CHAPTER TWELVE
THE YOUNG MAN in the alcove had never been happier in his life. Being endowed with a poetic cast of mind, he found that the conceit pleased him and set out to expand upon it as he sat next to the potted melekki tree, waiting for his beloved to appear.
Yes, life was a fine thing: pleasant slow days easing one by one into passionate nights filled with lovemaking, wine, and talk. Sylvia was a beautiful woman, loving, gentle, and giving. She was also quite wealthy—but that was hardly to be thought of. His feelings were such that they transcended mere finance.
There was a rustle from the back entrance to the alcove, and the young man smiled. The delightful creature was trying to sneak up on him! He eased out of his chair and turned to meet her.
The leaves shielding the back entrance parted and she stepped quietly through, right hand near her gun. “Hey, Murph. What’s new?”
The smile fled, and his eyes made a fair attempt to leave their sockets. “Sarge?”
Both brows rose and were hidden by her bangs. “You weren’t expecting me? I’m sure I wrote.” She tipped her head, gray eyes thoughtful. “You look good,” she said cordially. “Prosperous. No worries, either, huh? Sitting with your back to the door.”
“There’s more than one door,” he told her, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. “Besides, I heard you coming.”
She came another couple of paces into the alcove, and the look on her face was one he knew of old. He tightened his gut, determined to take his chewing-out like a trooper.
“You heard me coming, you stupid groundhog,” she said, dividing her attention between his face and the portion of the lobby she could see over his shoulder, “because I let you hear me coming! And if I wasn’t feeling softhearted today, you wouldn’t be around to jaw off any of your damn guff right now.” She pointed to the chair he had so lately quit. “Sit.”
He sat.
She hauled another chair around to where she could keep tabs on the lobby, Murph, and the back entrance, then eased down and laid her hand alongside the gun. Leaning back, she considered him silently until he began to sweat.
“Look, Sarge,” he began, thankful that his voice did not crack. “I’ve been meaning to make that bank transfer . . . .”
“Yeah?” she said interestedly. “Well, I’m glad to know you had such good intentions. Shows you had upbringing.” She absentmindedly caressed the butt of her gun with one finger. “Also shows you’re a thief, my man, ‘cause I still ain’t got my money.”
“I can explain—”
She held up a hand. “Is it very rude to point out that explanations buy no kynak?”
He licked his lips. “I’ll make the transfer.”
“Hey, you don’t have to do that,” she said reasonably. “Now I’m here, you can just give it to me in cash.”
“Cash?” This time his voice did crack.
“Cash.”
“Sarge, I don’t have that much cash on me.” He was beginning to feel desperate, as well as trapped.
“No? Too bad. How much do you have on you?”
“About four hundred fifty bits.” It was useless to lie to her; he had learned that lesson well. “Most of it’s in the room.”
There was a short silence. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll take the four-fifty in cash and the rest in trade.” She held out a tiny hand, palm up. “Earrings.”
“What? Sarge, look, come with me to the room, I’ll give you the cash I’ve got and call in the transfer for the balance, okay?”
She sighed deeply, regretfully. He swallowed hard.
“Angus,” she said earnestly, “don’t push your luck.” She motioned with the outstretched hand. “Earrings. Now.”
He slowly slid the hoops out of his ears and laid them gently in her palm. She closed her fingers around them, her gray eyes moving down his person. Murph made a convulsive movement with his hand, trying to hide the ring in the clench of his fist.
Her eyes caught on the movement; she nodded and extended her hand. “Ring.”
“Dammit, Sarge—” he started.
She raised her eyes to his.
He gulped and began again, more quietly. “Look, not the ring, okay? It was a gift from my—from Sylvia.” She did not look impressed. “Look, it’s my troth ring—more sentimental value than pawn value.”
The outheld hand did not waver. “Here’s the deal, Angus: I get the ring; you get to live long enough to enjoy the girl. Give.”
Tears standing in his eyes, he pulled it from his finger and laid it in her palm.
Her brows rose at the weight of it. “Platinum set with ponget and sapphire? Some sentiment.” The ring vanished the way of the ear hoops as she continued her inventory of his person.
“Let’s see . . . .”
THE CLOCK IN the lobby indicated that it was somewhat later than mid-afternoon. Val Con summoned a lift, rode to the third floor, and entered the common room by the hall door, braced for a blast of bad temper.
His brothers were seated in a loose ring in the center of the room, the sonorous phrases of their native tongue striking him with the force of thunder overhead as he closed the door.
Edger raised a hand to acknowledge his presence, but did not otherwise interrupt the flow of his speech. The low table to one side of the group supported heroic amounts of fruit and beer, as well as a new wheel of cheese and an unopened bottle of wine.
