by Sharon Lee
“They did. They did every bit of that, and worse. No argument from me. But, that’s how the fatcats used ’em, after the Agency pulled out and left us. That wasn’t their original use.”
Miri considered him.
“What was their original use, then?”
“Well . . . here’s a question backatcha: how’s the Road Boss gonna pay for repairs and upkeep to the road?”
She shrugged.
“Each of the Bosses pays a fee toward the costs of the road, and so does the port.”
He shook his head.
“Now, see, that only sets it back one square. Where do the Bosses get the money to pay the road’s expenses?”
Miri frowned.
“You know where it comes from,” he said, like gentling a little kid toward an answer she didn’t like. “The Bosses might not be sellin’ insurance no more, but them new fee schedules they put in’re still pulling cash outta streeter pockets, even streeters who don’t want nor use the road.”
“Right.” She sighed. They’d talked about that, but it’d seemed that the most Balanced way was to assess a fee from each Boss, even knowing that each Boss depended on his streeters for his income. It was, so said Pat Rin and Val Con and all the rest of the Liadens in the works, the way things like the roads, the walks, the street lights and other common-used services were funded on Liad: each clan paid a piece.
“Now, my grandda, he was in charge of makin’ sure that each department paid every other department for the resources they used. An’ the best way to do that, since in them days, the company owned the road, o’course, was—”
She felt a jolt of sheer disbelief, jumped where she sat, then—it was gone.
Rebbus Mark had noticed her lapse, though; it apparently lasted long enough to have him looking worried.
Miri shook her head, and gave him a wry grin.
“Sorry,” she said. “Sometimes the merc comes home to you, whether you want it or not.”
His stare softened.
“Don’t it just,” he murmured. “Don’t it just do that.”
“Gone now,” she said, hoping that was so. “I missed that last, though. Can I get a repeat?”
“Sure. The tollbooths were set up and whoever came through ’em, paid. Paid by weight, that was the system then.”
“So only the people using the road pay for it,” Miri said slowly. “And those who use it hardest, pay the most?”
“That’s the dandy! ’Course, it was more complicated in his day, on account of havin’ to keep track of all them departments, but we ain’t got that, now. Just two piles—them that uses the road and them that don’t.”
Miri pulled the computer to her, and opened up a file.
“You available, maybe, to talk to the Council of Bosses?”
“Be glad to.”
“My aunt Kareen, she might wanna talk to you, too, about how it was. She’s making a study of Surebleak history. Would you be willing to sit with her?”
“Nothin’d please me more. She gonna be writin’ a book?”
Miri blinked at him.
“Wouldn’t surprise me at all. Now, let’s get how you’d like best to be contacted . . .”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Corner of Dudley Avenue and Farley Lane
It was a wonder, Kamele thought, how quickly everything had moved, once Kareen had decided upon a base of operations.
One day, she had been a guest in Clan Korval’s house at the end of the Port Road. Two days later, she and Kareen were housemates, and partners in research. Kareen had insisted that they were, in fact, cohabitants; that Kamele was neither a guest, nor a dependent, but her equal: a colleague.
Nova yos’Galan’s ’hand, Mike Golden, had produced a dozen local residents of good reputation from which number they had hired six. Gert Jazdak, a taciturn woman for whom Mike Golden had specifically vouched, held the position of security chief, or in the ranking system of Surebleak, head ’hand. She had in turn vouched for Dafydil Koonts and Amiz Braun, second-hands, or, more simply, ’hands. The role of these individuals was primarily as bodyguards, though all three could read, and each came from old families on the street.
“Thought they could help with the research, when other things was slow,” Mike Golden said. Lady Kareen had thanked him for his thoughtfulness, though Kamele had privately reserved her opinion of the use of untrained persons in deep research.
The other three staff members: Esil Lang, the cook; Pary Jain, general work; and Voz Turner, general work, were simpler folk, “street smart,” according to Mike Golden, and “capable.”
