THE BARGRILL WAS near the shuttleport, a smoky, noisy place crowded with grease-apes, shuttle-toughs, fuelies, and any number of local street-livers. Two women played guitars, providing music of the driving, inane variety and eating and drinking their wages between sets.
The red-haired woman settled a little more comfortably against the wall, hands curved around a warmish mug of local coffeetoot, watching her companion watch the crowd. They had arrived here via the appropriation of three robot cabs, as well as several private cars. As self-appointed lookout, she was sure they'd lost their pursuers, but apparently the man beside her was taking no chances.
"Now," he murmured, eyes on the room, "you may begin by telling me your name, and continue down the list."
She was silent, drinking 'toot, and he turned to look at her, his face smooth, green eyes expressionless. She sighed and looked away.
Two fuelies were rolling dice at a corner table. She watched the throw absently, automatically counting the sides as they flashed.
"Robertson," she said in a cracking whisper. She cleared her throat. "Miri Robertson. Retired mercenary soldier; unemployed bodyguard." She flicked her eyes back to his face. "Sorry 'bout the bother." Then she paused and sighed again, because this was much harder to say—something she did not say often. "Thanks for the help. I needed it."
"So it seemed," he agreed in his accentless Terran. "Who wishes you dead?"
She waved a hand. "Lots of people, it seems."
The green eyes were back on hers. "No."
"No?"
A muscle twitched near the corner of his mouth. He stilled it and resumed his constant survey of the bar.
"No," he said softly. "You are not stupid. I am not stupid. Hence you must find another way to lie to me. Or," he added, as one being fair, "you might tell the truth."
"Now why would I do that?" she wondered and drank some more of the dreadful 'toot.
He sighed. "You owe me a debt, I think?"
"I knew you were gonna bring that up! You can forget that stuff right now, spacer. You're the Liaden in this skit. Terrans don't count coup."
She almost missed his start; she snapped her eyes to his face, only to find him expressionless, watching the patrons of the bar.
"What?" she demanded.
"It's nothing." He shifted his shoulders against the wall. "A better reason, then. Whoever wishes to kill you most likely has us linked by now, and so hunts us both. Is my new enemy one individual with the means to buy service? Or a group, most of whom we have dispatched already? Can I safely go off-planet, or will I find assassins around my Clan fire when I return home?" He paused. "Your danger is my danger. Your information may save my life. I wish to stay alive. It is dishonorable for a soldier not to know the enemy!" He turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow askance. "Is that reason sufficient?"
"Sufficient." She drank off the rest of the 'toot and set the mug on the table. Eyes on the cracked blue plastic, she resettled against the wall.
"Half a Standard ago I left the Merc," she began, voice perfectly even. "Felt like I wanted to settle down, I guess, learn about one world ... relax.... Got a job as a bodyguard on this place called Naome. Lot of rich paranoid types go there to retire. All of 'em got bodyguards. Status symbol.
"Anyhow, I was hired the third day on the Lists by a man who called himself Baldwin. Sire Baldwin. Paid me three months in advance. To demonstrate good faith." She shook her head.
"He needed help, okay. I worked for him five—six local months. Used to wonder once in awhile what he used to do that made him need so much protection now...."
She let her voice drift off as the waiter came and refilled the cups, hers with more 'toot, Val Con's with tea.
"And?" he prompted as soon as the waiter was away.
She shrugged. "Turned out Sire Baldwin had been somebody else before. Somebody who'd worked for the Juntavas. You savvy the Juntavas, tough guy?"
"Interplanetary crime net," he murmured, eyes on the room. "Drugs, gambling, prostitution, contraband." He flicked his eyes to her face. "Bad trouble."
"You're the one wanted to know."
"Yes. What happened next?"
"He got tired of the work, I guess. Resigned without paying his severance money. Took some cash and some confidential info—guess a man's gotta eat...."
"It was the people from his old unit I'd been protecting him from. They'd tracked him down and were asking for 'restitution.'" She took a swallow of 'toot that she didn't want, then shook her head.
"Baldwin told 'em to come ahead, that he was tired of hiding out and wanted to make everything square. He invited 'em to come to the house on Naome."
She paused, staring into the depths of the mug.
The pause lengthened. Stifling an impulse to touch her shoulder, Val Con tried a soft "And?" When a second "And?" brought no response, he snapped his voice like fingers in her face.
"Miri!"
She started and looked at him, face wry. "It was a doublecross. A bamboozle. Baldwin called the house staff together, from the cook to the upstairs maid. Told us we were being invaded. That we'd have to fight.
