by Sharon Lee
Miri sighed and reached for her coffee mug. Change, and more change, and suddenly, everything'd be different.
All you could hope for, really, was that it'd be better, too.
* * *
The alley was less than a block long, ending in a noisome courtyard where two men were beating a third, with fists, feet and knees.
Val Con took cover behind a row of trash compactors, and surveyed the situation.
The third man had managed to stay out of the hands of his attackers, and seemed no stranger to fisticuffs. His problem lay in the fact that his two attackers were at least as skilled as he, and—they had him boxed against the wall.
Unless there was a diversion, or a rescue, it was only a matter of time before he would fall, and very likely be killed.
A diversion, thought Val Con, could easily be arranged.
He threw the compactor lid in a low, flat trajectory that struck the leg of the attacker on the right, knocking him sideways, off-balance, arms flailing. His partner spun, seeking the source of the threat—and fell as the victim lunged forward and landed a solid blow to the side of his head, before turning to deal with the one remaining.
Val Con waited no longer. It had not been his plan to become involved in the altercation itself, only to even the odds. Mission accomplished, he slipped out from his hiding place and ran, quick and silent, back up the alley. . .
. . .and very nearly into the arms of three persons blocking the way to the street. Two held pellet guns; the third showed a knife.
Val Con dove forward into a somersault, heard the sound of pellet-fire passing uncomfortably near, and snapped into a flip, boots striking the nearest gunman in the arm. There was a snap, a scream, a curse – and he was rolling again, pellets hitting the alley's 'crete surface. He twisted to his feet, reaching for the gun on his belt—
Someone shouted behind him, he half-turned, and saw the three late combatants surging forward, apparently now united in purpose. One was carrying the trash compactor's lid, which he skimmed across the alley's floor. Sparks jumped along its passage, but it was scarcely a threat.
A pellet whined, too close to his ear, he ducked, hopped over the thrown lid—and landed awkwardly, a stone rolling under the heel of his boot.
Several shots came from the front-guard, who were closing, now that reinforcements were to hand. He felt something strike the jacket, as he lost his footing entirely and hit the alley floor, rolling.
* * *
Miri was halfway across the office, mug in hand, when her ankle twisted, and she went down, rolling, gasping with the delayed realization that she'd taken a hit high in the chest. The familiar office space blurred, and for a split second she saw a crowded street, a confusion of bodies—and lost it even as she felt her fist connect with something that gave with a satisfying crack.
"Miri!" Jeeves' said sharply from the ceiling. "Do you require aid?"
"Not me," she lay flat on the rug, not trusting the ankle just yet. "Val Con—call McFarland, and the Watch. Six on one in Timber Alley, off Belair Road. Val Con's down, but he's still fighting."
* * *
His head hurt, and his chest; his hands, and his ankle. His pride—that hurt, too, possibly more than all the rest—though he hadn't bothered mentioning this to the medic.
Instead, Val Con had allowed himself to be treated; his hands wrapped, and the scalp wound staunched. The bruises on his chest each marked a pellet the jacket had stopped. His ankle, said the medic, wrapping it in a cold-pack, was possibly sprained, though it had not swollen so much that the boot had needed to be cut off.
That was fortunate; it was his favorite pair of boots.
While the medic worked, Val Con had answered such questions as had been put by the officer of the Watch. When those where done, and the woman had gone away, the medic told him to lie down and rest.
He had therefore stretched out, carefully, on the treatment couch, closed his eyes, and began a breathing sequence, which would—
"Ain't asleep are you?"
The voice was familiar to him—Cheever McFarland, his cousin Pat Rin's—that was to say, Boss Conrad's—head of security, who had arrived first on the scene of the. . .stupid situation he had gotten himself into. McFarland's handling of the matter had been efficient, and effective. When the Watch arrived, some minutes behind him, six neatly trussed people wearing 'bleaker motley had been waiting for them.
And one bruised, bleeding, and chagrined Liaden.
