by Sharon Lee
Only then did she breathe, looking down to find her coat growing a second coat of sparkling flakes, and realized that she was cold.
Flourpower, she thought, thinking of warmth and companionship and food. Before they closed, she would go there, and spoil herself with new food. After all, she thought, setting out with care for the slippery walk, today she had almost found a job, and that was already better than yesterday.
* * *
Vertu’s mug sat, steaming, before she’d had her coat off. The coatracks were full since the room, too, was almost full, so she laid the snow-rimmed coat beside her on the bench seat she’d ended up with, back in the colder corner, away from the kitchen, near the sealed and covered sidewindow—so dealing with the coat had taken time. Her order of soup of the day was acknowledged with a wave, and promised as up in a minute.
It was good to see the room so full, and the sound level elevated. Good for this hour, at least. She’d probably not want so lively a place early in the wake-up time of the day. Granita deserved a good day if the morrow was going to be a snow mess, and talk was of little else.
“I ain’t putting a screen in, Lesker. No, I am not! You wanna keep up, that’s for you. But folks come here to eat, not to stare at sat-pics of show-tops. Just ’cause they got themselves a weatherman don’t mean I gotta do one thing about him.”
Well, they did have a weatherman, and apparently Surebleak hadn’t had one before—they being the so-called Road Boss, the Delms Korval—and now there was real-time forecasting and interpretation, too, instead of the antiquated six spot condition reports that the port had been using the last fifty Standards to approximate how a day might shape.
Delms or Delm, Korval they still were to Vertu, no matter the mythic transition that had, for Surebleak, made the prime yos’Phelium into his cousin’s little brother, and gained him a new title. Korval still lived under Tree, which was well enough, and from spot and spot around the city she was pleased to see the crown or more of that great Tree, and still—as light or cloud formation drew her eye to it—she bowed to it from time to time as she had in Solcintra.
As in Solcintra, too, the gambling cousin lived in the city, gambling still; his stakes being no higher than a planet’s survival. That story she had only in pieces, how Boss Conrad had come from nowhere and, one by one, toppled the most abusive of the bosses, turning the patchwork territories into a more congenial whole, using talk and gun and explosives as required, and only as much of any as was needed. Thus he’d become legend before she’d arrived as a ’comer.
Legends. As a gambler in Solcintra he had been quiet, even cordial in her cab the time or two he’d traveled alone in it; and when he traveled with a companion in the late evenings, as he had from time to time, he had been nothing but exacting in his attentions—to the companion.
Her cup hand flat on the table, Vertu sighed, acknowledging the lack of Ring on her finger. The boss—Boss Conrad, who had been Pat Rin yos’Phelium, Clan Korval—he, of course, wore the Ring wrong-fingered, while his “little brother” wore another, properly. She no longer wore a Ring, nor wanted one in this place where having even such a modest Ring as Wylan possessed might leave one throttled and motionless of a night-time sidestreet.
Vertu shook those thoughts away, and deliberately looked about the room. She recognized some of the reggers, was rewarded with nods and finger waves by them, and waited patiently for her soup. The clock chimed a quarter—and as if that was a signal, folk around the room began to rustle themselves about, to rise and start donning coats, or to hurry-sip the dregs of their cups, or some to wrap what was left of their lunch into bags or napkins to take with.
It was, she reckoned, not quite closing time, but—oh. Several of the nearby bars opened for day-business soon, and on a day such as this, some of the reggers would be trading one seat for another about now.
Snow squalled into the room as four patrons left together, the small outer welcome way doing nothing to dim the ferocity. Vertu shivered involuntarily. She had been hoping for moderation, but if anything, the weather had gotten worse in the short time she’d been sipping her tea.
Ah, and the door had not only been open to let some out, but to let The Hooper in. He all but fell into his no-doubt warm, just-vacated regular spot, his hat uncharacteristically flung to the table top as he mopped snow off his brow and face.
