by Sharon Lee
Given the mixed backgrounds of those present, dinner language was Terran. They heard about Syl Vor and Kezzi’s triumphs in school. Kezzi had won a prize for reciting a long piece of poetry, Syl Vor reported.
Val Con congratulated her gravely on her triumph, which earned him a considering look out of knowing black eyes.
“It wasn’t hard,” she said. “I memorize recipes twice as long for my grandmother, and those are important. If I miss an ingredient or don’t remember the right measurement, I might kill someone. If I missed a couplet, the only thing that would have happened is that I’d been allowed to sit down sooner.”
“Still,” Val Con had said, “it is not a waste of time, to demonstrate one’s skills to those who might otherwise seek to take advantage.”
“I told you!” Syl Vor said, from beside her.
Kezzi tried to look disdainful, but she couldn’t quite hide the pleased smile at the corner of her mouth.
“I don’t have to prove myself to gadje,” was what she said.
“Very true,” Nova said gravely. “However, one does wish to keep up one’s grades, and to demonstrate to one’s teachers that their work is not entirely in vain.”
“That’s so,” Syl Vor said. “Ms. Grender was very proud of you.”
“She gave me a hug,” Kezzi said, not as if the memory was particularly pleasant.
“It is how she is,” Syl Vor said, patiently. “She hugs me, too.”
“Does she?” Miri asked. “So that means you won a prize?”
“No, that was because he helped Chow with his geography, and then Chow won a prize for getting from the port to Boss Sherton’s turf, with nine side trips, in the shortest time. Syl Vor got a hug, and Ms. Grender said he’s a gifted teacher.”
Kezzi bent an approving look on her brother, whose cheek had darkened a little in a blush.
“Excellent,” Val Con said. “One should always be generous with one’s teammates.”
Syl Vor’s blush got a little deeper, but he bowed his head and murmured, very properly, “Thank you, Uncle.”
Dinner over, the kids were sent upstairs to do homework, and the adults, including Mike Golden, retired to the side parlor.
Now, they could talk serious, and Nova didn’t waste any time.
“Brother, have you had any news from the Council of Clans?”
Val Con raised an eyebrow, and lowered his wine glass.
“I can scarcely suppose that the Council will wish to compromise its melant’i by communicating with the delm of a clan that doesn’t exist.”
That was just plain and fancy provocation; he knew what she meant. Give Nova credit, though, she didn’t rise to the bait. Mike Golden was, Miri thought, good for her. Whether Nova was similarly good for Mike Golden . . . Miri directed a thoughtful look at the man. He turned his head like he’d felt her glance against his cheek, and winked at her, mouth quirking.
Nova, in the meantime, was coping with Val Con.
“Certainly, the philosophical aspects of our situation are piquant,” she said seriously. “We must, the two of us, sit down and discuss them thoroughly, some day soon. In the present, however, I only mean to ask if Ms. dea’Gauss has had word from the Elders dea’Gauss regarding the possible breach of the Council’s guarantee of Balance.”
“In fact, she has,” Val Con said, abandoning the fun game of tweaking his sister in favor of a straight answer. “It would appear that the Council has very many highly critical items on its agenda that must be dealt with before it might consider taking up something so trivial as an apparent breach of contract.”
Nova drew a hard breath.
“Tabled it, did they?” asked Mike Golden.
Val Con turned slightly to face him.
“Nothing so active, I am afraid, Mr. Golden. The Council has not allowed the matter to be taken up. Not even so that it may immediately be put down.”
Mike Golden looked grave. “We gonna need to bring in extra ’hands?”
“That is what we wished the Council to clarify for us,” Nova said. “It comes to a simple yes or no: is the Council knowingly—willfully—in breach, or was this attempt upon Quin merely one woman who had decided that her personal loss was too great to accept a Balance in the common cause?”
Mike Golden looked thoughtful.
“This breach business—would this Council of yours put it out on the street that they wasn’t going to—fine?—anybody who felt like ignoring the contract? Or would they just let the flakes fall, and hope to eventually see a blizzard?”
Val Con looked at Nova.
Nova looked at Val Con.
“That’s a good question,” she said.
“It is, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Golden. We shall make inquiries at a . . . less formal level.” He looked back to Nova.
“My aunt Mizel? Certainly, they would have taken care that no sort of . . . announcement to the street was made in yo’Lanna’s hearing.”
“But Etgora tells yo’Lanna everything,” Nova murmured. “And so does Mizel. I will write; I am sadly behind in our correspondence, and this will give me an opportunity to make amends by serving a hint of scandal.”
“Excellent. I will write a letter or two, also.”
“Mike, you oughta sign up to be a qe’andra in training,” Miri said, giving him a grin.
He gave the grin back, but shook his head.
“Better suited to be a ’hand. Sitting and writing and researching gets me all twitchy, and pretty soon I gotta go take a walk. Say, to the port an’ back.”
She laughed.
“Any more insurance salesmen coming around, by the way?”
The grin faded.
“Now, there you hit a sore point. They keep coming, and the Watch can’t be everywhere. Some of the streeters know that they can—and oughta—call in anybody sellin’, but others . . .” He shook his head, and turned his big hands palms-up, looking from her to Val Con to Nova.
