Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  “An excellent plan,” she said. “I will join you.”

  “A second sound plan to complement the first.”

  He rose, and offered his hand, which she took, though she rose like the dancer she was.

  “Good night, all. Quin, tomorrow there is an afternoon meeting of the Bosses that I wish you will attend in my place. I have uploaded the particulars to your screen. I believe that I should remain with the Emerald, until Lalandia tires of us and moves on.”

  “Yes, Father.” Quin stood and bowed to his parents’ honor. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Well, now,” said Cheever McFarland, as they left the room. “Let’s see if Lefty’s ready for this.”

  “Lefty?” asked Quin.

  “’S’what the cook decided his name was. He didn’t complain any; seems to like it. Might be a little confusing to others out-of-house, on account he’s not left-handed, but a man can be called what he likes, can’t he?”

  “Surely. Am I to call him Lefty?”

  “You wanna call ’im Mr. pen’Erit? Gotta remember who’s the boss, here.”

  Quin closed his eyes, sighed, and opened them again.

  “My father calls you Mr. McFarland.”

  “Well, now, he does. But he does it to tweak me, which we all know, so that’s all right and tight. I don’t think you wanna chart that course with pen’Erit, myself. He’s still building himself back up from a bad fall. ’Course, you are the boss, so you’ll know what’s right to do.”

  “That,” Quin said, “is a sham. The Bosses make it up as they go along, just like everyone else.”

  His father’s head ’hand turned around and grinned down at him.

  “That little time away did you a lotta good. Now, you go sit a minute in the parlor, and I’ll bring Lefty in to you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Audrey’s House of Joy

  Blair Road

  Surebleak

  “Quin!”

  Villy arrived in the private parlor to which Valori the receptionist had directed Quin and his ’hand. He was barefoot, wearing dark blue pants that flowed and rippled like water from a tight waistband, to wide legs that went tight again at the ankle, and a sleeveless vest in matching blue, open to reveal his pale, smooth chest. His “working clothes,” Quin understood, having once before inadvertently called on his friend during work hours. He was also wearing scent—something woody and green, with an undernote of rose—and he had done something to bring soft waves into his usually straight yellow hair.

  “Valori did not say you were working,” Quin said, stepping forward. “I meant no interruption.”

  “I’m on break,” Villy told him, slipping an arm around Quin’s waist and kissing his cheek. He stepped back and looked over Quin’s shoulder with a smile.

  “Hi, Mr. pen’Erit.”

  “Hello, Villy Butler,” his ’hand said, in perfectly intelligible, if heavily accented, Terran. “I am happy to see you again.”

  “Hey, you’ve been studying! Whyn’t you go down to the back parlor and get yourself a cup of tea an’ some of Redith’s cookies, while Quin an’ me catch up. Valori’ll tell you the way.”

  “Mr. Quin?” asked pen’Erit.

  “It’s perfectly fine, Lefty,” Quin said. “I am safe in Villy’s care.”

  “Lefty?” Villy repeated as the parlor door closed behind pen’Erit.

  “Our cook gave it to him, and he accepted it as his own,” Quin said. “I suppose a new life might require a new name. But, Villy, truly—I did not mean to take you from your work, or your break!”

  “Why’d you come, then?” Villy asked, head tipped to one side. He’d done something to his eyes, Quin thought; they were a deeper blue tonight. In fact, they matched his working clothes.

  “I had told you that I would come to you when I was back on port. I am here to redeem my word.”

  Villy smiled.

  “Well, then that’s not for nothing, is it? I’m glad you did come. Tell you what, Ms. Audrey was mostly having me strolling, on account of my lessons. I had a regular date, and my dinner; now I’m heading back to the parlors. So far, everybody’s been real polite, but it’s early, yet. If we get all that crew come into the Emerald, they won’t stay polite.

  “I walk the walk, a little bit, but trouble is, I don’t look like our guests off the tour ship, and I ain’t—don’t—have the lingo. Mr. Luken’s here, o’course, but he’s strolling with Ms. Audrey. I’m thinking if you could lend me your arm, and the guests saw we was getting on all right, that might help keep things calm and polite.”

