by Sharon Lee
Best he got some sleep, too.
“bel’Tarda! bel’Tarda! What have you wrought, bel’Tarda! Ah, no—the rug; the very rug!”
Quin was moving toward the sound, dodging around those who had come to their feet. The words had been in Liaden, the voice slurred, and if someone who had drunk too many glasses of wine was going to attempt to force a duel upon Grandfather . . .
“Quin,” Villy came up beside him. “What’s going on?”
“It is too much! I shall burst! Someone bring me Luken bel’Tarda! Hedrede’s honor is the stake!”
“Is Mr. Luken in trouble?”
“I hope to prevent that,” Quin said. “Fetch one of the Scouts—”
“I am with you, young sir,” a female voice came from his other side. “Is it necessary that you involve yourself?”
That, Quin thought belatedly, was a good question, but surely he must involve himself. If Grandfather was coming in answer to this half-drunken challenge, he would need Quin as backup.
They had come to the hallway leading to the main stairs. Quin paused, looking about him at a revisioned vista. On his last visit to Villy, the stairs had been enclosed, and a little dark.
Now, they were open to the main parlor, bright and airy, and carpeted with the Queterian that had been held on deposit for years, back on Liad. Held on deposit . . .
His stomach sank.
By Clan Hedrede.
Kneeling on the rug, in the center of the hallway, was a man perhaps his father’s age; his head was bent, his shoulders shaking, as if he wept. Pressed against the opposite wall was one of the hetaera, a woman Quin did not know, with soft dark hair, and a round, pretty face.
She was watching the man, who had surely been her patron, but she kept a wise distance.
As they came upon the scene, she looked up, and specifically at Villy, who jerked his head toward the parlor. She nodded and left them.
“Oh,” crooned the man on the floor, rocking back and forth on his knees. “Oh, the precious honor, the priceless melant’i. And it is here! Of course, it is here! Where else might it go, when bel’Tarda himself is here?”
He raised his face, and Quin could see that he had, indeed, been weeping; his eyes bright yet with tears.
“Where is bel’Tarda?” he demanded, speaking to Quin, or perhaps to the Scout at his shoulder.
“I am here,” came Grandfather’s voice. “Whom do I address?”
He came forward, dressed in his best coat, and Audrey on his arm, her face frost-white.
“I am Vel Ter jo’Bern Clan Hedrede,” said the man on his knees. He bowed without bothering to find his feet: student-to-master.
“I salute you, Master bel’Tarda; it is a fine Balance! And a shipload of talebearers to carry it!” He wobbled where he knelt, got one foot flat, thrust upward, staggered—and improbably kept his feet.
“You are known as a man of fine melant’i. I see that it is true!” He lurched toward Luken, one hand out, and stopped as Audrey stepped before him.
“Quin!” she snapped.
“Yes?”
“You tell this guy—you tell him that if he calls in a Balance against Luken, or hurts him in any way, I will—I will contact all of my colleagues in this business and he’ll never get laid again!”
Quin blinked.
“Tell him, Quin,” Audrey said coldly, staring into Vel Ter jo’Bern’s damp face.
Quin looked to Luken, who inclined his head, very slightly.
“Sir,” he said, stepping up to Ms. Audrey’s side. “Here is Audrey, the owner of the Jewel Box and the protectress of the art. She asks me to translate for her. She states that, should you bring pain or grief to Luken bel’Tarda over this matter or any other, she will contact her colleagues the galaxy over, and inform them that you are beneath their notice.”
For a moment, the man only stared at him. Then, he threw back his head and laughed.
“Ah! Ah, this is splendid! She does not understand me, is that so? I am boisterous. In fact, I am in my cups! She is marvelous; I honor her! I will send her a gift, say—no! I will give her a gift!”
He removed a ring with a flourish, bowed low and offered it to Audrey on the palm of his hand.
For a long moment, nothing happened; they were all frozen in time.
Quin recovered first.
“Audrey,” he said urgently. “Take the gift.”
