by R. M. Olson
“I don’t have to keep my side of the bargain here, you know. You cheated.”
“Hey now, don’t play what you can’t pay. Besides, if I’d cheated, figure an experienced gambler like you would have called me out on it when you caught me.”
“I am calling you out.”
“You never caught me. You’re just guessing.”
He narrowed his eyes, which were, she noted, noticeably glassy. He must have drunk more than she’d thought. “A good cheater lets the other person win once in a while. To keep from being detected.”
She shrugged. “Good thing I’m no cheater then. Guess I’d be a pretty crap one.” She couldn’t stop grinning, and honestly, it had a lot less to do with the alcohol than it did from the memory of the look on his face every time he lost a game.
He was wrong. She could have let him win once or twice. Hell, she’d been tempted to, just for a change. But the way his eyes bugged out of his head and then narrowed, darting back and forth between his tokens and hers as if trying to figure out how she’d done it—she gave a sigh of satisfaction and glanced back up at him.
Honestly, she hadn’t been able to help it.
“Someone is going to kill you one of these days, Solokov.”
She gave him a slightly-drunken grin. “Hell, people have been trying that for about twenty-three years now.”
“Yes, well now you’re on the krestnaya’s ship. You’re right in the centre of the headquarters of the mafia. And you have just finished telling me that you don’t intend to follow any of the rules I set out for you, for your own protection.” He was still glaring at her.
“Yep.” She scooped up the tokens and held them out. At last, grudgingly, he held out his hands, and she poured the tokens into them. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, anyways. We just had a couple friendly games here. Nothing to lose sleep over. Just be glad we weren’t playing for actual credits.”
He was still scowling. “I think I would have preferred to be playing for credits.”
She shrugged. “There’s always next time, you bastard.”
He slammed his free hand down on the table. “No. There’s not going to be a next time. And I told you, over and over, you do not call members of the mafia ‘bastard.’”
“Guess I do.” She gave him one parting grin and turned, ever-so-slightly unsteadily, and sauntered out of the gambling hall. She shot Fyodor a glance over her shoulder as she left. He was still sitting where she’d left him, glaring at the tokens in his hand and the row of empty glasses on the table. She gave him a wink.
“I’ll see you ‘round,” she said cheerily. “Seeing as you’ve told me I’m welcome here whenever the hell I feel like it.”
He half-stood. “I never—”
“Got to pay what you play,” she said, shaking her head at him in mock-admonishment. “Can’t have people thinking you’d stiff them.”
He sank back in his chair, glowering at her, and she made her way down the hallways to the guest quarters.
Yes, she was slightly drunk, and yes, she’d probably made an enemy of someone who was clearly in the good graces of Grigory Whoever-the-hell-he-was, but honestly, she felt about a million times better. She’d needed something like that.
She held her key-chip up to their door, and when the lock clicked, pushed it open. She hit the button on her com—well, it took her a couple tries to remember which one it was, but it was a lot better than it could have been—to activate the spoof Tae had set up, then shut the door carefully behind her and let out a long breath.
“Jez?”
She looked up sharply. Lev was sitting at a table, a holoscreen pulled up in front of him, and he was glaring at her with a mixture of annoyance and concern.
She gave him a slightly-drunken grin. “Yeah, genius?”
“Jez?” He stood, frowning. “Are you al—” he stopped abruptly. “You’re drunk,” he said flatly.
She grinned at him again. Honestly, she’d probably be snapping at him at this point, normally, but the combination of alcohol and the warm satisfaction sitting in her chest made her slightly less snappish than she’d usually be.
“Damn right. But don’t worry, genius. Fyodor stopped buying me drinks half-way through, and I didn’t make him keep going.” She glanced back at the door speculatively. “Could have, you know. Maybe I’ll go find him, tell him he owes me a few.”
Lev’s expression had turned a shade of disbelief. “Fyodor Yanovik?” he asked after a moment. “Jez, please tell me that you didn’t manage to irritate Fyodor Yanovik.”