  It made sense; it took into account the sensibilities of all of the guests and the residents of the house, as well. Quin nodded.

  “I will be very glad to lend my escort, if you think it will serve. Had I known, I would have dressed for you.”

  “What’s the matter with how you’re dressed? Nice sweater . . .” Villy put his hand flat on Quin’s chest, and walked slowly around him, fingers trailing. “Good pair of trousers . . .” The hand patted him gently, and Quin shivered, his laugh a little shaky.

  “You said you wanted my escort.”

  “Might change my mind,” Villy said, teasingly, but the face he showed as he completed his circuit was serious.

  “You’ll do fine. Mr. Luken’s already dressed for both of you, and I’ll tell you what—you’re wearing about what my date was wearing. What else would he wear? I think that sends a nice message to everybody here—regulars and tour people, both. Pretty Liaden boy, dressed like a sensible Surebleaker, on the arm of the fellow Ms. Audrey told a guest only this evening is one of the top artists in her house.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Nah, she was just talking big to put the lady in ’er place. Not sure it worked, if what she was after was for the lady to call for me.” He blinked thoughtfully. “Not sure I mind, if it didn’t. That lady didn’t look too easy to please.”

  “Whereas I am all too easy to please,” Quin teased.

  Villy grinned at him and patted his cheek gently.

  “That’s what I like about you. Wanna try it?”

  “Yes,” Quin said. “Let us try it.”

  Quin had only once, accidentally, been in Ms. Audrey’s parlors during business hours, and never had he been “on the stroll.”

  Villy held his arm lightly, keeping them linked closely enough that their hips occasionally touched. “The stroll” involved circulating casually and, to an observer, perhaps aimlessly, ’round a parlor, nodding to regulars and acquaintances, if they happened to make eye contact, which many did.

  The parlors were where the guests and the hetaerana met and mingled. There were small foods and beverages set out on bureaus around the back of the room, and numerous sofas and chairs wide enough to take at least two, as cozily as they might wish. Typically, a guest would enter the parlor and look about. If she did not immediately go to a particular hetaera, then one of those who was not yet entertaining a guest would rise and go forward to introduce themselves.

  The guest would then either go with the hetaera to a chair or a sofa, or the first hetaera might introduce the guest to another of the house. It was, Villy told him, a house rule that guests who had stopped by must sit and talk with the hetaera before going to the rooms upstairs. It was also a rule that the hetaera chose whether or not to continue the relationship.

  Those who had booked appointments in advance, or who were “regular dates,” were passed by Valori or another receptionist directly up to the hetaera’s room.

  Sometimes, Villy told him, as they passed from the front parlor to the middle parlor, guests just came by to have a drink and a snack and talk for an hour. When they were done, they’d give the hetaera a gift—cash being the most common gift on Surebleak—paid the house a nominal fee, and went home.

  “It’s been so busy, Ms. Audrey had to open up the kissing room,” Villy said, as they strolled about the middle parlor. There were more Liaden guests in the middle parlor, Quin noticed; all of
them in evening dress. One woman was tucked into the lap of a boy about Villy’s age and dressed much like him, stroking his cheek softly with her small, ringed fingers. As Quin watched, she caught his hand and raised it to her breast, holding it there, and squeezing.

  “That’s gotta go upstairs,” Villy muttered, but scarcely had he said so than the hetaera bent forward to whisper into the lady’s ear, deftly slipping his hand free as he did so.

  The lady, however, did not understand his message; she was inclined, as Quin read the suddenly stiff shoulders, to be offended.

  “Let us step aside,” he said to Villy, and, arm in arm, they strolled over to the chair.

  “Good evening,” Quin said in Liaden, in the mode of comrade-to-comrade. “May I assist?”

  The lady turned to look up at him.

  “He refuses to continue. Am I an offense to his art? Does he think my gift will be inadequate?”

  The lady took a deep breath, and looked over her shoulder at the hetaera, who was looking at Villy.

