by Sharon Lee
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Surebleak Port
Two young men, much of an age, but unalike in almost everything else, save a facility with the Sticks, and a good head for numbers, walked down-port toward the Emerald Casino.
They made a pretty picture—one tall, fair and lissome; the other supple, dark and golden-skinned. The fair lad wore a blue jacket that matched his eyes. The dark one wore leather, and had a bag slung over one shoulder.
“So you’ll be back in two Surebleak weeks?” the fair one asked, ending what had been a rather long pause between them.
His companion gave him an approving nod.
“Excellent. Doing the conversions while in flight is no easy thing.”
“I’ve been practicing,” Villy said. “I’ll keep it up, too. By the time you’re back, I’ll be able to do a four-level conversion in my head!”
“Here’s a bold assertion! Will books be all your lovers, until I return to your arms?”
Villy considered him out of suspicious blue eyes.
“That sounds like a play quote,” he said.
“Discovered!”
Quin gave a small, on-the-stride bow of acknowledgment, for which he would have been severely reprimanded had he been observed by his protocol teacher or—twelve times worse!—his grandmother.
“It is a play quote, yes. If you like, I will find a tape and we may watch it together.”
“Would I? Like it, I mean.”
That was a serious question, and Quin gave it the consideration it deserved.
“You might well. It is a classic melant’i play. I was required to study it, and write papers on it, and view several productions, from the first recorded to the most modern, which is why I have the phrase so apt, you see. But—yes, I think you might find it useful, and interesting, too. Especially the sword fight.”
“Sword fight?”
“The most diverting thing imaginable! It’s quite harrowing, despite you know it’s all mummery.”
“Okay, then, I’m provisionally interested. If I get bored, though, I’ll make you speed through to the sword fight.”
“Fair enough.”
The Emerald was in sight. They were early this morning, with Skene at their backs, so that they could enjoy breakfast together before Villy’s shift at the Sticks table. Quin was bound for Korval’s Yard, Galandasti, and Master Pilot Tess Lucien, who was to sit his second while he added hours to his flight ticket.
“Do you—” Villy began, and stopped, one hand shooting out to grab Quin’s arm.
A man had stepped directly in front of them, his arms held carefully away from his side, his palms turned forward, fingers spread wide. The bow was a quick, clean request to speak.
Behind him, Skene said, “What’s he doing here?”
“An excellent question. Perhaps he will tell us.”
Quin gestured permission to speak, and Security Officer pen’Erit folded into the deep bow of one receiving a boon from a superior.
“Pilot, I come to you because I am acquainted with no one else on this port. I . . . I am certain that this situation has overtaken others, but it is . . . the first time it has come to me.” He took a deep breath. “In short, sir, I would ask your advice.”
“I can scarcely presume to advise a man so many years my elder,” Quin answered. “If you acquaint me with this situation, I may, indeed, be able to recommend someone on port who may assist you. But I wonder, sir—did not your ship lift . . . some weeks ago?”
The man’s mouth hardened.
“Indeed it did, sir, and Trader vin’Tenzing with it. In the hour before lift, after I had been disciplined for failing to ensure the trader’s good health, I was sent onto the port to procure an item necessary for her comfort.
“I had been directed to a particular vendor, who did not have the item in port inventory, but who was pleased to send a car to his warehouse and have one brought to me.
“It was as we were awaiting the return of the truck that he mentioned I was the second that day to inquire about this item, which was not in much demand on port. The first had been a call, and the order dropped after he had explained the necessity of sending to the warehouse.”
He turned his hands up, showing empty palms once more.
“After that, I could not be surprised to find that my ship had lifted early, and without me.”
“That’s an unhappy fella,” Villy murmured. “What’s the story?”
“His ship abandoned him,” Quin said rapidly. “This is Security Officer pen’Erit, who had come to the rug shop with Trader vin’Tenzing several weeks ago.”
“I don’t mean any insult, but that trader sounds to be an ice bitch.”
