A Liaden Universe® Constellation, Volume 4

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A Liaden Universe® Constellation, Volume 4 Page 2

by Sharon Lee


  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, w
ith 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 l
ittle 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.”

 

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