She gave him a contemplative look. “Nah,” she said after a moment. “I don’t think irritate is the word. Bastard looked like he wanted to throw me out the airlock by the time we finished.”
“Jez!” He came over to her and grabbed her by the arm. She jerked out of his grasp and almost overbalanced, barely catching herself against the wall.
“Jez, sit down,” he said through his teeth. She glared at him, but the adrenalin and alcohol were still buzzing pleasantly through her brain and she discovered she couldn’t be quite as irritated as she’d normally be.
She dropped into the chair he pulled up, still grinning. He shoved a ration pack at her.
“Eat something, you idiot. I’d prefer having this conversation with you at least somewhat sober.”
She shrugged, and ripped the packaging off the rations pack. “Well, genius, if I was sober right now, probably wouldn’t be talking to you. Because I’m going to be honest, you’ve been an absolute bastard lately.”
He stared at her for a moment, irritation still clear on his face, but at last his expression softened, and he shook his head ruefully.
“To be fair, Jez, you’ve been a bit of a bastard yourself.”
She cocked her head at him as she took a bite of the rations pack. “Well, maybe,” she conceded, “but I’m always a bit of a bastard.”
He was still watching her, but at last she saw a reluctant smile tug at his lips. “I’m not going to comment on that.”
She smirked. “See? There’s a reason I call you genius-boy.”
His smile widened slightly, then, with an effort, he scowled again. “Alright, now that you’re sitting down and I’m not worried you’re going to actually fall over, would you mind explaining how you got Fyodor Yanovik to the point that he wanted to throw you out the airlock?”
“What, don’t want to just guess?” she asked, taking another bite of the rations pack. “Figure you could come up with something good.”
He sighed in exasperation, but there was still the hint of a smile on his face.
It was actually kind of nice. She hadn’t seen him smile in a while. Since—
Nope. She wasn’t nearly drunk enough to think about that yet.
“Yes, Jez, you’re right. I could probably come up with about a dozen ways in which you could have, over the course of two and a half hours, convinced a mafia avtoritet to get you drunk, and then irritated him to the point where he wanted to throw you out the airlock. But I’d rather know what actually happened.”
“Hey, he’s drunk too,” she said. “Figure he’s more drunk than I am, because I’ll be honest with you, right now I’m just barely drunk enough to want to keep talking to you, you plaguer.”
“Jez—”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. He told me Grigory asked him to teach me manners. So I convinced him that we should talk over a nice friendly game, seeing as there was a gambling hall right here on the ship. And he said that he could only bring members in there, and I asked why he was so afraid to play with some pilot who’d learned to play in kabaks in backwater zestavas, and he said—”
Lev’s face was growing gradually more and more disbelieving. “Wait. Please tell me you didn’t—”
“Probably did,” she said, leaning back with a grin. “Anyways, he said he wasn’t afraid, he was trying to protect me from myself, and I said if that was the case, figure I deserved whatever I got, so why not have a friendly little g
ame? And finally he agreed. And I figured he was going to try to beat the hell out of me, which, I’ll be honest, he probably could have, but anyways, apparently he thought he could teach me manners by just talking to me.” She shrugged. “So I told the bastard I’d do what he said if he won the game. And if he lost, I wouldn’t, and he’d let me use the gambling hall whenever the hell I felt like it, and he’d buy me a drink.”
“You didn’t call him a bastard. Please tell me you didn’t call him a bastard.” Lev’s expression was one of resigned horror.
“Yep. Sure did. Can’t honestly remember how many times, but hell,” she shrugged. “Like I said, he stopped buying me drinks about half-way through, mostly because he was buying them for himself. Also, turns out I’m not going to follow any of his manners. Figure he was drinking so much because he didn’t want to explain that to Grigory.”
Lev was still staring at her. At last he sank into his own chair with a sort of resigned exhaustion.