Quin sputtered a laugh. Officer pen’Erit dropped back a step, eyes narrowed in offense, and Quin waved a hand.
“Forgive me. My companion chooses to be . . . unimpressed with the trader and her actions. His language is colorful.”
The man’s face relaxed, and he accorded Villy a comradely nod.
“Do you require assistance contacting your clan, sir?” Quin asked. “The portmaster—”
Officer pen’Erit made the sign for sharp stop.
“I have contacted my clan. Last night, the answer arrived. My delm does not require me. That I am abandoned and bereft on a—forgive me—a barbarian world, she considers to be proper Balance for having placed our House awkwardly with Clan Omterth. My clan has, for generations, clung to Omterth’s coattails, until we are fit for nothing else. To be placed awkwardly with Omterth is paramount to having food snatched from the mouths of our children.”
He closed his eyes, shoulders slumping.
“I can wish that my heir will not be required to bear the balance of the delm’s anger, but I fear that is . . . a father’s fond hope, only.”
“Quin, sweetie, that man wants a cup of coffee,” Villy said. “Bring him in to breakfast with us, and let’s get him sorted out in comfort.”
“Yes,” Quin said, and bowed an invitation to the ex-security officer.
“My companion suggests that we go inside and reason together over breakfast. It would gladden me if you would accept his invitation.”
The man hesitated, then bowed to Villy’s honor.
“Thank you,” he said. “My name is Tef Lej pen’Erit Clan—”
He stopped abruptly, harshly, and bowed again. “My name is Tef Lej pen’Erit.”
“He gives you his name,” Quin told Villy.
“Right.”
He went forward a step, which was his kinesics lessons on display, and produced a credible bow of introduction.
“I’m Villy Butler,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. pen’Erit.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Skene, honey?”
She sighed.
“I’m Skene Liep,” she said, “Boss Quin’s head ’hand.”
“My companion is named Villy Butler,” Quin translated, so there should be no confusion. “My security gives you her name, also: Skene Liep. Please, let us go inside.”
Breakfast was something of a challenge, as Quin was the only one at the table who spoke both Liaden and Terran.
Tef Lej pen’Erit of course had Trade and several other dialects on his tongue, but that gained them nothing, so Quin translated, in between snatching bites of his meal.
It quickly became apparent that Mr. pen’Erit was not in good order. He had rented a cubicle at the so-called Spaceman’s Hostel on port. Based on the eagerness with which he addressed his breakfast, Quin guessed that he had been skipping meals in order to economize.
“Hostel’s spendy,” said Skene. “M’sister has a rooming house in Conrad’s turf—clean room, two meals, an’ half the cost or less. I can take him, after you’re lifted out, Boss.”
This offer was conveyed, it falling to Mr. pen’Erit to point out that he had no Terran and Skene’s sister likely to have as much Liaden as Skene herself.
“She’s took up with a Scout,” Skene said, shaking her head. “So there’s translati
on in-house.”
This was also conveyed, and while Mr. pen’Erit formulated an answer, Villy produced a question.
“Is that all his clothes? Weatherman says it’s gonna get chilly tonight, an’ if he don’t have a jacket, it could get nasty for him.” He gave Quin a grin. “Bet he gets cold as fast as you.”
He probably got cold faster, Quin thought, fresh off-ship as he was.
“Villy asks if you have a coat. Our weatherman predicts cold weather this evening, with a chance of a summer snowstorm.”
His guest paled.
“Snow?” he repeated.
“No need to translate that,” Villy said. “Tell him, he can have my coat. No sense a man freezing, and I got another one.”
Quin hesitated, then said to Master pen’Erit.
“Villy makes you a gift of his coat. He is concerned for your health.”
Tears rose in hard grey eyes.
“He—why does he care?”
“He is hetaera,” Quin said, which was both true, and immediately comprehensible to a Liaden.
pen’Erit looked to Villy and bowed as deeply as he was able, seated.
