by Sharon Lee
“Then it is done. We shall meet you and Joshu at fifteen, at Charleschow. If it pleases you, Beba, you may call me Conrad.” When he said Conrad there was the scent of a distant spice, and hot sand, and a wash of color she associated with someone manipulating their own beliefs.
* * *
“Honest. Direct. Frightening.” She’d distilled the experience to three words, and brought them to her partner on his return, trying to look beyond his own dark mood as she delivered the news. “We’re engaged to meet them for dinner.”
Joshu rocked back and forth on his feet as if he were a tree blowing in the wind. He’d once told her how a teacher’s attempt to make his inner rhythms match the world’s gave him a migraine, which she could well believe if the teacher had been anything like her own grandmother, so she let him twist in the breeze as he thought. There was something he hadn’t said, that was certain.
He caught her eye and gave a weak grin.
“So, you think this is a good thing, being asked to dinner by strange people who frighten you?”
Beba closed her eyes, all of them.
“I lack foretelling, Joshu, as you well know. What I have is what you asked for: I have looked into his eyes. Indeed, that is the best way to deal with him, I think, this Conrad. The others are guards and assistants, but they act on his words and his needs before their own, I feel it. I would treat this person properly, Joshu.”
She opened her eyes as he sat, hard, on the display of multishade wood-moss-infused carpeting for children’s rooms.
“Forgive me, Beba, but I take proper profit where I can. If I did not, we would not still be burdened with your dowry piece nor would management be asking for a search fee to discover the whereabouts of our last two incoming shipments.”
“So I am a burden again?”
The last was cruel, and Beba regretted it the moment it left her mouth; the brief yellow blaze of a true strike masking his eyes as he blinked.
“We are faced with ruin within the Standard,” he said bleakly, looking more at her shoes than at her face. “Management will be charging a fee to help defray the cost of extra surveillance devices to support the new administration’s rulings. The Commerce Center will be requiring search fees for any shipments more than a ten-day overdue, and the lease charge will now include a rising percentage of revenue as our profits rise.”
“What devices will they use?”
He stood, rocked, looked her in the face.
“They say they have a source for equipment that tells if someone is being manipulated by—”
Beba fuffed hair out of her face, but he only nodded.
“Yes, they’re at it again. We have the rug still on display, and anyone with half a word of history knows that it is old and that your family name is all over it. They said, in Commerce, there’s talk that your rug controls people’s minds by itself.”
“That would be the Caratunk effect,” she ventured, and seeing him start, asked, “Has Derry made another offer for the company, or for you?”
She read the annoyance and the flutter of indecision across his face; the scent—of Derry’s favorite perfume was rather clear.
“Oddly enough, she was waiting for me at opening. Offered for the business as she always does.” The flicker then, of confused issues, untouched emotion. “She explained, too, that her triad has been considering expansion.”
Ah, well, that might explain the extra levity of their conversation then, for the woman was comely enough.
“She explained this in close proximity?”
He nodded and shrugged shoulders.
“Derry lives on close proximity, you know. Of course she did. She seemed not to hear me point out the Standards you and I have shared.”
There was a glimmer of sensual recollection there, and annoyance as well.
Beba shook her head briefly, put on an imitation of Derry’s husky voice and then mocked Derry’s favorite tactic of holding Joshu’s arm with friendly grasp just above the elbow when they were close. She leaned to whisper in his ear. “I knew it. Ignorance is winning.”
Joshu harrumphed, and tried changing the topic.
“Frightening, you say?”
It was her turn to look bleak. He rarely questioned her about the process and her own methods were no easier to explain to him than his intuitional leaps were to her.
“Undercurrents. I would not stand in the Con Rad’s way. There is a sense of, let me say, a sense of purpose that will not be detoured, of intent that will be followed, and of great need. Too, I hear they have come to the attention of management, which may be bad.”
Unexpectedly, Joshu laughed.
“Then surely it is settled! We meet for a quiet dinner and things will be solved. I feel it in my bones!”
She looked at him, saw some glare of concern and another coolness, perhaps of acceptance. No scents. No scents now. The man at least did not smell like blood, which was good.
“Will Charleschow do for you, Joshu? Charleschow at fifteen? Con Rad asks us to be his guests.”
He looked at her sharply.
“Will he leave us with the bill after all?”
“No. I’m sure he won’t.”
Joshu sighed.
“The lady with the chains would have been easier,” he said.
“The lady with the chains stank of sweet things she cannot afford. This Liaden, this Con Rad, why as you say, he may solve it all. Else management will see us, deport you penniless, and jail me for my genes, which solves another set of problems.”
She’d meant it flippantly, but he just bowed his head, all the colors of gloom running across his face. He stood then, and nodded.
“Charleschow it is. I wonder if Con Rad knows his wine.”
* * *
“No, thank you, it is Conrad, flowing together completely,” the man said gently, “though I thank you for your efforts.”
They’d arrived at the stroke of five before, to find the big man towering above staff in the lobby, waiting for them. Staff was remarkably unaware of them as they moved toward the quiet rooms one hall inside—and they did not stop there, but found yet another hall with deeper carpeting and lower lighting, and an additional interior space that Beba had not known existed.