  “The rule of the house is that the parlors are for . . . introductions and preliminaries,” Quin told the lady. “He merely suggested that the appropriate moment had arrived for a remove to his own private room.”

  The lady’s face relaxed. Indeed, she smiled.

  “Tell him that his art does not fail him. Yes, let us ascend.”

  Quin looked at the hetaera.

  “This is Sheyn,” Villy said, quickly, his voice soft. “Sheyn, this is Quin. What’d you tell her, honey?”

  “That Sheyn had judged it time to go abovestairs in order to pursue greater intimacy. She is pleased with that suggestion,” he said, realizing only now that he had not heard Sheyn speak. “I hope I have not misrepresented you.”

  “You represented me just fine, thanks,” Sheyn said. “Let her know I’ll be glad to give her tits all the attention they want.”

  Quin inclined his head.

  “Sheyn-hetaera yearns to more fully share his art with you, and swears that, together, you will create that which will warm you the length of your life,” Quin told the lady, cribbing madly from a very bad melant’i play he had seen at Trigrace, which had ended with three dead bodies entwined in an eternal embrace, and the Jewel Box burning to the ground.

  Perhaps the lady had not seen the play. Her face flushed with pleasure, and she slid off of Sheyn’s lap, reaching down to grasp both of his hands and urge him to his feet.

  “Have fun,” Villy told him.

  “Do my best,” Sheyn said. He smiled down at his guest, and, still holding both of her hands, guided her toward the parlor door.

  Villy and Quin continued their stroll.

  “You’re doing fine,” Villy said.

  “Did you think I would fail you?” Quin asked, taken aback.

  “No, I knew you’d do your best for me,” Villy said. “S’only—you don’t come here for the . . . play. So, I was a little worried you’d shy away from what you might see. Not,” he continued, as they passed the room Scout, who was talking forcefully in Liaden to a man with a coat that looked disturbingly familiar. “Not that the downstairs rooms are anything t’curl your hair. Usually. Now ’n then a guest’ll forget the rules a little more than Sheyn’s lady. But it ain’t exactly Boss Conrad’s parlor, either.”

  Quin chuckled softly.

  “I’ve had my tutoring,” he said, “though circumstances have conspired so that I have not had practice enough to hone my skills, I do not believe I would be irredeemably clumsy.” He looked at the side of Villy’s face.

  “Shall we date?”

  Villy met his eyes, fair eyebrows drawn.

  “Only if it means we can still be friends,” he said slowly. “I got enough dates, if it comes to that, an’ if you need more, we can solve that, easy, right here. Tansy’s real nice; you’d like her a lot, I think. Sheyn . . .”

  “bel’Tarda!” A voice came at volume, shaking the murmur of conversation into shocked silence. “For the love of the gods, someone bring me Luken bel’Tarda!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Boss Nova’s House

  Blair Road

  Surebleak

  “Hey, Mike,” Beck was sitting in the alcove off the kitchen, knitting. That was how Beck relaxed after a long day, which Mike had made longer by staying out on the street, but there wasn’t no use sayin’ it was all right to go to bed while any of the house was on the street. Beck would stay up, knitting, or mending, until the last member of the household was home and safe.

  “Coffee’s on the warmer,” Beck said. “Need anything else? Handwich? Soup?”

  That was why Beck stayed up and waited for them; in case anybody should come home starving. It was better to be short on sleep, Beck said, than to have to clean up the kitchen after one of the ’hands had made herself a handwich.

  “Thanks, I’m good,” Mike said, hooking his mug from its peg and going over to the stove. He poured himself a cup of coffee so strong it should’ve climbed outta the pot and into the mug its own self, put the pot down and raised the mug.

  The coffee was warm. In the winter, Beck would be sure that it was hot, but who needed hot in the sweet summertime?

  “What’s the word on the street?” Beck asked, standing and folding the knitting away.

  Mike shrugged his shoulders.

  “Not much noise tonight, actually. Was hopin’ to find out about any more example-making. We been quiet these past few weeks.”

  “Quiet’s bad?”