Vertu watched him as other patrons filed out, until finally it was just the two of them, the sounds of the wind outside and the clatter of the unseen kitchen work. He was visibly more comfortable now, though she saw a couple of fleeting half-suppressed reaches toward his vest, but not the full-fledged search she’d seen him do at other times, when clearly agitated. Merely a trifle out of sorts then . . .
“’Toot?”
Granita’s voice was muffled as she peered at the room from behind the back counter, and she repeated herself, louder.
“’Toot? I got your cup here if—”
The Hooper beat his hat against his knee and pulled it on, only then admitting that he’d heard her.
“Guess so, if’s time.”
“Extra few minutes ain’t a problem, you know. Girl here’s got about the last of the food though, less you want some biscuits. Fact, I’ll bring you both some, on me, ’cause they won’t wait so good for tomorrow.”
The soup came, a bowl for her, delivered with a nod and three cheese biscuits, while a hot cup of the same and three more biscuits went to The Hooper, who had leaned his chair back against the wall while he ate, his foot twitching time to a tune only he could hear.
Granita might have seen his nerves, because she paused, waving her hands toward the door.
“A little too long a walk down to the Stadium today, or they run out of lights already?”
The Hooper shook his head, took a sudden interest in one of his biscuits, stuffing it into his mouth all at once while he moved his hand as if he explained something the whole time he was chewing.
“Got lights, but not my best welcome right now,” he said, biting into another biscuit like he was afraid it might get away from him, following Granita with his eyes as she straightened chairs and wiped down tables.
“Looked to be Bopst Eckman and High-Man Prezman hanging at the Stadium door, it did, the pair both. Thought I saw your Harley Irsay ahead of ’em, going in. Hasn’t seen them twonce since I dunno—no I do, it’d be the Wicky and David wedding day, same day as when I saw them together at Cholo’s wake, when they took the casket bottle and thought no one saw ’em. Not my best welcome, any of themselves, you know it.”
The soup was hot and nourishing if not up to the standards of a fine Liaden restaurant—certainly there were too many beans and tubers, and too much salt—but with the butter and the biscuits, Vertu felt on the cusp of content, despite the coming frosty trudge to her small apartment in the Hearstings. Vertu concentrated on her food, trying to be inconspicuous—she’d never heard The Hooper open up quite so much, nor speak quite so clearly.
The door shook with the wind, and then opened roughly—not the wind, but a large man in a rustic black coat nearly as long as her own, and wearing a hooded overcape so covered in snow as to deaden the loud stripes to spots.
He looked in and around, pushed the door against the wind and noise and yelled “Get in!”
Two more snow-covered forms trailed behind, and the last of them pulled the door to with a will, slapping at the day-locks like a guard before stamping his feet and shaking the snow away.
It wasn’t her imagination: the sound The Hooper made was close to a sob, right then, overwhelmed instantly by the loud and bitter “Get out!” that Granita the baker offered them as she brandished her slops tray like a weapon.
* * *
The big man looked past Granita, right at Vertu.
“You belong here, do you? Just eating? Or you from the Patrol?”
“Get out,” Granita repeated. “Closin’ time; we’re done.”
The big man casually turned to her, laughing.
“You got no right to run me out, Girl. Just shut up!”
For a moment, they stared at each, and then the baker fled toward the rear of the place, leaving a pile of dishes on the table.
The other men were noisily looking about and taking coats off, but there was no doubt that this one, hand to the inside of his coat, was both wary and dangerous.
Her voice caught in her throat for a long moment.
“You talk at all? Speak up!”
The words formed, finally, on her lips.
“I eat here. Often. I—”
“She got herself a mug, Harley, so she’s a regger. Pretty little regger, ain’t she?”
“Quiet, gots to be sure. Patrol?”
She shook her head, Terranstyle.
“Not patrol. I just eat here.”
“Don’t know you, so you’re new. Good. Bidness is good all over they say, ’cept for the dead bosses who ain’t saying nothing. You work for a boss?”