Who now opened one eye and looked up into McFarland's broad face.
"I am not sleeping. Tell me, were those people all local?"
"Well, now, that's what I wanted to talk to you about, particularly. They're so local, they're on first names with the Watch and Medic Svenz."
"It was opportunistic? They were waiting for anyone who came down the alley?"
"Be a long wait, most 'bleakers not being stupid enough to go toward a shout for help. Outworlders got less sense, so it might still might've been worth the trouble, but no, as it turns out, and according to Pan and Ruthie, independently, they was looking for you, specific."
He extended a long arm, snagged a chair, pulled it close to the couch and sat down.
"Not curious as to why?"
Val Con sighed.
"I am told it is equally likely that I will be killed for my jacket as for my boots."
McFarland tipped his head, his face taking on a thoughtful cast, as if he gave the question serious consideration.
"Maybe a little more likely for the jacket. Them boots are kinda small for your average 'bleaker, and they don't look like they'd be good in the snow."
"Thank you, Mr. McFarland. Your insights are always welcome."
The big man threw back his head and laughed.
"Sounded just like Boss Conrad, right there, and no mistake!"
"I hear that the family resemblance is strong," Val Con said sourly. "Indeed, the boss and I could be brothers."
Cheever, still grinning, shook his head.
"Could be, at that. In the meantime, you got reason to thank me that he ain't here himself to read you the riot act, after he just got through telling you all over again how you're gonna have to take on a couple 'hands, and let the street know you're a boss."
Val Con sighed.
"Indeed, I am grateful for your intervention. I believe that Miri will soon arrive with a song in the same key."
McFarland's grin faded a little.
"Yeah, you're on your own there. No percentage in gettin' between a man and his wife."
"Mr. McFarland, are you afraid of Miri?"
"Respectful, say. Now, listen up. The reason this crowd of do-no-goods set up their little play for you is—you got a price on your head, Boss. It's out on the street that there's two cantra in it for anybody who retires the Road Boss."
Val Con sat up, which did nothing good for his headache. He reached out and grabbed the big man's wrist.
"The Road Boss?" he repeated. "Is the target the Road Boss, Mr. McFarland, or is it Boss Conrad's little brother?"
McFarland blinked, then his mouth tightened.
"Gotcha. Word from Pan and Ruthie was the Road Boss. I'll check it."
"Thank you, Mr. McFarland."
"Shoulda thought of it, myself. The Road Boss is you and her."
"Yes, though some might consider it to be me or her."
"Right."
He levered himself out of the chair, and nodded.
"I'll get on that. Your lady oughta be here pretty soon to take you on up the house."
"Yes—Mr. McFarland, one more thing, if I may?"
"Yeah?"
"Who is offering this bounty?"
"Well, there the story goes a little off-center. Pan says it's Andy Mack set the price, which is plain and fancy nonsense. I'll check it, naturally, but he even told it like it was a lie. Might be he was threatened with mayhem, did he tell."
He shrugged.
"Whichever. Ruthie, now – Ruthie's brighter and gut
sier – and she says it's somebody named Festina—which the Watch seemed to make sense of. They're sending somebody along to talk to her."
"Is there a reason for Festina to wish the Road Boss dead?"
"Well, that's what's funny. Way I get it, Festina brokers jobs, and takes a piece of the action."
"So, there is some other person who wishes the Road Boss to be retired, and who has engaged Festina's services."
"That's it. The Watch is looking to get the name of her client."
"Ah. Please keep me informed."
"Will do. You rest, now."
He turned away. Val Con began to ease back down onto the couch—and paused on one elbow, as his ears caught the sound of familiar footsteps in the hall.
"'afternoon, Miri," McFarland said, just outside the door to the room.
"Hi, Cheever," his lifemate said. "He's awake?"
"Yeah."
She would, of course, know that he was awake, but it was what one said, to be polite. To seem like the vast number of others, who would never know the peculiar joy of a true lifemating. Val Con came gently back into a sitting position and folded his wrapped hands on his lap.
