by Sharon Lee
Just so.
Satisfied in his reasoning, the young gentleman cleared the news screen, and filed away the letter from his man of business.
The note from Betea sen’Equa he carried over to the recycler. Reaching into inside pocket he withdrew one of his special sort of cigarillo, and sucked on it twice to light it. He puffed for a moment or two, tasting of the invigorating smoke, until the central embers came to red. Then he touched the tip of the cigarillo gently to one edge of the paper and held it gingerly by the opposite corner, when the quick flames licked toward his fingertips, he dropped the thing into the unit, which extinguished the flames and proceeded to process the carbon.
He puffed again, the sweet smoke rising to join that of the paper and disguise its odor. The cigarillo followed in a few moments; ashes to ashes, to further muddle any trail.
Satisfied with his morning’s work, the young gentleman left his rooms, lightfooted and whistling.
* * *
“THAT’S PREPOSTEROUS.” The man who said so was some years Pat Rin’s elder; a tea merchant who owned a comfortable establishment in the High Port. Neither Shan nor Shan’s father, Er Thom yos’Galan—master traders, both—had been strangers in this place, and Bed War tel’Pyton welcomed Pat Rin in the names of his cousins.
“Alas,” Pat Rin said gently, and bowed.
Master tel’Pyton had recourse to his teacup.
“By his own hand? Forgive me, sir, but that’s powerful hard to accommodate, for the Fal Den ter’Antod I knew was no such fool.”
“I understand your perplexity,” Pat Rin murmured. “Indeed, I share it. And yet it is truly said that we cannot know the necessities of another’s secret heart.”
“True,” said the master. “Very true.” He sighed, gustily. “So, doubtless you’ve fallen heir to Fal Den’s debt-book, by which circumstance we find him once again to fail of foolishness. Pray name the price of my transgression.” He tipped his head, apparently considering this. “I suppose it must have been my transgression, though I’ll own there’s nothing in my book under Fal Den’s name. However, I’ll bow to his judgment, for he was nice—very nice—in his measurements.”
Pat Rin inclined his head and brought the book from his inner pocket. Carefully, he opened to the proper page—an early entry—and read out the recorded circumstances.
“In the fourth relumma of the year called Tofset, I misspoke in consultation with Master Tea Merchant Bed War tel’Pyton. This misinformation was the direct cause of the master ordering far too many tins of Morning Sunrise tea, which purchase greatly reduced the profits of his business. This fault is mine, and shall be Balanced at my earliest opportunity.”
Master tel’Pyton blinked.
“Are you certain—I mean no disrespect!—that this is the matter that lies between myself and Fal Den? For I’ll tell you, the incident was trivial when it happened—the tea was stasis sealed for one matter, and for another your cousin Er Thom was trading on port at the time and placed the overbought handily, to his own profit and to mine.”
“This entry is the only time that your name appears within the debt-book,” Pat Rin said delicately.
“Perhaps there is another matter..?”
“Not a bit of it,” the tea merchant said sturdily. Abruptly, he bowed, deep and excruciatingly proper. “Fal Den leaves me in perfect harmony, sir, saving only in the matter of his death itself, which cheats me of a friend and a valued colleague. Pray tell his delm so, on my behalf, and write ‘paid’ to the debt as recorded.”
Pat Rin also bowed, closing the battered little book and slipping it away. “I will do so, sir,” he said, and added the phrase the Code demanded of those who held this particular death-duty: “Balance has been served—and preserved.”
* * *
THE SECOND YOUNG gentleman of leisure spent his day profitably in the City, meeting with certain of his business associates, of whom every one was delighted to learn of the increase in the young gentleman’s estate. He was pleased to learn, at a certain, of course impeccable, clerical service that his invitations had been dispatched in accordance with his very explicit instructions. Later in the day, he dined with friends, after which he accompanied them to an exclusive club as their guest, where his luck held at cards and he lost only a very little at dice.
* * *
“AND HOW DID you find Little Festival this year, boy-dear? A tedious bore, or a grand adventure?” Luken refilled their glasses from a bottle of Ongit’s superlative red.