"The whole staff fought—and most of 'em had never carried a gun before! We refused Baldwin's buddies entrance, and when they insisted, we insisted right back. Bad, seeing untrained people fight that way ... When it was sure we couldn't hold it, I went off loyally looking for my boss so I could perform my last duty—I was his bodyguard, wasn't I?" She shrugged and drank some 'toot.
Val Con looked at her.
"Don't you see? Gone. Bolted. Flew the coop. Left us to fight and die. I think five of us got away. Means fourteen didn't. Gardener didn't. Maids didn't. Cook—I don't know. He looked pretty bad, last time I saw him." She moved her shoulders again in a gesture that was not quite a shrug.
"Don't know who else they might've tracked down, but I was his bodyguard, all legal and certified and recorded. Took 'em about two hours to get on my trail."
She looked hard at nothing for a couple of minutes, then took another slug of her drink. "I came here 'cause there's a man who owes me money and a friend who's keeping some—things—for me. I better take everything. Not sure I'll get back in this Quarter again...."
The man beside her was quiet. She relaxed deliberately, her thoughts touching people she'd known as she sipped the 'toot for something to do and wondered where she might spend the night, now that she had one to spend.
The bench creaked, and she looked up into decisive green eyes.
"You come with me," he said in the tone of someone who has weighed odds and reached a decision.
"I do what?"
He was fishing in his pouch. "You come with me. You will need new papers, a new name, a new face. These will be provided." He raised a hand to cut off protest.
"Liadens count coup, remember? The debt runs in two directions."
He scattered a handful of Terran bits on the table to pay for the meal, then rose and moved off, not waiting to see if she followed.
After a moment, she did.
THE CAB DEPOSITED them before a modestly lit whitestone building in the affluent side of town. The door to the lobby swung open on silent hinges, and Val Con moved across a wilderness of Percanian carpet, his reflection keeping pace in the mirrored walls.
Miri paused just inside the door, mistrusting the light. Cursing herself for more of a fool, she set off across the carpet and arrived at her companion's shoulder as he removed his finger from the keyslot and said "Connor Phillips" into the receptionist's mike.
The desk hummed as a slot slid open and a large, ornate key emerged. Val Con crooked his left index finger in the loop and half-smiled at her.
"Two floors up," he murmured, moving toward the bank of sliding doors.
Miri trailed by half a pace, letting him summon the lift, enter it before her, and exit the same way when it stopped.
This hall was somewhat dimmer than the lobby and he paused, listening, she thought, before moving on. His head swung to the left and to the right, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as he used the ridiculous key on the second door on the left.
The door sighed open and lights came up in the room beyond as they stepped through. Miri stopped just over the threshold, hand dropping to her gun.
The door sighed shut behind her.
Halfway into the room, the man turned to look at her, one eyebrow raised, empty palms up. "I won't hurt you." He dropped his hands. "I'm too tired."
She stayed where she was, surveying the room.
Before her, a large double window showed the city night; a pillowed couch sat to one side, opposite two soft chairs and a table. To her right was an omnichora, its keyboard covered against dust. Beyond that, surrounding a closed door, were floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with tape boxes, and a comm unit—an oasis of practicality.
To her left were more shelves, filled with tape boxes interrupted here and there with figurines and bric-a-brac. Beyond the unit bar and its two upholstered stools was another closed door, and past that, through an elliptical archway, she caught the shine of kitchen tile.
"Pretty fancy for a cargo master."
He shrugged. "It was a profitable ship."
"Um." She gestured vaguely behind her. "That the only way out?"
He tipped his head at the windows, moved to the right, pulled open the door, and waved her inside.
A bedroom—with a sleeping platform adequate for the demands of a small orgy—connected to a bathroom that included wet and dry cleaning options and a valet for care of clothes. There were no windows.
She stepped out and the man guided her across the central room to the second door and a suite that was a mirror twin to the right-hand bedroom.
In the kitchen there was a small, high window, and another door.
"Beyond is a service corridor, which empties into another, which ends in a staircase, which—"
"Gets me to the cellar?" she guessed.
He smiled, moving back into the big room. "Would you like something to drink?"
"Would I. And then a shower. And then about twelve hours' sleep. Or maybe sleep and then shower—kynak," she said to his lifted brows, naming the mercenary soldier's drink.
He frowned at the display. "The bar appears to be understocked," he apologized. "I can offer Terran Scotch?"
"Scotch?" she repeated, voice keying upward.
He nodded, and she sat gently on one of the stools.
"Scotch'll be fine," she told him. "Don't put ice in it. A religious experience shouldn't be diluted."
He punched the button, then handed her a heavy glass half full of amber liquid.
Eyes closed, she sipped—and was utterly still before exhaling a sigh of soul-satisfaction.
Val Con grinned and punched in his own selection.
"What's that?" Her eyes were open again.