He heard Cheever McFarland's footsteps receding.
Miri's footsteps grew closer; shadows moved at the door, and she entered, Nelirikk at her back. The big man stopped just inside the door, facing the hallway. Miri continued across the room, walking deliberately.
Her face was neutral, much like the song of her that he heard in the back of his head. She sat down in the chair Cheever McFarland had lately vacated, and considered him out of calm grey eyes.
"You look a little rugged," she said eventually.
"Doubtless so. They have not offered me a mirror. However, I find that I am in complete agreement with you, Miri."
"Really. 'bout what, exactly?"
He smiled, feeling sore facial muscles protest.
"Pain hurts."
* * *
A soft chime sounded in his ear, growing steadily louder. Val Con opened his eyes with a sigh that was not entirely pleasure in the absence of pain. He swung his legs over the side of the autodoc, which satisfied the chime, and sat there, listening to Miri's song inside his head.
To his very great relief, she had not chosen to engage with him on the drive home, while he was yet off-balance, and she stood between fear and care.
Now, though. . .
Ah, yes. Now, she was in a fine, high, temper, and no mistake.
Well, and who could blame her? Certainly not her erring lifemate, who had thus far turned his face from both common-sense and her legitimate concerns, showing the flimsiest of excuses as his reasons.
Excuses that he had been allowed, just so long as he could support himself. Having failed most notably in that endeavor, and having also, to his shame, frightened her, he could expect a splendid row in his very immediate future.
She would want the truth, to which no one had a better right, and he would look the veriest lunatic, did he tell it to her.
And yet, he told himself kindly, she had known you for a lunatic when she married you.
There was, indeed, that.
And if he did not soon go to meet the tempest, he thought, gauging the impatience that was growing beside her anger, the tempest would assuredly come to him.
He slid to his feet and reached for the clean clothes that were neatly folded on the table beside the doc.
Best not to go ungirded into the fray.
* * *
Miri had taken a shower, and dressed—house clothes, a comfortable sweater and loose pants. The conversation she was going to have with Val Con—the conversation she shouldn't have let him dodge for months. . .It wasn't likely to be pleasant. She hated pushing him into a corner—insisting, but dammit, he could have been killed this morning, just as easy as stumbling on a stone. The jacket wasn't armor; space leather could be breached, and a shot to the head. . .
No, she told herself, taking a deep breath. Easy, Robertson; that didn't happen.
He hadn't gotten himself killed, not today. He'd been lucky—well, of course he'd been lucky. Came with the turf. Only sometimes, the Luck, like the family called it, wasn't real neat.
And sometimes it failed.
Another deep breath.
She'd felt him wake up out of the healing session, though he didn't seem to be in any hurry to get himself up to their suite. Not that she blamed him. He wasn't a dummy, despite today's evidence; he'd know he was in hot water, and he'd know she was done being easy on him.
Still, she thought, he could stir himself to hurry a little, so they could get this over with. She took a step toward the door. Stopped.
No. She was not going to him.
She turned, walked across the room, opened the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the balcony.
Let the man have a few minutes to collect his thoughts, she told herself, looking out over the inner garden.
Some of the flowers were still in bloom—the Tree's influence, both Val Con and the gardener swore. She wasn't inclined to argue; as far as she'd been able to determine, Korval's Tree lived to tinker: plants, micro-climates, cats, human beings—it didn't particularly matter what, only that whatever it was presented a challenge.
She crossed her arms on top of the railing and deliberately took a breath, drawing the warm—call it less chilly—scented air deep into her lungs.
Closing her eyes, she brought the Scout's rainbow to mind and worked through it more slowly than she was wont to do, seeking a balance between fear, anger, and what you might call necessity.
The air at her elbow moved; the railing shifted oh-so-slightly, as if someone else had come to lean next to her.
She opened her eyes, looking down at the garden, and the stone pathway all but overgrown with unruly greenery.
