by Sharon Shinn
“It won’t get much attention in the spaceport.”
“There are always hombuenos there.”
“On the borders,” he said impatiently. “They guard the perimeter, to make sure none of the spacers come out to do any damage. The cops don’t care what happens inside the port.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, then,” Drake said harshly, “they care, but they wait till morning to go in and clean it up.”
“Perhaps someone should speak to capitan Benito about that.”
“Same in every spaceport on every world in the civilized universe,” he said. “Prudent citizens stay away. I can’t believe you would even consider going in there alone at night.”
“I’m not going alone,” she said. “I’m going with you.”
He gave her one quick, furious glance. He was really angry. “How have you managed to stay alive this long?” he wanted to know.
Her voice was limpid. “Ava loves me.”
He shook his head. “Ava me ama,” he said, repeating it in Semayse.
“Y yo se amo Ava,” she added. And I love Ava.
“Good,” he said. “Because, the way you live, you will be united with her very shortly.”
They did not speak much for the remainder of the drive. At some point, Laura unfastened her wrist alarm and laid it on the seat between them, saying nothing. Drake was not sure if she did it because he had told her it would do her no good where they were going, or because she had him along to protect her, or simply to annoy him. He did not ask.
It did not take long to get to the spaceport, convivial and brightly lit even at this hour. When Drake had been here with Lise, the brutal carnival atmosphere of the place had filled both of them with energy and recklessness. Tonight, with Laura at his side, it filled him with fear.
He parked the car on the outskirts of the spaceport, locking it securely. “Vandals,” he said briefly, in response to her questioning look. “Safer here than inside the port. Not my car.”
“I don’t mind walking,” she said.
He took her arm. He could feel her body stiffen in protest, then relax as she decided she would be unable to persuade him to release her. “You have any idea where this place is?”
“He said, Casa Verde, a small place next to the main intersection.”
“Okay, I know about where that is. Who is this guy you’re going to see?”
“He’s a native Semayan, who’s been working as a cargo loader on some intergalactic merchant ship. Picked up a fever off-world, his brother says, and has been desperately ill. His brother thinks he may die, and said that he—that is, the sick man—started asking for a Fidele late this evening.”
“The brother the one who called you?”
“Yes. He made it a point to tell me that his brother had not exactly served Ava well the past few years.”
“And you said that doesn’t matter to you.”
“It doesn’t. Ava accepts the wicked and the wayward whenever they wish to return to her.”
“Which is when they think they’re going to die.”
“Sometimes. Sometimes—people have a lapse for other reasons. Very often individuals who have traveled off-planet are the ones who forget Ava while they’re gone—and when they come back, they are overcome with remorse and a kind of agony. We get these people at the temple all the time, star-travelers, lost souls, those who have lost touch with Ava and are desperate to receive her comfort once again.”
He guided her past a rowdy group of revelers who had paused in the street to sing a ballad that, by the merriment it caused, had to be wildly off-color. It was not in Semayse or Standard Terran, so Drake could only guess at the words.
“Do you believe that whenever someone leaves Semay, he loses touch with the goddess?” he asked.
“Oh, I think it is easier to skip and then forget the observances that keep Ava always at the forefront of one’s mind.”
“Yes, undoubtedly. But do you think a true believer would lose touch—do you believe that Ava only watches over Semay and that to leave Semay would mean to leave Ava behind?”
From a doorway directly in front of them, a body was suddenly ejected, landing hard on the cobblestoned street. The man so discarded scrambled to his feet, howling un-articulated rage. Drake thrust Laura behind him and shook his knife free into his right hand. But the ousted man paid them no attention. He lunged for the now-closed door and beat against it ferociously, still yelling his outrage in incomprehensible words. Drake drew Laura past him down the street, resheathing his weapon.
“I don’t know,” she said calmly.
He glanced down at her; he had for a moment forgotten what their conversation had been about. “Have you ever left Semay?”
“No. But I know people who have.”
“And?”
