A Liaden Universe® Constellation: Volume Two

by Sharon Lee

  According to the reports, Replacement Number Two had gotten herself done within ten planet days by a local bent on revenge, what they called Balance hereabouts. Occupational hazard, that was. Or not. He considered himself warned.

  And, he acknowledged, finishing his visual scan and stepping into the office, the fact remained that each of the three replacements before him had gone down their own road to meet death very soon after planetfall, the only obvious link between them that they’d struck Sector Boss Ailsworth as a threat to his position; enough of a threat that they’d been shuffled out of the high-visibility zone and dropped in a place where, apparently, there was no advancement. Hard to know who to blame, there, if anyone—they’d all accepted the job, after all.

  Same, he admitted wryly to himself, shrugging his shoulder pack off and putting it on the desk, as Number Four.

  “Nice going, Clarence,” he muttered, and pulled his left hand and the bug-finder out of its pocket. He scrutinized the read-out, with its cheery blue lights proclaiming safe-safe-safe, and set it down next to his pack. Sighing, he slipped the gun out of his right pocket, snapped on the safety and put it decently away into its holster.

  The temp was set a little low for his liking, so he kept the jacket on as he pulled the chair into a comfortable spot before sitting and adjusted the armrests so he wouldn’t bang his elbows too hard (because he knew he was one that used his armrests)—ergonomics be damned—and bent over to bring the comp on-line.

  First file up was addressed to him. A roster it was, listing names and contact numbers for staff, couriers, day-labor and such. It also gave the address and contact codes for the round-the-clock office, whose work he’d seriously not wished to impinge upon as his first act on-planet. The second file was something else. He frowned, scanned through, then went back to the top, one hand already reaching for the desk-comm.

  He punched up the first number on the contact page; a woman answered, sounding surprised. Hers was, after all, a purposefully quiet office on a purposefully quiet planet.

  “Tora Belle here.”

  “This is O’Berin,” Clarence told her, firm and quiet. “Contact staff and let ’em know there’s a meeting at headquarters when the port goes dayside. I want everybody here, sharp and ready to work.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tora Belle said. “Day-labor, too?”

  “Everybody,” Clarence confirmed, letting her hear a touch of impatience.

  “Yes, sir,” she answered. “Anything else?”

  “Bring yourself here an hour before the others. I fancy I’ll be having some questions for you.”

  She drew a breath, slow and not quite steady.

  “Questions,” he said to that minor sound of dread. “You can expect from me what you had from Herself, for the same cause and reasons. Fair?”

  Out the breath came, stronger. “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  “Tomorrow, then. O’Berin out.” He cut the connection and turned back to the screen and its tangled skein of news. It was going to be a long night.

  Sighing, he peeled out of his jacket and adjusted the gain on the screen. He checked to make sure the telltales would talk to him in case anyone unexpected—which was just about anyone at all—tested the defenses, and reached automatically for the cup still likely sitting on his desk at Landofar.

  He should’ve asked Belle to bring along coffee tomorrow, he thought ruefully, if there was coffee to be had. Well, and it would be interesting to see, as Herself would have had it, what Belle might think of on her own.

  * * *

  “More tea, Mother?” Daav asked, reaching for the pot.

  “Of your considerable goodness.” Chi yos’Phelium held out her cup with a smile.

  He served her, and then himself, replacing the pot on the warmer. They shared a late breakfast on the patio overlooking the so-called wilderness. To Daav’s eye, and no doubt to his mother’s, the well-grown and cared-for strip of trees looked rather overly domesticated. No matter, the view was pleasant, and if it were somewhat tame, at least they could be assured that no wild animals, nor wild men, for that matter, would come roaring down upon them to smash up the porcelain and make all untidy.

  “Really, Daav,” his mother murmured as she took her cup in hand, “you have become extremely useful. I wonder that I allow you to return to the scouts.”

  He sipped his own tea, outwardly unperturbed. “Surely, ma’am, you must know that my usefulness is directly attributable to the knowledge that I am not long for Liad. Were you to deny me the scouts, I make no doubt that I should soon revert to the surly fellow we both know me to be.”