“I don’t—”
“Take the gift,” he interrupted, firmly, “and incline your head very slightly. Then you will leave, on Villy’s arm, and he will call for your tea, and stay with you at your table.”
Audrey blinked. She extended a hand and she took up the ring, its stone briefly flaring blue fire until extinguished by her fingers. Vel Ter jo’Bern straightened, uncertainly, and Audrey inclined her head, perhaps an inch.
Quin leaned over to speak in Villy’s ear.
“Call for zymuth veska,” he murmured. “Ms. Audrey’s special sort of tea.”
Villy nodded, and stepped to Audrey’s side, offering his arm. She took it and the two of them departed without a backward look. In a moment came Villy’s voice, raised and commanding.
“Ms. Audrey will have tea at her own table. Bring cakes and zymuth veska for Ms. Audrey; she wants her tea!”
Vel Ter jo’Bern smiled and bowed once more to Luken.
“She is worthy of you, sir. I might hope that she would permit me to learn from her, but—no, I see that it cannot be. Perhaps, in time—but time is what I do not have! The ship leaves in a mere twenty hours, and I of course will be aboard.”
“Will you return to Liad soon, sir?” Luken asked politely.
“No, no. I am yet of Hedrede only because my delm cannot abide a scandal. I travel, and the clan pays me to go wherever I will—so long as I do not land on Liad. Have no fear, though. Your Balance will find its mark.” He laughed—and hiccupped. “Your pardon.”
“If you are not in distress, sir, I will leave you,” Luken said. “Shall I call your chosen companion to you?”
“No, she abandoned me—and she was not in error. I am in no fit state to participate in art. Wait.” He reached into the outer pocket of his coat and brought out a cantra piece. “Of your kindness, sir, I would bestow upon her this gift. I regret, that it is merely money, but one cannot give away all of one’s rings.”
“Indeed,” said Luken gravely. “I will see that she properly understands its value.”
“Thank you, Master bel’Tarda. It has been, if you will allow it, an honor to have met you. Young sir.” He nodded to Quin, then looked blearily at the Scout. “You are, perhaps, a Scout?”
“I am, sir, yes.”
“May I impose upon your skill, to put me into a taxi, and direct it to the Spaceman’s Hostel. The tour has taken rooms there.”
“Certainly, sir.” The Scout offered her arm, the ne’er-do-well took it and the two of them departed for the door.
“Well!” Luken said, when they were alone. “I suggest we join our companions for tea, boy-dear.”
Audrey and Villy were sitting at the center table in the refreshment room, which was as much “Ms. Audrey’s table” as any of them. Villy was looking worried; Audrey was looking at the ring Vel Ter jo’Bern had given her.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Audrey,” Grandfather said, as they approached the table. “You were magnificent.”
“I was scared,” she said looking up at him. “Quin was magnificent. He got me and Villy outta there before . . . something happened.”
“Kitchen didn’t know anything about zymuth veska,” Villy whispered as Quin claimed the chair beside him. “They brought out Mr. Luken’s sort. Hope that’s not wrong.”
“Not wrong,” Quin said. “I hardly thought the house would have the specific leaf, but it spoke to Ms. Audrey’s consequence and . . . good taste, to those who have ears for such things.”
“Which many of our guests this evening do,” Grandfather said, settling into the chair between Audrey and Vil
ly. “I allow Quin to have been inspired, but you must also accept your due, Audrey. You were magnificent. May I pour?”
“Please,” she said absently, her eyes still on the ring.
It was, Quin saw, a singular ring, with a wide, carved white metal band—platinum, perhaps—set with a large blue stone, cut to reveal a flaw like the slit of a cat’s eye. The fashion for flawed stones appealed to a certain set of wealthy persons who also considered themselves to be aesthetes, many of whom, so Father had said, wrote poetry.
“This oughta go to Tansy,” Audrey said abruptly. She placed the ring in the center of the table and picked up her cup.
Grandfather replaced the pot onto its warming tile.
