by Brian Daley
Floyt found himself in a world of unctuous flesh peddlers and slab-muscled enforcers, carousing mercenaries, swaggering go-bloods and a disconcerting array of strangely conceived nonhumans; he saw screaming hawkers and sauntering prostitutes of every sex and description.
A furious blur of blue-scaled lightning came broken-field-running through the crowded hold at knee level, weaving between bystanders and stalls, overturning bins and cannisters, squealing and honking. It ran on two short, thick legs, a bulbous tail raised high to balance it.
Hot on its pronged heels came a drugged and drunken mob of laughing, shrieking, swearing men and women. Onlookers jeered and catcalled. A small human—at least, Floyt thought it was a human; he looked like something out of a hummel-werk—made a dive for the prey and ended up bowling over a stilt-legged humanoid who resembled an ostrich.
The little quarry darted through the center of Merrywell's party. Alacrity and Floyt and the others sprang aside as howling, blaspheming, cleaver-waving pursuers stumbled and careened after it. The chase disappeared into the far reaches of the giant hold, but shouts of outrage and screams of frustration, complaints from concessionaires and profuse squealing and honking from the prey continued in the distance.
"They'll use up more calories catching it than they'll get eating it," Merrywell predicted morosely, drawing on his cigarette holder.
In his haste to get out of the way, Floyt had fetched up against a sign affixed to the bulkhead. A man standing close by leaned toward him, shooting back his floppy sleeves. His arms had instruments strapped to them, all the way up to the shoulders.
"First-rate proteuses, sir! Newest and most versatile models! Lifetime guarantee!"
Floyt grunted, shoving himself back on balance. "I don't think—"
The man got in front of him. "Telelinks! Accessors! Com-aides!"
"No, really, I—"
"Very beautiful lady's multi here, sir! Necklace model!" The man was shaking it under Floyt's nose, an instrumented bauble mounted with too many fake gems. "Double your money back if not delighted! Works anywhere."
"Oh, yeah?" Alacrity broke in. "What about some of the less popular bodily orifices, you scrote?"
The hawker's mouth snapped shut; he scuttled away.
"You all right, Ho?" Floyt nodded. Dusting off his hands, he turned to look at the sign against which he'd leaned, THE ARES HOUSE OF BIOSYNERGIC DEFENSE—EXPERT SKELETAL AUGMENTATION—DIGITAL IMPLANTS OUR SPECIALTY—ONE-TIME OFFER: FULL TWO-HAND BLADE ARRAY FOR THE PRICE OF ONE!!!
The two rejoined the others. The hold was fruited with a bewildering assortment of signs, placards, and advertisements, everything from crude hand-lettered shingles to floating holographic murals in full-spectrum colors with high-fidelity sound. Floyt scanned what he could of the ones in Terranglish and Tradeslang.
THE PHOENIX NEST REJUVENATION CLINIC. RELIGIOUS ITEMS AND OCCULT SUPPLIES—FULL TIME SEER ON DUTY. NEW AND LIKE-NEW HAWKING EFFECT EQUIPMENT. FINE WEAPONS AND AMMUNITION—EXPERT INSTRUCTION AVAILABLE. RELIABLE DEALER IN IDENTITY CHANGE. HYDROPONICS & AEROPONICS UNLTD. OLDE EARTHE NATURAL TELLURIAN SPRING WATER.
"That can't be true, can it?" Floyt asked, as he and Alacrity were obliged to go around a crowd that was gathering to hear a laser-eyed prophet spout armageddon. "Terran water, I mean?"
Alacrity was exchanging appreciative glances with a sultry young odalisque who gleamed in scarlet dermal stain, sun vortices glittering from her fingers, earlobes, nose ring, and navel.
"Huh? Oh, not a chance. But there's a huge market for that kind of stuff—people who feel the way your buddy the Daimyo does."
He kissed his fingertips to the woman as they moved on; she reciprocated.
"Ho, if they ever opened Terra to general tourists, the trade in health neurotics and people hoping for miracle cures alone would make you folks rich. The whole place would be one big what'd-they-callit—Lourdes."
