Street Cred
Just like in Real Life, the people who populate the Liaden Universe® have to live with the consequences of their actions; in many cases they’ve built the situations they’re in not through the machinations of their authors, but out of their own necessities. “Street Cred” takes place on Surebleak after Korval’s relocation; and it takes a look at what happens when the Rule of Contract meets the Rule of Justice on a back world where everyone is armed, or should be.
****
Val Con yos’Phelium leaned back in his chair and sighed.
It was his day to address such business as demanded attention from Delm Korval, while Miri his lifemate minded the Road Boss’s office in Surebleak Port, answering what questions and concerns as citizens might have regarding the Port Road and its keeping.
The Surebleak Port Road having only recently acquired a Boss, they were yet an object of curiosity, and the office on-port was busy enough. It might be, later, that the presence of the Boss her-or-himself could be dispensed with, in favor of a proxy. He could find it in himself to hope so. His thoughts lately had been turning to ships, and lifts, the simplicity of Jump, and the charms of planets which were not Surebleak, Clan Korval’s new home.
He was a pilot from a long line of pilots, trained as a scout, and far better suited to flying courier than to administration. It would be . . . a pity if he were never to lift again.
Which was, of course, boredom speaking, or self-pity. Or, more likely, an aversion to duty. Courier pilot had never been his destiny; and he would fly again, soon enough. But first, Surebleak required finer sorting; and Korval needed to find its feet on their strange new homeworld.
Which meant, among other matters, revisioning Clan Korval.
The bonds of kinship were as strong as they had been in his lifetime, though the individual clan members numbered so few that it seemed they must, eventually, marry into another situation, in order to survive. In fact, such an offer had only recently been made to him, as the Delm Genetic. He had . . . not quite said no, which was only prudence. Now was not a time to close doors suddenly found open, nor for relying too heavily upon the wisdoms of the past.
More pressing than kin-ties at the moment, however, were the clan’s finances.
Clan Korval did business under half-a-dozen trade names, and while it was true that they remained a force in the markets, it was also true that they were now a lesser force. Formal banishment from Liad, their previous homeworld, had cost them trade partners, allies, and goodwill. It had been expensive to remove all of their goods, and themselves, to Surebleak; nor was their new home port nearly so conveniently situated as their former address.
Shan yos’Galan, the clan’s master trader, was off-planet even now, seeking to establish a new main route, and coincidentally, reverse Korval’s faltering finances. No small task—perhaps, indeed, an impossible task—but when Val Con had tried to express his regret at placing such a burden upon Shan’s knees, his cha’leket had laughed aloud.
“You’ve asked me to develop new outlets, negotiate partnerships, build viable routes, and earn us a profit! Tell me, denubia, what is it that you think master traders do?”
So. Shan was off-planet even now, doing those things that master traders did, for the good of clan and kin.
In the meantime, Shan’s delm wrestled with various knotty problems of their own, such as Korval’s relationship with Liaden society: specifically, the Liaden Council of Clans.
As part of the Contract of Banishment, the Council, speaking for all Liaden clans, had agreed that expulsion from the planet would constitute full and complete Balance for Korval’s crimes against the homeworld. The contract had stipulated that there would be no personal Balances launched against individual members of the clan, or against Korval entire.
The Council of Clans had agreed to this; and each one of its member delms had signed the contract, which included a guarantee that they would educate the members of their clans regarding the contract, and its terms, and make it clear that no further Balance was appropriate.
Unfortunately, it seemed that the delms, or the Council, had not been as assiduous in education as they might have been. Balance had been brought against one of Korval, in violation of the terms of the contract. Young Quin had escaped harm, though the person who had sought to Balance the death of her heir had sustained a wound to her shoulder.
And all involved were fortunate that the attempt had not met with success.
Failure though it had been, it had also been against the terms of the contract, which stipulated that any breach, or seeming breach, be met with a formal inquiry.
Therefore, Korval’s qe’andra, Ms. dea’Gauss, had contacted her firm’s headquarters on Liad. The formal inquiry had been drafted by the senior partners there, and reviewed by the Accountant’s Guild’s protocol committee. The qe’andra, and Korval, wished to know if the Council was aware of the violation, and, now that it had been informed, what its next step would be.
Instead of immediately taking up this rather straightforward matter, the Council had—not tabled it. No, the Council had not even entered the inquiry into the agenda.
That they would refuse to even discuss the matter; that they risked offending the Accountant’s Guild, one of the most powerful on Liad . . .
These things were not comforting to the delm of a small clan seeking to establish itself upon a new homeworld.
Korval yet had friends on Liad; if they had not, those on the Council who had wished to see Korval Themselves executed for crimes against the homeworld, and Clan Korval’s assets—including its surviving members—distributed among the remaining clans at Council, would have prevailed.
That banishment had been the final Balance spoke directly to Korval’s melant’i and its place in Liaden history.
In retrospect, had the Council indeed made a formal ruling against the Contract of Banishment, Val Con was certain that he would have been in receipt of a dozen or more pinbeams warning that he and his were now targets.
No such pinbeams had arrived, which led one, rather inescapably, to the conclusion that there was something more subtle, and perhaps more deadly, underway.
He had written letters to a few staunch allies, and to his mother’s sister, the delm of Mizel. His sister Nova had written to Korval’s old friend and ally, Lady yo’Lanna.
Unsurprisingly, to those who knew her, Lady yo’Lanna had replied first, and Nova had only this morning forwarded that answer to him.