“They wanna be safe, you unnerstand. So, some folks are payin’, and that just gives the insurance sellers leverage—Well, they say, your neighbor ’cross the street, she’s paying up. Guess she knows what’s in her own interest.” He nodded to Miri. “You know how the spiel goes.”
“Yeah . . .” She shook her head. “Easy to say that we’re gonna have to educate the streeters, but we’re already going to the street level with the qe’andra. We can’t always be shouting at them to learn things . . .”
“What we got going in our favor,” Mike Golden said, “is the streeters themselves. You take Ms. Quill, the baker. I’m not out on the street three times outta four except I meet her at this place and that, talking about how the Bosses made the collecting of insurance illegal, and the making of examples, too. Her and the printer went together an’ made up window signs that say, No Insurance Sales Allowed, an’ some little cards they give to all the streeters, with the Watch’s contact number, and Boss Conrad’s contact . . .”
“And Boss Nova’s contact,” Boss Nova said wryly. She shook her head. “We have had some calls, and the Watch has taken up a few, but where one is taken off the street, two appear.”
“Seems like some folks liked the old days better’n the new ways,” Mike Golden said.
“Nostalgia is a powerful force,” Val Con murmured. “I assume that there has been some money collected. Is there any hint as to where—or to whom—it flows?”
“Well, now, that’s worrisome,” Mike Golden admitted. “If some up-an’-comer with more brains than most is using insurance sales to build up a little operating budget before they move in to retire Conrad . . .” He looked to Nova and gave her a small grin.
“That’s the kind of stuff that keeps a ’hand up at night,” he told her, apologetically.
He turned back to Val Con. “The couple salesfolk the Watch took in gave up the name and address of where they took the money, but o’course everything was gone an’ empty by the time we got there.”
“Of course,” Val Con said.
�
��Been any examples made?” Miri asked.
Mike shook his head.
“The baker, she almost got made an example, but she had one of Boss Conrad’s ’hands with her in the shop, so that melted before it froze. The rest’ve been threats; no action.”
“Which may mean that—whoever is behind the project—is merely opportunistic, and has no intention of actually endangering themselves.”
“Or they could be saving it up for a big show, to impress everybody,” Miri said.
Mike Golden gave her an earnest look.
“Now, see? That’s the other thing that keeps me up at night.”
“You wished to see me, Grandmother?” It was late, and he was weary, having worked a full day at Rafin’s forge with three other of his brothers. He had returned with Udari to the hearth they shared, only to find Isart there, bearing the luthia’s wish that Rys go to her immediately upon his return.
“Please say to the luthia that I am on my way to her hearth,” Rys said, and watched Isart dash away before turning to his brother.
“This may be our good-bye, and my heart is so full that I have no words.”
But Udari shook his head. “Brothers do not say good-bye. Though we may not see each other for a time, we will see each other again.”
They would find each other in the World Beyond, that was the meaning here. Udari was devout, and his faith comforted him. Rys . . . was not devout, but he would not break Udari’s peace with his doubts.
So . . . “Great will be my joy, Brother, when we meet again.”
“Hah.” Udari opened his arms, and they embraced before Rys left their hearth and walked down the common to the luthia’s tent.
“Rys, my son,” Silain smiled, and extended a hand to him, “come here to me.”
Obediently, he knelt on the rug at her side. She cupped his face between her hands and looked into his eyes.
“You are troubled.”
“Grandmother, I am frightened.”
She released him and sat back.
“Of course you’re frightened; you’re not a fool. But you may put your fear aside for this night. It is not time, yet, to go to your brother under Tree. There is one more task that I would have you complete for me, if you can find it in your heart.”
She was a subtle woman; she had shaped him and used him, and she would soon send him to his death. For all of that, he loved her; and for all of that, he smiled.
“When have I refused you anything?”
Silain smiled, as one who is a partner in secrets.
“It’s nothing you haven’t done before,” she said. “Only I wish you to dream.”
“There’s a man’s bit bad,” Miri said, as Val Con guided the car down Blair, toward the intersection with Port Road.
“Not so bad as some,” Val Con said, who was driving with really commendable restraint, even though the streets were just about empty, this time of night. “Mr. Golden does not strike me as the sort of man who allows his wits to wander, no matter how badly he might be bit.”
“No percentage in getting your Boss killed,” Miri noted. “Twice as much reason not to let your wits wander.” She sighed.
“Val Con-husband,” she said, switching to Low Liaden.
She felt the flicker that meant he’d been startled, but he followed her into the more intimate language.
“Miri-wife. What may I do for you?”
“Speak with me in Liaden every day, if you will. It is so often necessary to speak Terran during the day. I find I miss the Low Tongue, in particular.” She paused.
“It is a sweet tongue,” Val Con murmured.
“Sweet, and . . . complex. I would not wish to lose the level of . . . subtlety gained.” She shook her head. “I wish none of us to become diminished by this new adventure.”
He was silent for a long moment.
“None of us ought to be diminished by our changed circumstances. It is true that adventures sometimes drive one into simplicity.” She felt, rather than saw his smile.
