Jewels of the Dragon

by Allen Wold

  "So far as we know. Our deductions may be wrong."

  "I know. I remind myself of that whenever I start feeling too antsy."

  "Look," Darcy said around a mouthful of steak, "I know it's none of my business, but what are you going to do when you find your father, assuming he's alive?"

  "I'm not really sure. If he's in trouble, try to help him get out of it, for a start.''

  "And then what? There's the money, of course. But even as I'm looking at you I can see that that's not your only motive any more. Right now you tell me you want to rescue him. At other times I think you're more interested in revenge. Look, Rik, it doesn't really matter to me, but if you're not sure of yourself, you could blow the whole deal right at the last minute."

  "I see your point. There was a time when I wanted to forget him altogether. And then, it's true, I did want revenge. After all, my mother died because he didn't come back. I hated him for that. I guess I still do, to some extent, but the time I spent tracking him down—hell, if he had come back the day after he dropped out of sight here, it still would have been too late for Mother. And he was trying, I know that now. He really was looking for treasure. And now, the way things are looking, the only conclusion I can come to is that he wasn't able to come back to us, even if he wanted to.

  "It's a funny thing, you know. My father and I were always close, in a strange kind of way. Not the same way fathers and sons usually are, I guess. That first year he was gone I missed him an awful lot. By the end of the second year I was starting to put him out of my mind. It hurt too much.

  "And during the last few days I've begun to realize that I've always envied him for his past, for what he was before he settled down. I've told you about my one try at exploiting. And now, ironically, I find myself becoming like him at last. Is that what he wanted me to be? He gave me that operation, after all, so that I could shoot like an expert.

  "And lots of other things. If I stop to think about it, it gets very complicated."

  "I can imagine," Darcy said. "You know, I don't think I've thought of my parents much since I left home."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "About six years. Every now and then, when I think of it, I send them a gram telling them I'm still alive. Sense of duty, I guess. I don't miss them at all."

  "It must be easier that way. If I just plain hated my father, just wanted my share of his money, whatever he found, it would be easier. Right now I don't know."

  "Have you ever thought about what you would have done if you hadn't decided to come looking for your father?"

  "At odd moments. I never come up with any good an­swers."

  "No ideas at all?"

  "Sure, lots of ideas. I wanted to be an actor, a mathe­matician, a novelist, run a model shop. I've wanted to be all kinds of things. The one thing I never did want to be was a Historian. Which, of course, is what I turned out to be."

  "And after you've found your father and settled all that, then what?"

  "Darcy, I just don't know. If he's found his treasure and I get my share, who knows, travel around for a bit. Otherwise I'll have to work as a Historian somewhere for a while. That's all I'm trained to do. It will give me time to make up my mind."

  "Sounds awfully dull."

  "Yes, it does."

  "You know, Rik, I've been watching you. Every day you're getting better and better, and I think you're enjoying this search for its own sake. You've made a good start at being a Gesta, like your father was. Why not continue?"

  "Believe me, Darcy, the thought has crossed my mind. But I'm not sure it's really the kind of life I want."

  "It can be whatever kind of life you make it. Gestae are not all the same. Some survive by their wits, some by force, some by money, some by political connections. Take your pick, or choose something else. The only thing we have in common with each other, as Gestae that is, is the desire to travel as far as we can to as many places as we can to see and do as many things as possible. How you do it is up to you."

  "How about you? How long will you go on being a Gesta?"

  "Until I get tired, or unable to survive other than by retiring, probably. I—"

  "Excuse me," a man said, suddenly appearing by their table. "Is either of you Rik Darcy?"

  "Rikard Braeth and Darcy Glemtide," Rikard said, suddenly wary. "You've kind of bundled us together."

  "I'm sorry. I guess I got the message garbled. But you're the people I want. You're looking for Arin Braeth, right? Hey, are you related?"

  "He's my father."

  "No kidding. Well, now it makes sense. Anyway, my boss, Avam Nikols, sent me to tell you she may have some information to sell. Are you interested?"