Pat Rin tipped his head, considering. From anyone else, the question might have been intended as a barb. From one’s foster father, it surely sprang from a filial interest in himself—and gave one pause. Luken bel’Tarda was not a great intellect, but his melant’i was spotless, and he possessed a sweet, sure subtlety that Pat Rin found he treasured more deeply as the years passed. It behooved one, always, to give serious consideration to Luken’s questions.
So: “I found Little Festival to be… largely agreeable,” Pat Rin said, slowly. “Though I will own to some moments where one’s mind wandered from the pure pursuit of pleasure to matters of business. And of course, some bits were nothing short of terrifying.” He picked up his glass and swirled the wine, idly, eyes on the movement of the dark red liquid. “Of course, you’ve heard of Shan and Val Con’s victory at the skimmer field?”
Luken grinned. “From the newspaper and from your mother, too. She predicts a wastrel lifetime for both, sinking ever further from Code and kin.” He sipped his wine. “No fear there, I think. Young Val Con tells me he’s no intention of continuing along the line of skimmers—too wearing by half! And Shan has put the craft up for sale, now that his point’s been taken.”
He did not say, as one’s mother would assuredly have done, ‘No doubt with his eye already upon some other mad enterprise.’
“You’ve seen Val Con, then?” This was interesting; had the young cousin left the wiles of Festival to do family duty?
“Oh, aye, he was by this morning. We shared a bite of breakfast and a catch-up.” Luken sipped.
Last seen, Val Con had been engaged to attend a piece of business that must assuredly have kept him until very late in the evening, if Pat Rin had read the set of the lady’s face a-right. To have arisen from the double exertions of the race and the pleasure tents early enough to share breakfast with dawn-rising Luken—well. Surely, the young cousin became a paragon.
“He’s a good lad,” Luken said comfortably. “The Scouts agree with him, which was the same with his father.”
“One’s mother swears him the spit of her brother.”
“Does she, now?” Luken paused, doubtless considering the issue from all sides, and finally moved a hand in negation. “I won’t say there isn’t an edge here and there—especially upon an ascent to the boughs, you know—but I do believe Er Thom has achieved other than a facsimile of Daav. No disrespect meant to your mother, dear.”
Pat Rin smiled. “Certainly not.”
The service door opened at that juncture, admitting their waiter, bearing deserts. By the time these were accommodated, and the finishing wine poured, Luken had introduced the subject of Pat Rin’s current projects.
He sighed. “Alas, I’ve been named an instrument of Balance.”
Luken looked at him, glass arrested half-way to his lips. “I wonder that you took the time to dine with me. You could have set another day, boy-dear. Thirty-six hours is little enough to right all the wrongs that might be made in a lifetime.”
“Happily, I’m set to Balance the life of a meticulous man,” Pat Rin said. “There were only four outstanding debts, and I’ve managed to lay three today.” He inclined his head, self-mocking. “Behold me, industrious.”
“I allow that to be tolerably industrious,” Luken said, apparently quite serious. “Most likely you’ll stop on your way home this evening and put paid to the last.”
“Would that I were that fortunate. The fourth is likely to be the end of my own melant’i, if you will h
ave it.”
“As knotty as that?” Luken put his glass aside. “You might honorably consult an elder of your Clan. I happen to be an elder of your Clan, in case you had forgot it.”
“Yes, very likely. In the meanwhile, I’ve no idea how knotty the thing may be, the notation being somewhat… murky. You might say I should simply throw myself upon the honor of the debt-partner, which I might do, had I one idea of who she may be.”
“Surely you’ve checked the Book of Clans—ah!” Luken caught himself up. “Perhaps the lady is Terran, boy-dear. You’ll want the Census.”
“The lady’s name appears to be Liaden,” Pat Rin said, “though I do have a request in to Terran Census, so every wager is covered.” He pulled Fal Den’s debt book from his sleeve pocket and flipped to the page.