“Life is wonderfully simplified when all that is required is that one survive.”
“That is the door that opened into this . . .” she hesitated, feeling over the possible descriptors in her head.
“Opportunity?” he suggested.
She laughed.
“Opportunity, then. I wonder—”
They were crossing Virg Street. One block ahead was the Port Road.
To the left, down Virg—
“Fire!” Miri cried, but Val Con was already turning the car.
She reached for the comm and punched in the code for the Watch.
“Robertson, at the intersection of Virg and Blair,” she told the sleepy dispatcher. “Fire, and a crowd.”
“On our way,” came the reply, the dispatcher sounding not so sleepy now.
Val Con pulled the car to the curb a dozen feet in front of the fire, and jumped out, Miri half a second behind him.
“Stand back!” he called, approaching the crowd. “Something may explode!”
Somebody in the crowd laughed; somebody else turned, flipping his jacket back like he had a gun in his belt.
Somebody else yelled, her voice high with fright and fury: “They’re burning my bakery! Stop them!”
“Oh, sure; they’ll stop us. C’mon in, friends; bet you ain’t seen a zample made in a good long while. Wouldn’t wanna forget what it was like, now would you?”
Miri had the guy holding the baker in her eye. Val Con, she knew, as clear as if they’d talked it out ahead of time, would take the guy showing his heat.
She kept walking, slipping her hand into her pocket. She felt the heat on half her face—it was burning good enough she could hear crackling wood. The little three-shot slid into her palm, nice and firm, and she skirted the crowd—eight, ten of ’em, maybe, but that’d be a couple rubberneckers, too.
Problem was knowing which was the rubberneckers—so she let the gun go free, though likely the move let the locals know she might pull . . .
The guy with the ’tude had turned on his heel to watch her hands. That was all right; Val Con had him; she felt him slip up behind the guy, and smack him a good one behind the ear with the hilt of his knife.
“Help me!” shouted the baker. “Help yourselves! Do you want the old ways back? Stop them!”
That was good for a couple laughs between the observers and the insurance crew, but not much else.
Twisting in her captor’s arms, the baker kicked backward with an amazing amount of energy. The guy grunted, and yanked her arms back. Miri slipped in close, smelled the stink of a firestarter on him, looked him in the eye as he struggled to hold the baker.
“Let her go,” she commanded, using full merc volume. “Else, you’ll be the sorriest pile of slush on the planet.”
She moved closer, the merc motion offering mayhem now leading her hands toward his face. He twisted the baker between them, smiling like a dog.
This close, the fire scorched the air. Whoever’d set it had known what they were doing. It was hot, and it was burning fast. And if it was a bakery . . .
“Move!” she shouted. “This place is going to explode!”
As if to back her up, the fire gave a full-throated roar, flames licking out onto the sidewalk.
Three of the hangers-on lost their nerve, broke and ran up the street, toward Blair.
The guy holding the baker twitched, but that was all.
“She’s right,” the baker said, her voice eerily calm. “There’s flour dust over everything in there. It’ll explode an’ we’ll all get killed.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it,” somebody said from directly behind Miri—his approach had been masked by the noise of the fire.
She ducked, felt something go close past her cheek, spun and kicked.
Her guy grunted and went down, and Val Con came out of the dancing fire shadows, kicking the guy holding the baker solidly in the shoulder. Miri rolled now, seeing people breaking away from the fight.
/> The baker ran; her late captor rolled and came up, gun out, turning toward Val Con, and moving to a shooting crouch.
Miri struck low from the side, half missing her mark in the flickering firelight, and that shot went wide of everyone, but the heel of the gun raked her face as he scrambled to get position on her.
Too many for him, she was up and ready to block his aim again when Val Con grabbed his gun arm and danced a bit of menfri’at, the twist removing the gun and breaking the gunman’s wrist in one elegant, fluid move.
The man yelled and kicked. Miri took his feet from under him, and he went flat—and completely still as Val Con grimly stood over him, the captured firearm aimed precisely between his eyes.
. . . and in the distance came the sound of a siren.
The Watch had arrived.
INTERLUDE SEVEN
The Firmament
Vazineth was with the Healers, who would do such repairs as were necessary, and also firm her purpose. Sye Mon, her colleague, was also with her. He would not be a familiar face, when she woke, for they were not known to each other, but he would be someone who understood all of what had befallen her.
They three—Anthora, Master Mithin, and Ren Zel—they three were drunk, perhaps, with success. Anthora would have it that Vazineth had snatched the choice to herself, and that she, Anthora, had expended no effort at all. She was perfectly fit and rested.
Master Mithin pronounced herself very able to continue, and Ren Zel . . .
Ren Zel craved this place, where only truth existed, and peace informed the spaces between the stars. The threads sang to him; the golden light infused his bones. Every time he opened his eyes here was like a homecoming.
He gathered himself to witness, focusing upon the star that was the soul of Bon Vit Onida. The strands that bound the agent to the rest of the universe were fragile things; the soul small, as if it had drawn in on itself, becoming denser and less bright.
Near-space rippled.