The news . . . was mixed.
“The Administrative Board of the Council of Clans,” wrote Lady yo’Lanna, “recently published a Point of Order, directing the standing committee of qe’andra to study the question of whether the Contract of Banishment remains binding upon it, now that one of the parties has ceased to exist.
“Well, of course, they’re idiots, and so I said to Justus when he mentioned it to me. Even if the Delm of Korval has seen fit to dissolve the clan—which I trust they have not—the standard paragraph regarding heirs, assigns, and direct descendants is present in the Contract of Banishment.
“In light of your letter, and the unfortunate attempt to Balance against Quin—one enters entirely into Pat Rin’s feelings on that head, I assure you!—I can only suppose that the whole purpose of this so-called study is to open Korval to such mischief as may be brought against it by aggrieved persons. The longer the study goes on, the weaker the contract becomes, even if the committee eventually returns the opinion that both parties still exist.
“One wonders, in fact, what keeps them so long at the matter? An hour, out of respect for the past melant’i of the Administrative Board, ought to have been enough to have produced the rational answer in the approved form.
“Be assured that I shall make further inquiries, dear Lady Nova, and will write again when I have more information. In the meanwhile, please guard yourself closely. I really must travel to Surebleak some day soon. My grandson does not wish to move the clan’s seat, nor do I think that he ought to do so, but a bored old woman who has outlived her lifemate and her nearest friends may perhaps be forgiven a bit of wistful wanderlust.
“Please recall me to Korval Themselves, and to Kareen, as well as to your delightful siblings. Maelin and Wal Ter desire, also, to be recalled to Syl Vor, and to assure him of their continued regard. They ask, respectfully of course, that he be permitted to visit. If you think it wise, yo’Lanna would naturally care for him as one of our own.
“I remain your friend and ally,
“Ilthiria yo’Lanna Clan Justus”
Val Con reached for the cup sitting by the screen; found it empty, and sighed. Had Korval still been seated upon Liad—
But, of course, matters would have fallen out very differently, after the strike which had neutralized the Department of Interior’s headquarters under Liad’s capital city, if Korval had remained unbanished.
In fact, they were exiles; Clan Korval had been written out of the Book of Clans kept by the Council.
However, contrary to what seemed to be a growing belief in larger Liaden society, and in direct opposition to what was set forth in the Code of Proper Conduct, being written out of the Book of Clans did not constitute the dissolution of a clan. The Book was an administrative tool, used by the Council to track its membership.
The formalized kin-group which was recognized as a clan could only be dissolved by the action of the delm—which he and Miri, as Lady yo’Lanna had correctly supposed, had not taken.
Clan Korval existed: it stood by its charter; it sheltered and protected its members; supplied itself; negotiated new contracts, and honored its existing agreements. Thus, the qe’andras’ most basic definition of a viable clan was satisfied.
The business entity known as Clan Korval likewise kept its contracts, paid its bills, invoiced its clients, nurtured its partnerships, and supported its allies. Such was the complexity of trade, that it would require far more than the word of a mere delm to dissolve that web. It would require a team of qe’andra-specialists a dozen years and more, so he very much feared, to shut down the business of Korval.
Clearly then, Clan Korval existed, across several spectra of reality. To suggest otherwise was, as Lady yo’Lanna had so eloquently proposed, idiotic.
The Council of Clans—someone on the Council of Clans, or, indeed, someone from the Department of the Interior, which had appointed itself Korval’s exterminator, and which was known to have infiltrated the Council—someone wished to place Korval in increased peril.
And, sadly, the one resource Korval was lately richest in—
Was enemies.
• • • • • •
“I wish you wouldn’t keep doing this,” Miri said. “At least take back-up.”
They were in the breakfast parlor, sharing the morning meal before parting for the day—she to the delm’s office, and he, first, to the city, thence to duty at the Road Boss’s office.
“Taking back-up will invalidate the results,” he answered. This was not a new argument—in fact, it was so well-worn it was no longer an argument at all, merely a restating of their relative positions.
“I take back-up when I go down to the city, and the port,” Miri said, which was her usual second move; however, she then tipped her head and produced a vary.
“Guess you think I’m soft.”
He grinned, and raised his tea cup in salute.
“Yes; it is entirely possible that a mercenary captain who is twice a Hero is too soft for Surebleak’s streets.”
She shook her head, refusing to let him lighten the mood.
“Streets ain’t as hard as they was, but that don’t mean they’re a walk in the park. One man, dressed up-scale, and walking by himself, is just asking to have his pocket picked, or his head broke. There’s folks’ll kill you for the jacket, never mind the boots.”
“Am I clumsy?” he asked her, with interest.
She picked up a vegetable muffin, and glared at him, which gave pause. One wondered what had happened to bring heat back into the game.
“Anybody can make a mistake, Val Con,” she said, sternly.
“That is very true; I have myself made a rather appalling number. But, Miri—”
“And,” she interrupted; “it ain’t no use bringing in how the Delm of Korval had an obligation to walk the Low Port, back on Liad, because, in case you ain’t noticed, we’re not on Liad, anymore.”
He put his cup down, and reached across the small table to put his hand over hers.
“I was going to say that, I am the sixth member of the strike team. My function is to remain in sight, thereby encouraging any watchers to believe that there will be no strike at all.”
“You can be seen with back-up,” she said; “and it’s less easy to pick you up for a chat.”