They were both distracted, looking back at the odalisque, and so nearly bumped into two men coming the other way in the narrow, cluttered aisle. The two were huge, Amarok's height but much burlier, more like Corporeals. Their skins were a deep brown; they had great curling masses of brown hair and beard. Corsairs or mercenaries, Alacrity figured. Maybe slavers. Or assassins. Whoever they were, they were a lot more than run-of-the-Grapple hired muscle or enforcers. Floyt had never seen such cold empty eyes.
The two men were decked out in gaudy clothing that was now soiled and reeking. They were weighted with mismatched jewelry that smacked of plunder. Their faces and bodies were scarred and muscular, and they carried an arsenal of well-worn weapons. Around the neck of one was a necklace of small, wrinkled brown objects that were, Floyt saw, human ears.
Once the pair had passed, Alacrity murmured to Floyt, "Sintilla's trying to make us sound like square-jawed heroes in those penny dreadfuls of hers, but I'm telling you, compared to people like that, we're just a pair of parakeets."
Hurrying to catch up again, they ascended a circular ladderwell. The bulkhead had been cut away from a compartment overlooking the hold to form a sort of bistro with a view, the Prang Inn.
Merrywell had appropriated a large circular table of pitted gray plastic near the rail. As they all ordered drinks, they considered the activity and commotion below. Alacrity ordered something called a "meltdown," and Floyt elected to try one.
The Magus crewmembers kept casual lookout. "Merrywell, these chaps need some special help. They want to go to Blackguard," Amarok began.
That only made Merrywell sorrowful, but then everything did. "Do you two know anything about that place?"
"Nothing, really," Alacrity confessed.
Merrywell pondered that. "Then might I ask what your business would be? I ask by way of helping, you understand."
"We're very sorry, Captain Merrywell, and we don't mean to give any offense, but we're not at liberty to discuss that," Floyt got in before Alacrity could answer.
Merrywell held up a hand. " 'S quite all right; I don't offend easily, boys. But you see, showing up as an uninvited visitor is very different from going there as a guest, from what little I've heard. Now, you two don't look to me like wealthy men."
"That's a good call," Alacrity conceded as the drinks arrived. "We're anything but."
Floyt accepted his meltdown. It was a softly bubbling, thick aquamarine fluid from which slow wreaths of smoke wound. Either the inside of the tankard was luminous or the stuff was reaching critical mass. He blew away the smoke and took a sip. It was viscous and too hot, highly spiced and excessively strong. Floyt couldn't quite pin down why he found himself liking it.
"There are two aspects to Blackguard," Merrywell explained. "The one's what you might call a private resort, a retreat for the well heeled, where they can have, shall we say, a little unsavory sport?" He gestured at the turmoil below. "Whatever else you might say about those sods down there, most of them do what they do to survive, or for profit, or because it's all they know or they hate honest work. But on one part of Blackguard, I hear, they play all the nastiest games there are, just for something to do. It's very exclusive."
"And the other part?" Alacrity asked.
"Just a little population center with limited offworld contact not all that hospitable to outsiders either, from what they say. Which would be the one where you have your business?"
"Not sure." Alacrity shook his head. "Which is the spaceport?"
"I recall hearing that both places have one. One of your problems is that nobody talks very much about the place; it's not considered an important planet, but getting too curious about it is unhealthy."
Floyt had taken a deeper drink of his meltdown. "Smooth," he croaked.
"Cap'n Merrywell, do you know anybody who's actually been there? Anyone we could talk to?" Alacrity asked.
Merrywell scratched under his chin and coughed once or twice into his elegant kerchief, concentrating. "There's only one I can think of: Costa."
"Who's Costa?"
"You're in his ship
, son. Costa owns the Caveat Emptor, and this is his Grapple. He's a cold-hearted bastard, and no one to annoy, but he keeps confidences, so if he agrees to talk to you, I think you can trust him."
Alacrity and Floyt were quick to thank him. Merrywell just slouched further and looked more downcast than ever. "I'm doing it for young Amarok here, because you're his friends. Do you two have money?"
They swapped glances, shifting in their chairs. "Some," Alacrity allowed at last.
"Good; you'll probably need it. I can—"
He was interrupted by a small warning gesture from his female crewmember. A little contingent was making its way in the direction of the table.
"Sile." Amarok grunted, indicating the man who led the way.
Sile had an air of bravado. He was clad in a purple satin blouse that was all pintucks, pleats, and darts; tight leather breeches of the same color; and a matching pelisse jacket, festooned with gold braid and fourragires draped dashingly from his left shoulder.