“And some of them forgot the goddess and some did not. But those who forgot her were not among the most devout of her children to begin with.”
“And those who remembered?”
She smiled up at him. “They said they found Ava before them wherever they went, by different names and in different forms. But they found her and recognized her and felt her hand upon them. I believe, if I were to leave Semay, I would find the same thing to be true.” There was a brief pause before she added, “But I have never felt any desire to test the theory.”
They were now in the heart of the spaceport district. The streets became more and more heavily traveled. Pulsating lights marked every door and window of the haphazard storefronts they passed. Despite Laura’s silent protest, Drake had slipped his left arm around her waist and kept her pressed to him as they walked warily down the main street. He kept his right hand down at his side, the dagger gripped between his fingers, ready for fighting at close range. It would not be unheard of for a few outlaw souls here to be carrying illegal lasers and revolvers. Drake moved cautiously, every sense strained to the utmost, and guided the ermana through the neon festival.
She spotted Casa Verde before he did. She had been watching the signs on the establishments and not the faces of the personnel. “There,” she said, pointing across the street. Drake nodded, glanced all around them, and shepherded her over to the two-story building. Green lighting spelled out the tavern’s name. Unfamiliar music blared from the downstairs windows; the heavily curtained upstairs windows flickered off and on between light and darkness. Drake guessed that the mindless action took place on the lower level, but more complex entertainment could be found on the top story. Drugs certainly, possibly prostitutes, maybe gambling or even black-market sales. Laura’s caller had found himself quite a haven.
Drake pushed the door open, half-closing his eyes to protect himself from the sudden glare. He kept Laura behind him while he made a quick survey of the room. It was relatively small, exceptionally well-lit, containing maybe fifty people grouped around a center bar and a dozen tables. The clientele was all spacer, both men and women in the outlandish garb off-worlders affected when they were in port. The air was hazy with smoke and thick with loud music; and every single person had seen them walk in. Most of them looked away after assessing them with a glance as quick and comprehensive as Drake’s own. He was wearing his regulation whites and he hoped every person in the bar recognized the uniform for what it was—because almost no one, on any planet across the federated universe, would voluntarily tangle with a Moonchild.
Laura came in behind him and Drake moved forward slowly. Every nerve in his body was on the alert. He could tell, or thought he could tell, who in the bar took a second look at Laura and who did not. He allowed her to step ahead of him, keeping his left hand lightly on the middle of her back, just to let everyone know they were together, just to make sure she was not suddenly jerked away from him. It was not his imagination; eyes followed her across the room. He let his face take on a scowl and swept the interior of the tavern with another quick look.
She had approached the man working behind the center bar, a villainous enough specimen with lank, greasy hair and bad skin. The bartender grinned at her as she approached, revealing teeth that were stained, broken and missing. “Eh, there now, loidy,” this worthy greeted her. His speech was slurred and hissing—an effect of the absent teeth, Drake decided, not an excess of alcohol. “Wot you be wantin’?”
His words were Semayse but his accent was not; an off-worlder. Laura spoke briskly. “I got a call from senyo Brandoza. He said I should ask for him here.”
The bartender looked incredulous. “Senyo Brandoza called for the loikes of you, did’ee? Eh, well, now that’s surprisin’.”
“Is your name Wraxit?” Laura demanded, pronouncing the clipped foreign name with no trouble. The bartender nodded, still disbelieving. “Then you’re the one I’m supposed to speak to. Tell senyo Brandoza I am here.”
“And who might you be, sweet lady?” came a voice from behind them. Drake whirled about, cursing, for he hadn’t heard anyone approach. This one wasn’t from Semay either. He was short, stocky, powerfully built and a redhead. He looked capable of the entire run of human vice, favoring the lower end of the spectrum. He grinned at Drake and turned his eyes immediately back to Laura. “Pretty lady like you hadn’t oughta be asking for Brandoza unless she has some powerful strong urges—”
Drake shoved him violently away, deliberately choosing to open the game with a high card; it would prove he was serious. “Back off,” he growled.