“True,” he said, gently. “However, I don’t think they’ll risk that just yet, do you?”
She closed her eyes, and took a hard breath.
“Miri, I am careful,” he said earnestly. “I will be careful.”
He tasted her distress, and regretted that he was the cause. But, surely, she knew that he dared not risk Nelirikk or Tommy Lee or Diglon, or any other innocent to be taken up by—
She sighed.
“It’s your nose to get broke,” she said, withdrawing her hand and picking up her coffee cup.
“I just hope I ain’t in your head when it happens. Pain hurts.”
• • • • • •
It was her turn to be delm-for-the-day, so she walked him out the side door, where the car and Nelirikk waited to take him into the city. Then, this being one of those days that seemed to him to be good for tempting the Luck, he’d be dropped off at Pat Rin’s house for a catch-up meeting before walking down to the port.
Alone.
She might’ve hugged him harder than usual. He might’ve done the same.
“See you tonight, Boss,” she said, stepping back.
“Until soon, cha’trez,” he answered, and turned away.
She watched until the car disappeared around the curve in the drive, before going back inside.
In the delm’s office, she drew herself a cup of coffee from the pot, sat behind the big desk, put the mug to one side, and tapped up the screen.
Plenty of mail in the delm’s queue.
Miri took a deep breath and dove in.
• • • • • •
The season, so he’d been told, was early autumn, which meant that winter was coming. The wind seemed to think that it had already arrived.
Val Con turned the collar of the leather jacket up around his ears, and tucked his hands into warm, fur-lined pockets.
Space leather turned the chill, as it would also turn a pellet, or a knife, or a stone. A pilot’s second defense, her jacket, the first being her two strong legs, which were best used to run from trouble.
That, at least, was what young pilots were taught at the knees of their elders.
It was to be supposed, therefore, that elder pilots as a breed possessed a sense of humor. Or perhaps they merely hoped that one day a new sort of pilot would arise; a generation that was prudent, above being rash.
If the latter, their optimism had not yet been rewarded, as every pilot in Val Con’s rather large acquaintanceship was reckless to a fault, though always with very good reason. It was to be most earnestly wished, then, that the elders found themselves fulfilled by their humor.
He had just left Pat Rin, who had been wonderfully plain on the subject of Val Con’s wandering the city streets alone. It was not the first time he had expressed his opinion on this, though it had been, thus far, the most scathing. Plain speaking was of course permitted between kin, though one normally spoke with rather more restraint to one’s delm.
Well, there. Pat Rin was a pilot.
The fact that both Miri and Pat Rin had chosen to be more than usually forceful on the topic of back-up, today, did give one pause. He was not a fool, after all, to discount good advice given by those who held his continued survival close to their hearts.
Perhaps, he should reconsider his strategy. In fact, he would do so. For this morning, however, he was committed. Best to finish as he had begun.
The wind gusted, enclosing him in a brief swirl of grit. He put his head down, and heard a shout from the alley to his left.
• • • • • •
The report from the Qe’andra Recruitment Committee, aka the Storefront Qe’andra Project, was encouraging, if you liked your encouragement laced with sheer terror.
One more ’prentice’d been accepted by the Liaden qe’andra who’d set up shop on Surebleak, bringing the total to four.
This newest one’d been a cornerman for Penn Kalhoon, back in the Bad Old Days, and Miri could see he was a good choice just by the quoted street cred: fast and fair fixer. Jorish Hufstead was used to thinking on his feet, he parsed complicated situations quickly, and he had the personal charisma necessary to make his solutions stick.
The Board of Advisors had been impressed with all that experience, like they should’ve been. What they didn’t like so much was that Jorish couldn’t read Terran, much less Liaden. Still, they’d agreed to a probation period, since Ms. kaz’Ineo, the Liaden pro, had a shipload of melant’i in her own right, and she was convinced he’d do fine, with a little work in the basics from the Liaden side of things.
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 Blair 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 were 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 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 gutsier—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 to be 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 any of those things was bad for bidness. You looked close, you saw them changes might be good for bidness. Early days, big changes made, bigger changes comin’—it could go either way, with all 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.
The Road Boss’s office, well—say it was big enough to do the job, and not much room built in for anything more expansive than behind-the-desk calisthenics.
After she’d found her head heavy again, she snapped to her feet, crossed the tiny space, and jerked open the door.
Nelirikk spun ’round in his chair, his reactions a little less quick than normal, too. She grinned.
“Captain?”
“I’m up for a walk,” she said. “Clear the cobwebs out. It’s either that or lock the door and put down for a nap.”
Her aide considered her.
“A run around the port with a full battle pack?” he suggested.
“I’m too old for that,” she told him. “But you do what you like. Let’s put up the back in half-hour sign and see if we can make it to Mack’s and back.”
“The distance, easily,” Nelirikk said, fishing the appropriate sign out of its bin, and looming to his feet. “But if Colonel Mack wants to talk . . .”
Miri laughed.
“Be there all day, easy. So we’ll go down the portmaster’s office. C’mon.”
She opened the door, and stepped out into the day, knowing he was right behind her; took a deep breath of crisp-to-the-point-of-crunchy air, sighed—
And spun, going low by instinct, grabbing the leading arm before she properly saw it, pivoting, then falling, as her assailant got a boot around her knee, yanking the leg out from under, and they both went down on the tarmac, hard.