“Betea sen’Equa is the person for whom—” He glanced up at a slight sound from Luken, who seemed to have lost color. “Father?”
“For whom do you Balance?” Luken asked, and his tone was much cooler than Pat Rin was wont to hear from his foster father.
“For Fal Den ter’Antod, Clan Imtal, found dead by his own hand last evening. The book arrived in this morning’s mail.”
“Hah.” Luken relaxed visibly. “I had read that. Bad business. And he notes a Balance with sen’Equa? Boy-dear, I must ask if you are certain of the notation.”
Wordlessly, Pat Rin handed him the debt-book.
For several heartbeats, Luken frowned down at the note, then sighed, closed the book and handed it back.
“Betea sen’Equa, certain enough, though how one of Imtal came to—there, it’s none of mine. And distressed I am to find it one of yours, lad.”
“I apprehend that you are familiar with the lady—or at the least, the lady’s kin.”
“Oh, I know who they are— there was a time when everyone knew who they were, though I see that’s no longer the case. They had used to be Terran—I recall being told that the family name is ancient Terran—Seneca. They set up in Port, and carried on just as if they were still on any Terran world you like—which meant they married oddly, mostly of Terrans, you see, and took no care to establish their Clan.”
“Which is why I don’t find them in the Book of Clans.”
“Nor in Terran Census, either.” Luken sighed. “In anywise, boy-dear, if it’s sen’Equa you want, it’s to Low Port you’ll go.”
“Ah, will I? How delightful.” Pat Rin slipped Fal Den’s debt book into his sleeve and absently took up his wine glass. “I wonder what trade it is that Family sen’Equa follows?”
Luken moved his shoulders. “Why, they began in mechanical and electronics repair, with a side in the gaming business. The repair work led them to vending machines, you see, and an exclusive contract with dea’Linea. Then, when dea’Linea incepted that tedious scandal and got ruined by way of it, sen’Equa sued for such holdings as remained—in payment of their contract. I was myself involved as a trustee of the dissolution, and saw the paperwork. Sen’equa received only the most meager of settlements—well, they had no one to speak for them. So, unless they have moved far forward—or backward—sen’Equa owns properties in Mid-Port and in Low-Port, in the form of several small gambling houses.”
“Oh,” Pat Rin said, and very nearly smiled. “Do they?”
* * *
SHE HAD READ the letter thrice, more alarmed each time. A party, here, at House of Chance? Worse, a party composed, or so he would have her understand, entirely of those who made High Port—aye, and the city beyond it—their home? All very well and good to bring in one or three at a time, filling the private rooms, to her profit. But, a party of three to four dozen lord-and-ladyships? It was…
… frightening.
Betea sen’Equa was not a woman of fragile nerve, nor was hers an imaginative nature. Yet this latest letter from Hia Cyn—this proposed—engaged—event—felt wrong. Gods’ mercy that her grandmother was dead, and Betea did not have to go before her with such feeble misgivings in her heart.
“Hitch your fortune to the High Port,” that redoubtable old lady had been wont to say, “and the cantra will flow into your pocket.”
Which had doubtless been true in the old days, when her grandmother, with the assistance of various patrons, added three houses to the sen’Equa holdings—one in High Port itself.
Grandmother’s wisdom had likewise served Betea’s mother, who had added another Mid-Port house to the chain before a drunken quarrel with her latest patron left her dead.
After that came Betea’s aunt, who decreed that sen’Equa had no need of patrons; that sen’Equa houses would henceforth pay for themselves, with no dependence on those who sat high.
It had been a worthy dream, Betea thought so even now. But her aunt in her grief over the loss of her sister had reckoned without worldly realities. Sen’equa had no standing among the Clan-bound, nor ever had. Oh, they paid taxes, in return of which they were guaranteed the protections and services of the Port. But they had no social standing, and no one was obliged to either sell, or treat with them at fair cost.
Or pay a death-price, for kin who were murdered.
It had been fair market prices and rent that the names of the wealthy patrons had purchased for sen’Equa, and by the time her aunt realized that, the house in High Port had faltered and was closed.