His Wellington boots were purple too, with massive triple-rowled spurs that clinked and clashed as he strode the deck. Sile had a pale, narrow face that looked young from a distance. Up close, the network of lines around his eyes contradicted that. His tonsured brown hair had been grouted and glossed into what resembled a ceramic bowl.
He led by the hand a woman who was nearly his own height, perhaps 170 centimeters, slender and lean-flanked as a boy, with a deep olive complexion. Her waifish eyes, heavily made up and almost comically long-lashed, were as blue as Spica, Alacrity thought, while Floyt compared them to cornflowers. Her lemon-yellow hair was barely long enough to hold a part; she wore a duplicate of Sile's outfit, spurs and all.
"And Constance," Amarok added softly.
As the two approached the table, most of their party held back a few meters, while the shockguns were casually held ready by Merrywell's crewpeople, not quite aimed at them but not far off target. Sile's gang consisted of breakabouts and port-side goons of various shapes and sizes, mean-looking and armed but not in a class with the truly lethal types Floyt and Alacrity had already seen.
But one stayed up just behind Sile and Constance. He was a small man, sinewy and lean, with a yellow-brown complexion somewhat lighter than Amarok's and a lesser epicanthic fold to his eyes. He wore a dramatic black costume, with high tabi and a hood that allowed only his eyes to show. His long gauntlets left his fingers and palms exposed. He wore no weapons they could see, but the roomy attire might conceal anything. He carried a long staff of what looked like green glass ringed with silver bands of assorted widths.
"Pneuma-warrior," Merrywell said aside to Alacrity and Floyt dolefully.
"Well, well, Amarok, dear boy." Sile almost crooned. "Constance, my pet, you remember this brawny young scamp. He moored his Pihoquiaq to our vessel at the Read 'Em and Weep Grapple."
Amarok's lips tightened. "Yes and part of the Pihoquiaq's cargo wound up missing."
Sile pretended not to hear. Constance pursed her lips at Amarok, seductive and scornful.
"And jolly old Merrywell," Sile continued, "happy-go-lucky as ever." He made a courtly bow; Constance curtsied. "You should make an effort to smile now and again; what if God freezes your face like that?"
"He already has," Merrywell drawled, blowing crimson cigarette smoke Sile's way.
Sile giggled, turning to Alacrity and Floyt. "And who might these two wayfarers be?"
"Shipwreck Mazuma," Alacrity shot back with an unfriendly smile, using his Forager pseudonym.
"Delver Rootnose," Floyt threw in, using the alias Alacrity had conjured up for him when they'd stayed with the Sockwallet Outfit.
"How adorable! How quaint!" Constance purred, clapping her hands. For Floyt she had a coy wink.
"I was rather hurt by your refusal to offer me hospitality, Amarok," Sile resumed. There was an edge to his voice.
"Hurt and annoyed," Constance added dreamily, still smiling, running a hand over Sile's chest. She wore long, mandarin-style fingernail sheaths, lacquered and set with precious stones.
"Your hurt is of your own devising," Amarok said tightly. "Your annoyance is best controlled." His eye met those of the pneuma-warrior. Something hypnotic glinted about the little man's black eyes, Alacrity saw; it was like matching stares with a cobra.
"Pihoquiaq is grappled to my vessel," Merrywell interjected tiredly, slumped in his chair. His drink was some sort of oily brown concoction with what appeared to be aluminum shavings floating around in it; he was stirring it with his hairy, beringed pinky. "And so you'll be understanding, naturally, Cap'n Sile, that Amarok and his shipmates are under my protection."
Sile laughed shrilly, head tossed back. "Merrywell, Merrywell, what would we do for a good joke if you weren't around, you precious old buffoon? Come, my dear."
He led his wife away, the pneuma-warrior falling in behind, with the rest of the entourage coming after.
"How come they're dressed like a couple of grapes?" Alacrity inquired.
"The little viper likes to pretend he's some kind of aristocrat," Merrywell answered. "It's also to advertise the fact that he'll be in the Regatta for the Purple; he has to change underwear three times a day, he's so happy about that."
"Regatta?" Alacrity repeated. "They're letting him in the regatta?"
Floyt recalled hearing something about that in the Bruja. The Regatta for the Purple was some sort of blueblood interstellar race, limited to a chosen few.