She heard the briefest of Joshu’s near tuneless whistles, barely louder than a breath. He, too, had no idea that the sanctums got this inner, and now the large man made no attempt to hide his grace. While perhaps no match for the Essa or for Con Rad, he was silent in ways that were surprising, and her attempted read brought only the vague purple of concentration and the distant green of well-being.
“Conrad, like the carpets?” she asked experimentally, and he bowed lightly, in unoffended agreement.
“Indeed. You may make what you will of the coincidence!”
It was a joke of many layers, for she could see it on his face as the colors quickly washed by. The conversation quickly fell to Joshu, who requested Conrad’s opinions on the wines.
Those opinions were informed and extensive, permitting the ordering of the meal, and a sampling of wines, to go forth before any hint of business. As host, Conrad had the menu with the prices and Beba was pleased to order freely, though perhaps not quite as freely as Joshu. The big man, who she discovered to be Pilot Cheever, was quite comfortable ordering large portions, and if Conrad was less large and thus ordered less, his choices were obviously dictated by desire and not by price.
“You have an interesting mix of products,” Conrad said eventually, nodding toward both Joshu and her, his colors going bland, “and, as it would be easier for all concerned if we might single source our purchase, I am much inclined to work with you. In fact, it would be good if we might conclude our business this very shift, if you are able to return to the hall after dinner.”
Beba saw the alert colors rise in Conrad’s associates, but the man himself was still showing cool.
He looked to her, and she looked pointedly to Joshu, who was showing a true flash of surprise in
his colors, and a scent, a rare scent, of—wine.
Her partner raised his hands from the meal, palms up.
“The draymen and longshore, the packers, they are not available so late in the evening, and there will be a charge to open, and perhaps some . . . issues with management.”
The woman, Essa, nodded, her alert colors fading somewhat. Her glance was accepted by Conrad, with whatever message it held for him, and he brought his attention back to Beba first, including Joshu with a side glance.
“I will speak with management, should they appear,” said Conrad, “and we will proceed. There are two essential things, however, that we must be clear upon.”
Joshu’s expression said it all: here was where he thought things would fail.
The elegant man leaned forward, watching the pair of them, hand enumerating his points as if he threw dice.
“First, this will be a cash purchase. I will give a single hardcopy list of the items and types we will have, and one or another of my associates will see them and count them with one of you. This will occur once, when we are through I will retain my list and the invoice will indicate that Cash Buyer acquired Lot 1 and Lot 2, assuming that is the case. Is this clear?”
“If you discover discrepancies after, how will you ask for adjustment?”
Joshu was concerned; it did not take a talent to hear it in his voice.
“My people and I are our own witness, gentle sir. We agree on the count with you as we work, and that is the agreed count. There will be no discrepancy.”
Beba shrugged. The buyer wished no name on the invoice and no record of exact purchases. Perhaps when the time came, Cash Buyer might agree to lower the recorded purchase price as well, that management would not extract a tithe.
Joshu paused, glancing at the associates, then to her.
She repeated her shrug and added a nod, Joshu forwarded the nod to Conrad.
“Price being agreed on site, I have no problem with this approach.”
“Yes. We are agreed on this.”
“The second requirement is Lot 2. I must be able to put hands on one of the objects I would purchase, for the sake of determining authenticity. The catalog is quite convincing, of course, but you could hardly allow a Sinners Rug to be in the open, where believers might yet cause it harm. You are certain, are you not? You have the provenance . . .”
He looked at Beba. The colors in his face got steely rather than angry, and his question was not to be ignored, whoever he was. She felt a flutter of dread and deliberately calmed herself. The customer had done his research. Of course he had.
“I am the provenance,” she said quite evenly. “The rug we have on hand, and on sale for the right price, that rug has been in my family for most of four generations, sir. I have the affirmations, the court actions, and the family images from start to finish, if they be required.”
“You keep it for more than the curiosity sake then? It is not merely an artifact to show off to top buyers?”
His colors wavered and, for a moment, Beba wondered if he could read her so well as she could read him, if her colors showed through to him, or her scents, or if her muscles had betrayed her.
She sighed, and sipped daintily at her wine. Her very good wine, sitting with the unfinished portion of her very good meal.
“Sir, that is a question I ask myself. Yes, the rug is for sale. It is my inheritance, and since my mother, and her mother too, have left this place, it is mine to deal with. Having not sold it, I cannot say we have used it for more than show.”
He looked at her with interest, the steel gone now, and he bowed.
“I do not mean to question your heritage, Lady, yet, as carpets are what I learned from my father, I must see before I may buy, in his honor.”
She shuddered even as she nodded. Under that, under all of that so gently said, was blood.
* * *
The room was quieter than at full-shift, with the lighting at quarter except in their own brightly lit area. The carpet hangers were locked as they’d left them and it took both Joshu and Beba to unlatch the sealing bar for the high-end items. As they were doing that Conrad was giving instructions and copies of his list to his associates, and inspecting the floor carts that Joshu commandeered from the hall fleet. Conrad clearly planned to buy and load tonight enough goods to furnish a small planetary store’s opening; if that was the case and he was paying in cash, there ought be no impediment.