She shook her head again, aghast at his rudeness, unable to marshal a fitting response to it. The cut direct, she suspected, would be lost on this person. And that left only civil answers to his questions as defense.
“Looking for work,” she said.
The man turned his back on her, to look at The Hooper, huddled in the corner.
“More than you do, old man,” he said, pointing at Vertu. “Least she’s looking for work. All you do is make silly sounds and trouble for people. You know what I mean, old man. More than once the news spread I did this or that and the only one might know was you, can see right through them closed eyes of yours when you’re drunk, can’t you? But we can work this out, ’cause there’s a great storm here right now, and we’ll all be here for a good long time while this new patrol’s out looking for us.”
Vertu had caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and saw Granita, face pale and stern, standing behind the counter with a strange looking weapon—“Out, Harley! Get out!”
He turned on her, his hand full of a gun of his own.
“I staked you to this, Girl, and we was just about married, and that means this is my place, too. You got no right to—”
Granita raised her weapon, and it was her turn to say, “Shut up.”
“These things,” he said, ignoring the gun entire and picking up one of the mugs; “These are mine aren’t they? It was my idea, I told you how they did it, off-world.” He smashed the mug into the pile of dishes, picked up another and smashed it, turned the tray over and laughed as they fell, kicking at the remains.
He moved his hand, and his confederates rushed into The Hooper’s corner, lifting him effortlessly and dragging him to stand before Harley.
“Can’t rightly aim that, can you?” He said to Granita. “Your old regger here—him and me got a lot to talk about. Might as well put that down—we got what we need for a snow party now, don’t we? We can have some music, and we got us a couple women, we got food and ’toot, and since the old man don’t need none, that’s enough women to get us by ’til this storm’s done in a couple days, all comfortable and snug.”
“Let him go, Harley—this ain’t his fight.”
“He don’t get fight, he just gets hurt.” One of the followers that was, suddenly launching a flurry of strikes and blows at The Hooper while his mate held the sobbing man.
Vertu stirred, then, not sure how to best interfere, how to help—
“See? You can’t do it! You had a knife on me and you couldn’t use it!”
They were slapping the The Hooper now, one after another. He made no move to resist, only holding his hands down over his vest, over his precious things—until Harley stepped in, snatching at pockets, fishing out one, two, three tiny objects, slick and silvery as fish as they fell to the floor. Heavy boots rose—fell . . .
The Hooper yelled, wordless, fighting now the one who held him laughing as he twisted the old arms harder.
“Stop!”
Authority rang in that voice, and for a moment Vertu thought that the patrol had arrived.
But no, she realized, standing tall with Tommee’s gift ready in her hand—it was only Vertu dea’San, playing the fool once more.
She hit the side switch that would throw the weapon power, the hum adding itself to the racket in the room.
“’Ware! Gun!” The follower pointed, too far away to interfere with her.
Harley turned, his weapon shining in the light, his eyes targeting her as he moved.
There were two explosions, then perhaps a third . . . a rush of smoke and whining, zinging things. There came a groan, the room was full of smoke, and Granita shouted, “Don’t shoot!”
* * *
The patrol arrived, stepping in through the door the moment Granita snapped the locks back. Two went immediately forward: one to The Hooper where he knelt on the floor, moaning as he picked up bits of silver and what might be reed, and placing them in a startlingly white ’kerchief.
The second patrolwoman went to Harley and his mates, standing cowed beneath the baleful glare of Vertu’s gun, unsnapping wrist restraints from her belt as she walked.
The third—was Liaden, and walked with the soundless step of a scout, to Vertu’s very side, taking care to be seen, yet not be in her sights. He paused at the proper distance for speaking to a stranger and bowed gently.
“Galandaria, I am grateful for your assistance, and regret that it was necessary. I am Scout Lieutenant ter’Volla, detached to the Surebleak Street Patrol. My crew and I are tardy, but now we are come. You may stand down, if you please.”