Miri was not in the common area. The door to her bedroom was closed.
He felt a slight prickle at the back of his scalp and wandered over to the door. Unlocked. He crossed the threshold cautiously.
The bed had been made and the room was professionally tidy, devoid of Miri. Likewise the bathroom. He left the room rapidly and made a whirlwind search of the rest of the suite, though he was already certain she was not within. The prickle at the back of his head had become full alarm.
Back in the common room, he approached the grouped Clutch and stood before Edger to make the obeisance that indicated he had urgent need to speak.
Edger responded with a flutter of the hand that told his brother that he would be heard next. There was nothing for it but to bow thanks and move away.
Choosing a piece of fruit and a chunk of crumbly golden cheese, Val Con hoisted himself to the edge of a higher table on the outskirts of the group and settled to wait his turn with what patience he could recruit, feet swinging above the floor.
SYLVIA SMILED AT the young man and inclined her head as she passed by. She knew she was in her best looks, and knew that the costume she wore enhanced those looks. No assembly-line dresses out of the valet for her! This dress had been custom-made by an artist, and every line proclaimed it.
She paused to scan the lobby for the tall, athletic form of her betrothed, very nearly missing him in the alcove of greenery in which he sat. Smiling, she started across to him, then, seeing that he was not alone, she paused in the shelter of a pillar to study the situation.
His companion was a tiny woman, dressed in what seemed to be well-used leather clothing of the sort worn by laborers on space vessels or mercenary soldiers. Her hair was red, braided and wrapped around her head like a gaudy copper crown.
Angus had been a mercenary, Sylvia remembered; it had been a brief episode during his late adolescence. He had mentioned no friends from that period of his life, but perhaps this small person was such a one? Sylvia made as if to continue on her way, determined to be gracious to her fiancé’s uncouth acquaintance.
Angus pulled the chain from around his neck and handed it to the small woman, who dropped it into her pouch.
Sylvia froze.
Angus was being robbed!
Outrage rose in Sylvia’s breast. No one robbed her or hers. It was not done. Obviously, this small person badly desired a lesson in etiquette.
She stayed a moment longer, committing every detail of the woman’s attire and person to memory, then turned on her heel and marched to the bank of public comms on the far side of the lobby.
She reversed the charges, since she never carried change, and punched in the code for her father’s private office line.
His aide answered the summons immediately, inclining his head slightly as he recognized her.
“Hello, Matthew,” she said, always gracious. “Please let me speak to my father instantly. It is quite important.”
“Of course, Ms. Hostro.”
“OK, Intaglia, take your group down to the entertainment level—I want the exits and the lift bank watched.
“Kornblatt, get this lobby cordoned off—I want somebody on the central comm station and somebody else on central power.
“Smith, you and me and this bunch here are gonna watch the lobby lift bank. Remember, now, all of you! These are highly dangerous individuals. We would prefer to have them alive, but shoot to kill if you have to. Stations!”
“Well, younger brother, I am pleased you have returned. This my brother has been describing your artistry in obtaining a vehicle, making it yet seem that you had not obtained it. Genius. You are an artist such as the worlds have not before known.”
“You are very kind,” the object of this praise murmured, brushing cheese crumbs from his fingers. He leaned forward. “Edger. Where is Miri?”
The T’carais took a moment to consider it. “I do not know, brother. She spoke of business to be resolved. Other than this . . . ” He moved his massive head from side to side.
“We walked together earlier in the day,” he said, “and spoke of things of importance to us. She was very surprised to find that she had been wedded to you, my brother.”
Val Con froze, and the look of naked shock on his face would have surely earned a crow of laughter from Miri, had she been present. He took a deep breath. “So she might be,” he agreed, though his voice was not perfectly even.
Sheather glanced up from his contemplation of the carpet on which he sat. “We wished only to increase joy when it seemed, last night, that you had knife-wed our sister. True, you had not said to us that you would do this thing, but we know humans to be hasty, and our eldest brother would have it that you could very well be so absentminded as to not inform your brothers, were you planning another of your compositions. Did we do ill, brother?”
He wet his lips, odds running in his head. “Yes,” he said, “I am afraid that you have done ill.”
“It sorrows me,” Sheather said. “May we inquire how we have done so?”
There was a longish pause, during which Val Con banished the tickertape of calculations running before his inner eye. He sighed.
“It is very complicated, brother. Most of the ill would have been done when you hailed her as my mate. She fears me and this will have made her more afraid. It may, however, be mended.”
“She fears you, brother?” This was Handler, but Val Con had turned back to the eldest of them all.
“Edger, please tell me when Miri left you and exactly what she said.”
