by Sharon Lee
Saxony's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What did you say?"
"Said she was his cousin," Chel elaborated and turned to his partner. "You remember, Rem—called us roaches, and wanted to know who the hell we thought we were, coming into her cousin's house and busting up his stuff."
"That's right." Remee nodded. "Thought she looked like him."
"The lady," murmured Vylar, "seems to be an accurate judge of character, at least."
Saxony's eyes scraped over him once before returning to the bullteam. "You'll know her again, this cousin?"
"Yes, Ms. Belaconto," Remee said, with an uncharacteristic lack of enthusiasm. Vylar frowned: Rem was always ready for a scrap; apparently the knife-wielding floozy had made an impression.
"I'd know her," Chel said, Chel-like, and likely thinking no more about it than that.
Saxony nodded, walked over to the window and stared out, no doubt considering this sudden cousin. No doubt thinking that at last here was the handle on the thief, when they'd all been convinced he was smooth as blastglass.
"Vylar."
He straightened, with just the hint of a heel-click. "Ms. Belaconto."
"Bring her." She turned from the window; waved a hand at the bullteam. "Take them and as many others as you need. Use whatever force you must. But I want that woman and I want her now." She smiled, and Vylar felt cold feet run down his spine. "Imagine, Gem ser Edreth has a cousin."
* * *
She lost him in UpTown among the thronging Grounders, and took herself over to a park, to sit in the sun and think it out.
Corbinye was fond of parks: This one, with the fountain splashing and glittering and surrounded by weedy flowers, reminded her of the Conservatory from which Gardenspot took its name. She perched on the back of a bench, put her feet on the seat and sighed.
"A fine, foolish botch you've made of it," she grumbled to herself, pitching a bit of quartz into the fountain. Though, in justice to herself, there was nothing different she could have done. Honor did not allow her to stand by and watch while Grounder criminals ripped apart the homeplace of any of the Crew. That they dared use their destructive arts against the Captain's own home—
She sighed again and threw a second pebble angrily into the spray. "Not that he acts as much like a Captain as that . . ." Yet still, he was of the Ship, blood and bone, and the very stubbornness and independence that currently frustrated her proved his lineage more surely than any gene map.
A breath of wind dashed fountain-spray into her face and she reached up to push the hair out of her face. Overlong, the stuff was: nearly the length of four of her fingers, held together. Anjemalti wore his hair Grounder-style, down to the shoulder and caught back with a ribbon, which she found oddly pleasing. Her own she was used to having cropped close to her head in the way of the Crew.
She stood abruptly, casting the rest of the quartz-bits in a scintillant handful. Always it came back to that! The Crew and Anjemalti. Anjemalti and the Crew. Consistently he had denied his heritage; sought to drive her away—even now, he sent her from his enemies, whom they should meet shoulder-to-shoulder.
He had damned the Ship.
And yet—the Tomorrow Log. She herself had read the entry, written on real paper, ancient ink-marks faded, but still legible. She had borne witness to the execution of Indemion Kristefyon, though the death of a Captain was not for everyone to see. She had tracked a name and a prophecy through years and numberless deceits to her goal.
Only to find her goal an attractive young man with nothing of the god about him, and his own business to attend to.
If only the Log had been more specific! But she only knew that the offspring of the Captain Who Died Beforetime would bring the Ship from some terrible danger, to safety and a greater future.
Little enough to offer, even to one not raised as a Grounder, and bitter, besides.
Corbinye flung off across the park. She paused at the edge of a carpet of grass with the sun beating down upon her head, watching a group of children playing a game involving a ball and a great deal of rushing about and shouting.
Abruptly, she shivered, remembering the misshapen little body; the grave gentleness of the Medic as he explained it to her, while the birth-drug still lent some cushion to the pain—"Too deformed to live. It's a mercy; and he will be sent on his way with due honor, as a member of the Crew should be."