“Jez,” he said at last.
“Yeah?”
He just shook his head for a moment. “The problem with this, Jez, is that in a few hours, when you’ve sobered up and you’ve finally had time to think about what you’ve done with a clear head—you’re not going to feel any differently about it.”
She smirked.
He sighed, still shaking his head. “Jez. Listen to me. Fyodor is a very dangerous man. He would almost certainly throw you out the airlock without a second thought, if he didn’t do something worse. He likely only has not done so because Grigory believes that Masha and Ysbel and I will be useful enough to him that he’s instructed his people not to actually kill any of us unless necessary. I am, unfortunately, of Tae’s opinion that if our usefulness ever wears off, Grigory will waste no time in getting rid of every last one of us.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Alright, genius, explain to me how that’s different than any other thing we’ve done in the past few months.” She paused a moment. “Or, basically anything I’ve done my whole damn life.”
He was still shaking his head, but again, there was that hint of a smile beneath his exasperation.
“Well, Jez,” he said, after a long moment. “I suppose you’re right. I wish you hadn’t done what you just did, but—” he held up his hand before she could protest. “But, you’re a grown woman, and you’ve managed to survive so far, although I honestly am not certain how, so I suppose there isn’t much I can say about it. Other than, you might want to at least be able to act sober by the time Masha gets back.” He paused again. “And. Um. I—suppose I should say sorry. For being a complete bastard.”
She frowned at him.
He looked like he actually meant it.
“Um.” She said. For the first time since she’d headed down to the gambling hall, she somewhat regretted the fact that her head wasn’t as clear as it usually was, because honestly, she wasn’t entirely sure she knew what to do with a Lev who wasn’t being a complete bastard. “I. I mean. I’m sorry too.”
He smiled slightly. “Well.” He paused. “It isn’t like we can’t—I mean—”
“No, we—just because we aren’t—we don’t—” She found she was stumbling over her words, something strange twisting in the pit of her stomach. This was definitely not a conversation she could have drunk. Hell, she wasn’t sure it was a conversation she could have sober, not now, not with Lev. She stood abruptly, and almost fell over. He caught her arm, and damn it, why did his touch send tingles all the way up her shoulder and down her body?
She was definitely too drunk too deal with this right now, or else not nearly drunk enough.
“‘M going to lie down,” she mumbled, jerking her arm out of his grasp. She certainly wasn’t drunk enough for that, but it sounded like a hell of a lot better plan than staying out here for even one second more.
“Jez,” he said quietly, dropping his hand.
Reluctantly, she turned.
“I’m—sorry,” he said. “Friends?”
She paused for a long moment. Then, at last, she turned, sitting back down again.
“Yeah,” she said. “Friends.”
He gave her a small smile, and somehow she found herself smiling back. And that cold, empty place in her chest, that had been there ever since he told her they should probably be done, seemed to shrink, just a little.
At last he turned back to the table, pulled his chair back around to where it had been, and tapped his com, pulling up his holoscreen again. She watched him surreptitiously as he worked.
Maybe—well, maybe if Lev was going to stop acting like a cranky old man, there was just a chance she’d be able to handle this thing after all.
And she didn’t have to think, right now, about what that might mean to them not being together anymore, because they were just friends, that’s all it was.
And anyways—Fyodor had promised her full access to the gambling hall, so there was always that.
CHAPTER SIX
THERE WAS A loud knock, and Lev stood, tapping Tae’s spoof on his com off, and walked to the door to their suite.
When he pulled open the door, a woman stood behind it. He glanced her over quickly, and she did the same to him. She, however, made no attempt to disguise the unimpressed look on her face.
“You’re Lev,” she said at last.
He nodded politely. “And you, I assume, are Marta Babanin.”
She frowned at him. “Grigory informed you I was coming?”
He smiled noncommittally.
“Then perhaps Grigory told you the reason I’m here. You’re invited to dine with him tonight.”
