by Sharon Lee
“Is there some trouble?” Luken asked, and she almost sighed again. Such a sweet man; he couldn’t be any more attentive to her if she was paying him. The fact that she wasn’t paying him had the power to surprise her, as did the notion that she held of him, as a friend.
But, there, she’d left the man without his answer, and she’d already seen what he was capable of, when he decided something needed to be fixed.
So, she smiled at him, and shook her head. “No trouble. More like I haven’t had enough breakfast to weigh me down to ground, yet.” She broke a roll onto her plate, and reached for the jam pot.
“What were you dreaming, then?” he asked, spoon arrested over his cereal bowl, his gaze on her face.
“A window,” she said promptly, and waved her hand toward the far wall. “No sense to it, really, the room being where it is, but it just came to me, seeing the sun in the hall upstairs, that we got so used to the possibility of a shoot-out in the streets that we built without windows mostly, and, for extra protection, made all the gathering rooms interiors.”
Luken smiled at her. “You were wishing for a window onto the street?”
“That’s it,” she said, well pleased with him. “A fancy, you’d call it, and not anything like trouble.”
He looked about the room, as if weighing its merits, and returned his attention to her. “I think you are very right to think that a window would improve the appeal of an already pleasant room. Why not indulge your fancy?”
He meant it for a tease, maybe, and not a serious question at all, but it caught her that way, so that she took her time spooning jam onto another piece of bread, frowning as she felt along her thoughts and memories.
“I’ve been on Surebleak all my life, here on Blair Road ’most all it,” she said, slowly, keeping her eyes on her spoon. “I’ve seen Bosses come, and I’ve seen Bosses go, and—fond as I am of our current Boss—this boy Pat Rin of yours!—and as much as he’s done already here . . . I can’t quite shake the feeling that . . . this is another one of those dreams I been having lately, and I’ll wake up one morning to find out . . .”
Words failed her—and a good thing, too! she scolded herself. What kind of talk is that for a man at his breakfast?
“You fear that you will wake up one morning to find that my boy has failed,” Luken said, merely matter-of-fact. She looked up and met his eyes. He inclined his head, seriously.
“We must all fear the same thing; and those of us who esteem and support my boy must fear it most of all. And yet, I think, Audrey, that you may have overlooked an important difference between our Boss Conrad and those other Bosses you have known.”
She eyed him. “What’s that?”
“Pat Rin is not working alone; he is not merely working with one or two other like-minded Bosses. He has brought all of the allied Bosses of Surebleak to his side, and committed them to his projects. In addition, he has the whole of Clan Korval—what is called here the Road Boss’s family—at his back. Even in its present circumstances, Korval is formidable . . . and will grow more so, as we settle in to our new home and customs, and the delm mends our alliances.” He paused, as if struck by some other thought or consideration, then moved his shoulders in that fluid not-shrug that meant something, Audrey thought, though sleet knew what.
“Setting aside even his allies and his kin, Pat Rin has done something . . . extraordinary. Something that no other past Boss even attempted. He has opened the port and made Surebleak an acceptable destination, an up-and-coming planet where trade is growing. He has brought the galaxy to Surebleak, and while Surebleak may change because of it, it will not, I think, return to those days that you recall.”
Luken leaned forward and touched her hand lightly.
“You must of course please yourself, in the matter of the window.”
She gasped a laugh.
“We’ll just put it on the back burner for right now,” she said, and they returned to their breakfasts in companionable silence.
What thoughts occupied Luken were for him to know; Audrey, however, continued along the lines he had set down for her.
True enough that Boss Conrad, who had apparently been born to the name Pat Rin yos’Phelium Clan Korval, on the high-rent planet of Liad—true enough that the Boss had let the galaxy know Surebleak existed; and the galaxy had seen opportunity.
There were a lot of folks coming on-world, through that new-opened, and expanding port. Surebleak being by population a Terran world, it was maybe a little odd that most of the new immigrants were Liaden, riding in on the Road Boss’s coattails. Oh, there were Terrans coming in, too, but not in near the same numbers.