  "We might be," Darcy said. "Can you give us any particulars?"

  "Sorry, I'm only the messenger boy. If you want to talk to Nikols, come to shop 4, court 1143, Toad Street. She'll be mere all afternoon, okay?"

  "Okay. Thanks a lot."

  The man smiled and left.

  "Well, what do you make of that?" Darcy asked.

  "I thought it would take longer."

  "You never can tell, but that wasn't what I was referring to."

  "You mean the 'Rik Darcy' bit?"

  "Exactly. Didn't he strike you as just a little too friendly?"

  "I had my hand on my gun the whole time."

  "It could be a setup."

  "It could, but can we afford not to check it out?"

  "No. But let's not rush." She went back to work on her steak. "Take your time and enjoy your lunch."

  5

  Shop 4 sold new leathers. Rikard and Darcy asked the clerk for Avam Nikols and were directed through a back hall into a large room where about a dozen people waited.

  "Which of you is Rik Darcy?" a woman standing just inside the door asked. The other people, seated in chairs and at low tables, watched.

  "I'm Rik, she's Darcy."

  "Don't be funny."

  "I'm not. You got the word wrong."

  "Okay, okay, so there's two of you instead of one. Makes no difference. I'm Avam Nikols."

  "I understand you have information to sell."

  "I have information, but it's not for sale."

  "I don't presume you're giving it away?"

  "My, you're a smart one."

  "Come on, Nikols," Darcy said, "what's the game?"

  "I just wanted to see who was looking for Arin Braeth."

  "Idly curious?" Rikard asked. "My name is Rikard Braeth. Ann's my father."

  Nikols laughed as if Rikard had told a joke. She was standing close enough to Rikard that he could smell the whis­key on her breath.

  "And what do you think I am, stupid?" she asked, still laughing. "You're not Arin Braeth's son. You're an impostor." Her face got nasty. "We don't like impostors."

  "But he is, you know," Darcy said quietly. She put a hand on Rikard's arm as if to restrain him. "Why should he lie?"

  "To make it easier to snoop in other people's business. We don't like snoops."

  "You don't like much of anything, do you? Do you have something for sale or not?"

  "Not."

  "Then we'll be about our business and leave you to yours."

  "God, I hate you big-mouth smart-asses. You're not going anywhere. We don't like our friends to be messed with, and we're going to make an example of you."

  "Arin Braeth is no friend of yours," Darcy said. They were not going to be able to get out of this room with just talk. They would have to fight.

  "What's it matter?" Nikols asked. Four of her friends got to their feet. "You're a snoop and a spy, and you're prying into business that doesn't concern you. That's enough for me." She reached out to take Rikard by the arm. He moved without thinking, eluding her grasp. He slashed once with a stiffened hand at the side of her neck, and she fell.

  He felt split in two. Part qf him was intensely aware of everything in the room and was thrilling with excitement. Another part was aloof and observant, and appalled at what he'd done. He looked down at
Nikols. Her head lay twisted too far around. He'd broken her neck.

  Everybody else in the room seemed frozen. Then one of the four people who had stood up jumped forward, fists flail­ing.

  The two parts of Rikard's mind merged. He stepped to one side at the last instant and brought a closed fist back­handed into the back of the man's head, sending him stum­bling past to crash into the wall.

  One of the women at a low table started to draw a gun. A tight red laser beam from behind Rikard speared her through the chest. The woman screamed, her gun fired noisily but harmlessly into the ceiling. The beam from Darcy's gun flashed again but missed another man who was also drawing a pistol.

  Rikard found his own gun in his hand. Time seemed to slow by a factor of ten. The concentric circles were centered on this man's face. Rikard watched as the man finished his draw, ever so slowly it seemed. The red spot, off to the side, moved toward the center of the target. When the spot and circles merged, he pulled the trigger and was picking a new target even as the head of the first man exploded.