Lev raised one eyebrow. “No. I wasn’t aware of the reason for your visit. I’m honoured.”
He watched her as he spoke.
Grigory hadn’t told him she was coming, but Lev was conversant enough with the mafia hierarchy to recognize her instantly. She was an avtoritet, not a high-ranking one, but still— Whatever this was, it was important, if she’d been sent as a messenger.
And an invitation to dinner.
Either there was something the krestnaya wanted his help with, or he was going to be murdered. He wasn’t entirely certain which, and at this point it was beginning to seem like the two things were relatively interchangeable.
“The dinner will be in—” Marta glanced at her com. “One standard hour. Down in the dining room off the gambling hall.” She glanced him over once more, letting the distain bleed through her expression. “And please, try to dress the part. I’ll instruct my people to have proper clothing sent up.”
“I appreciate it,” he murmured. “As you might suspect, I neglected my dinner wardrobe over the course of running for my life these past few months.”
She gave him a look that told him very clearly she doubted he’d ever had a dinner wardrobe.
Which, in fairness, was entirely correct.
He gave her another bland, pleasant smile, and closed the door as she turned away.
A suit of clothing arrived soon after—dark trousers and a dark, embroidered vest of a fine, soft material, a white shirt of something even finer, and soft, high brown boots—and he stepped out of his room just as the door banged open and Jez sauntered inside. She was grinning, as usual, and he decided not to ask what she’d been doing because quite honestly he wasn’t sure his nerves could handle knowing.
She glanced over at him, then did a double-take, raising her eyebrows. “Well, genius-boy. Least we know you clean up nice.”
He looked at her in surprise. She seemed to suddenly realize what she’d said, because she turned away quickly and wouldn’t meet his eyes.
He watched her for a moment, that familiar tightness in the pit of his stomach, then, shaking his head, stepped out the door.
There was a boyevik there waiting to escort him. Of course there was. And the threat of his weapon beneath his vest was almost hidden enough not to draw attention to itself.
The man nodded politely and gestured him forward, and Lev walked down the opul
ent corridor, somehow forcing himself not to look over his shoulder.
If Grigory wanted him shot, he wasn’t stupid enough to think it would make a difference whether or not he saw it coming.
When they reached the gambling hall, the man beckoned him through to the dining area. “Go on. Grigory will join you shortly.”
A server in a blue-black uniform with gold trim that matched the ambiance of the room beckoned him forward, and he followed through the main room, through a discrete door, up a small staircase, and through a heavy curtain into a room that almost made him stop dead in astonishment.
Jez would have loved this.
The skylights were uncovered, and stretched the length of the room, so that it almost felt like you were sitting outside the ship, surrounded by deep space. The many-coloured swirl of a nebula spread off to the starboard side of the ship, the stars glowing from all sides. He’d been out on a space-walk only one time, and it had almost ended in his death—but he still sometimes had a momentary spike of longing for the peaceful, icy black, the beautiful, deadly vastness that could, perhaps, kill you from yearning almost before it could kill you from cold.
And this—this was as close as you could get to that, without dying.
Although considering he was meeting Grigory Korzhikov for dinner, not dying wasn’t a given.
The server gestured Lev to a seat, bowed slightly, and stepped back through the curtain.
There was a chance, of course, that Grigory had set this up to murder him—gas him, like the administrators in the University of Prasvishoni had tried a few weeks earlier, or something much more deadly and much more painful.
His muscles were tense, and he made a conscious effort to relax them.
He didn’t actually believe that if Grigory intended to kill him, he’d choose this time and place. Of the thousands of ways Grigory could have him killed, this seemed a rather impractical option. Besides, Grigory had invited him with a purpose.
And Lev had his own purpose for accepting.
Besides not being shot by Grigory’s boyeviki, although that had admittedly played a part.
Still, he had an unreasonably hard time forcing himself to lean comfortably back in the seat, rather than sit perched tensely on the edge.