Edger blinked his huge eyes. “It was three of the clock when I entered the lobby of this hyatt, the youngest of my sisters having left me at the door but a breath earlier. Her words are in answer to my query of when she might return to us. She said: ‘In a little while, I think. Nothing complicated, but it’s gotta be taken care of.’ Thus did we part company.”
He let the breath he had been holding go: The odds were slim that she would lie to Edger. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “All right. But it is now five of the clock and she is not returned.”
“It means only that her business has taken longer than she had anticipated,” Edger rumbled.
Val Con opened his eyes. “So I hope, as well.” He slid from the table and bowed deeply.
“Speak,” Edger commanded.
“I would that you forgive my hastiness, brother. It is not thus that I would behave.” He held his hands out, palms up. “Events unforeseen have entered the situation and it may mean that your ship, indeed, will be required to serve us. Is all in readiness? If the need is upon us, could we embark and depart this very night?”
“He Who Watches has been told to expect you, alone; with the youngest of my sisters; or my sister, alone. All is in readiness for you. There is food in plenty and of a kind nourishing to humans. There are books in many languages, as well as several kinds of musical instruments.”
“You are kind. It saddens me that I must ask further.”
“Speak,” Edger commanded once more, large eyes glowing on his young brother’s face.
“I go now to seek out the youngest of your sisters. Should it befall that she returns here while I am gone, pray tell her all that has transpired between us at this meeting and ask that she bide until six of the clock. Have I not returned by this time, she must go to the parking lot at Pence Street and Celeste and look for the red car. This vehicle she may enter by encoding ‘615’ in the lock. She must change the color from red immediately and go to the nearest shuttle port. She must stop for nothing. Once on station, she must seek out your ship and depart.” He bit his lip and closed his inner eye on the equation that denied it. “Say that I have computed the odds and that they are not good. But say also that she is a person with luck and, if she is wily and careful, all will be well.”
“I will say these things to my sister,” Edger promised. “Shall I say also that this last you do not believe?”
Val Con drew a breath. “Brother, I pray you will not. It is a matter of human definition—truth of another order.”
“I understand, and all will be done as you have instructed. The name of our ship is—but you are in haste. Remember only that it is at Dock 327, Level F.”
“Brother, I cannot say how the greatness of your heart makes glad my own.” He bowed to Edger, then to the rest of the silent Clutch. “Gather much wisdom, oh, my brothers, and use what you have gathered well.”
“A long life to you, young brother, and much joy in it,” Edger replied, releasing him.
Val Con moved, not running, but quickly, the door opening and shutting like a conjuring trick—then he was gone.
Edger turned back to his kin, motioning that Selector should pour him a beaker of beer. “Our brother,” he said, taking a draft, “is a very great artist.”
JUSTIN HOSTRO NODDED. “Yes, I see. A happy circumstance, Sylvia, though I am sure it is very sad that she has chosen to rob your friend . . . .” He let his voice fade out as he glanced down at his desk and shifted papers. His daughter, used to his ways, held her tongue and waited with what grace she could muster.
He looked up again, smiling faintly. “Sylvia, my dear, I shall be sending a group of my associates to your hyatt to escort this lady to my office. In the meantime, please do me the favor of keeping her—available.”
Her perfect brows twitched together. “Available, Daddy?”
He moved a hand, banishing details. “Available. Buy her a drink, invite her to your room, seduce her—but keep her in that hyatt for twenty minutes more. Then you may let her go. Understand?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He smiled. “Good. You and your friend are still planning to dine with me this evening, are you not?”
“Of course,” she said, surprised.
He nodded. “Till then, my dear . . . Oh, and Sylvia—”
She paused with her hand on the disconnect. “Yes, Daddy?”
“Do be careful, dear. The lady in question has rather an—uncertain—temper, I fear. You don’t want to make her angry with you.” He smiled again and cut the connection.
Sighing, Sylvia left the booth and started back across the lobby.
VAL CON SUMMONED a lift, thinking hard. She would have gone across the street to Murph’s hyatt, of course. To wait? Or had she arranged to meet him? The lift’s door swished open and he entered, directing it to the lobby.
When the lift stopped, bell dinging, the door slid away and he took two steps out.
“There he is!” yelled a voice that had become all too familiar.
Val Con froze, his gaze flicking over the crowd of carefully placed individuals. Too many had guns. Far too many were pointing them at him. Directly before him stood Peter Smith.
In the charged silence, he heard the safety click off on Pete’s gun.
He kicked, spinning as his foot connected with Pete’s hand, diving back toward the open lift. A pellet whined past his shoulder as he hit the floor and rolled the rest of the distance. Another got through the doors before he had ordered them closed and slapped the ‘rise’ button.
At the fifteenth floor, he stopped, wedged the door open with a Terran half-bit, ran to the summons box, and demanded more lifts.
