you paid for it! Let us pass! Make way for Zara Chance and her winner!”
* * *
If the surly, black-haired pilot wasn’t alert at his board, his lady luck was going to undress him right in the booth, Clarence thought. Not that he didn’t seem an adroit lad, and not a quarter so drunk as he was letting it be seen. But if the lady was one with the rumor he and his crew’d been chasing all over Low and Mid-Port this last while . . .
“You have a fancy for exotic hair, Boss O’Berin?” his own companion asked.
“Could be,” he answered, giving her a straight look. He’d asked for somebody who knew the news, whereupon the floor boss had gone to the back and ushered her out, introducing her as, “Mistress Ilda, quarter-owner.”
“Tell me about her,” he said to Ilda now, angling his chin at the pair grappling in the booth.
“Her name is Zara Chance,” Mistress Ilda said promptly. “She is not one of our regulars, and if it was in my power, I would ban her entirely.”
“Shorts the house, does she?” Clarence asked.
“Not in the least,” Ilda returned primly. “Very prompt in paying her percentage, is Zara Chance, and lays down extra for the good wine, too.”
“But you don’t like her,” Clarence persisted when she paused, his eyes on the couple in the booth. The pilot had managed to untangle himself from the lady, and was engaged in counting his winnings, which was not, Clarence thought, quite so adroit. He considered the man more closely, but he didn’t have the look of either a port-cop or a bounty-hunter.
“I don’t like her,” Ilda agreed. “Zara Chance’s winners have a way of disappearing, once she has had her way with them. Losing customers is, as I’m sure you’d agree, Boss O’Berin, bad for business.” She sighed, and shrugged, reaching for her glass. “But she does not overfish the waters, you see, and my partners are inclined to turn a blind eye, out of respect for her percentage.” She sipped. “Zara Chance knows her business; and her winners always win big.”
“Hm.” Clarence picked up his own glass and had a sip, to be sociable. “Tell me about him.”
“I’ve never seen him before,” Ilda answered, sounding just a thought regretful. “And I doubt I’ll see him again.”
At the booth, the pilot had done fiddling with his coins. He pushed a sizable pile over to Zara Chance and slipped the remainder away into various pockets. Where the lady put her share, Clarence couldn’t have said, but she leaned over, her hand on the pilot’s arm, and her lips against his ear.
The pilot moved his shoulders; Zara Chance threw back her head and laughed, then slid out of the booth, pulling him with her.
Out of the corner of his eye, Clarence saw Belle and Huang notice the pair of them, and ease into position.
“Thank you,” he said to Ilda. “You’ve been very helpful. I’m doing a full review, just to acquaint myself with the local franchises—staff’ll be contacting you about a time for a business meeting. Right now, though—”
Ilda nodded, leaning back in her chair. “My partners and I will be pleased to see you, Boss,” she said formally. “And, speaking only for myself, if you can arrange it so that Zara Chance never comes to this Hell again, I’d be much obliged.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Clarence told her, and stood up.
The pilot and Zara Chance were out the door, Belle and Huang on their trail.
“’Til next time,” he said and moved toward the door, not hurrying, both hands in plain sight
. At the door, he exchanged nods with the bouncer and stepped out into the street.
He paused in the thin spill of light from Ilgay’s sign and brought his arm up, a man checking the time, that was all. The tell-tales gave him Belle and Huang’s position, some meters to the right, and on an intersecting course with the points occupied by Urel and Gounce.
“Gotcha,” he breathed, and ambled down the dark street, hands in pockets, the fingers of the right curled ’round the butt of his gun, not that he expected he’d need it. Staff knew what to do, now that the quarry was in sight. And it had been Belle, after all, who’d put together the pattern of the freelance luck and overlaid it with the pattern of pilots gone missing.
By rights, Clarence acknowledged, he should have let staff handle the whole job. He’d weighed it, wondering if he’d be sending the message that there was a certain lack of trust in staff’s abilities. In the end, though, he’d opted to take a personal interest, showing staff he wasn’t afraid to put his gun where his orders were. Showing ’em that he was the boss and that he took his port serious, just as serious as Herself had done. Pilots going missing on her watch? Not bloody likely.