As they finished unlimbering the specialty show rack, Joshu murmured, “Life’s work, Beba, for a family. Know your worth! No less than three cantra for the rug if his cash is Liaden!”
Three cantra clear had long been their plan; how often had they had an entire extra cantra in place when necessity would appear and eat it away? Yet such a sum!
She thought of her family, and of Joshu, still firmly with her as they were not, and nodded.
The high-end items unlatched, Beba looked to Conrad, who caught the glance, and Joshu, then, went to deal with the associates, while Beba received a bow of respect from Conrad.
“These other items,” she said carefully, “are all worthy of purchase as well, sir, if you will pay them mind.”
“Surely,” he said, the color rising in him was not the calmness she’d expected, but the yellow orange of alert.
The Sinner’s Rug was the last on the rack, and each ahead of it must be pulled out and admired. His hands and eyes told the tale: he was no mere salesman seeking stock, but a man who knew fine carpet like he knew fine wine and fine food. His hands touched the right spots on the binding and against the nap; his eye looked for the trim spots if any were to be found, and studied the backing where such was utilized. He named two of the first five on sight, both maker and era, and three of the next four. He was curious of one, and his colors went very strange then.
She caught a scent, but it was not the scent of this rug but some other deep in his memory, for he said without preamble, “This rug is of an old pattern from Brulandia, yet it varies. They have always had excellent teachers there, and the best museum. Have you any information on the source?”
She did not, meekly pointing to the potential dating marks, and— “I have been in close proximity to such a rug, which was deemed genuine,” Conrad said. “This feels genuine, yet, yet my references are not to hand. This may be a prototype or a fork. Very nice. Your partner has my bid on Lot 1, which is one cantra solid. Consider this a possible addition to Lot 2. Let us move on, if you please.”
Now the fogs flitting across his face were anticipation, alert, and the underlying steeliness.
Joshu’s whim was to let several of the early rugs sell later ones, as if the rack were in order of value. At the twelfth and thirteenth hanging rugs, Conrad touched edges and made a noise very much like snarf while muttering, “These are sturdy commercial offerings, aren’t they?”
The next two interested him not the least, and the following one somewhat, since he felt the binding and sniffed it, and startled her by stretching his hands at shoulder height as he stood with nose to the rug center.
“This is off-size, I think; either a test piece or an excellent forgery from the same period, for the materials are correct. I applaud Joshu’s Superb Surfaces for an interesting show.”
She nodded, murmured, “Thank you,” saw the alert level go up as she tugged that interesting carpet aside, revealing the last rug on a well-illuminated unswinging display rung.
The Sinner’s Rug.
Of course it was a Sinner’s Rug and not the only, it was the subject which made it notorious. It did not display the mere sins of food, or of theft or any such inglorious thing. This rug—her rug—was unique: an illustrated guide to sexual possibility as revealed in the dreams, thoughts, and actions of those her great-grandmother had known when her talent was discovered and controlled by the very court that had stripped her of her lands, leaving her and her family a duty to warn people what their thoughts might reveal to mind-reading wantons.
Conrad stood tra
nsfixed, and the alert color faded to—
“It is exquisite. May I touch?”
Beba started; she’d been watching his colors at the same time she was celebrating the great work of her family. Look! The joy, the rapture of love and lust and life. The possibilities of touch and desire, the urge to join in so many ways, to—
“Yes,” she said, wanting it, for the rug ought to be touched by one who understood it. “Yes, please.”
“This will serve me,” he said as soon as his hands touched the nap, and then he moved closer, allowing his left hand to touch the front while his right hand pushed and kneaded from the back. The binding, the warp and weft, the colors . . .
Beba looked at him and the steel color was there again, and the sense and scent of blood, and behind all of it, she saw a man who looked not at all like the man before her, and the man was saying, “Dear boy, no house is a proper home without a good rug!” And beneath it was the sense of weapons prepared, of blood already flowing.
Which of course was impossible; she could not be seeing so far into this man’s mind, into his intent . . .
“This is beautiful. This is perfection! This will serve me!” he said again, and now there was the scent of blood and steel, and the knowledge that some mighty work required the great work of her family.
Conrad turned and looked at her with a killer’s eye and said softly, “I grieve, and it colors my thoughts. Forgive me, that I must take it from you. All I can offer you in exchange are cantra. For this rug—I have five cantra. It will be an honor to pay you, and you will honor my father, who loved rugs as much as life.”
* * *
Beba started forward when Joshu did, her hand firmly clasping his right, her day bag slung jauntily over shoulder, striding as if she always did this kind of thing, as if they always did this kind of thing.
Joshu now, he had traveled and come home, learned whatever he needed to be sure of by coming home, and was set on his plan.
Beba had never been away before, and her first glance of the stars sprinkled randomly among dozen of anonymous gridwork structures with the incongruously slow movement of elegant star vessels as counterpoint stunned her. She’d stood for moments, no doubt impeding experienced travelers, yet around her were others just as star struck at the view.