The redhead stumbled back but quickly caught his balance. He now gave Drake his full attention from small, evil eyes. “Touchy, touchy,” he said. He assessed Drake carefully, noting the uniform, the knife, the fighting stance. “I was just trying to help.”
“Back off,” Drake said again.
“Careful, little Moonbaby,” the redhead said, dropping his voice to a soft and threatening tone. “You don’t know who I am.”
“You look like a slaver,” Drake said contemptuously. “But maybe you just deal dope.”
The redhead’s small eyes narrowed wickedly. One guess or the other had been right. “You look like a pretty-boy,” he slurred back. “But maybe you like women as much as you like men.”
Drake laughed. “Go sit down,” he advised. “We’ve got business here.”
“Brandoza’s business,” the redhead breathed. “Pretty-boys and whores.”
Drake considered shoving him again, and this time sticking a knife in his ribs for good measure, but after another snarling moment, the redhead backed off and melted away toward the far end of the bar. Drake turned to the others. Laura’s eyes were stern; she felt the whole interlude had been unnecessary. Wraxit, on the other hand, looked impressed. Clearly the redhead was not someone whom many people chose to cross. Then, Drake’s aggressive responses had been the right ones.
“Senyo Brandoza,” Laura repeated as if nothing had happened. “I would like you to tell him I’m here.”
“And wot would you be wantin’ me to say?” Wraxit asked. “Wot’s your name and all that?”
“My name is Laura. I’m from the temple. He’ll know.”
Wraxit hesitated, shrugged, and called out an indistinguishable name. An unkempt boy surfaced behind the bar and Wraxit left it, disappearing through an unlocked door at the side of the building. Drake watched him go. The door must lead to the upper level, he decided.
During the interplay with the redhead, a few more patrons had drifted up to the bar. With Wraxit gone, a couple of them eased over toward Drake and Laura. Two were men, but the closest one was a woman. Spacer, possibly outlaw, Drake guessed. She had a thin silver hoop earring in her left ear, the mark of a pirate. Her tight-fitting clothes revealed a full figure and gleaming bronze skin. She smiled at Laura when she was near enough to speak.
“Brandoza’s prices aren’t that good, honey,” she said. “You gonna sell it, sell it to someone who pays top.”
“Beat it,” Drake said.
The woman arched her eyebrows at him. Her round face was carefully and extravagantly made up; she was almost pretty. “I’ll take couples,” she said. “But you gotta relocate.”
Drake’s attention was distracted by a young man slithering over from the other side. Thin and dark, he looked like a nervous assassin. “One step closer,” Drake said to him fiercely, “and I’ll cut your throat.” The boy gave him a startled look and jumped back.
“I—” he began and then took two more steps back. “Really—I—”
Drake watched him till he retreated all the way to the other side of the room. The sound of Laura’s cool voice jerked his mind back to the problem at hand.
“Thank you, no,” the Fidele was saying. “But I’m sure the offer is most attractive.”
“Beat it,” he said again to the outlaw woman. She had come so close to Laura that her ample bosom almost brushed against the ermana’s crossed forearms. He thrust out a hand and hit her in the shoulder, knocking her aside. She laughed up at him.
“I like it rough, honey boy,” she purred. “That the best you can do?”
“Enough,” said a new voice, and again Drake was aware of all eyes in the bar focusing on a central point. He looked over, too, ready to meet another challenge, but instantly realized that the speaker must be the formidable Brandoza. He was very tall, lean, dark-skinned and harsh-featured. He was dressed with a quiet elegance that spoke of money, power and disdain. He could control this room and anyone in it by his reputation, thought Drake—Anyone in it but me.
“Sit down, Marlena, you’re smelling up the place,” Brandoza continued in a cold voice. His accent was refined; this man had been educated. “I hope the others haven’t inconvenienced you unduly?” He addressed this last remark to Drake.
“Not unduly,” the Moonchild said dryly. He sheathed his knife again. He would not need it while Brandoza was in the room.