Miri kicked, and twisted, got one arm free and up, just as metal gleamed in the edge of her eye. She grabbed the wrist and kicked again, hard, pitching them over with her on top, banging the wrist against the ’crete until the knife flew away and a hoarse voice gasped into her ear.
“Good, now, Boss you gotta listen. I’m inna lotta trouble and I need your help.”
• • • • • •
“So,” Miri said, “they didn’t let you tear up the paper and walk?”
“Worse’n that,” said the rangy woman with the black eye, and the field-wrapped wrist. She was holding a cup of coffee in her undamaged hand.
Miri closed her eyes. The woman had given her name as Tina Newark— “Festina’s the formal, named after my four-times grandma, never could figure out why”—and it was bad enough she’d agreed to take a job getting the Road Boss—one or the other, the client hadn’t been picky, which—retired. Even worse, she’d taken the job from a pair of Liadens, who’d of course insisted on a contract, all right and proper, which o’course Festina had signed, because they were dangling two shiny cantra pieces in front of her eyes like candy, and ’sides, anything written down could be written out.
“What’s worse?” she asked Festina now.
“Well, they said they saw I needed more incentive to get the job done, and so they’d bailed Pan—that’s my nephew, all the family I got left—outta the Whosegow, and was giving him hospitality—that’s what they called it, hospitality, until it happens the terms is met.”
That sounded a little edgier than you’d expect from your plain vanilla Solcintra street Liaden, Miri thought. Could be the DOI’d decided to use local talent—wouldn’t be the first time, in fact.
Either or any way, though, it had to be taken off at the knees and now, before they lost Tina’s boy, or any other sort-of innocent bystander.
“You don’t happen to have that contract on you?” she asked.
Festina grinned, and nodded.
“Right jacket pocket, Boss. I can ease it out, nice and slow, or your mountain there can do it for us.”
“Beautiful,” Miri said. “Help Ms. Newark get that paper out of her pocket, please.”
“Yes, Captain.”
He leaned in, as Miri reached over to the desk and picked up the comm.
• • • • • •
“The form is unobjectionable,” Ms. kaz’Ineo murmured, putting the contract on the desk before her, and squaring it up precisely. “The conditions are . . . somewhat stern, even allowing for the natural grief of kin. On Liad, the second party’s qe’andra would have sought softer terms.”
She turned her head toward the stocky grey-haired customer leaning against the wall of Miri’s office.
“Your opinion, Apprentice Jorish?”
“Well, ma’am,” he said slowly; “you an’ me been talking about Balance, and how the best contracts strike fair between the needs of both sides—”
She raised a hand.
“Fair is inexact, I think,” she murmured.
“Could be it is, ma’am,” he said agreeably. “What I’m thinking, though, is about this sternness you was notin’. What I heard was rage and black bitterness. The folks wrote this thing wanted revenge, not Balance.”
Ms. kaz’Ineo considered him, her head tipped to one side.
“I believe that I understand you,” she said after a moment. “While a contract is not necessarily an instrument of Balance—you will remind me to revisit the concept and place of Balance with you; we seem to have taken a wrong turning.”
“Yes’m; not the first time, is it?” he said cheerfully.
She smiled slightly.
“No, indeed, it is not. Nor will it be the last. I am, however, confident that we shall navigate these differences, Apprentice Jorish, as we learn, each from the other.
“For the present moment, allow me to state that contracts are written to provide advantage. The best contracts provide advantage to all members in the agreement. This is not so much Balance as it is mutual profit. While it might be that a contract will be written in order to effect a Balance, you are correct in your conjecture that it ought not promote active harm. This contract . . .”
She touched the small, squared pile before her.
“The payoff of this contract is anguish and loss. No one profits—not even the originators. I admit to some surprise, that it has come from the offices of ber’Lyn and her’With, a reputable firm.”
She paused, staring again at her little space of nothing.
“Would you have written that paper, ma’am,” asked Jorish, “if they’d come to you?”
Ms. kaz’Ineo blinked.
“A provocative question, Apprentice Jorish. It grieves me to say that—I am not certain. One becomes so busy; it is far too simple a thing, merely to follow the forms, and fail to look beyond them.
“No, I cannot say that I would not have written it. Certainly, had it come to me from the hands of a client, I would have negotiated, and sought softeners. It would not have occurred to me to counsel my client to withdraw. The belief, among qe’andra, is that all is negotiable. We are not accustomed to thinking in such terms as a contract that ought never to have been written.”
She inclined her head.
“Thank you, Apprentice Jorish.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“So,” said Miri. “What do you advise?”
The qe’andra shook her head.
“I cannot advise. However ill-conceived, the contract has been written; it was presented to the second party, who signed it, thereby signaling her agreement to all terms. We might, on Liad, were the difficulties noted beyond the form, as they have been here, have convened a committee, but, here—?”
She looked again at her ’prentice.
“Is there some native protocol, Apprentice Jorish, which addresses such matters?”
He grinned.
“You mean besides me getting my crew together and going against their crew, knuckles-to-knuckles?”
“We would prefer not to fuel a riot, yes. Also, there is the question of the young man’s safety.”
She inhaled sharply, and looked to Miri, eyes narrowed.
“In fact, I may be of some use as a negotiator. There is no provision in this contract which requires the holding of a valuable, or a kinsman, as surety for delivery.”
Miri considered her.
“You can get the kid out safe, you think?”
To her credit, Ms. kaz’Ineo hesitated.
