The Shadow released him. “Are swifter means to silence thoughtless lips. You are wanted here, but not wanted so much that we risk all.”
Donovan decided that he had pushed her as far as he might safely do, and followed silently while she sought out the kiosk for temporary weather clothing. He made a great show of selecting the size, color, and cut of the snowcloak.
Two boots stood in front of a nearby Approved Books kiosk. They were dressed for downside leave: loose, burgundy silks and black trousers, with their ship’s medallions pinned above their right breasts. They went uncovered, and made no effort to hide the fact that they were staring at Donovan and Olafsdottr.
The dispenser delivered the cloak and Donovan pulled it out and shook it straight. “Ravn?”
“Yes, I see them. I was told during the crawl-down that they like to shake down dyowaqs—what you call ‘touristas’—for detachables.”
“Do we call the cops?”
Olafsdottr laughed. “Those are the cops. Not those two, I mean. But Henrietta is under martial law. So … Listen, Donovan, I am not supposed to be on Henrietta; and you are not even supposed to be in the Confederation. So this must not come to the attentions of the swoswai, the military governor.”
“No cops,” the Fudir agreed. “Suits me. But I thought your boss had an understanding with the governor.”
“He does. Those two don’t. They’re probably only just down-planet.”
The scarred man scratched his hair, replaced his skull cap. “Then this is what we call a learning moment.”
Olafsdottr fastened her collar and waited while Donovan swirled his cloak about him. “We could simply pay them,” she said.
Donovan held up his right palm. “My implant is loaded up with Gladiola Bills of Exchange. You think they’ll take those?”
“Ah. I see the problem. That’s why you had me pay for your cloak. Funny the things we sometimes overlook.”
“I didn’t overlook it. Chain up. Here they come.”
The two boots strolled over with exaggerated casualness and planted themselves directly in their path. Other travelers in the concourse swerved around the little group like a stream around a rock. A few shot worried glances as they passed; most simply tucked their heads down and pretended not to see.
“Ha, dyowaq,” said the one on the left, a young, beefy man with a tonsure of blond hair. “Welcome a Henrietta. We collecting donations a the Distressed Spaceman’s Benevolent Fund, help out shipmates down a they luck.” He addressed Donovan because those who bought temporary weather clothing at the autovendors were typically off-planet touristas unprepared for the season.
“Fund balance real low,” added the second boot, an older, wiry man who reminded Donovan of a rat terrier. His medallion had chief’s bars on it.
The scarred man waited patiently, and there was something about the patience of the scarred man that induced hesitation in others. The two boots shifted foot to foot and looked to Donovan’s companion.
And if there were anything in the Spiral Arm more daunting than the patience of Donovan buigh, it was the smile of Ravn Olafsdottr.
The beefy one took a step back. “Law shí! Deadly Ones. Chief, remember what Tsali and Chim-bo told us when they coming back a leave?”
“Tsali say they go-gone.”
“Ooh, not all at once,” said Ravn. “Some may remain. Tie up loose ends. You pardon, we not introduce selves.”
The two boots grunted and made awkward attempts to hide their name tags behind folded arms. “Jin, sure, wakay.”
“Wait,” said Donovan. “You not want donation?”
“Not needful. So sorry a bother you.” They began to back away.
“We insist. My fund transfer from off-planet not yet arrive, but my companion happy pay for both.”
Olafsdottr shot him an annoyed glance, but extended her hand. The boots flinched and stared at it, as if it had transformed into a flame lance. “The Mouth much grateful for protection boots give against League,” she said. “Your pay, never enough. Allow me show gratitude.”
A moment more they hesitated, then the chief reached out slowly and shook her hand. In theory the two palm implants could have interfaced by wireless, but direct contact was both more secure and regarded by custom as more sincere. The chief’s eyes glazed for a moment as his balance updated, then he gasped. “Ladyship being most generous!”
Further expressions of politeness followed before the two boots withdrew and retreated down the concourse.
“To seek other prey, no doubt,” Donovan said.