  He shot three more times, then all movement ceased. Darcy had downed another woman with her laser. There were seven dead, one unconscious against the wall behind them, and six more standing or sitting as still as they could.

  Rikard relaxed his hold on the gun just a bit. His time sense returned to normal.

  "Let me make one thing clear," he said. "I am who I said I was. Arin Braeth is my father. If I find out that any one of you has hurt him in any way, I'll come back. Now, does anybody have anything to say to me?"

  There was only silence.

  He backed toward the door, felt rather than saw Darcy turn to precede him, to make sure the way was clear. He passed through into the hall, closed the door, then they turned and ran down back to the shop at the other end, guns still drawn. The clerk was already over against the far wall, his hands up. Rikard and Darcy left the shop and courtyard, and put their guns away when they got to the street.

  They didn't run from the neighborhood; that would have drawn attention. They didn't delay either. They went back to the Rathrayn and quickly downed two beers apiece before either said anything. Then Darcy started giggling. Rikard just felt cold and hard. He didn't feel excited any more.

  Darcy's giggling bothered him, but when he looked at her he saw she was nearly hysterical, not amused. The other patrons were staring at them.

  Darcy gasped and gulped and stopped giggling. "My God." Her voice was squeaky and uneven. "My God but you're a holy terror."

  "So it would seem." His voice sounded to him thin and far away. "Thanks to my father. I've just killed five people, Darcy. I'm trying very hard not to scream or get sick to my stomach."

  "What the hell, throw up all over the place if you want to. We nearly died back there."

  "They didn't have a chance."

  "They didn't give us a chance! If you hadn't been wired, we'd be hash all over their floor. You got those four shots off in less than one second!"

  He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

  The other patrons were talking among themselves as some kind of message spread from table to table. All eyes were on him.

  "They just got the word about what happened," Darcy said. "I don't think you're going to run into any more casual trouble, but you might have to keep on the lookout for ambushes and snipers."

  "A wired-on killing machine," Rikard murmured. "That's what Polski called me. And it's true. But my father did this to me. Why?"

  "Maybe he knew you'd come after him someday if he didn't come back, and wanted to make sure you would be able to get to him."

  "Not unless he was planning this three years before he left." He ordered another beer and forced his stomach to keep it down.

  6

  Rikard woke late the next morning. His head pounded with the effects of the drinking spree he and Darcy had gone on the night before. He remembered Darcy's threat to douse him with ice water if she ever found him asleep, but she was not here. She had gotten as drunk as he last night, and was probably at home, feeling just as bad.

  He pulled himself out of bed, took a long, hot shower, and a Kerotone pill which eased his hangover. He dressed, then called over to Darcy's place on the non video phone to see how she was. He got no answer, but someone was knock­ing at his door. He hung up and let her in.

  "Thought I'd give you a little rest this morning," she said. "You feeling better?"

  "Kind of raw around the edges, but I'll heal. How about you?"

  "I'm fine. Look, Rik, I know it's not easy the first time you have to kill someone. I went through it too. But it wasn't like they gave you any choice."

  "I know that. I'm glad to be alive."

  "If you want to take a couple of days off, come to terms with it, that's fine with me."

  "That would just leave me more time to think about it. Let's get on with it and maybe I'll feel better. Have you had breakfast?"

  "On the way over."

  "I just got up myself. Let me fix something before we go." He went into the kitchen and pushed buttons. She fol­lowed and sat at the table.

  "You've established a reputation, you know," she said as he brought his plates to the table.

  "The way some of those jokers were talking last night, you'd think I was a hero or something."

  "You remember that? Well, they're just jokers, like you said. They don't matter. But they were right, in a way. Most people don't walk into an ambush like we did and live to hear themselves talked about later.

  "And now you've got a reputation. You'll be spotted wher­ever you go. In a way that's good. Most people will leave you alone. And you'll get answers from a lot of people who wouldn't even talk to you before. But others will want to test you, see if what you did is a true reflection of your abilities or just luck."