The incoming Liadens, they brought their own culture with them, naturally enough, and it wasn’t anything near Surebleak culture. Still, it wasn’t as much of a mess as it could be—not yet, anyway—because most of them who had followed the Road Boss were a subset of Liaden called Scouts, a corps of galactic explorers and general busybodies, as Audrey caught the signal, who specialized in studying, and getting along in, other cultures.
Things were really going to get stirred up, Audrey thought, when more of the regular folks looking for a better place to be came in. They’d expect that all civilized people acted the same, and that’s where things would start to rub. There’d already been some of that, but the Scout-to-regular-citizen ratio had so far kept upset to a minimum.
Well. That wouldn’t be for a few years, yet. In the meantime, the Scouts were teaching classes. She’d signed up for one, herself—Introduction to Liaden Culture. It didn’t look like anybody was offering an Introduction to Surebleak Culture . . . yet. She figured she could teach one herself, if it went too far along without anybody more qualified than the proprietor of a whorehouse stepping up. Though she had a notion that she’d draw Scouts; and that Scouts would know exactly what questions to ask—and get way more out of the answers than the so-called teacher would ever know.
Still, she told herself again; they had time. Trade might be growing on Surebleak, but they were still on the various lists that mattered to those who traded planet to planet as a world in transition, and an emerging market.
She reached for her juice glass, and glanced up at her companion, surprising a pensive look on his face. There were a couple things that she knew about which could bring that expression to him, and she picked her target not quite at random.
“I’m behind on asking,” she said softly, so as not to jar him from whatever he was thinking, “if there’s been any news from your daughter.”
“Nothing, no,” he said, his expression smoothing. “But, you know, it is a delicate business and a delicate time. She doubtless has much on her mind.”
Audrey wasn’t clear on the precise nature of the delicate business that Luken’s daughter Danise was engaged on, with the support of her younger sister, but she did know that the circumstance of Clan Korval getting kicked off Liad wasn’t making her work any easier. That was, Audrey thought, the trouble with families: one branch goes off and does something like blow a hole in the homeworld and it wasn’t enough that they got thrown off-world, like the Road Boss’d been. Nope, the whole family got trouble splattered all over them, too, though they’d been miles away from the explosion.
“In any case, it is a matter in which she and her sister are much more invested than I. Whatever the outcome, I will remain on Surebleak.” His smile this time was whimsical. “It’s so very interesting here.”
Audrey laughed. “You could say so, though other words come to mind.”
“A place may be many things, as an individual may hold many melant’is,” Luken said, placidly.
Melant’i, that was one of the things that Liadens had brought with them—it was like honor, only a lot more complicated. People died of melant’i. She was hoping her Liaden culture class would cover it. In depth.
“Would you like some more juice?” he asked, rising.
“Thank you.” She handed him her glass, and stacked their used dishes to one s
ide while he made the trip across the room and back.
When he was settled back into his chair and they had both had a sip from their glasses, Luken leaned back.
“Audrey, I wonder if you might agree to Queterian carpet in the upper hall, and the center stairway.”
She frowned at him.
“Didn’t we decide I can’t afford that?”
“We decided that it was dear, at retail and at wholesale. However, I believe I may unite house and carpet at well under wholesale.”
“Mind if I ask how that’s going to be accomplished?”
“I would be disappointed if you didn’t ask,” he assured her. “Here is the case. You are aware that I am a rug merchant?”
“You might’ve mentioned it once or twice.”
He smiled. “Well, perhaps I have. In any case, I have recently received news of my stock, which has been recovered from safe storage and will soon be with me here. Among the recovered stock is a quantity of Queterian carpet, which I have held for a certain member of the Liaden Council, for the last six Standards.”
Audrey started to ask what that had to do with her, but managed to keep the question on the back of her tongue. Give the man a chance to tell it, Audrey.