"Um-hmm," responded dour Merrywell. "He'll be captaining a new racing yacht for some bigshot. Although how a germ like that rated it is a bigger mystery than the Precursors."
"Cap'n Merrywell, what's a pneuma-warrior?" Floyt asked.
"A mystic martial arts sneak. Cat-burglar, assassin, ninja-swami, or whatever."
Amarok added, "They train to empty themselves, to become a vessel for their pneuma, their personal warrior-spirit, they claim. It's supposed to take them over and direct them. No pain or weakness, and all that rot."
"He was the first one I ever saw," Alacrity said. "You don't find many of them around, right, Cap'n Merrywell?"
"Nope." Merrywell's face creased even more. "They're supposed to be kinesics readers, miracle men in a fight."
"The best miracle that little cockroach can do for himself is to stay clear of One," Amarok grated.
"He stared at you in particular, Rok," Floyt commented.
"Someone warned him once to stay out of One's way, or have his head squished like a berry."
"Getting back to cases," Alacrity put in, "what about Blackguard?"
"I'll go see Costa," Merrywell said, "and try to get him to talk to you two. You go get your other business done, or look around, and I'll meet you back at the Magus in an hour or so. Some of my crew will go with you."
"Not necessary, thank you," Amarok declared, standing up and squaring his great shoulders. "Sile's nothing but a lying little rodent, no matter who stands at his elbow."
Alacrity wouldn't have minded a bodyguard, but he and Floyt were guests and that made arguing a bad idea.
Merrywell shuffled off with his people. Amarok, Floyt, and Alacrity went back to exploring the Grapple.
Floyt wasn't all that surprised that the drug dens, drinking places, and sex emporia were doing a brisk business. But it did take him aback to see that fresh fruit and vegetables, green salads, dairy products, and natural water were so popular.
"Lots of ships don't have gardens or good food storage," Alacrity explained. "After a few weeks or months of reconstituted meat paste, rerecycled water, and synthetic gruel, you find yourself thinking about fresh cold milk and bananas that are barely ripe."
Amarok and Floyt were back on the main deck, threading their way toward the next hold, which looked just as big as the first. Conspicuous teams of Costa's enforcers were in abundance. Amarok explained that Costa made some money off his docking fees, but in the main from owning a piece of every business based in the Caveat Emptor. Private deals struck between attendees were permitted
as long as they posed no competition to Caveat's industries. Costa paid lavish rewards to informers; circumventing the rules was dangerous.
There was surprisingly little bloodshed. Amarok had explained the rules during the voyage: no shooting unless attacked or otherwise certifiably provoked, and even then it was wise to be very judicious. Disagreements could be settled in a grappled ship or under Enforcer supervision in Caveat Emptor. No stealing, cheating, or conning.
There was a sudden furor ahead. An enraged crowd of mixed humans and nonhumans came their way. All were dressed in identical ship's coveralls. They carried and dragged a struggling, thrashing captive, a wild-eyed man wearing torn, bloodstained finery. Blood also seeped from a scalp wound.
The three got out of the way, like everyone else. Two teams of Enforcers bringing up the rear made no move to intervene. As the mob went by, Alacrity called out, "What's up?"
One of the humans, a female with iron-gray hair, paused long enough to yell back, "Caught him cheating, shorting the mixture in an air-sale."
"What are you going to do with him?" Floyt queried.
She stared at him for a beat, puzzled. "Do? Why, feed him out the airlock, of course, what else?"
Then she was off again to watch the short-mixer drown in his own blood.
A bystander, a Junoesque woman carrying a bundle of some kind poised on her head, remarked, "I heard they spaced a Langstretch agent a while ago."
Alacrity was too quick to ask, "Langstretch? Were they sure?"
"Sure enough to space him, brother." She proceeded on her way, hips swaying, head erect. It struck Floyt as a very graceful way to carry a burden, not to mention leaving one's hands free.
Alacrity was still preoccupied with the news. Operatives of the Langstretch Detective Agency, both full-timers and stringers, were active throughout human space and beyond. Floyt had noticed in the past that news of them always seemed to rivet Alacrity's attention.
No point in asking, though, Floyt decided. He'll only sphinx up on me again. Instead he asked, "What are the penalties for the other violations? The ones you were talking about?"