In addition to those six, the delms had insisted that they have among their household Hazenthull Explorer, a fierce and taciturn woman who was a weapons expert and, as Kamele understood it, the equivalent of a Liaden Scout. Hazenthull worked Security at the port, but it was thought that her presence as a resident of the house would by itself give would-be troublemakers second thoughts.
She had, Kamele thought, sipping her coffee and looking out the parlor window onto Farley Lane, expected that she would find an existence where she was required to take her ’hand with her whenever she ventured out onto the streets, and where someone else answered her door to prescreen her visitors, confining beyond her ability to accept it.
However, the reality was quite the opposite. Dilly, as Dafydil preferred to be called, possessed a great deal of common sense, and a quick understanding of both practicalities and theory. Despite Kamele’s misgivings, both Dilly and Amiz were a great deal of help with the rough sorting, drawing praise from no less a personage than Scout Historian vey’Loffit, who had attached himself to the household as well as to the project. Gert accepted him as a free gun, the presence of whom, as with Hazenthull, increased the security and the status of the Lady’s household.
For, Kamele thought with amusement, Kareen had after all had her way. She was known as Lady, not Boss, having pointed out to Gert that she was boss of nothing, and an old woman besides, who had been accustomed all her life to a certain mode of address.
These arguments had affected the head ’hand powerfully, and she had immediately thrown her own “street cred” behind Lady Kareen and Professor Waitley—for Kamele had gotten her way, too—as something different, and special.
Though she’d seen a victory with regard to her title, Kamele had not won her point on the subject of the gun. Gert insisted, Kareen insisted, Scout vey’Loffit insisted, Mike Golden insisted . . . that she carry a gun. When she protested that it was absurd for her to do so, since she hadn’t the first idea how to use a gun, Kareen had simply said, “That is why you will have shooting lessons.”
And so she had shooting lessons, every morning, walking out in weather Dilly claimed was “summery,” to Veedle Street, and Sherman’s Shoot-Out. Kareen, and Amiz, of course, often accompanied her on these outings. In fact, they had become something of a favorite with the proprietor, “the guy who put the Sherman in Shoot-Out,” as he had it.
The four of them would practice for an hour, and Kamele, to her amazement, gained skill with her weapon, and, just a little, pride in her own competence.
“Gonna challenge the Lady’s standin’, you keep goin’ like you been,” Sherman had told her, after this morning’s session. He’d then gone suddenly—uncharacteristically—silent for so long that Kamele had begun to fear that something was seriously wrong.
But, no; it just seemed that Sherman had been struck by inspiration.
“You know what? I’m gonna be havin’ a tournament here in a coupla weeks, and I want the two of you to compete.”
“I’m hardly at a level where competition . . .” Kamele began, but he waved her off.
“Naw, naw—you’ll do fine, Professor. Beginner’s round. Lady’ll shoot in with the pros, maybe, or—no, hey! I’ll do a Boss round—no reason not, right?” He looked over Kareen’s head, to Amiz. “Tell Gert I wanna buy ’er an’ Golden a drink, yeah?”
Amiz nodded. “Sure.”
“Goo
d. Oh, yeah, this is a good idea I’m havin’ here. I’ll get back to you with details.”
That had been this morning. Kamele was inclined to put the whole thing down as a mad start that would quickly be put to rest under the combined good sense of Gert and Golden. And even if it was not, she absolutely would not compete in a shooting match. That was foregone.
Kamele finished her cup of coffee with a sigh. It was time to get back to work, but she still tarried, watching the traffic moving on the street outside the window. Living in Jen Sar’s house on Delgado, she had come to . . . appreciate . . . weather, and windows. This window, in this house . . . she found she liked it, though it was . . . very . . . different from Jen Sar’s house, and from Delgado. She liked the culture of the house, which was an amalgam of Liaden, Delgadan, Yxtrang, and native Surebleakean.