He swirled the pale blue liquid in the delicately-stemmed goblet. "Altanian wine—misravot."
"Limited selection on this model, ain't it?"
"It's not so bad, for a rental unit."
"Well," she conceded, playing it straight, "but when you go to buy, remember it's things like these cut-rate bars they try to stick you with every time. Put 'deluxe' on it in gold letters and stock it with grain alcohol."
"I will remember," he promised solemnly, moving around the bar and heading for the window. He stopped before he got there, settling instead into a corner of the couch and nearly sighing as the cushions molded themselves to his body. He sipped wine and did sigh. His head hurt abominably.
Miri moved behind him. He let his head fall back on the cushion. Glass in hand, she bypassed the couch at a cautious distance, circled the chairs, and approached the window from the side. Standing back, she looked out at the street, now and then tossing Scotch down her throat with well-practiced smoothness.
Tired, he thought suddenly. No way to know how long she's been running. And I'm too tired for any more questions. He half-closed his eyes. The effort of trusting another person was not best made in the teeth of headaches and exhaustion.
She turned from the window, surprise flickering over her face as she saw him lounging half-asleep on the cushions, long lashes shielding green eyes, throat exposed.
She sees me vulnerable, he thought, and the phrase struck something within his aching skull. He moved his head and opened his eyes.
"I'm beat," she said quietly. "Where's to sleep?"
He waved a hand. "Choose."
After a moment, she nodded and went off to the right. As she reached the bedroom door, she turned back to look at him.
"Good night." She was gone before he could reply.
He sighed as the door closed, and took a deeper sip of wine. He should go to sleep, as well.
Instead, he snapped to his feet and moved to the window as a free man would, gazing out as if he were safe and had no enemies to watch for.
The street was brightly lit and empty; a fledgling breeze tossed an occasional bit of plastic trash about.
It's good, he thought, that this place has not been found. I need a rest, need not to be O'Grady or Phillips or whoever. I need time to be—me.
He raised a hand to comb fingers through the lock that fell across his forehead, and in a moment of aching clarity recognized the gesture as one of his own. Unexpectedly, the Loop loomed in his vision, blocking out the street before him. CMS was .96. CPS flickered and danced, then flashed a solid .89 the instant before it faded away.
He swallowed wine and again stroked hair away from his eyes. Val Con yos'Phelium, Clan Korval; adopted of the Clan of Middle River.... He thought every syllable of his Middle River name, as if it were a charm to hold thoughts at bay.
The face of Terrence O'Grady's wife intruded, sharpening and fading to the echo of the battering music from the bar he and Miri Robertson had been in.
He drank the rest of the wine in a snap that did it no justice. How many faces had he memorized, how many men had he been, in the last three Standards? How many gestures had he learned and then cast off, along with the names and faces of lovers, parents, children, and pets?
How many people had he killed?
He tuned sharply from the window, moving blindly across the room, seeking the omnichora.
The light on the keyboard came up as he touched the pressure plate. He found the echo of the bar music in his head, picked it up in his fingers, and threw it into the 'chora with a will, driving out the face of the woman who was not his wife and replacing it with the vision of the song.
His fingers fluttered up and down the scales an instant, then found the harsh beat again and filled the room with it, the sound echoing in his throbbing head. His hands fumbled, then recovered. He captured the rhythm with his right hand and began to weave melody around it with his left. He increased the tempo, found a suggestion of an older rhythm, moved into that there....
His right hand left the beat for a moment, switching stops and ranges, intensifying sound. The images drew back from him. The names of the dead he'd known and the faces of those who'd died nameless lay back down, battered into restless submission, into uneasy sleep, by the force of the music.
There came another recognition, almost lost in the music's swirl: this was a talent that belonged to Val Con yos'Phelium, learned and nurtured from joy, not from need.
The driving beats slowed into others; he played what his fingers found and realized that he was playing a lament from a planet he had visited in his early Scouting days. He added to it; he dropped it to its sparest bones, and slowed it even more. He reached an end of it and found that his hands had stopped.
The sound remained in the room for a few moments more as the 'chora slowly let the dirge go, then he dropped his head against the stopfascia, drained. Emotionless.
Bed, he thought with crystal clarity. Rest. Go now.
He stood and she was there, the stranger who had saved his life, standing at the open door to the bedroom, red hair loose, vest and gun gone, shirt unlaced. Her gray eyes regarded him straightly. He did not recognize the expression on her face.
She bowed slightly, hands together in the Terran mode.
"Thank you," she said, and bowed again, turning quickly to enter her room.
"You're welcome," he said, but the door was closed.
He walked carefully across the room to the second closed door. He did not remember passing through or lying down to sleep.