“It should not,” he said firmly, “go to Tansy. Our guest was not so far into his cups that he had forgotten his manners. He left a cantra piece for Tansy, and his regrets, that he was forced by circumstance to give only money. I agreed to convey the gift and his regrets.” He picked up his teacup.
“The ring is yours.”
“What’d I do?”
“You defended my life, insofar as you knew, and the peace of your house. The Balance you intended to exact was both precise and apt. In fact, it was art—and high art. Nor is that ring paste, though others our guest displayed this evening, were. I fear that his clan may be growing tired of paying his bills. One supposes that he is rather expensive.”
“What’s with that?” Villy asked.
“He apparently attracts scandal,” Quin said, “and his clan is very proper. So they have arranged between them that he live—and travel—elsewhere than to the homeworld.”
“Is your clan proper?”
Quin looked to Luken, who smiled.
“Korval was High House. By definition, then, we were proper.”
“Even after blowing a hole in the planet?” asked Audrey.
“Ah, but that was ordered by the delm! Very proper, indeed.”
Audrey laughed, and nodded at the ring.
“Keep that for me, Luken, all right?”
“No, my dear, you have not entered fully into the game! Here . . .”
He took Audrey’s right hand in his and studied each ring in turn.
“This one, I think,” he murmured, and withdrew from the second finger, the ring set with white stones, which was the ornament she wore most often.
“Hey, there, that was the first gift a client ever give me,” Audrey protested, but softly.
“Then it becomes even more perfect,” Luken said. “If you permit.”
He slid the blue ring onto her finger, and bent his head to kiss the knuckle before releasing her.
“There,” he said, with satisfaction. “It will be seen—and recognized—by those who care about such things. They will speculate, and speculation will become legend. It is well.”
Audrey looked at the ring, large even on her hand, and back to Grandfather.
“So I have melant’i now?”
Grandfather put his cup down so firmly it clicked against the table. He extended his hands and caught Ms. Audrey’s. He bent his head and kissed her fingers.
“My dear Audrey, you are a woman of the highest melant’i, whose every action is subtle and appropriate. Melant’i is not acquired; it is built. This . . .” He put his thumb over jo’Bern’s ring. “This . . . is a tribute, if you will allow it, to your melant’i, given by someone who has had the training to understand what it is that he had been privileged to see.”
“So?” She picked up her cup and sipped tea—and put the cup down.
“Luken,” she said.
“Yes.”
“May I give you a gift?”
Grandfather inclined his head.
“I would treasure a gift given by my dear friend.”
“Good.”
She picked up the white-stone ring from the center of the table. Luken extended his hand, and she placed it on the second finger of his right hand.
“The man who gave me this—he was a good man, too. We was going to get married, only what happened was that he got retired. Left enough money for me to open my own house.”
Luken bowed his head.
“I am honored.”
A bell rang, discreetly.
Audrey sighed, and slipped her hands away from Grandfather.
“This’ll be the troublemakers, coming in,” she said.
“Indeed, and punctual,” Luken agreed. He looked across the table to Quin and Villy.
“You must allow me to compliment your pairing,” he said, “for being both pleasing to the eye, and soothing to the sensibilities. Will you go on as you have been?”
Quin looked to Villy.
“Glad to have you, unless you have to be elsewhere,” Villy said.
“I am required at a meeting in my father’s place, but that is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Certainly, I am able to bear you company for another hour or two.”
Villy smiled, and the bell rang again. “Sounds like we’re on, then.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Warehouse District
Surebleak
Rista hadn’t wanted anything to do with it. She said so, pointing out to Mr. Neuhaus that she wasn’t no good in a fight, and she’d only be in the way. She’d offered to teach Kern or Valis how to read the instrument, and since they was only lookin’ for the door . . .
Mr. Neuhaus put his hand on her shoulder right about then, and squeezed a little more than was really comfortable. Rista figured she’d have bruises in the morning, and maybe no morning at all, if she didn’t stop talking right then.
So, she stopped talking and Mr. Neuhaus told her that all she had to do was verify it was the door they wanted; that there was space beneath their feet, and a lot of it. Once she’d done that, she could drop back and wait while the rest of them did what they’d come for.
