A Liaden Universe® Constellation, Volume 4

by Sharon Lee

  “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, rel
uctant, 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.