“There are no certainties in life. However, I believe that the odds of removing the young person from his current situation are with us. They may be misguided, but it would seem that—”
She flipped the contract over to the signature page.
“Geastera vin’Daza Clan Kinth and Tor Ish tez’Oty Clan Yrbaiela wish to follow proper form, and to see their complaint honorably retired. They wished there to be no opportunity, within the form, for error.
“I believe that it may be possible that the taking of the young person into their care was a rash move which they are even now regretting. They need only to be shown how to come back into proper alignment.”
She looked aside.
“Apprentice Jorish—your opinion, please.”
“I think you got the straight of it, ma’am. They got rattled, an’ let scared, mad, an’ tired, push ’em into a power move. Good chances they even knew it was a bad move when they made it, but now they don’t know how to give it back without looking weak—losing face, that would be, ma’am. All’s we gotta do is show ’em how to unkink that bit, and Pan’ll be back home in plenty o’time for supper. But—”
He hesitated.
“Yes, Apprentice Jorish? You have another consideration?”
“Well, only, ma’am, it’s all good, getting young Pan back onto the street—leastwise ’til the Watch picks him up for whatever he’ll bungle next—no offense meant, Tina, but that boy’s got two left feet an’ ten thumbs.”
“No argument, here,” Festina Newark said equably. “But he’s everything in this cold world I got to call kin.”
“That’s right,” said Jorish Hufstead. “Ain’t nobody can’t say he’s a good boy at heart, but here’s what I’m thinkin,’ ma’am—”
He turned back to his boss.
“We can get the boy outta this particular snow drift, but that leaves the paper itself. Plainly said, ma’am, that’s a bad paper—an’ if you can’t say it, I will—that never oughta been made. No profit to anybody that I can see comes with retiring the Road Boss. Planet’s just getting out of a considerable drift of our own, and we need the Road Boss just zackly as much as we need Boss Conrad and his Council.”
“I agree, Apprentice Jorish,” Ms. kaz’Ineo said in her cool Liaden voice. “However, the contract is properly formed—”
“No’m, all respect and honor—it ain’t,” interrupted Jorish. “If these—people—got a grudge ’gainst the Boss here, and need ’er dead for to be satisfied, where’s the sense pushing Tina, or one of her pool, to do the job? It’s personal, is what it is, an’ if was mine to judge right there from m’corner, I’d be tellin’ ’em to settle it that way.
“So, I’m thinking—ma’am, ain’t there any way to call that paper void?”
Ms. kaz’Ineo pressed her lips together.
“We have Jumped into uncharted space, my friend,” she said. “How is it said here? Ah. We are in the belly of the blizzard. On Liad, even a committee would not break the contract, or cause it to be unwritten. It is not done. There is—”
She moved one tiny, precise hand.
“There is no precedent.”
She paused, hand still suspended, and looked to Hufstead.
“Your passion does you credit, Apprentice. However, it is the role of the qe’andra to remain objective, and marshal resources for the best good of the client.”
Miri stirred.
“I think we can handle the wider issue of the contract,” she said. “First things first, though. If these folks—vin’Daza and tez’Oty—are as committed to proper behavior as it seems they might be, then we’ll be able to locate where they’re lodging, and send ’round a note. Tell ’em that Tina here took the contract to her qe’andra, and the expert opinion is there’s been a breach. Set up an appointment, so the breach can be mended, soonest. Serious thing, breach of contract.”
“That is correct,” said Ms. kaz’Ineo composedly.
“Good. That’s the first bit, then. Cut the boy loose before somebody makes another mistake, and things get serious.”
“I will be pleased to call this meeting.”
“Hold on,” Tina Newark said. “If she’s workin’ for me, I need to know how much this is gonna cost.”
Ms. kaz’Ineo turned her head and awarded Festina a broad, Terran smile.
“Because you provide both my apprentice and myself with this valuable . . . learning experience, we will preside over the discussion and reparation gratis.”
“That’s no charge, Tina,” Jorish said helpfully.
“I know what it means,” she told him, and gave Ms. kaz’Ineo a nod.
“Thank’ee. Much appreciated.”
“Good, then,” Miri said briskly. She stood up.
“Jorish, you got a minute for me while Tina gives Ms. kaz’Ineo her contact info?”
“Sure thing, Boss,” he said promptly, and followed her out into the reception room.
• • • • • •
“Indeed, we admit; it was an error, and a breach in the conditions set forth in the contract.”
Geastera vin’Daza Clan Kinth was a straight-backed, fit woman, who fell into the age group Miri thought of as “old enough to make her own mistakes.” Her face wasn’t quite Liaden-smooth; almost, her expression could have been said to err on the side of haughtiness. High Liaden, with its precise chilly phrasing, suited her.
Tor Ish tez’Oty Clan Yrbaiela, sitting at her left, seemed younger, and tireder. So tired, in fact, that the usual, infuriating Liaden sangfroid was showing a little frazzle at the edges.
In the little waiting room behind Ms. kaz’Ineo’s office, Miri sighed.
“Boy’s outta his pay-grade,” she said softly.
Beside her, Val Con shook his head.
“They are neither one at ease,” he answered, his eyes on the screen. He was frowning at tiny tells that were as good as screams to a trained muscle-reader.
“Miri, will you, please, step away from this?”
She reached out and put her hand over his.
“It’s gotta be both of us,” she said. “We talked it out.”