  "That makes me feel real good." Rikard ate his eggs as if he were hungry.

  "It isn't as bad as all that," Darcy said. "After a while, people will learn that you don't shoot up places just for the fun of it. Give it a while. They still don't know you. When they do, things will get smoother."

  "You talk as if I were a public figure."

  "You are. The only way to have avoided that would have been to kill everybody else in Nikols's office. And if my judgment is correct, you'll become more of a figure as time goes on. You just don't have it in you to be anonymous."

  "That's what I've been until now. I think I prefer it."

  "The hell you do. And besides, it's all over now. Like virginity, once gone, it can never be recaptured."

  "Nonsense. What about all those people who retire and fade into obscurity?"

  "They're not forgotten, not really. Your father was not forgotten. But don't be upset. You're traveling in good com­pany, as well as bad."

  "Like who?"

  "Like Leonid Polski, for one. You finished? Let's go."

  In the third tavern they visited, they saw one of the women who'd been at the shoot-out in Nikols's office. She was sitting over in a corner, talking with two friends, and didn't see them come in. Rikard and Darcy ignored her. They went up to the bar and asked their usual question.

  Before the tender could answer, they heard a commotion coming from the woman's table. They turned and saw her staring at them, white faced. Her two companions were star­ing too and edging away as if to get out of the line of fire. The woman looked around, seeking a way out, and saw none. She was trapped.

  "Let's go talk to her," Darcy suggested.

  "She's scared out of her mind. Leave her alone."

  "She was perfectly willing to watch you be dismembered yesterday. She lives with fear every day. Talk to her and let her go."

  "I don't like to terrorize people. And besides, will it do any good?"

  "One way to find out."

  They went over to her table and sat down. Her two friends had evaporated.

  "Listen, man," the woman said, trying to back through the slats of her chair. "I had nothing to do with it. I was ju
st there watching."

  Darcy started to speak, but Rikard stopped her.

  "It makes little difference." He kept his voice soft and j not unfriendly. "You were there, and not on my side. Right?"

  The woman gulped and nodded.

  "So I owe you nothing, and you owe me a straight answer. Do you know where Arin Braeth is?"

  "No, no, I don't, really, but Aben Arshaud does. He always used to say how he was a friend of Braeth's before Kohltri. Go ask him. He'll tell you."

  "I appreciate the information," Rikard said. "Where can I find Aben Arshaud?"

  The woman told him.

  "Thank you," Rikard said. He and Darcy stood up from the table. "Now let me say one thing," he went on. "If you've sent me into another ambush, you'll do better to be offplanet, because I'll come for you. Do you understand?"

  "There's no ambush, honest to God!"

  "All right." He turned away, and Darcy followed.

  "I thought you didn't like to terrorize people," she said.

  "I don't."

  "Well, you sure do a good job of doing it. Even I was frightened, and I'm on your side."

  The compliment pleased him, and he flashed a smile at her. "We can't always avoid unpleasant tasks." But in the privacy of his own mind, he wondered. He thought he should be upset about what he had done, but he wasn't.

  "We'd better check out this guy Arshaud before we go see him," Darcy suggested when they were back on the street.

  "I agree. It's too pat."

  They asked around in the neighborhood of the address the woman had given them. Everywhere they got the same answer. Aben Arshaud was an old hijacker who'd come to Kohltri about twenty years ago. He'd opened a hardware store and had stayed out of trouble ever since. He was somewhere in his fourth half century, a little bit crazy, and the devil to mess with, but easy to talk to if you didn't mind long conversations. He kept an eye on everything that went on in the city, though he kept to himself most of the time. He ran an honest store.

  Not everybody they asked knew him. Darcy had never heard of him before. But those who did know him all agreed. Whatever he might have been in the old days—and hijackers were not the nicest of people, even by Kohltri's standards— Aben Arshaud was a pleasant enough character now. Except that if anybody gave him trouble, they got burned; nobody had ever robbed his store and survived.