The ball escaped its gaggle of playmates; came bouncing raggedly across the grass, one small person in pursuit. Corbinye scooped the sphere up and held it out, smiling. The girl hesitated, small eyes stretched to their limit. Then her face cleared; she smiled and dove forward to snatch the ball away. "Thank you, lady!" she called, already on her way back to her mates.
"You are welcome, child," Corbinye said softly and shook her head. "If only Anjemalti were so easily won."
* * *
He moved within the crowded Third Evening, groomed to a fault, pale hair tied smoothly back with a ribbon that matched both the blue of his eyes and that of his wide-sleeved shirt. Jewels winked between his hands, at wrist and throat—enough to proclaim him a person of means; too few to draw the eyes and interest of the curious.
He spiraled through the crowd, occasionally leaving it to place a wager or take a bit of wine at a casino or bar. If anyone noted his partiality for very crowded spaces, that person would no doubt also note his youth, and subscribe the choice of crowds to the youthful lust for experience.
In time, his spiraling path took him near the less-favored, less-crowded emporiums of pleasure, and he slipped down a side-way, keeping pace with the shadowed shadow of himself. He came at length to a dim doorway and paused for a moment to look about and to listen.
Silence. Emptiness in all directions. He laid his hand upon the door and was admitted almost at once.
* * *
An hour later, a clerk in the last hotel between UpTown and Old looked up from her desk and frowned. "Well?"
The young man smiled apologetically and smoothed slim, ringless hands down his faded and carefully-patched brown tunic. "I need a room for tonight—for as many as two nights," he said meekly. "If—?"
The clerk's frown darkened, though, really, there was nothing to frown at—merely a shabby and no doubt respectable boy, his fair hair tied neatly back with a fraying blue ribbon and his boots in need of polish.
"We require cash in advance," she said. "If you want two nights, you pay for two nights. If you pay for two nights and only want one, you don't get any money back. Understand?"
"I understand," he answered and took a tentative step forward. "Do you have a room?"
She gave him a sharp look. "Just you?"
"Just me, mistress," he said gravely and she snorted.
"All right, then. One qua covers both nights."
He produced the coin from a flat and much-scuffed leather purse, and laid it on the counter, though his hand showed a tendency to linger in a way that the clerk knew all too well. She sighed, frown fading.
"What's your name?"
"Mel Boryonda."
She tapped in the information. "Address?"
He looked confused and a little abashed and she sighed again, typed in "Visitor", brought up the grid and handed him the card.
"Third floor, room sixteen. The lift's broken, but there's stairs right beside it. Put the card in the doorslot red side up to let you in, yellow side up to lock you in. No visitors, no food in the room, no pets. All understood?"
"Yes, mistress." He slipped the card from her fingers and bowed, slightly and stiffly, as if such courtesy was new to him. The clerk smiled, a little. "We're right on the edge of OldTown here," she told him, though she usually didn't bother, "and that's not such a great neighborhood. Best thing might be for you to put off any errands you've got until First Morning."
He bowed again, still stiffly, and subjected the keycard to serious scrutiny. "Red to open, yellow to seal."
"Right."
"Good night, then, mistress." And he was gone, boot
heels clicking on the concrete floor.
* * *
He was not at Kayje's Concourse; he was not at Milbrun's Tavern; he was not at Three-of-a-Kind.
The Curiosity Shop was full to the doors; the registrar an older man with hungry eyes. Five qua bought a look at his log—Anjemalti was not inside.
One by one, she went to the places he frequented and came at last to the edge of UpTown and stood staring at the scant lights below. A man and a woman lurched past, linked by arms about each other's waist. Corbinye tensed as the man brushed her arm, smelled the liquor on his breath and let them go without comment.
It was possible that he had returned to his house. He was of Captain's lineage, after all, and common wisdom only one in the constellation of factors he must consider. How if he sought to decoy this other Captain into a trap? How if he chose to demonstrate that her show of strength was beneath his notice? To force her to reevaluate her position? Was it not true, should Anjemalti behave as if he had the entire Crew at his back, that this other Captain might wonder, and reconsider—and possibly withdraw?