“Indeed we did,” he answered, soft voice edgy with anger. “And I am a fool for agreeing to anything like.”
“Well, maybe so,” she said judiciously. “But you know how they say—once you eliminate all the safe and sane solutions, the one that’s left, no matter how crazy, is the one that’s gonna work.”
“That, my lady, is a shameless distortion.”
“Information received was that the local custom is physical; that demonstration carries the point more clearly than argument,” vin’Daza was continuing. “And thus our error was made. We regret our actions, and will, indeed, be pleased to see the young person returned to the proper care of his kinswoman.”
Festina had taken her role as kin and independent business person serious. She’d dressed up real nice in a pair of good dark slacks, and a white shirt under a snowflake-knit red sweater. There was even jewelry—a couple gold and titanium necklaces ’round her neck, and a ring too glittery to be real on her left hand. Miri didn’t know if she’d thought of it her own self, or taken some advice from Ms. kaz’Ineo, but, whichever, it played well.
The two Liadens were dressed down, which Miri took to mean they’d found that looking too pretty on the street was an invitation to get relieved of extra baggage.
“We would be grateful to the qe’andra,” said tez’Oty, stolidly, “for her advice on proper recompense for our error.”
“Ah,” Val Con breathed. “They learn. Recompense, not Balance.”
Festina stirred, and Jorish leaned forward in his chair to wave Pan, who’d been standing tight against the wall behind the two Liadens—across the room to his aunt. He got there quick as he could while moving quiet, and sagged into the chair at Festina’s side. She reached out and patted his knee without taking her eyes off Ms. kaz’Ineo.
“Recompense in this instance may be made by the payment of our fee,” Ms. kaz’Ineo said, and Festina’s head whipped ’round fast to stare at her. Ms. kaz’Ineo declined to make eye contact.
vin’Daza inclined her head.
“Certainly, qe’andra.”
“Excellent. Ms. Newark, I am certain that you and your kinsman are anxious to catch up after so long a separation.”
“Yes, ma’am, that we are,” said Festina rising right on cue. She bowed—not a Liaden bow, but what was coming to be the common Surebleak general politeness bow—a more or less seventy degree angle from the waist, with the arms straight down at the sides, and a quick glance at the floor before making eye contact again, and coming tall again.
“Thank you for your care,” she said, and gave young Pan a glare out of the side of her eye ’til he bowed, too, and produced a mumbled, “Thank you, ma’am. Mr. Hufstead, sir.”
“It is a pleasure to serve,” Ms. kaz’Ineo assured them.
“Taxi’s waiting at the door. You go on home now and rest up,” Jorish Hufstead said. “Pan, you take good care of your Aunt Tina; she was that worried ’bout you.”
“Yes, sir,” said Pan, and by way of maybe proving that he was as good as his word, he turned, opened the hall door, and stood back, one hand hovering near Festina’s elbow as she walked out.
The door closed.
vin’Daza and tez’Oty exchanged a glance. tez’Oty cleared his throat.
“Your fee, Ms.—” he began—and stopped with a blink when Ms. kaz’Ineo raised her hand.
“If you please, I would like to speak with you further regarding this instrument which you caused to be written, and brought to Surebleak for implementation.” She put her hand atop the single file adorning the top of her desk.
vin’Daza chose to bristle.
“The contract was written by ber’Lyn and her’With. Surely you will not say that their work is suspect!”
“Indeed, no,” said Ms. kaz’Ineo. “Their work is, as I would expect, unexceptional. However, there have been errors of . . . implementation, shall we say? It has surely come to your attention that Surebleak is not Liad—indeed, you said so yourself, Ms. vin’Daza. You said that you were aware of Surebleak local custom of using force to carry a point. Might makes right in the local vernacular, an unfortunate aspect of Surebleak’s most recent past which we are attempting to refine into something more nuanced and less perilous.”
She paused to glance at Jorish Hufstead. He met her eyes with a frank little smile that she mirrored exactly, before turning back to the audience.
“When I say we, I of course mean the accountancy professionals of both Surebleak and Liad. We are forming teams, such as you see here, and attempting to craft a new protocol for a mixed society.”
tez’Oty looked somewhere between flabbergasted and horrified. vin’Daza kept control of her face, but the hand resting on her knee curled into a loose fist.
“In keeping with this goal of crafting a new protocol, and also to assist you in forwarding the goal of your contract, I will now turn this meeting over to my colleague, Mr. Jorish Hufstead. Mr. Hufstead was for many years an arbiter of custom, a servant of the common good, and a dispenser of justice. He was employed by Boss Penn Kalhoon in this capacity, which is locally known as cornerman, because cases were heard and justice dispensed at a particular, known corner location. All and any could apply to Mr. Hufstead for the gift of his expertise, which was known as both rapid and balanced, far outside of his own territory.”
“The contract,” began vin’Daza . . .
“Right,” said Jorish easily, leaning forward slightly on his elbows. “That contract of yours is the problem. Now, Ms. kaz’Ineo, she tells me that’s some fine work, in form and flavor, an’ all them sorta things that find favor with folks back in your territory. I gotta tell you, I appreciate that. Ain’t nothing happier to the eye than something’s done just right; I know it for myself. So, we’re all agreed there.”
He paused, glanced down at the table, and back up, catching tez’Oty’s eye and holding it.
“Where we ain’t agreed on is that this is a valid contract—”
vin’Daza stiffened. Hufstead held up a hand, palm out.