The tall man for the first time turned his attention to the Fidele. “Ermana Laura?” he said, extending his hand. Laura put hers immediately in his. “It was good of you to come.” He bent and kissed her hand. Drake watched and did not allow himself to react.
“I was happy to come,” she said. Her voice was perfectly expressionless. “Where is your brother?”
“Upstairs. Come with me.”
Retaining his hold on her hand, Brandoza led Laura from the room, Drake half a pace behind. As he had surmised, the side door led to a stairwell, much more softly lit than the bar. Laura rested her free hand on the banister as they climbed the steps. Drake kept both hands empty and ready.
The upper level consisted of a long corridor lined with doorways on both sides. Soft voices carried on incomprehensible conversations behind the closed doors as Brandoza led the Fidele and the Moonchild down the hallway. The air was sweet with tobacco, incense, perfume and drugs. Somewhere a woman was laughing.
Drake kept his eyes on the long, black braid hanging down Brandoza’s back; it was tied with a piece of velvet ribbon. There were no obvious weapons bulging beneath the expensive silk trousers, but this man was as lethal as they came. Brandoza stopped before the last door on the left, and produced a key.
“Will you be offended if I lock you in?” he asked. “It is for your own safety.”
“No,” said Laura. “We will not be offended.”
“There is a button over the bed. Push it and I will come for you.”
“Thank you, we will.”
“You are very good,” the druglord said to the priestess, unlocking the door. She merely nodded at him and entered the chamber.
Drake stepped in behind her, making another quick assessment. Obviously a sickroom; quite possibly, the man inside was dying. The air was fetid and close, and smelled strongly of medicine. The body thrashing on the bed was that of a boy, too young and too thin. There was no one else in the room.
“What’s wrong with him?” Drake asked as Laura approached the be
d.
“His brother said fever.”
“Did he say what kind of fever? Is it contagious?”
She spared him one very brief glance as she settled herself on the bed beside the boy. “You were the one who wanted to come,” she said.
He didn’t bother telling her that his concern was for her. He watched her go to work on the sick man, wondering if this was how she had dealt with him when he lay so ill in the hotel room two weeks before. She caught the boy’s wrists in her hands and addressed him firmly by name, till the familiar syllables or the melody of her voice or the sheer repetition caught his attention.
“Ermana,” he gasped, looking at her at last and seeming to recognize her. “Esta aqui.”
“Yes, I’m here, Angelo,” she said softly. “How are you feeling? Are you in pain?”
“Ah, diosa, estoy moribundo!” he wailed. “Ava me ama, Ava me ama, Ava tiene merced por mi alma—”
“Si, si,” Laura replied, holding his wrists down when he fought to free them. “Ava te ama, es verdad—”
She had forgotten Drake’s presence; she was completely absorbed in the young man’s agony. Drake drifted to a position across the room, by one of the heavily curtained windows. Prying back an edge of the drape, he peered out at the street below. There appeared to be a fight two blocks over; he was certain he saw the forbidden sliver of laser fire. Lively as ever here in the spaceport.
For the next hour and more he watched the interplay of revelers and fighters in the street. It was never completely still or silent, although the noise was very faint one level above the action. Must be soundproofing, Drake decided, because the sounds from the tavern below were also obliterated. No doubt some of Brandoza’s upper-story clients appreciated the calm oasis technology could provide.
With half an ear he listened to Laura’s continued assurances of Ava’s love and Angelo’s erratic pleas for mercy and confessions of sin. From Laura’s responses, one would not have thought Angelo Brandoza had committed any crimes of great significance, but Drake was willing to bet the opposite was true. He was sure that the boy’s big brother had offered him ample opportunity to acquire any number of dubious skills. He was reminded, somehow, of the evening he had spent with Laura in the barrios, with the dying father and the erring young Reyo and the sobbing sister Clarita, though there was really nothing in the two situations that was the same. Except Laura, of course. He continued to watch the streets.