Such things were not unknown. Corbinye had read the Logs as part of her schooling; and it seemed to her that many of the struggles between the great Captains of the past were merely games of fabrication and nerve, with the Captain whose nerve failed first yielding to the terms of the other.
Very possible, these things recalled, that Anjemalti had returned to his homeplace, Corbinye conceded. It only remained for her to determine how best to serve him in this play.
Were I the other Captain, she thought, leaning elbows on the rail and frowning at the city below; and thought I knew my enemy to be alone, I might risk the trap; the slender chance of a hundred armed crewmen awaiting their Captain's word. Yes, she thought, remembering the tenor of the rival Captain's crew members; yes, I might well take that chance. And move to crush him.
It was if a hand closed round her chest, then, squeezing heart and lungs, so that one pounded and the other labored. Corbinye straightened, licking her lips, remembering Indemion Kristefyon's face as he took The Knife from the First Mate's hand; the proud, unrepentant eyes as he reversed it for the stroke, so full of life it seemed he could never die.
But he had, bare moments later, by his own hand and The Knife, as even a rogue Captain might die, re-joining the Crew by the act, and buried, with honor, as one of their own.
Of a certainty, Anjemalti had gone home, too proud to take his cousin's aid, to try some mad ploy against a Captain who kept rogues and wanton destroyers among her crew.
Deliberately, she started down the 'Ramp, swearing under her breath, and did not hear the footsteps pacing her until she was halfway to the street.
She slowed, and the steps behind slowed, as well; she increased her pace, and they increased. Corbinye swore again; and abruptly grinned. If it was footpads, intent on overtaking her at street-level, they were about to partake of a new experience. The ill-lit street was all to her advantage, and her skill with the sorl-knife was legend, even among the deadly fighters of the Crew. The delay chafed, of course, but it need not be so long a delay as that.
So thinking, she leapt forward, running the last meters to the flat; charged into the deeper shadows and spun, knife out, to face the two clattering to catch her.
The woman was familiar—one of the destroyers she had routed from Anjemalti's house—and only moderately dangerous. But her mate in this endeavor was another matter entirely. Lean, supple, and canny, he dropped into a crouch, ready to take a charge, but offering no immediate threat. Corbinye slipped back a step, keeping him in her eye: No sudden rush at this one, who looked to know the business as well as she did. She damned the delay once more, then brought all of her attention to the current circumstance.
"We don't want to hurt you," the man said unexpectedly, and Corbinye grinned, moving the knife in invitation.
He moved his head in an abbreviated shake. "Saxony Belaconto wants to see you. Nothing to—"
"Saxony Belaconto may see me in hell," Corbinye told him, "whether you chose to fight or tuck your tail under and crawl home to lick her boots."
The woman grunted at that and made a move—quickly controlled as Corbinye glanced her way. The man grinned, but neither moved closer nor stepped back.
"Just a little chat, miss, that's all," he said, persuasively, though she still did not credit him a coward. "There's no need for any of us to bleed over it. Put the knife away and walk with us and—"
She heard it then, the reason for his talkativeness: Two sets of footsteps were moving softly toward them from her right; another set from her left. Corbinye jumped, scored a glancing kick off the woman's head; snapped into a roll and came up, knife leading, lunging for his throat.
He danced away, though her blade drew blood from an unwary forearm, and kicked, knife-gleam in his hand as he spun back. There was no time for finesse; no time for the subtleties of an honorable fight, with his compatriots bearing down upon them. Corbinye feinted, twisted, slipped—and threw as he leaned in to take the advantage, lodging her knife in his throat.
From the woman she had stunned, a keen of sheer hatred. Corbinye ripped her blade free, snatched the other out of slack fingers, reversed it and threw, setting the blade in the woman's chest as she ran for the 'Ramp.
Behind her, shouts and thundering footsteps; the whine and clatter of something thrown and fallen short. Corbinye followed the 'Ramp's twist, glanced up and saw her doom standing at the entrance, holding a pipe in his hand.
She checked minutely; cried out with sudden pain as something bit deep into her thigh; yanked it free and whirled, so that she faced them with two weapons ready, and her eyes gleaming murder.