“I am in his debt,” he said to Quin. “More, I would make amends for my lack of manner. I will bring him a fitting present, soon. Tell him, please.”
“He don’t gotta pay me for the coat,” Villy said, making a shrewd guess at the content of this.
“He does not offer,” Quin said. “He accepts your care, and asks me to tell you that he will bring you a gift befitting your station as a hetaera.”
“So, he’s gonna pay for the coat anyhow? I don’t need his present.”
“Accept it, nonetheless,” Quin advised. “Hetaera are . . . treasures. It is an appreciation of your . . . art. That you offer your care freely, must be appreciated.”
“Balanced?”
“No,” Quin said slowly. “One cannot Balance art.”
The bell rang then, calling the new shift to the floor.
“That’s me,” Villy said. He stood, took his jacket off its peg and stepped ’round the table to drape it over Mr. pen’Erit’s shoulders.
“You make sure you wear this, now. Otherwise, you’ll be catchin’ your death out there in the wind.”
Mr. pen’Erit almost broke his neck, trying to meet Villy’s eyes and bow at the same time. Villy patted him on the back, bent over Quin and kissed him on the cheek.
“You fly safe, hon. See you soon. ’Bye, Skene, Mr. pen’Erit.”
He left them, and Quin did not miss pen’Erit’s appreciative gaze.
“My time marches as well,” Quin said. “I am scheduled to lift. This is what seems best to me: I will ask Skene to conduct you to my father.” He held up his hand at the other’s start.
“He will not place blame upon you for what you did not do. His network of acquaintances is far wider than mine. Someone of those will able to assist you to your best advantage. Does this answer your necessity?”
Master pen’Erit bowed his head.
“I believe that it must. No Liaden ship will take me, and there is no reason for me to return to Liad. To be clanless on Surebleak . . .” He looked wry, revealing a sense of humor that despair had hidden until now. “To be clanless on Surebleak is no great thing. To be clanless on Liad . . . is beyond terrible.”
“So.” Quin inclined his head. “A moment, and I will instruct my security, and then I will take my leave.”
He turned to Skene, got her nod, and slipped out of his chair, bowing to the table.
“My ship wants me,” he said, in Liaden, and, “I am late,” in Terran.
“Safe lift, Pilot,” said Master pen’Erit.
“Better run,” said Skene.
Things had been hot during the morning, but the after-lunch session in the Road Boss’s posh office suite in Surebleak Port was downright boring. Miri was seriously thinking about asking Beautiful if he had a deck of cards on him, which she was willing to bet he did. Nelirikk had a real love affair goin’ with poker—him and Diglon, too. She figured she was doing the revolving poker game down Meruda’s back room a favor by keeping the both of them mostly employed, and their hours for card playing limited. In the old days, back when she’d been a kid, Meruda would’ve owed her a piece of the action for taking an interest in his success.
Yeah, well. The old days, and the old ways . . . best if they never came back. To hear the culture experts from the Scouts—and Kareen, too—tell it, though, there might be a few generations before the new ways caught on entire.
Which was why they needed to have some control over how the new ways grew, and keep a sharp eye out for unintended consequences.
Miri yawned.
Dammit, she couldn’t take a nap. It wasn’t like she didn’t have work to do. There were reports to read, right there on the computer. All she had to do was key—
The front door opened. She glanced at the camera screen, and saw a long, tall citizen step into the waiting room, closing the door firmly behind. Old Surebleak habit, that one. You didn’t want the wind coming behind you and snatching the door wide to let the weather in.
“Good afternoon,” she heard Beautiful say. That had been a triumph, teaching Beautiful to say “good morning,” and “good afternoon,” like he didn’t mean to cut your throat.
“Afternoon,” the visitor answered, pulling off his hat. “Boss in?”
The screen showed an image of a guy past his middle years, a little pudgy with age, but tall-standing; his face scraped clean in celebration of all the balmy summer weather they’d been having, and his hair cut sharp. Might be an ex-merc. Had that kind of ’tude about him.
