by Sharon
Eventually she moved out of the garden, going down a short corridor that intersected the hallway of the sleeping rooms, which in turn led very quickly to the control room.
Val Con was not in the control room. No reason why he should be, she allowed, with the facilities of a ship this size at his command. Still, she was irked and, spying the pile of—things—on the table, worried.
She approached the table cautiously and stood with her hands behind her back, frowning as she sorted the items by eye.
Well, there was his gun. And that was surely the throwing blade he'd shown her in the alley outside her hideout—how long ago? But that was only the cord from his shirt, and the flat metal rectangle looked for all the worlds like a creditcard, and those were his boots . . . .
He entered the room silently at her back and she turned on the instant, eyebrows up.
"What've you been doing to your face?" she asked. "It's all red."
He smiled and came over to the table. "Edger's soap is sand. I'm pleased to have skin left of any color."
She surveyed him without comment: hair damp, face slightly abraded, shirt unlaced, sleeves rolled up revealing more abrasion on his arms, and she wondered about the force he'd used with the soapsand. He was beltless and barefoot. She flicked her eyes to his face and discovered no trace of last night's horror. He returned her gaze calmly, his eyes a clear and bottomless green.
Breaking that gaze, she waved her hand at the pile on the table. "Cleaning house?"
"These are weapons, Miri. I want you to hide them, please."
"How come I get all the fun jobs? And why? And even if I do, boots ain't weapons, friend. Neither is a belt, except under certain exceptional conditions I'm willing to risk. Man shouldn't walk around with his shirt unlaced—ain't genteel. And you oughta keep the creditcard—never know when you're gonna need cash."
He picked up the black cord that had laced his shirt, slid it through his fingers, and allowed his hands to go through the proper motions.
"Garrote."
The creditcard he used to shave a curl of rock from the wall behind him. He offered her the shaving.
"Guillotine."
He flipped the belt to reveal the inside surface and its three distinct layers.
"Explosives, electronic picklock, sawblade."
He laid the belt down and pointed.
"The right boot has an explosive charge built into the heel, as well as a climbing spike that extrudes from the toe. The left has the climbing spike and a manual picklock in the heel."
He sat, abruptly drained, and waved a hand to include the jumble of wires, pins, and metal doodads.
"Whatever the moment demands. Push a pin behind an ear; drive a piece of wire into an eye—death. Or—"
"I get the picture," she interrupted and then stood for a long, silent time, surveying the pile. Something caught her eye and she pulled it to her.
A black sheath of the finest suede, enclosing and caressing the blade within. The handle was made of something that gleamed like polished obsidian, yet was warm to her touch.
Gently, she curled her hand around it and pulled the blade free.
It glittered in the light, catching and dispersing rays—a live thing, she would swear it, made all of green crystal and black.
With reverence she slid the blade back into its nest—the fit was not proper for her hand, and she knew that the knife had been made for one grip alone. Silently, she held it out to him.
His hand jumped forward, clenched, then dropped.
"Edger gave you this." It was not a question. "Let's keep it simple, kid: You kill me with the knife Edger gave you, and I won't argue that I didn't need killing." She pushed it at him. "Take it!"
Hesitantly, he obeyed, running his fingers over the handle in a caress.
Miri turned sharply, flinging her hands out. "And all the rest of it, too! Put it on, put it back, throw it out—I don't care! It don't make sense to hide 'em, so I won't." And she suddenly sat, breathing a bit too hard and hanging on tight to her temper.
"Miri, listen to me. I can kill you—"
She snorted. "Old news, spacer."
He shook his head. "I-can-kill-you. At any time. I—believe you may be right and that I am—walking on the knife's edge." He paused to even his breathing. He had to make her understand! "You might take your gun out to clean it, and I would react only to the gun—not the cleaning—and you would die. Last night, I very nearly did kill you—"
Her fist hit the table as she snapped to her feet "With your hands, you cashutas! You never went for one of those damn things, and it's my belief you won't!"
She sat as suddenly as she had stood, swallowing hard in a throat gone dry, eyes fixed on the shine and glitter that was a silver snake holding a blue gem fast in its jaws. "I don't believe you'll kill me," she said. "I won't believe it."
He waited for her to look up, then spoke with utmost gentleness. "Miri, how many people have I killed since first we came together?"
She rounded her eyes. "Weren't you counting?" A sharp shake of the head followed. "Those were strangers. In self-defense. War conditions. And last night was a special case. You were out of your head—battle shock. I've seen it before. Knew you'd come out of it like a tiger fightin' a cyclone. My mistake was thinking I could get out of range in time. So we screwed up and we're alive to argue about it. Some people have all the luck."
"Miri—"
"No!" she yelled. Then she continued more calmly. "No. I don't wanna hear any more about it. The only way to convince me you'll kill me is to do it, accazi? I think you're the craziest person I ever met—and that's a compliment considering what you've managed to get done while quietly going bats. And I think the thing responsible, the thing that's making you so bats, is that damn—estimator—sitting in your head talking to itself.