Sometimes the house ambiance reminded Kamele of graduate dorm common rooms where desultory gossip and conversation—interleaved with jokes and commentary—might devolve into simple commonplace or might expand into an in-depth collaborative philosophical study full of insight and practical advice.
She was fascinated by the pragmatic Scout and Explorer view of things, and was amused when one odd perambulation on weapon security, spawned by a chance remark by Hazenthull about her day’s work, ended up involving the entire room for several hours. That discussion went on with pointers on backups, their proper and improper placements, their number, and timing of their use.
It was during that discussion that Kamele found herself marveling at Kareen, for far from being disinterested in the topic as might be expected of an elder scholar, she entered it with a will, drawing nods from the Explorer and the locals for her points, and reminding unexpectedly of Jen Sar and his dictum to Theo on what a pilot should pack and what should be carried at all times. Too, Kamele discovered that of all those in the room—including Esil, the cook, delivering an extra round of tea and biscuits—she was the only one not carrying at least one weapon and a backup, even as they relaxed.
Why, she thought, if all the house’s residents could find a balancing point among their considerable differences, surely they could find a similar point, for Surebleak, in whole.
She laughed, softly.
Well, surely they could. But it was still going to be what Dilly dignified as a job of work.
Maybe even three jobs of work.
“Evenin’, Boss,” Miri said, closing the door to the office behind her. Val Con was already on his feet and ’rounding the desk.
“Good evening, Boss,” he returned, opening his arms.
She walked into his embrace, sliding her arms around his waist and resting her head against his shoulder.
He sighed, and lay his cheek against her hair, pulling her tighter. She obligingly snuggled in.
“Tough day?” she murmured after a while, and he sighed again, this one half a laugh, kissed her hair and let her go.
“A day of parts, let us say.”
She eyed him.
“Tell me the good parts, first.”
“All right. Perhaps the best part was the communication from the archivist who has taken the known Gilmour Agency papers into her charge.”
“That’s where the Council of Bosses sent the maybe-deed to Shan’s island?”
“In fact. It would seem, cha’trez, that the Council of Bosses is not the heir to the Gilmour Agency in this case, because there is some possibility that the person in whose name the deed was made . . . may have an heir with an interest.”
“Anybody know who the heir might be? Or just that she might be?”
“There is a question of lineage, I believe, if there was a legally binding separation, and, even if so, that separation would negate the melant’i of heir in an entirely different legal document.”
Miri blinked.
“Even the explanation makes my head hurt. Can’t the qe’andra sort it out?”
“Possibly. However, I believe that I can sort it out easily enough.”
“Yeah? Who was the deed made to?”
“Nareeba Sarab-Fain,” he said promptly. “The same document made her a freeholder.”
“Like Yulie?” she asked, meaning their skittish and not-always-sociable next door neighbor, Yulian Shaper.
“Precisely like Yulie. Freeholder Sarab-Fain had named an heir to her land, should she die without issue. The name of her heir was recorded as Rindle Taris-Shaper. Originally, the name was followed by the word ‘spouse,’ but that was at some point struck out. The name remains.”
“And so does Yulie. I don’t see him wanting an island.”
“Nor do I, but the question must be asked, and the answer properly dealt with. Shan will wish his title to be secure, if Yulie is willing to sell. And, if Yulie is not willing to sell . . .”
“Then we’d best let him know that while he’s still on the route, so he can get over his disappointment before he comes home.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“You have the most deplorable understanding of our family,” he said. “Shan is really very even-tempered.”
“Don’t stop him from being disappointed. Think Yulie will sell?”
“It is difficult to know what Yulie will do,” Val Con said, moving downroom.
He reached the wine table and held up a glass, head tipped questioningly.
“Wine would be great, thanks,” she said, following him. “So, what else happened that was interesting?”
Val Con poured wine and handed her the glass.
“We were, as I recall, progressing from best to least. So!”