The first never hesitated, but engaged at once, the second playing backup and slicing a path for the third to get behind as the one with the pipe came down to join in.
But even at that, it took longer and was more expensive than they expected. Just before the end Chel went with a dagger in his eye and Kris screamed and swung the pipe harder than he might, again and even again, though it was over by then, and Corbinye lay in a slick red puddle on the 'Ramp.
Chapter Eleven
It was raining in OldTown.
The shabby young man in the brown tunic lifted his face and let the rain run into his ears and soak his hair. Almost, he laughed, remembering the first time he had been out in rain, screaming at Edreth to turn the sprinkler off and his master laughing. And, later, giving him books and his very own reader, so he learned about clouds and condensation rates and atmospheric conditions and weather.
The Library was lit bright against the gloom; the large, cracked window in front still shuttered. Gem frowned, then shrugged. No reason for Shilban to open the shutters to overcast sky and rain, after all. Better to stay inside, cocooned in the butter-yellow light of many lamps, and the warmth of wood burning on the crumbling hearth.
Gem went lightly up the chancy stairs, twisted the ancient knob and pushed the door wide.
Stared for—a heartbeat? an eternity?—as the young man struck the old man and screamed into his face, "Where is he?"
Shilban shook his head, raised it and said, quite clearly, "I don't know."
The man holding him shook him cruelly, but the one who had put the question only shrugged and sighed. He went to an overflowing shelf, pulled a book free at random and walked over to the fireplace. He showed the book to Shilban, then casually tossed it into the fire.
The old man screamed, writhed, and suddenly slumped in his captor's arms.
At the door, Gem screamed and hurled forward, knife out.
The questioner fell, and the man who held Shilban, before Carmen brought the dart-gun up and shot him in the throat.
Chapter Twelve
Pain, disorientation and a smell of blood, far up in the nose.
Eyes quivered, resisted, finally came open—to darkness, horrifying and utter.
Throat cramped, but would not let the words through; as the body lay, stone-like, a
part, and would not move.
"Easy, easy, there." The voice was kind; the hand upon one's forehead gentle. "I'm going to give you a shot to make you sleep," the voice said, and there were other small sounds, and a prick of pain.
"There, now," the voice said; "everything's going to be fine."
Tight muscles at last allowed a word. "Where?"
The kind hand smoothed one's forehead as the drug began its work, distancing the distant body. "The Blue House," the voice whispered. "Everything's going to be fine. . .."
Chapter Thirteen
The Bortho-Lorania Unit for Egotranslation offers a wide range of service to both individual and municipal clients.
For the individual, there is the transplant service, which makes suffering in an old, diseased or wounded body unnecessary. Healthy bodies are available from a diverse pool of age and ethnic groups, as well as a wide range of type. Persons considering a change of corporal residency are encouraged to take the tour and view prospective bodies. A Resurrective Therapist is also in residence to answer your questions and assist you in coming to closure with any anxiety you may have in undertaking such a change.
There are also a select group of bodies available for temporary use. Inquiries should be directed to the Office of Resurrective Therapy, which will coordinate details with the Department of Justice.
If you have any questions regarding the operation or system of the Bortho-Lorania Unit, please do not hesitate to contact our Public Relations Department.
The Bortho-Lorania Unit for Egotranslation is accredited jointly by the Hospital of Life Sciences, Bannger, and the Renfrew System Department of Justice, and is a publicly-held corporation.
—Excerpted from Pamphlet BLUEPR-66
"Is Translation for You?"
Chapter Fourteen
"Well?" asked Edreth sharply, looking up from his book with a frown.
Wordlessly, he held the ancient firearm out, light gleaming off copper insets and mahogany grip. Barely, he was able to control the shaking of his hands, the expression of his face, so that no sign of exultation was apparent. A master thief, Edreth had taught him, was one who went about things pragmatically, and, afterwards, might feel satisfaction for a job executed according to his own high standards. Only a fool, or a novice, allowed celebration to mar the pure business of stealing.