“Every relumma, this particular individual would make a payment to me, in order that I not sell the carpet to anyone else. Half of the option payments went toward purchasing the carpet; half went to warehousing and inventory costs. At the time that this individual cast his vote in Council to banish Korval from Liad, he had purchased two thirds of the carpet. The cost of one third of the carpet may, I believe, be well within the means of your house. I am willing to wait upon payment, or to work out a schedule that will not overtax your treasury.”
She saw it again, the stairs dressed in elegant autumn carpeting—and blinked her way back to sense.
“Why?” she asked. “Why not just sell it to somebody else at full price? Or—here’s an idea both of us should’ve thought about—why not put it down in your new digs? I’m gathering you’re telling me that the original arrangement fell through and you got to keep the rug and your money?”
“I am telling you that, yes.” He extended a hand and put it over hers where it lay on the table. His palm was cool and smooth.
“As to why here and not elsewhere . . . Let us say that I would find it particularly satisfying if the carpet intended to grace the formal gathering room of one of Liad’s fifty High Houses should instead ornament a house involved in the business of joy.”
She thought about that.
“It’s revenge, then?”
“It is Balance,” Luken corrected. “I grant that it is my Balance and not yours, but I hope that you will be able to indulge me.”
She wanted that carpet so bad she could taste it, and yet . . . Balance. Balance was damn near as dangerous as melant’i.
“Let me sleep on it,” she said.
Luken gave her a pretty little seated bow. “Of course. There is no need to make a hasty decision.”
CHAPTER THREE
Surebleak Port
“I ain’t drunk an’ I ain’t goin’ noplace with youse!”
The first assertion was untrue; Hazenthull could smell the drink on the woman’s breath. Her stance was commendably steady; her hands were curled into fists, and Hazenthull could see the scars of past encounters across her knuckles.
So, this was one of those who drank to release their inner belligerence, then sought the joy of battle. Tolly had explained this to her during their first shifts together. She had doubted him, but she had by now seen enough of these sorts during her shifts on Port Security to understand that Tolly, as usual, had spoken with accuracy.
Had she been walking her shift alone this afternoon, she would have merely knocked the woman across the head, thrown her over a shoulder and taken her to the Whosegow to be booked and fined.
But, she was not on-shift alone. Tolly was with her and Tolly’s preference was not to go to the “trouble” of lugging unconscious drunks halfway across port. Tolly’s preference was to find one of the belligerent’s troop and convince them to take her in charge.
So it was that Hazenthull watched in resignation as Tolly walked toward the inebriated woman, hands upraised, truncheon swinging from his belt, gun holstered and peace-bonded.
“I ain’t drunk!” The woman snarled again, and raised her fists.
“Sure you ain’t,” Tolly said easily. “Just a little under the weather, like they say here.”
“I ain’t sick, neither!” She lunged, Tolly stepped aside, Hazenthull watched. The combatant kept her feet, and came back around to challenge Tolly again.
“You scrawny runt! Call me sick, will you? C’mere and I’ll show you who’s sick!”
Hazenthull understood very well the place of the ritual insult in battle, and in disputes between troop. In her opinion, the belligerent woman lacked style, as well as sense. Tolly would not be drawn by such weak stuff.
“Hey, hey, nobody’s calling anybody sick,” he soothed, showing the palms of his empty hands. “Just something the locals say, that’s all. Means tired; the weather’s pretty heavy hereabouts. Nothing the matter with being tired. Happens to all of us. So, what I wanna know—you gotta crew mate around somewhere, somebody to make sure you get into your bunk?”
“Think I need a keeper? Think I ain’t capable?” The woman lunged again, unexpectedly on target. Hazenthull’s hand twitched, but Tolly ducked under the driving fist, and came up behind the woman’s right shoulder.
Hazenthull sighed. He could have easily grabbed the wrist as the fist went by him, thrown the woman, and ended the matter. This preference of his was time-consuming, as well as risky. Sometimes, she wondered if it was the risk that drew him, for Tolly, when he could be persuaded to it, was a focused and effective fighter.