"People ain't ciphers, and situations with people in 'em are by definition random, subject to chance, mischance, and happy circumstance. You can't calculate it." She rubbed her hands over her face and took a deep breath. "You derail that thing and you'll be sane as a stone; chuck this damn job and get one playin' the chora somewhere ritzy . . . ." She let her words trail off and rubbed at her face again.
He waited, watching her.
"Aah, I talk too much." She pushed to her feet, waving a hand at the pile between them. "Here's the deal: You point me in the direction of food and I'll make us something to eat, okay? And while I'm doing that, will you for Great Panth's sake get rid of this stuff?"
Chapter Eighteen
VOLMER
The price of obtaining that single word had been high, but orders had been to spare no expense. Upon being told what his money had bought, Justin Hostro nodded and issued more expensive orders yet.
A ship. Two dozen men of the first rank. Weapons. All to be assembled immediately and sent forthwith to Volmer.
Matthew bowed and saw that all was done as ordered.
* * *
IN THE END, he relaced his shirt, pulled on his boots and stood to wrap his belt around his waist. From the weapons pile he pulled back Clan knife, throwing knife, gun. Rediscovering in himself the strong distaste that he'd felt as an agent-in-training for the pins, doodads, and acid, he pushed those aside; he hesitated briefly before reclaiming the creditcard and wire.
Taking the pile of discarded junk to the far side of the room, he opened a compartment in the seemingly blank wall, piled everything inside, and shut the door. At the control board, he touched two knobs in sequence, nodding in satisfaction at the slight vibration that followed.
Miri glanced up from her labors with dinner as he returned to the table. "What'd you do?"
"Spaced it. I never liked them." He shrugged. "The first time I saw that little pillow filled with acid I nearly lost my last meal." He perched on the edge of the table, watching her.
She put the cover over the bowl that would eventually contain a mushroom soufflé, picked up two nearby mugs, and handed him one, waving at the bowl.
&n
bsp; "Dinner takes about forty-five minutes to reconstitute. I hope you like mushroom soufflé a lot, 'cause that's all that's in that box. An' I hope the wine's okay, 'cause the other case is full of nothing but." She grinned. "Sorry 'bout the stemware—came with the kitchen."
"It looks fine to me." He sipped, one eyebrow lifting in appreciation.
"I was afraid it was gonna be real good," Miri said wistfully.
"It is good," he said, puzzled. "Taste it."
She sipped gingerly, then sighed. "Yeah. Trouble is, stuff like this tastes so fine you want to keep drinking it. Kind of ruins your mouth for kynak."
"Liz said you like fine things," he murmured.
"Liz said," Miri corrected sharply, "that I got no sense about beautiful things. That I think pretty can't hurt as bad as ugly. It's an old line." She glared at him.
He endured it, sipping.
After a moment, she shrugged. "Edger says you're gentle and good. So what?"
His face tightened with the unexpected bolt of pain. "Certain people have thought so . . . ."
"Yah." Her tone was disbelieving.
She did have some reason to doubt that, he thought. Who, indeed, might have thought such a thing?
"Edger," he began, suddenly needing to hear the names of those who loved him. "Shan, Nova, Anthora—"
"Relatives," she jibed.
"Daria—" Too late, he clamped his mouth on that name.
Miri raised her brows. "Daria? Who's that? Your first grade teacher?"
"We were lovers."
"And then she discovered your true nature."
He took a large swallow of wine and looked into the depths of the mug. "She died," he said clearly.
"Yeah? You kill her?"
He gasped, head snapping up, eyes sharp with outrage. His mouth twisted and he forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. "No," he told her. "I had not yet reached the place where I might slay what I love."
Slapping the mug to the table, he slid to his feet and walked out.
Miri stood for a long time, breathing—only breathing. When she was sure of herself again, she picked up the mug and went to find him.
* * *
HE WHO WATCHES was ushered into the presence of his T'carais by four human guards and roundly ignored while that exalted person offered them food and drink. They refused, politely enough, if briefly, saying that duty required them to return to port immediately they had relinquished Watcher to his kinsman's custody.
Thus they took their leave, and Edger at last turned his attention to the son of his sister's sister.
"Have you an accounting of your actions to lay before me?" he inquired in Trade.
"Kinsman," Watcher began in their own language.
"No." Edger waved a hand. "We shall speak in the tongue known as Trade, since you require practice in its use." He motioned permission to speak. "You may proceed with your accounting."
"Kinsman," repeated Watcher in the barbarous shortness of the language called Trade. "I am ashamed that I allowed myself to become so unnerved by the behavior of the persons to whom you found yourself indebted to the extent that they might claim the use of—of our ship—that I offered violence to a creature—a being—so much weaker than myself—"
"Cease."
Watcher obeyed and stood silent, striving to maintain personal dignity while the T'carais stared at him.
In the fullness of time, Edger spoke again. "It would perhaps be instructive for you to tell me further of the persons who came and claimed our vessel for their use. Do so."