“Road Boss Miri Robertson is on duty this afternoon,” Beautiful said, and Miri sighed to herself. Still some work to do there; on the other hand, the streeter hadn’t fainted, so maybe progress was being made.
“May I know your name?” he finished.
“Sure thing. Rebbus Mark, come down from Gilly Street.”
“Please come with me,” Beautiful said.
Miri reached for the computer, typed in Gilly Street as two pairs of footsteps approached, and had time to learn it was Fran Schomaker’s turf before the door opened and Nelirikk made the announcement.
“Rebbus Mark of Gilly Street is here to see you, ma’am.”
“Thanks,” she said, coming to her feet with a smile, and both hands in sight. “Mr. Mark, c’mon in and have a seat.”
He hesitated, his eyes on the computer.
“Not wantin’ to disturb your work,” he said. “I can come back when you’re not so busy.”
Miri grinned at him.
“All’s I got here is reports to read, and believe me, I’d rather be talking to you.”
That got a half-grin out of him.
“Well, now, since I’ll be doin’ a good turn . . .”
He took another two steps into the room, and settled into the chair across the desk from her. Miri sat down. Nelirikk went away and closed the door. He’d be listening and watching from his station in the waiting room, but Miri didn’t expect any trouble from Rebbus Mark.
’Course, that was sorta the point of having security on hand. And carrying your own protection, too.
“Thanks for seein’ me so quick,” he said, setting his hat on his knee and putting one hand flat atop, like he was worried it make take a notion to jump down to the floor and go exploring on its own.
“No problem,” she assured him, and seized the conversational ball, since he didn’t seem to know how to get from showing proper respect to his topic, whatever it was.
“So, you wanted to talk to me about the road?”
“Yes, I did.” He nodded, looked down at the hat on his knee, then looked up and met her eyes, nice and firm.
“Now, you might wonder why what I got to ask is any o’my bidness, so I’ll start by sayin’ I’m out from one o’the executives of the Gilmour Agency. Way back, see? No reason for you to b’lieve me, but I got the proof right here.” He lifted one hand
off his hat—and froze with it halfway to his jacket, his eyes on hers.
“Got it inna inner pocket—flat piece o’paper ’bout as big as my hand. My carry’s in the right outside pocket.”
A careful man, which wasn’t a surprise, really, him being as old as he was and still walking around.
“Go for it,” she told him, slipping her hand onto the shelf under the desktop, and resting it on top of her merc sidearm.
Rebbus Mark nodded, unbuttoned the top two buttons of his coat, slipped his hand inside, and produced a piece of paper, exactly like he’d promised. He leaned forward to put it down on the desk in front of her.
It was an ID card for one Kristofer Mark, Operations Economist, Gilmour Agency, Surebleak Mining Division. There was a holo of the man, head and shoulders—ordinary looking, and no visible similarity to Rebbus Mark.
She looked up, and nodded.
“That there’s my grandpa’s grandpa. Family story is he disagreed with the finance manager when the decision come down to pull out to the new vein, off-world. Got cut outta the loop and left here with all the rest weren’t executive level.”
Miri nodded to show that she was listening, even while she wondered if there was a point to this.
“Other thing is,” Rebbus Mark said, his voice brisker now, like he’d found the way into what he’d come here to talk about.
“Other thing is, that man was the one set up the tollbooths.”
Miri blinked at him.
“The tollbooths that kept the streeters on their streets, and under the close care of their particular Boss?” she asked. “Those tollbooths?”
That struck him funny, his grin turned into a guffaw before he shook his head.
“Talk on the street’s that you’re a local girl, come home. I believe it, now—that’s pure streeter tollbooth hate, that is.”
“The toolbooths kept us from helping each other; kept supplies away from streets that needed ’em. People got sick who didn’t need to. People died on Latimer’s streets, when there was a cure right over there in what’s Vine’s turf, now.”