“The strong take what they can,” Olafsdottr reminded him, “and the weak suffer what they must. First you didn’t want to pay; then you did,” she said. “Why bother? We had them sheeped.”
“Yeah, and that’s why. We backed them down with no more than a shady look. They would have taken their humiliation out on the next citizen they ran into.”
“That would be the next citizen’s problem, not ours. You have a funny way of not getting noticed.” She glanced at her ticket. “Hurry. We may still catch our pod.”
But they returned to the transit platform just in time to see the Rettiecenter pod slide down the rail.
“Aren’t those things supposed to be silent?” Donovan asked her above the squealing of metal and ceramic.
Olafsdottr ignored him and once more entered their destination on the demand-board. They received a new queue number in return. This they turned over to the pod starter, who inserted them into the line for Rettiecenter. “Sure you’re going to pod out this time?” he asked sarcastically. When they made no answer, he added, “I hadda send the first one out empty.”
“I weep,” said Olafsdottr.
* * *
Pods arrived at two-minute intervals so the wait was not long before the starter announced, “Riettiecenter pod next. Queue numbers fifty-three through sixty-two. Yah, that’s inclusive, lady. Pod sliding in. Stand back behind the stripe.”
The gleaming silver ellipsoid flashed a bright red symbol on its nose, a stylized city skyline indicating its destination in the city center. Gull wings popped open along its length to reveal two-seat compartments, enough for twelve. Olafsdottr secured one of these for herself and the scarred man.
Depends on how many are waiting in line for a destination, deduced the Sleuth. Fifteen minutes ago, there were just the two of us, so the dispatcher sent down a double. We weren’t there when it arrived. When these other people showed up, he had to order a twelver. They probably use base-twelve arithmetic here, like in the Old Planets across the Border.
Show-off, said the Brute.
The doors closed, the pod seized the magnetic field, and they shot down the rail fast enough so that Donovan was pushed back into the cushions. Olafsdottr grinned at him. “Woory not. Pods stop more slowly than they start.”
The pod settled into a steady velocity. In the compartment ahead of them, visible through the plex at head level, a young man and woman had begun to kiss as soon as the gull wings had closed. Now, she turned about and straddled her companion, unfastening the bolero jacket she wore. Donovan imagined her companion unfastening much else below the sill level. He glanced at the clock. They had time. Looking up, the woman saw Donovan grinning and, with a scowl, slapped the plex to opaque it.
“Ah, yoong loov,” Olafsdottr said with a smile.
“Don’t get ideas.”
Olafsdottr snuggled in her seat and said nothing while the scenery flickered past. Parklands gave way to manufactories. Ground argosies wound along the truck-ways below the pod rail, containers joining into strings and shuttling toward the city. Residential villas and sporting fields began to appear. The pod-string passed over a pentagonal field on which three teams struggled against one another before a modest crowd.
Olafsdottr broke the silence. “Overthrow of tyranny worthy goal.”
“Only if the outcome is net improvement. We’ve been over this
already, Ravn. It’s a big Spiral Arm, and tyrants move at a discount. I’ll overthrow them, each and all, if they get in my way. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “It’s not my job.”
“Perhaps Dawshoo can persuade you.”
Donovan folded his arms. “He can try.”
Olafsdottr laid a hand on his shoulder. “Noo, noo, noo, my sweet. I did not mean he would persuade you. We want your help, not your submission. He will—”
The pod underwent a sudden, brief lateral acceleration. From the compartment ahead, they heard the sound of the lovers tumbling to the floor.
“
“Switching rails, I think,” said Olafsdottr. She touched the screen set into the forward wall and called on a system map, upon which she traced the Riettiecenter Line with a finger. “We have been shunted to the Bayside Line,” she decided.
“Why? Are we in the wrong pod, after all?”
Olafsdottr cupped her hands around her eyes and stared out the side window. She could see the city-bound magrail curve away to the left, toward the towers that marked the town center. “There is a plume of smoke,” she said. “There may be a fire near the rail.”