From up ahead came the sudden sound of an scuffle. He heard Belle’s voice, raised, and a shot.
Swearing, he leapt into a run, gun out, damn it all, and swung ’round the corner, dodging into the cover of a broken doorway.
* * *
“We’re followed,” Zara Chance said, low, and sent Daav a glance so hard he felt it strike the side of his face in the darkness. “Your backup, Pilot?”
If he had thought that tonight would have been anything other than a simple reconnoiter run, it might well have been his backup, Daav thought. Though his people might not have been quite so noisy.
Still, it was nice to be able to tell the lady the truth.
“None of mine. Most likely they’re sent from the house to recover its loss.”
A small pause while she gave that consideration. “It may be so,” she allowed, eventually, “though Ilgay isn’t known for bringing its business to the street.”
“They might change policy,” he offered. “For a stiff loss.”
“Hm,” she answered, and suddenly grabbed his arm, swinging him ’round to face back the way they’d come, and the silence between them was filled with a vibroblade’s grim promise.
Blast. Well, and it likely was recovery crew from the house, or a wolf pack with its nose on cash. Either way, fighting at the lady’s side could only increase her regard for him, which must be to his advantage. Daav slipped a slim dagger from his boot, the sound of hasty footsteps growing louder.
A man came briskly ’round the corner, stuttered to a halt, and then danced back as Zara Chance lunged, vibroblade humming like a live thing. She pursued, and he swung to one side, missing the kick, slapping at his vest, and around the corner came his mate, shouting, gun out. A shot went over Daav’s head and he swept forward, meaning to knock the gun away, when yet another person arrived, copper hair gleaming in the meager light, gun out and leveled.
“Put the knife down and stand away from the pilot, hands where I can see them,” he said in calm, no-nonsense Trade. “Make me ask twice and it won’t be so civil.”
“Since we are being civil . . .” She thumbed her weapon off, crouched to place it on the ground, and flung herself sidewise, hitting Daav hard enough to send him staggering toward the man with the gun. Startled, he tucked and hit the ground rolling, heard a shot whine somewhere overhead and heard the red-haired man snap, “I’ll mind him—don’t lose her!”
There came the sound of boots against gritty tarmac, and Daav continued his roll, snapped to his feet, turned to pursue—and froze, the sound of a safety being disengaged ludicrously loud.
“I have,” he said over his shoulder, “business with the lady.”
“Mine comes first,” the red-haired man answered. “Drop the knife, why not?”
Daav sighed and turned to face him. “Because I happen to be fond of it and don’t want to risk nicking the edge, if you must know.”
A grin flickered, ghostly, across the pale face. “Put it away, then. Tell me where.”
“Left boot,” Daav said obligingly, and bent to slip the blade home. He could no longer hear sounds of the chase, and silently cursed himself for losing his contact like an idiot.
“That lady’s bad trouble,” the man with the gun said, when he straightened. “You get on home or to the guildhall or wherever you’re wanted and let us take care of her.”
Daav felt his temper flicker, not to mention a lively spurt of curiosity about his solicitous captor.
“Perhaps you think I’m not bad trouble,” he said, allowing his voice to take an edge. “That would be a mistake.”
The other man cocked his head to one side, hair glinting like metal in the dim light. He shifted the gun, but notably did not snap the safety on. “What’s your name, Trouble?”
“Daav,” he said shortly, feeling the curiosity rise above his irritation. “And your own?”
“Clarence. Your ladyfriend is a link to a bunch of pilots going missing on this port. That’s my concern. I can’t afford to lose pilots—it’s expensive and it’s bad for business, and it’s going to stop.”
“I agree with you upon every point. Stopping it is precisely the reason I am here, exactly the reason I agreed to go with Zara Chance to meet her ‘recruiter’, and—”
“Where’s your backup?” Clarence interrupted. Daav blinked, and said nothing.