Three came immediately—one discharging a middle-aged couple who walked hand-in-hand down the hall, never seeing the slight young man who slid behind them and wedged open the lift’s door.
Four out of seven lifts accounted for and the odds were nigh on to perfect that the three remaining were going to be bringing him lots of company in just a little while.
Well, then, what next? Into a room and out the window? He grimaced. From the fifteenth floor, with people no doubt shooting from below? No need to calculate that one.
Down the service ramp? If there was one. He had not committed every detail of this building to memory, more the fool he. He’d allowed himself to believe that he was secure, protected from harm by Edger’s reassuring bulk.
He shook his head. It would have to be back the way he’d come then, striking for the Grotto and its dozen or so exits.
He spun slowly on his heel, surveying the empty hallway. Surely there must be something to aid him? Memory stirred after a moment and he moved off to the right, down a short dead-end hallway.
The cleaning station was locked, but that was easily remedied; he made his choices quickly, ears cocked for the sound of an elevator arriving on the floor, wishing he had a partner with eyes on that lift bank.
Gathering up his collection of bottles and paper, he went back to the lifts, leaving the door to the station unlocked and swinging gently to and fro.
THEY WERE LEAVING the alcove as she came near, and she could see Angus’s shoulders drooping in depression. The little woman kept up with his pace easily, silent in her leather boots.
Hidden by an ivy-covered pillar, Sylvia watched them cross the lobby to the lift bank. When they claimed their car she followed and stood watching the floor indicator. Fourth floor—back to their rooms! The little bitch wasn’t satisfied with taking what he had on him; she wanted more.
Shaking with rage, Sylvia summoned a lift.
VAL CON FROWNED at the telltale. For reasons best known to the police, the three elevators not currently with him were grounded—two at lobby level and one at the Grotto. He had a theory regarding this maneuver, but it bore checking out.
Wadding paper into a tight roll, he soaked it with alcohol and touched it with flame. It flickered and caught, smoking nicely.
Gingerly, he tossed it into the first of four elevators and unwedged the door.
MURPH SIGHED as the door to his room slid back. He sighed again, more deeply, as he went to the desk and inserted his finger in the lock. A drawer made a sudden dimple in the smooth plastic side, and Murph removed from it a money pouch, which he offered to the woman at his side.
She nodded at the desk. “Count it. I know you got the best intentions going, but your memory’s rotten, my man.”
He did as he was told, unsealing the pouch with a jerk and upending it over the desk. Bits rolled and clicked; one escaped to the floor.
Irritably, he bent and captured it, adding it to the first stack of ten.
There was a sound at the door.
Murph looked up as the panel slid back and his fiancée entered, lithe and elegant and high-colored in an evening dress picked out with gemstones. He was on his way to embrace her when he heard the unmistakable sound of a safety being thumbed off.
Sylvia froze, eyes wide, nostrils slightly distended.
Murph spun. “C’mon, Sarge, what d’ya think, she’s got a bomb in her pocket?”
Eyes on the woman at the door, Miri shook her head. “Finish counting, Angus.” She motioned slightly with the gun, indicating that Sylvia should close the door.
“Nice dress,” she said, when this was done. “Me and Murph’re just finishing up some business. Shouldn’t be more’n a few minutes, now, and then I’ll be gone and you two can comfort each other.”
Sylvia swallowed, decided to ignore the gun, and turned her attention to her beloved, who was completing the last stack of coins.
“Four fifty-seven fifty,” he said, straightening.
The woman with the gun spared a brief glance at the piled cash and nodded, eyes back on Sylvia. “Fine. Back in the pouch.”
“Angus,” Sylvia demanded in throbbing accents, “is this woman robbing you?”
“Robbing?” the woman in question repeated. “Not at all. Murph owes me money—his severance from the Mercs, plus interest, like we agreed when I made him the loan. He’s been a little backward about paying, but I think we’re all right and tight now, don’t you, Murph?”
Angus held the refilled pouch out to her. “I still think it’d be better if you let me call in the transfer, Sarge, rather than taking all that jewelry. You’re not going to get half what it’s worth—”
“But I’ll get it now,” she cut him off, sliding the moneybag into her pouch. “And I need it now! Hard cash—not a bank note I might not be able to collect on for awhile.” She spared him a withering gray glance.
“I had money for you when you needed it, you miserable cashsutas! I don’t wanna hear any bellyaching about paying me what’s owed when I need it.” She moved her gun, infinitesimally. “Out of the way, honey.”
Sylvia licked her lips and stayed put. “But, Sergeant—it is Sergeant, isn’t it?—if it’s cash you want, I have some with me, as well.” She smiled her most winning smile.
“At least let me buy Angus’s ring back.”