He raised his glass. She tapped it with hers.
“To the luck,” she said, which was a risky toast, and one seldom given.
“To the luck,” Val Con said, capping it, “in all of its guises.”
She sipped, and sighed in satisfaction. Her appreciation of wine, she thought, came straight from him, via the lifemate link. While she could tell the difference between kynak and kynak that had been watered, she didn’t have what anybody’d call a trained palate.
Val Con, on the other hand, had prolly taken classes in wine, at school.
“The next best part of the day,” he said, “was the call from Pat Rin, informing me that the High Judge of the Juntavas has asked him for a meeting, and has made clear that he would also like to have an opportunity to speak with the delm-genetic of Clan Korval.”
“He don’t want me in the room? My feelings are hurt.”
“Shall I insist on your honor?” he asked, and it was a serious question; she felt the reverb inside her head.
She had another sip of wine, thinking about it.
On the one hand, she was the delm just as much as Val Con, and cutting her out could be a deliberate insult, which they shouldn’t encourage.
On the other hand, though, it was the High Judge of the Juntavas, by all reports a careful and precise man. He’d specified the delm-genetic—and that was, specifically, Val Con, who’d been born to the job.
“There’s two of us for a reason,” she said, meeting Val Con’s eyes. “I’ll stay on the street. If the High Judge kidnaps you, I’ll refuse to pay the ransom.”
“An excellent plan,” he said, raising his glass.
“I believe that brings us to the least best part of the day,” he said, lowering his glass.
“The Road Boss had a visitor today.”
“Well, I did—” she began, and stopped short as his meaning hit her.
“Here at the house?”
She didn’t know as she liked that much. It wasn’t any secret where the Road Boss had his house—couldn’t be, given the circumstances of its arrival. But among the long list of reasons why they had the office on port, was that they didn’t want every Nick, Alice, and Charlie knocking on the front door and casing the place. Neither her nor Val Con fancied the thought of a fortified wall around Jelaza Kazone.
Or, say, a visible fortified wall.
“Indeed,” Val Con said. “Here at the house.”
“Very likely, he was. Lionel Smealy was his name.” He sighed. “I very much regret the kick in the head, cha’trez.”
“Don’t seem to be much either one of us can do about it. And it was gone near as quick as it come. Shook up my visitor, though.”
Miri frowned after a faint feeling of familiarity as she sipped her wine.
“Smealy, was it?”
“You are acquainted with Mr. Smealy?” Val Con murmured.
She shook her head after a minute, half frustrated.
“Woulda been years ago—so, prolly the da. I’d’ve said the name was Graisin . . . Grais Smealy.” She shrugged. “It’ll come. What’d Lionel have to say for himself?”
“He showed a very touching regard for the state of our treasury, and outlined for my benefit the Surebleak custom of selling exceptions.”
Miri gave a shout of laughter.
“Seriously?”
Val Con tipped his head, as if giving the question due consideration.
“He did seem quite serious.”
“Exceptions. Sure. But that ain’t what shook you up.”
“How do you know?”
“Eh? Well, because what I got was a big electric jolt. I’d’ve rather had laughter, to say true, but I guess you were too polite to laugh in his face.”
“I was very well brought up.”
“Shame. So what did Smealy say?”
Val Con raised his glass, his eyes meeting hers over the rim, and said, every word like a stone dropped to the floor. “Contracts are made to be broken.”
Miri blinked.
“Well, he’s a ’bleaker; what’d you expect him to say?”
The question hung for a long moment.
“As a Scout, I am trained not to expect anything. Therefore, I am indebted to Mr. Smealy for exposing a weakness in my training.” That was said light enough, but he was still upset at the core; she could feel it, like a slightly queasy stomach.
“Is this attitude toward contracts . . . widely held?” he asked. “For if it is, it must change—and quickly, or we will have a culture war that will undo all of Pat Rin’s good works.”