"They came together, T'carais: one dark-furred, the other bright; both very small. The dark one interrupted me as I began to introduce myself, saying it was in too much haste for the exchange of names and that I must instruct it—"
"The proper syllable is 'he' in this instance, as the person you speak of is a male of the human species. The brightly-furred companion is a female of the same species and shall be referred to as 'she' or 'her' in accordance with rules of grammar applied to this tongue. Continue."
Watcher clenched himself in mortification—to be instructed so, as if he were an eggling!—and took up the thread of his tale.
"...that I must instruct him, T'carais, in the piloting skills necessary to take the vessel where he desired. This I did and set in coordinates for the planet named Volmer or V87350273, as he instructed. Then did he bid me to say to you this . . . ." He paused, awaiting permission.
It came: a flick of the hand.
Scrupulously adhering to the original phrasing and inflection, Watcher repeated: "I would that you say to my brother Edger . . . ." He paused once more when he reached the end of it. The T'carais waved at him to continue.
"Then he bade me go, saying that I must do so in the greatest of haste, as he would cause the ship to enter into labor within five of Standard minutes. At no time, kinsman," Watcher cried, unable to contain himself longer, "was I treated with courtesy or consideration by this person, who offered neither his name nor that of his companion nor asked after mine. Nor did he—"
"You will be silent," Edger commanded. He closed his eyes and, after a time, re-opened them.
"You are young," he said, "and it is perhaps possible that you have no knowledge of the person of whom you speak. This might account for something of your discontent with his behavior, though I feel that the fact that he is my brother should have borne more heavily with you.
"Know then, Uninformed One, that this person is named, in present fullness: Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den, Tough Guy. Know also that I make no being my brother who is not worthy. And know at last that the person who tends this name is yet—even yet—of an age where he would not have attained the first of his shells, were he of our race." He paused, allowing Watcher time to think on what he had heard.
"Further reflect," he continued, "that the tenor of his message indicates that my brother was in danger of his life. Appreciate now that he paused in doing that which was necessary to preserve himself and his companion to make known to me his death desire, as is fitting between brothers, and to assure me of his honor and affection. I fail to find in this action discourtesy or aught less than what might be expected of an honorable and great-hearted person of any race. I am ashamed that one of my Clan should be so far lost to propriety that he could fail to see and understand this."
Watcher bowed his head. "I will think much on what you have said, T'carais."
"Do so. For the moment, however, continue with your accounting. How came it to pass that Herbert Alan Costello has been maimed by a member of my Clan?"
"After your brother dismissed me, T'carais, I passed down the tunnel at a rapid rate, sealed the inner door, and signaled that I was without. I felt the vibration of the vessel entering drive and at the same moment heard a person shouting in Trade. The words were 'Hey, you!' I did not understand that they were addressed to me until this person who is Herbert Alan Costello laid his hand upon my arm." Watcher could not quite control his blink of revulsion at the memory. Edger motioned for him to continue.
"He asked where your brother and his companion had gone and, when I did not answer, he spoke words which I feel were threatening, stating that, should I not say where these two had gone, that there were ways to make me do so. I was at that present upset by my inability to appreciate your exalted brother and when Herbert Alan Costello said these words and pushed his fingers at my face, I bit him." Watcher bowed his head. "That is what transpired, T'carais. I am ashamed."
"As is proper. You will now present yourself to your kinsman Selector and make known to him my desire that you serve him as he requires. Also, think on what I have said to you, as I will think upon what you have said to me. We will speak of your punishment at another time."
"Yes, T'carais."
* * *
HE WAS IN the atrium, lying on his stomach on a patch of springy blue grass, chin restin
g on his folded arms. If he heard her approach, he gave no sign.
Looking down at him, she considered slitting her own throat, but rejected that as a coward's answer and sat cross-legged at his side, where he might see her if he chose to turn his head.
He did not so choose.
Miri pinched herself to make sure she was really there, and wet her lips. "It is my sorrow to have caused you sorrow," she began in stumbling High Liaden, "and my pain to have incurred your displeasure. In my need to say that which I felt to be of importance, I wounded you. That my motives were of the highest does not excuse me." She took a deep breath and concluded in rapid Terran, "I'm a rude bitch."
His shoulders jerked and he turned his head to look at her. "Miri . . . ."
"Hey, I'm sorry! But you could cut me some slack, y'know? I didn't expect you to fall for it! Could've knocked me over with a snowflake—"
He was laughing. "Miri, how can you be so absurd?"
"I practice," she told him earnestly. "Every day. Even when I don't feel good." She held out the mug. "Here's your wine."
He made no move to take it, though he rolled into a cross-legged seat facing her, arms resting on his thighs. "Liz did say that you were less than wary of beauty."
"Yeah, well, at least she didn't tell you I was good," she said, frowning down at the mug.
"Most likely she felt I would see that for myself."
She snapped her eyes to his face, unsure of the expression there. "Now you are laughing at me."
"Am I? Terran is a hard language in which to make a compliment."
"Not like Liaden," she agreed, "which it's impossible to make sentences in."