The drunk threw another punch, far wide. Hazenthull had no concern for Tolly’s safety, unless he slipped in a puddle of beer and the woman fell on him. She let her eyes wander. The noise had attracted attention—it always did. That was part of Tolly’s method. It was likely that one of those attracted would be of the troublemaker’s troop, and compelled by honor to prevent her disgrace.
And, there! A grizzled man wearing a stained and unfastened jacket had twitched toward the action, as if he would interrupt—then settled flat on his feet, and shoved his hands into the pockets of the jacket.
So, he was not fond of the belligerent woman, and he thought he’d let Tolly teach her a lesson, Hazenthull thought, as the woman lunged, and Tolly dealt her the lightest of taps on the head as she staggered past him. The man tensed, but did not take his hands out of his pockets.
Obviously, he needed a reminder of the duty owed a comrade.
The woman was showing Hazenthull her back; she had adopted a wide-legged stance, as if she was now ready to stop toying with Tolly, and deliver genuine damage.
Perfect.
Hazenthull’s hand dropped unerringly to the truncheon on her belt. She had it off its hook, and stepped forward, arm swinging high, her attention on the back of the woman’s head . . .
“Stop!” came a hoarse cry, and the man in the dirty jacket ran heavily forward, ducking under the arrested truncheon, and grabbing the woman’s arm.
“Stop it, Hannit! You wanna go down for hitting a Peaceman? You know the cap’n said she wasn’t goin’ to stand no more fines! You’re into t’ship so deep already ’s’wonder you had any drinkin’ money!”
“Jerry?” The drunk turned to peer into his face. “T’ell you doin’?” She jerked her arm as if to break away.
The man not only kept his grip, he shook her by the arm he held.
“Stand down, you damnfool! ’Pologize to the Peaceman now, an’ . . .”
“No apology necessary,” Tolly said quickly. “Just doing my job, that’s all. You’ll be taking her in hand now? See she gets safe back to her ship?”
Jerry looked like he wanted nothing less, but he nodded, jerkily. “I’ll do it, s
mall thanks I’ll have.”
“But you have my thanks,” Tolly told him cheerfully, “and the thanks of my partner, who didn’t really want to strike a defenseless civilian. Did you, Haz?”
Hazenthull had no objection at all to striking a fool, but Tolly had coached her on this. He said that Port Security needed good PR to make their jobs easier.
So, then . . .
“Of course not,” she said, hanging the truncheon back on her belt. The drunk woman had turned to stare, eyes wide. Hazenthull gave her a grin, showing teeth. The woman paled slightly.
“Okay, Jerry, sure,” she said. “Time I get back, I guess.”
Jerry gave another one of his jerky nods, to Hazenthull.
“Sorry for the trouble,” he muttered, then he moved, hauling his comrade by her arm and stamping off through the crowd, which gave way before him.
“Okay!” Tolly clapped his hands, spinning around on a heel. “Okay! Show’s over! Everybody! As you were!”
Slowly, they dispersed. When they had done so, Tolly caught her eye, and jerked his head toward the door. She nodded and they walked away together.
“Why do you?” she asked, as soon as they were outside. The day was bright, for a change, and blisteringly cold. Hazenthull fished her gloves out of her pockets and pulled them on.
“What else should I have done?” Tolly asked, which he always did.
“Take her to the Whosegow—”
“Escort a drunk across port, book her, and fill out the forms.”
“That is standard procedure, as given in—”
“As given in the book, yeah, I know. But, see, Haz, one of my rules is: never fill out forms.”
“Why?”
“Good question. Because forms give information. Where were we, when were we, what are our names, our badge numbers? All that, on the forms, and our friend there would’ve gotten a copy when she paid her fine. I’m not real keen on somebody who gets drunk and likes to fight having my name and badge number. What if she wakes up tomorrow thinking that the only way to save honor is to track us down and kill us?”