Her aunt then did what no other of their family had done—she left the Port and went into the city, to apply for a Name from the Council of Clans.
But to become a Name, there must be a Name willing to sponsor the applicant to the Council. A patron, in fact—and Betea’s aunt would have none of patrons.
So, now it was Betea and two houses left—their starting place in Low Port, where uncle Tawm ruled, and the House of Chance in the Terran section of Mid-Port. Terrans scarce cared what your name was—or if you had a name at all, so long as your cantra was good. They sold to Betea as they would to any other business on the street—yes, and came by in the evening or ahead of their morning shifts, to wager a bit on the wheel, perhaps, or buy into a game of cards.
She’d been doing well enough, or so she told herself now, and had no need to return to the patron model. Only that the loss of those two houses in her aunt’s time and another on her aunt’s death—had eaten at Betea and made her dream, too, dream of the days when sen’Equa held five houses and there was talk of building a sixth…
Betea sighed, dropped the letter to her desk for the fourth time, slipped the sixth-piece into her pocket, and, restless, went down the ramp into the main room, to see how the play went on.
Which is how she came to be there when he walked in the door: High Port, sure enough, with his pretty brown hair and a blue gemstone in one ear; dressed in a sober, expensive jacket and shiny boots. She saw the hint of the pistol beneath the jacket and approved his good sense, even as she went forward to intercept him.
“May I assist you, lordship?” she inquired, coming up on him from the right, her hands plainly in sight, out of respect for the pistol.
Velvet brown eyes considered her at some length, and then he inclined his head, very slightly.
“Do you know, perhaps you can?” he said, and his voice was pleasant on the ear. “I am looking for Betea sen’Equa."
Her stomach clenched, but she put the silly start of fear aside and bowed deeply, which the high ones cared about.
“You have found her,” she said. “How may I assist you?”
“I am here on a matter of Balance,” the pretty man told her, “which stands between yourself and Fal Den ter’Antod.”
Betea felt the blood drain from her face. She might have known that the game would fold someday, and one who was perhaps a little bolder than the others would send his man of business, or his delm, or his elder kinsman to Balance the matter—with her. She touched her tongue to lips suddenly gone dry.
“Why does he not come himself?” she asked.
“Because he is dead,” the other said, and moved a hand, showing her the ramp up to the office i
n her own establishment. “Perhaps this is not a discussion you wish to continue on the open floor?”
Dead? But… Betea clutched at her disintegrating courage, straightened her back and looked boldly into the man’s dark eyes.
“Please come with me,” she said, and turned away without looking to see if he followed. Somehow, she didn’t doubt that he would.
* * *
THE OFFICE WAS comfortably appointed, the screens that monitored the playing floor set into the wall above the manager’s cluttered desk.
A quick and subtle glance at the clutter revealed to Pat Rin the sorts of papers one might find on the desk of any manager, high port or low—invoices, bills of lading, lists, and the various correspondence of business. A handwritten letter on plain paper lay askew in the center of the desk, as if it had been flung down in haste. A blank comm screen sat to the right of the general disorder, the keyboard shoved away beneath.
At the center of the room, Betea sen’Equa turned to face him. She was tall, Pat Rin noted—a little above his own height, though nothing near Shan’s—and lithe, with a girl’s pretty, soft face. Her eyes were as blue and as ungiving as sapphire—and it was to the woman who had earned those eyes that he made his bow.
“I am Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval. I come to you as the instrument of Fal Den ter’Antod’s will. Your name is written in his debt-book. It falls to us to Balance that which lies between you.”
The hard blue eyes considered him, emotionless; the round, girl’s face betrayed only youth.
“Please tell me how Fal Den came to die,” she said, and her voice did waver, just a little. “I saw him only days ago…”
“He died by his own hand,” Pat Rin told her and used his chin to point at the dark screen. “If you permit, I will call up the report from news service.”
She glanced at the screen, and stepped to one side. “If you please.”
He moved to the desk, tapped the power key, called up the public archive, and stood aside.