  Mike pulled up a grin.

  “Sleet, Beck, you know me! Life’s got no spice ’less there’s something to worry about.”

  Beck laughed.

  “Well, then, now that the house is counted and accounted for, I’m going t’bed. Mornin’ comes early ’round here. Fresh bread for breakfast.”

  “That ain’t much sleep at all, ’less that bread’s rising now.”

  “There’s where you’re wrong. I sleep in and Quill’s Bakery delivers hot bread right to the kitchen door. New idea of hers. Thought I’d give it a try.”

  Mike shook his head. That Baker Quill didn’t let any ice grow under her boots.

  “You remember to use the protocol,” he said to Beck, who grinned and gave a shake of the head.

  “Knew you was gonna say that. Night, Mike.”

  “Night, Beck. Thanks.”

  The light went out, and he heard footsteps going down the back hallway, to Beck’s room. Mike added more tepid coffee to his mug and wandered down the front corridor to his office. It’d started life as a closet, his office: snug, no windows, which most times he didn’t mind, a good central location in house and no draft being more important to him.

  Tonight, though, he wanted windows. Tonight, sleet, he wanted to sit outside on the stoop, sipping his coffee and watching Surebleak go by. Might be he’d see something that would either quiet his nerves, or put a name to the trouble hovering just outta sight.

  The tourists . . . well. The tourists had ’em all jumpy, and that was the truth. Nobody’d expected ’em, and nobody quite knew what to do with ’em. Despite his expectations—and his Boss’s belief—some few of the hardier ones had left the port and wandered through town. The Watch liked that, yessir.

  Mike drank off some coffee, but he didn’t sit down at his desk.

  The tourists, they were an annoyance—they were, he thought, frowning, a distraction, but they weren’t the trouble. The trouble he felt down deep in his bones, that was Surebleak trouble, and the quiet on the streets made him . . . afraid.

  Usually, there was something buzzing. While ago it’d been that the Road Bosses better stop sticking their noses into what didn’t concern the road, or they’d see an example made like’d never been made before.

  There might’ve been more to that one than some insurance man pissed off ’cause his nose got broke, but the tourists came in, the whisper died, and now there was nothing on the streets.

  Nothing.

  Well, and could be they’d made a mis
take—them who’d taken up with the New Bosses, and who were betting on a newer, better way.

  Right before the tourists come, a streeter’d decided not to pay his insurance when the man come in. Broke the guy’s arm and trussed him up with sticky-wrap before calling the Street Patrol to come on over and get ’im.

  Which they had, and—surprise!—turns out the guy’d had a schedule of zamples to be made, right there in his pocket.

  So, the Watch, they’d staked out the locations, and—surprise—didn’t nobody show up at any o’the places listed, nor yet at any other place.

  The buzz went dead, Mike thought, then. That was how it went: no buzz, tourists, no buzz, yet.

  Calm before a storm means it’ll snow twice as deep, Gramma Golden used to say. He couldn’t remember that she’d ever been wrong on it, either.

  Dammit, didn’t he wish the stupid tourists would get on their ship and go! Couldn’t be that much here to amuse ’em, after they’d laughed at the locals, lost a pile o’cash at the gamblin’ house, and used what hadn’t froze off yet at Audrey’s—what was left to do?

  Poor little things was blue with the cold, too; you almost felt sorry for ’em. At least their Liadens had enough sense to put on a coat if they were cold.

  He snorted. If these was the best the old world could muster up, it really did look like Surebleak’d gotten the prize bag o’Liadens for its own self.

  Well.

  He finished what was left in his mug, thought about going down to the kitchen for more coffee, then decided against.

  Morning came early, like Beck said.

  Best he got some sleep, too.

  “bel’Tarda! bel’Tarda! What have you wrought, bel’Tarda! Ah, no—the rug; the very rug!”

  Quin was moving toward the sound, dodging around those who had come to their feet. The words had been in Liaden, the voice slurred, and if someone who had drunk too many glasses of wine was going to attempt to force a duel upon Grandfather . . .