In truth, the Nordley had grown heavy, and it was all she could do, to hold it on target. Vertu inclined her head to indicate that she had heard, averted the gun’s gaze, and touched the power-stud.
The hum died, and she slid the weapon away before turning to face the scout and showing him empty palms.
“It is well,” he said. “Again, I regret. I will need your name, for the reports, and also, please a description of what has happened here.”
* * *
The wind had lessened, and the snow fell silent and bewitching in the meager day-light. Vertu dea’San stood at the crossroads, her hat pulled low and her gloved hands tucked into her coat pockets, checking her direction against the maps she had memorized.
The patrol, having gained names and reports, had dispersed, two taking Harley and his mates on foot to the so-called “stationhouse,” while the scout and Granita coaxed The Hooper into the Patrol’s own car, for transport to Ms. Audrey’s whorehouse, where it appeared he had call upon a room at need, and folk to give him the care due kin.
That was, in Vertu’s view, only proper—a Treasure of the House deserved nothing less.
For herself, she had been left staring at the white ’kerchief and its burden of bits and splinters, and one instrument nearly whole so that she might say with authority that she had never before seen its like.
“These,” she said to Scout Lieutenant ter’Volla. “The Hooper is galan’ranubiet. These are the instruments of his art.”
The scout moved his shoulders. “He has others, yet safe in their pockets. The lack of these will not silence his voice.”
“Only limit what he might say,” Vertu answered, perhaps more sharply than was required.
He looked at her, the scout, and abruptly he bowed as to one who has spoken a pure truth.
“This is so. Have you an interest?”
An interest? She looked at the broken bits, stark against the white ’kerchief, remembered The Hooper checking his pockets of a morning, gentling his pets.
“Somebody,” she said, “ought to do something.”
“Ah.” The scout looked toward the ceiling, as if seeking advice from the lighting, then looked back to Vertu. “If you find that it falls to you to serve one who is, in truth, a Treasure, then you may bear these to the Port Repair and ask for Andy Mack, who may, or may not, be inclined to repair them. Say that ter’Volla sent you, and that these are rescues.” There was a pause,
and perhaps the glimmer of a smile, before he added, “Say also that, yes, I do know that he is busy, and that he may call upon me for Balance.”
So it was that Vertu dea’San found herself at the crossroads, consulting the map in her head and counseling herself that it was too far, at this time, in this weather, to walk.
The pieces of The Hooper’s instruments, tied up in their white ’kerchief, were sealed into an inner coat pocket, safe from the snow. For herself, however . . . she was cold, and the port no small distance from where she stood.
Truly, she thought, one needed a cab.
And as before, precisely as if her thought had summoned it, there came a cab, the very same garish yellow cab she had seen earlier, the roof-mounted light telling all who might care that it was available for hire.
Vertu’s hand signal flashed out and up as the cab proceeded down the street, and past her to about its own length, before it pulled aside and stopped, the door nearest the walk popping open.
She—did not run; the footing was too uncertain for that. She did, however, hurry, noting as she entered the passenger compartment the name painted in too-thin letters on the side door: Jemie’s Taxi.
“Where to?” a cheerful voice asked her as the door sealed behind her.
“The port, if you please. The repair shop of Andy Mack.” Vertu said, looking up to find, not a screen, but merely a glass partition with a speaker set at low center.
The figure in the driver’s slot was thin and gave the impression of extreme youth. An impression which was not amended when the driver turned to face Vertu through the glass, shaking ragged black bangs out of brilliant blue eyes.
“Port’s outta reach right now, sorry to say. Road was open, but what’s some amateur gotta do but put his delivery wagon right across all lanes at Vine’s toll—at what ustabe Vine’s tollbooths. Word comes down—” she leaned to her control board and tapped what Vertu took to be the router—“that the road crew’s working on it, but the weather ain’t makin’ things easy. Don’t suppose you got a backup plan?”