“—on Surebleak,” he finished. “Now, just hear me out, all right?”
He didn’t wait for a response, just rolled on, still keeping tez’Oty’s eyes with his.
“’Way I see it, first problem with this contract here isn’t on Surebleak, it’s on Liad. I read that guarantee from your very own council of bosses there in Solcintra City, and it says that—once they’re moved off-world, and their name written outta the membership book—the family that’s settled here under the name of Clan Korval, they ain’t got a target painted on ’em no more, and they don’t owe nobody on Liad one thing else.”
He paused, and glanced at vin’Daza.
“What’s that I hear them pilots say down the pub? The ship lifts, an’ all debts are paid?”
vin’Daza took a breath and inclined her head about a millimeter.
“I am familiar with the concept,” she said, sounding a little breathless.
“However,” tez’Oty said, sounding suddenly heated; “the Council of Clans made that guarantee for itself, and for the clans. There has been personal loss sustained—in the case of Geastera and myself—insupportable loss! The Council cannot forbid a just Balance!”
Jorish frowned slightly, and glanced down at the table, like he was taking counsel there, then looked up and met tez’Oty’s eyes.
“Y’know, I think that’s zackly what the Council’s contract was meant to say. But, that’s actually a side issue, ’cause, see, what you just said? Personal loss. Just Balance.”
He flipped a disdainful hand in the direction of the contract sitting neat and innocent in the center of the table.
“Sleet, you don’t need no contract to settle up personal loss—not here on Surebleak, you don’t. You got something personal to settle—that’s personal. Anybody can unnerstan that.
“But, see, personal don’t mean you pay Festina to do your work for you. You got a personal grudge, or a personal need to be Boss, or a personal loss that needs answerin’, well—you settle that . . . personal.”
Miri stood up, and shook out her lace. They’d gone with Liaden day-wear for this, and it was a good thing they hadn’t decided on formal clothes, which woulda upstaged their complainants. This way, they were nice and symmetric; respectful, but not boastful.
“Guess our cue’s coming up,” she said, looking into Val Con’s face. He was outright grim; the pattern of him inside her head edged with scarlet lines of worry.
“Hey.”
She leaned into him, and he hugged her close.
“I can take a strike for both,” he murmured, and she returned the hug just as tight, before she stepped away, looked up into his face and said, “No.”
“And how shall we take this personal action?” vin’Daza demanded on the screen.
Jorish gave her a grin.
“Now, I’m glad you asked that question. Gives me new hope for makin’ this transition work for everybody when I see that willingness to embrace our custom. So—y’unnerstan, this kinda thing comes up a lot on Surebleak, and how I took to handling it on the corner was to ask whoever’d come out that day to stand back and make room. Then I’d ask if the party-or-parties of the first part—today that’s you and Mr. taz’Oty—if they got their own knifes, and if they do to show ’em to me now.”
“Knifes,” repeated taz’Oty. “I have of course a gun, but—”
Jorish raised a hand again.
“No need to ’pologize for your personal choice of protective weapon, sir. I know most prefer their gun. For the purpose of this bidness, here, though, us cornermen found out knifes was the best weapon, and it got codified, see?
“So, no worries. I got two right here for you.”
He pushed back, rose, slid two blades out of his jacket pocket, and leaned over to put them, handles toward Liadens, on the far side of the table.
Miri blinked, and felt Val Con’s hand on her shoulder.
They were ugly, those blades, one step up from meat cleavers; street knives, that was what, without finesse or honor to burden them.
“Well, cha’trez?”
“Pretty well,” she said, though her voice was breathy in her own ears. “They’ll do the job, all right.”
“Indeed,” he answered.
“Now,” Jorish was saying. “That one on the right there, that was Boss Kalhoon’s loaner, for when somebody wanted to get personal with him about who really oughta be Boss. That other one, that’s the one I used to loan out, as part o’my duty.”
He straightened, and looked to Ms. kaz’Ineo, sitting still and calm, with her hands folded in front of her.
“Ma’am, this is gonna get messy—nature of the thing, really. I shoulda thought. Might be best, we take this outside, ’steada—”
“Carpets can be cleaned, Mr. Hufstead. Surely, we do not wish our clients’ private business to be spread about the streets.”
“Right you are,” he said, and turned back to the Liadens, who were sitting like they’d been quick frozen.
“What you each wanna do is choose a knife, get yourselfs stood up an’ centered. I’ll just shift these chairs outta the way—more’n enough room for what we got today, just a personal settlin’ up like we are . . .”
vin’Daza got herself in hand first. She picked up Penn’s loaner, and stood holding it like she knew what she was doing. That was good, Miri thought; amateurs would only make more of a mess.
tez’Oty picked up the remaining knife, reluctant, but competent.
“Right, then,” said Jorish. “You just wanna turn to face the door, ’cause it’ll be opening in just a sec.”
“That’s us,” said Miri, and stepped forward.
The doorway wasn’t quite wide enough to let them through side-by-side, which would’ve been the most correct, melant’i-wise. Val Con managed to slip in between her and the knob, and so be the first in the room, which was aggravating, but, according to the book, next most correct, melant’i-wise, with him being Delm Genetic and all. She was just half-a-step to the rear, stopping right beside him when they’d cleared the threshold, so it all came out right.
Nobody said anything. vin’Daza and tez’Oty both looked like somebody’d smacked ’em across the head with a board.
“These the folks caused you irreparable personal harm and loss?” Jorish asked, quietly.