A speaker grill in the compartment came to life and a cheerful voice announced that all pods headed into the city center had been diverted to Bayside, “due to an accident. If you disembark at Heroes’ Plaza, a swift-tram will be waiting to take you to the center. Be advised that all blocks from Jester to Commonplace and from Fourth to Sixth have been interdicted on upper and middle levels while our heroic municipal services deal handily with the problem. Bottom level is open for traffic. If your final destination is within the cordon, you will need a pass from the wardens stationed at the apexes.”
“The pod platform is in the center of the cordon,” said Olafsdottr, examining the system map. “And the Hotel Grand Khyan is at Fifth and Commonplace.”
Donovan grunted. “Meeting still on?”
Olafsdottr said nothing, but continued to stare out the side window while the pod slid along the shoreline. The scarred man turned to the right-hand window, but the scenery in that direction was less interesting: a few pleasure craft snatched the wind across Biscuit Bay, a foil-freighter skated on its hydroplane down the channel toward the open ocean. Dolphins danced ahead of the sailboats.
His kidnapper said, “Donovan, if you would not join us…” She hesitated before continuing. “Perhaps, you might not show yourself healed. If they think your mind impaired, they may not want you.”
The scarred man tore his gaze from the bay. He removed his skull cap and scratched at his scars. “More likely, they would kill me for being useless. A tiger does not change his stripes simply because he fights other tigers.”
“Doonoovan,” she said, adopting once more the playful Alabaster accent. “Troost me oon thees metter. Better for you to play mind-cripple.”
The Bayside rail passed the dockyard end of Flannelmouth Boulevard, and awarded them with a brief glimpse down the great, wide diagonal that bisected Riettiesburg. At the far end, black smoke billowed from the Riettiecenter pod station on the top level above the Hunterfield Traffic Star. Lime-yellow suppressor trucks sprayed the platform with foam and water. Then the pod was past Flannelmouth and only the blank façade of warehouses stared back at them. The grill announced, “Heroes’ Plaza” and the retards kicked in, slowing the pod’s progress.
That can’t be good, recalled the Pedant.
A coincidence? the Silky Voice wondered.
I’ve done some calculations, the Sleuth told them. If we assume that the fire broke out after we left Riettieport Terminal, but before we reached the rail point for the Bayside diversion, then it must have happened about the time our original pod reached the station empty. The conclusion is elementary.
Fudir, said the Silky Voice suddenly, why did you insist on buying a snow cloak?
“I just wanted to mess with Ravn’s head,” the Fudir murmured. “Maybe Inner Child had a premonition…”
That sounds squirrelly, kid.
There was no room in the compartment for a third person, but Pollyanna was sitting beside him. Don’t worry, she told them all. There may be an opportunity in this.
Which we won’t seize by “not worrying,” girly-girl.
He noticed Ravn smiling indulgently. “Very good, sweet,” she said. “Act distracted. Converse with selves. Not too much, but enough.” She turned back to the window and the plume rising now behind the shorefront high-risers around Heroes’ Plaza. She looked worried, and Donovan remembered that civil wars often have two sides.
* * *
The scarred man sat in the bar called Apothete, three blocks east and one block below the now quiescent flames of the Riettiecenter fire. The bar was a dark room with cleverly hidden lamps designed to flicker like torchlight and tables set in niches in masonry walls. Within the dimness, and thanks to a trick of the bowl, the uisce glowed as molten gold. At least the people of Henrietta—or at least the people of the Lower City Center—knew the proper way to serve the uisce; although here the bowls were beaten metal, not ceramic, and had little pedestals on which they perched.
The meeting had been hastily arranged, the venue chosen at random. Two magpies, apprentices to the Deadly Ones, guarded the niche within which they sat.
“Hello, my sweet darling,” the Fudir told the bowl, or rather its contents. He used a dialect that his earwig told him was spoken on Heller Connat that was kissing cousin to the Gaelactic of the Periphery. Then, using a different voice, Donovan chided himself, “A drunk loves his creature.”