“You came down here by yourself, without backup?” The safety went on with an emphatic snap and the gun disappeared into a pocket as if Clarence no longer considered him a threat. Daav was inclined to feel insulted.
“I’ll tell you what,” Clarence said sharply, “that’s stupid, hear me? I don’t ever want to hear about you taking that kind of risk on my port again. I hear it and you’re still alive, you’ll wish you weren’t. You reading me, Trouble?”
It seemed the red-haired man was genuinely angry. And the claim of it being his port nothing short of suicidal, when speaking with one of—
Oh, Daav thought, recalling his state of deliberate shabbiness.
“Let me be clear,” he said, speaking with gentle care. “My name is Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval. I am rather inclined to believe that this is my port, far more than it is yours.”
He felt, rather than saw, the other man stiffen, heard the soft exhalation of breath that sounded peculiarly like “fuck,” before Clarence raised his hand, said, “Look . . . ” and hesitated.
Daav, fair ablaze with curiosity, waited, posture conveying nothing other than polite interest.
Clarence sighed, and lowered his hand. “It was still stupid,” he said, firmly.
“Since you put it like that,” Daav said, feeling an unexpected jolt of relief, “I agree. It was stupid. In my defense, I hardly expected contact tonight. My information on the missing pilots indicates that they were patrons of two different establishments—”
“Five,” Clarence interrupted. “We’ve got her charted. Seems to have only been the one woman, but she was careful not to—overfish the waters, like my friend back at Ilgay’s has it.” He paused. “We should probably merge info.”
“Though perhaps,” Daav murmured, “not on the open street.”
“Point.” Clarence sighed. “I’m the new Juntavas Boss, by the way. Clarence O’Berin.”
“I had thought you must be, as soon as I saw you dance in as Beggar King, though you seem young for the office,” Daav said dryly, and around an unaccountable feeling of regret. He liked this Clarence, with his blunt good sense and competent planning. Which was, he acknowledged, just like his perversity. “You must be quite accomplished.”
Clarence snorted. “No. Just the last in a set of people who let the sector boss get scared of ’em.” He sighed. “So, you see, I know something about stupid.”
“Ah,” said Daav. “What—” Clarence held up a hand, and he swallowed the rest of
his question as the other fished a comm out of his pocket and brought it to his lips.
“Go.”
He listened, briefly, murmured, “Out,” and stowed the unit with a nod.
“My team’s got Zara Chance locked down. Interested in hearing what she has to say for herself?”
“Very,” Daav answered, and fell in beside his new . . . associate.
* * *
Daav yos’Phelium’s long legs easily kept the pace Clarence set to Belle’s coordinates. The lanky pilot made about as much noise as a shadow, which got Clarence to reviewing what he knew of the individuals who made up Clan Korval, while keeping a wary eye on the street.
Chi yos’Phelium, delm, was in Herself’s deep notes, attached to a long list of warnings and qualifiers for the education of those who might come after. Near as he could figure, the delm was Herself’s age, give or take five Standards. At a guess, Daav was right around Clarence’s age, too young, and likely of too low a rank to be any of Herself’s concern. Boss would, naturally, talk to boss. On Liad even more than anywhere else.
Clarence looked at his companion, what could be seen of him in the general dimness.
“I’d have thought Chi’d come herself, since the issue was pilots,” he said, more or less a shot at random.
Daav made a soft sound that might have been a laugh.
“My mother,” he said, “would have been . . . conspicuous, let us say. Besides, she wishes to train me for my lifework, when she is through with being delm, and I am ever as much a pilot as she, in these days.” There was a small pause before he continued. “I would have thought Boss Toonapple would have left her port in better repair. Perhaps her . . . withdrawal . . . was hasty?”
“Herself, Boss Toonapple as you have her, retired, all peaceful and legal, and left the business in good order. Last message I had from her said she was going someplace where she didn’t have to look at a Liaden for a dozen years.” He sent a quick glance at the other’s profile. “Sorry.”