Surprisingly, it was tez’Oty who spoke.
“My cha’leket died, as a result of the strike they ordered against Solcintra.”
“Right, then. Ms. vin’Daza?”
“My lover, also dead as a result of Korval’s strike from orbit.”
“Well, then. Seems like we got symmetry. There’s two of you; there’s two o’them. Have at whenever you’re ready.”
Miri was watching tez’Oty; he actually paled, his chest lifting in a gasp as his eyes widened.
“We are supposed to kill them?” he demanded, not taking his eyes off her.
“Well, it’s what you was wantin’ Festina to have done for you, wasn’t it? This way, you cut out the middleman; make sure the job gets done right.”
There was more silence, before vin’Daza said, starkly, “This is a trick to rob us of Balance.”
“No,” Miri said. “No trick.”
She raised her hands, palm out, and looked directly into tez’Oty’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and shook her head when he flinched. “I was born on Surebleak; it’s what we say. I’m sorry for your loss, and for my part in bringing it to you. No explanation of our intention, or measure of our success, can possibly count more than the life of your cha’leket, and I surely don’t expect that you’ll ever forgive me.”
She lowered her hands, though she still made eye contact.
“I, too,” Val Con said from her side, and his voice was rougher than polite Liaden discourse allowed. “I, too, regret. There is not a day nor a night that passes, when I do not regret. Necessity is a cold comrade, and takes no care for lives, or joy.”
Silence, growing longer.
tez’Oty moved his eyes first.
“I accept your—apology,” he said, and turned blindly to one side, fumbling the knife onto the table.
“Do you expect me to believe,” vin’Daza said to Val Con, “that you will stand there and allow me to cut your throat?”
“No,” he said, matter-of-fact, now. “Neither of us believes that. I am trained in hand-to-hand; I know very well how to disarm an opponent armed with a knife and a desire to end me. Also, while my life has no more value, objectively, than your life, or your lover’s, I have work, and purpose. I can, alive, improve the universe in some few small ways, and therefore bring it closer to the ideal of Balance.”
He took a breath, and turned his hands palm up.
“If it were me with a dead lover, a knife in my hand, and a decision to make, I would take into account that a cut throat is a quick death, while a lifetime of regret may come more near to matching your own pain.”
Silence, then a turn to place the knife on the table with a small, decisive snick.
“Live then,” she said harshly, “and regret.”
“Qe’andra,” she said, over her shoulder.
“Yes, Ms. vin’Daza. May I serve you?”
“You will write the appropriate paper. When it is ready, please send it to our lodgings so that we may sign. We will, of course, pay your fee. Please do this quickly, as we intend to leave this terrible world within the next two days, if we have to walk away.”
“I understand,” said Ms. kaz’Ineo.
• • • • • •
It was snowing. Outside the breakfast parlor’s window there was only a rippling sheet of white. The Road Boss’s office was closed for weather, as were all other non-essential businesses.
That was the new Surebleak, Miri reflected, staring out the window, half-hypnotized by the blizzard. The old Surebleak, there hadn’t been any such thing as closing for weather. What would be the sense in that? Only thing Surebleak could be said to have was weather.
“Good morning, cha’trez.” Val Con slipped into the chair she’d put next to her, so they could go snowblind together. “I hope I have not kept you waiting long.”
“Just long enough to have my first cup of coffee,” she told him, with a smile, showing him the empty cup. “Perfect timing.”
“I agree.”
“What was the emergency?”
“Not so much an emergency,” he said. “Nova merely wished to be certain that I had seen Lady yo’Lanna’s most recent letter. Shall you like more coffee? A cheese roll, perhaps?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said, though she still had to control the twitch that said he shouldn’t be waiting on her. It was getting easier. Another twenty years or so, she’d have it completely under control.
When fresh coffee and tea and a plate of various breakfast edibles was on the table between them, she brought the letter back up.
“Lot of good gossip?”
“Lady yo’Lanna’s letters are always a rich resource,” he murmured, his eyes on the white-filled window. “Much of it will require closer study, as we now live so far removed from society, but the bits which are immediately comprehensible would seem to be that the Council of Clans has issued a new statement to its member-delms regarding the state of the entity known as Clan Korval, seated on Surebleak.
“It would seem that this entity has been forgiven all and any damages it might have caused to the planet of Liad, or disruption it may have perpetuated upon the common good. Further, if any individual persons feel that they are owed Balance in the matter of those actions which the entity Clan Korval brought against Liad, they are to apply to the Grievance Committee at ber’Lyn and her’With.”
Miri blinked.
“That’s—quite a come-about,” she commented.
“As you say. It is well to reflect what outrage may accomplish, when turned toward the common good.”
“What’s the next bit?” Miri asked, after her cup was empty again, and the breakfast plate, too.
“Hmm?”
He pulled his gaze from the window with an obvious effort.
“Ah, Lady yo’Lanna. She plans a visit. In fact, she expects to be with us within the season, as she has commissioned a Scout at leave to bring her to us.”
Miri eyed him.
“Us?”
He turned his head to smile at her.
“Us.” He extended a finger to trace the line of her cheek.
“Only think, cha’trez; we shall shortly be in a position to learn from a master.”
“I don’t think I can possibly keep up.”
“Nonsense, you are merely fatigued with staring out at all this weather.”
“You got something better to do?”
He smiled into her eyes.
“Why, yes; I do.”