Across the table from him, Dawshoo Yishohrann sampled a mug of red beer and replaced it softly on the table. His face was still as stone. He exchanged glances with Gidula, and then with Ravn Olafsdottr. The latter shrugged. “This is as I foond him.”
Gidula reached across and slapped Donovan on the cheek. It was not an attack, but neither was it gentle. “Pay attention, can you?” the Deadly One said. “Your eyes wander all over.”
“Each piece of his mind wishes to see,” Ravn volunteered, “and so, jostling for the power of sight, the eyes jostle in response.”
“I would not mind half so much,” Dawshoo muttered, “if they would but jostle in sync. Donovan! Do you understand what the situation is?”
The Fudir took a bold swallow of the uisce. “Course, I do,” he cackled, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his blouse. “You Shadows are fighting each other. Want no part of it, me.”
Dawshoo shook his head. “Did the Names take your balls as well as your mind?” Then, to Gidula, he said, “I did not expect much. The last message we had from Billy Chins said Donovan was falling apart.”
“Billy Chins was a traitor and a liar,” Gidula answered. “I thought he exaggerated, for his own reasons.”
“Look,” Donovan said, allowing some of Inner Child’s fear to show. “Tell me what you want me to do. I’ll tell you why I can’t do it and then we’re done, and I can go home.”
Dawshoo spoke to Ravn. “Discard him.” He began to rise.
“Wait,” said Gidula.
The Beak turned to him. “Would you lean on this broken reed?”
“He may serve, even in this impaired state; otherwise I would not have suggested the play. Certainly, Those fear so, or their agents would not have bombed the pod station.”
Dawshoo glowered into his beer for a moment, took a hard swallow, and set it aside half-consumed. He coupled his hands into a ball on the table and with evident reluctance sought out Donovan’s wandering eyes. “We need you to infiltrate the Secret City and assassinate the Secret Name.”
The eyes stilled momentarily as each and all of him froze at the prospect. “Heh! Which of us is the madman here?”
“This war,” said Gidula, “has gone on lon
g enough. Past time to bring it to an end.”
“But why us?” the scarred man asked. “A task like this wants the finest lock picks, not a rusty old hammer.”
Dawshoo seemed inclined to agree, but Gidula smiled, though his teeth barely showed. “Two reasons, and they are the same.”
A magpie stuck his head in the niche. “Oschous is here,” he said and stepped aside to admit the third member of the cell. Olafsdottr made room for him on the bench.
“What news?” Dawshoo asked him.
“It was a bomb,” he confirmed. “The boots are bees from a struck hive. Citizen casualties were heavy, and the civic administrator stood up on his hind legs and demanded answers from the swoswai. MILSEC and MILPOL are everywhere, questioning everyone, stopping and searching everyone, but to no effect. My guess: a human detonator. MILSEC won’t find him because he’s a pink mist in the air above the station. The swoswai dare not pursue either us or our foes; but neither may he be seen as not acting at all. Thus, the security kabuki. But the sooner we are all off-planet, the better…”
“Aye,” said Gidula. “The attempt today shows that the loyalists are closing in. We must push the effort to the utmost. Strike quickly, or we will be struck.”
Dawshoo sighed. “I chose this world because it is out of the way, but when so many knew to come here, perhaps it was inevitable that it be so many plus one.”
Oschous hooked a thumb at Donovan. “Is this him?”
“Yes, this is Donovan,” Olafsdottr said.
The Fox turned to Donovan and tapped his forehead with the side of his fist. “It is an honor to meet you at last.”
Donovan did not need to act confused. “Honor? We’ve done nothing yet.”
“He has forgotten,” Dawshoo told the newcomer. “Those took the memory from him.”
“Ah. Then how do you expect him to…?”
“His memory may return,” said Gidula. “Or you may concoct another scheme. Or…”
“Or the horse may learn to sing?”
The Old One smiled. “Or that. But his mere name may be enough.”
Oschous pursed his lips before nodding. “Possible.” He did not sound as if the possibility were high.
In the Lion's Mouth Page 10