“So, you’ll be coming along with us, won’t you, Rista?”
She’d swallowed and nodded.
“Yes, Mr. Neuhaus.”
Which is how she happened to be standing on the walk up in the haunted warehouses on a balmy summer night, taking the readings for a third time, so as not to make a mistake. Mr. Neuhaus didn’t like mistakes.
“Here,” she said. Her voice wavered, so she cleared her throat and said it again, taking care not to talk too loud. “It’s right here, beneath us.”
“All right,” said Mr. Neuhaus, and Jice walked up and made an X in shiny paint on the wall.
Mr. Neuhaus hadn’t been happy with the way the bidness at the farm’d turned out. ’Specially he didn’t like that Derik, Rosy and Mort’d all got took up by the Watch. The farm was cold, now. If the Syndicate was gonna have a hidden base of operations, like the Syndicate Bosses said they needed, this place right here under the warehouses was going to have to be it.
“All right,” Mr. Neuhaus said again. “According to the old plans, there’s a lift beyond the door, and a backup stair to the right. Once we’re in, first two go down the stairs, the rest of us will do the lift. Take position and target the lift door. Wait until the door opens! When I say shoot, you’re gonna shoot to kill.”
He paused, like he was looking at each and every one of them standing there in the dark.
“I bet my life that this job will be a success and the Syndicate will have its new headquarters in hand by midnight tonight.”
He stepped back, a big shadow against the rest of the shadows.
“Let’s get ’em outta there.”
Mike Golden was on his feet, gun in hand before he understood that he was awake.
He grabbed his pants and pulled them on, while he tried to remember what had—
A scream. Somebody in the house has screamed.
He dragged a sweater on, stamped into his boots and ran for the security station in the central hall. The lights came on as he ran, and a frantic voice yelling, “Mike! Mike!”
Silver.
Mike turned right at the hall, toward the stairs, instead of the station, and the boy flyi
ng down them, pants and sweater on, barefoot, face wild and wet.
“Mike!”
“Silver.” He caught the kid as he threw himself off the stairs, still six steps up. Caught him and dropped to his knees, keeping him in the circle of his arms.
“Silver. Easy. Tell me, quick and calm, right?”
The kid was strong, he twisted in Mike’s grasp, and almost broke free; Mike had to use more force than he liked to, wincing that he’d probably left bruises.
“We have to go, right now!” Silver shouted, like Mike was down the block, instead of trying to hold him.
“Go where, Silver? Why?”
“To the kompani, to Kezzi, to Kezzi and Malda! They’re out there and it smells like firestarter!”
Mike’s stomach flipped. Firestarter? Up in the old warehouses?
“Mr. Golden? Syl Vor?”
Nova yos’Galan had arrived, a fluffy robe enveloping her, gold hair done in a loose braid.
“He says somebody’s playing with firestarter up in the warehouses,” Mike said rapidly. “I’m thinking a nightmare.”
“Are you?” She knelt beside him and snatched Silver to her, holding him firmly by his shoulders. “Syl Vor! Wake up!”
But the kid was looking right at her, Mike saw, and his eyes were wide and dark.
“They have firestarter! We have to go, to go! Kezzi, Malda, Grandmother Silain. We have to go!”
“Indeed, my child, we shall send aid. Calm yourself.”
Nova extended a hand and cupped her son’s cheek.
“Call the Watch, Mr. Golden,” she said. “Someone is trying to smoke the Bedel out.”
He hesitated, and she raised her eyes to his.
“He is young for the onset, but it is not unknown.”
“He knows this?” Mike asked.
Nova nodded.
“He has Seen it. Yes. Call the Watch. Now.”
The fire burned with a bright, hard edge. Smoke roiled out of it in thick, acrid ribbons that filled the street, limiting visibility, as well as the ability to breathe.
The regular crew, they had breathers, and dark glasses, though Rista didn’t think the glasses were gonna do any good in the smoke.