"So," she said, soft enough she might've been asking herself, "you ready to work with me on this?"
He sighed, and she tensed for another excuse.
"Yes," he said, sounding wry, and tired, and rueful.
She turned her head to look at him, and met his eyes, green, steady, and very serious. The last of her anger drained away.
"Good," she said, and pushed away from the rail.
"Come on inside; we'll have a glass of wine and talk about it."
* * *
"Knew it was a bad job when y'took it," Festina said, as she locked the door behind her, and slid the switch up on the loomerlamp. Slowly, light melted the shadows; a chair came up outta the dim, covered over with a fluffy blanket. Next to it, handy, was a cook-box, and under that was a cooler. Books on the table by the other side, anna 'mergency firestone right there in the center of the floor.
Cozy 'nough nest; and certain better'n the Watch's idee of overnight lodgins. Watch was lookin for her, natural-nough. Wasn't a force knowed to man'd keep Ruthie shutup. Pan, he'd lie, good boy that he was, but he'd never got the knack on it, though it was a hard thing to say 'bout her own blood.
So, anywhose. It was a couple days down in the den, which weren't so bad. Things'd die down; Watch'd get other worries; she'd gawn home and open back up for bidness.
Been a stupid thing, anywho, that job, she told herself, as she made sure o'the locks – good locks, all coded and modern, none o'your mechanicals with the spin dials all it needed was a wise way wit'a bolt cutter to solve. . .
So – stupid thing, takin' that job. Road Boss – you dint wanna retire the Road Boss. Not really, you dint, though on the face, it looked good for bidness.
She sat down in the chair, opened the cooler and pulled out a brew.
Problem was right there – what usetabe good for bidness. . .maybe wasn't anymore. Boss Conrad's sweep, the knockin' down o'the tollbooths, the openin' up o'the Road, all the way up an' down the whole of it –
Couldn't really argue those things was bad for bidness. You looked close, you saw it them changes might be good for bidness. Early days, big changes made, bigger changes comin – it could go either way, with a
ll that in the air. You wanted to be careful of it, somethin so big an' wibbly-wobbly. You dint wanna go breakin' what wasn't quite taken shape yet. Had to trust to it, though it went 'gainst the grain – had to trust the Bosses knew what they was aimin' at, and that it'd be more worse'n better if they missed.
"Shouldna taken the damn job," she muttered, cracking the seal and sipping the brew. "Couldn't turn away from the money, that was it. Slush f'brains, Festina Newark, that's what you got – slush f'brains."
Well, and it was always about the money for her. Two cantra – you dint turn down that kinda cash, not anybody she'd ever met. Not that anybody she'd ever met had ever really been offered that kinda cash. . .
So, anyways.
She leaned back in the chair and sipped.
They'd had 'er sign a paper – that was your Liadens for you, crazy 'bout their papers. Paper said she'd keep on tryin' 'til the Road Boss – that bein him or her, either one, 'cording to what was writ – was dead an proved. Festina figured the client, they'd thought one without the other was good as both dead. Herself, personally, she thought maybe one without t'other was more snow'n anybody could shovel, but it weren't her place, to be showin' the client their errors.
No help for it. Much as it'd hurt, she'd have to refund the money. Less the starter fee, 'course, girl hadda eat, and she'd paid out a little lite upfront to the six of 'em, so's to put some fire in their stoves.
Refund the money, that was it, tear up the paper. . .
An' don't be stupid again, Festina, she told herself sternly. You're too old a woman to be makin' that kinda mistake.
She sighed and sipped – and then froze, staring.
There came another knock at the door.
* * *
The Road Boss wasn't exactly doing a lot of business this morning. Despite the minutes of past meetings and the agendas for coming meetings all lined up neat on her screen and ready for review, Miri'd twice caught herself nodding off. That was the thing about sitting in an office all day. The home office was at least at home. She could take a break, walk in the garden – even go down to the gym for a quick dance of menfri'at, or a swim in the pool.