  “It is true,” Chi said, as if the thought had just occurred to her, “that you are far from sweet-tempered, my son. Doubtless you are correct, and I would tire of your company in a few days under such changed circumstance.” She put her cup, gently, on the table. “Well, then, back to the scouts you shall go, when your leave is done.” She shot him a quick, mischievous glance from beneath thick golden lashes. “Now, own yourself relieved, sir!”

  “Reprieved!” he exclaimed in obligingly melodramatic tones. “So near it was that my heart fair stuttered in my breast, and very nearly was I unmanned! Yet, Doom stayed her fair hand, and turned her face aside. Surely, I am the most fortunate of men!”

  His mother laughed, and brought her hands together in a Terran clap of appreciation. “Well-played, sir! Truly, Daav, you should have sought the stage, rather than the scouts.”

  “A traveling troupe, ma’am?” he asked her, and she sent him another glance, this one sharp and serious.

  “You will need to come to terms at some point,” she commented. “I will say no more, other than to note that the point grows nearer, not more distant.”

  That this was undoubtedly true did nothing to ease Daav’s feelings regarding the matter of his recent ascent to nadelm, the heir in fact to the delm. His mother advised him that he would, in time, grow accustomed to his rank and, when duty required it of him, to a life lived primarily on Liad.

  Daav took leave, privately, to doubt it.

  “I wonder, my son,” his mother said, selecting a fruit from the bowl between them, “if you might dispatch a small errand for me at the Low Port.”

  Daav blinked, and sent her a look, half-expecting to meet more mischief in her face, though her voice had been serious enough.

  The glance he met was likewise serious.

  “At the Low Port, ma’am?” he repeated, neutrally.

  His mother considered him blandly. “Quite a small thing, really, Daav. If you would be so good.”

  “Of course you know I can deny you nothing,” he replied. “I shall be . . . perhaps delighted is not precisely the word which expresses my state of mind, but don’t have a care for that! What may I be honored to bring you from the Low Port, Mother?”

  “The answer to a riddle,” she said composedly, and Daav felt his interest prick, despite himself. Riddles at the Low Port were often . . . compelling. And, sad to own, the Low Port itself was rather more to his liking than almost any other location on Liad, saving his clanhouse or at his brother’s side.

  “And the riddle?” he inquired, feigning boredom, which he was fairly certain deceived his parent not at all.

  “Where do the pilots who visit Ilgay’s Hell and Janif’s Game Palace go after they depart the pleasures of the house?”

  Daav considered her. “Surely, to their rightful berths, or to their clanhouses, the guildhall, or to the arms of a lover. Come, ma’am, this is not worthy of you! Hardly a riddle at all!”

  “But if they do not arrive at their clanhouses, if their captains fill their berths from the will-call list, their lovers weep for their absence, and the guild assesses a fine against their licenses, and still they do not reappear? Does the riddle seem less tame then?”

  Daav frowned. “Less tame and all but terrifying,” he said slowly, considering the plural. “How many?”

  “Eight, over the last two relumma,” she replied. “The full parti
culars are on the computer in the study, if you find yourself interested.”

  “Interested,” he allowed. “But is this not a matter, perhaps, for your acquaintance at Mid-Port?”

  “It would seem to be so. Alas, several relumma past, my acquaintance was kind enough to inform me that she was removing herself from her position—having achieved what she was pleased to term ‘sufficient time in grade to make it stick’—and the last two replacements have not lasted even long enough for one to request a meeting upon neutral ground.”

  Daav frowned again. “If the Balance is not firm at that juncture . . .” he murmured.

  “Precisely!” his mother said, with a wide smile. “The thing wants examination from a number of angles, my child.” She rose, waving a languid hand in the general direction of the study.

  “Please, make yourself familiar with the particulars. I repose all faith in your ability to unravel this for me.” Another brilliant smile and she was gone, dropping a light touch on his shoulder as she passed.

  Daav sighed, and finished his tea, wishing he had as much confidence in his abilities as his parent pretended to. Still, he owned, it was an appealing problem—and not only for its locale. And pilots . . . pilots were the proper care of Korval, after all.

  * * *

  The start of it was easy enough, needing only a choice, and it was at Ilgay’s Hell that he chose to begin his investigations.

  Ilgay’s was fortunately located hard by a port employment kiosk, at the center of a narrow street bracketed by food stalls and tea stands. There were folk enough about, and of various sort, so that the presence of an additional, and slightly ragged, pilot was nothing to turn heads.

  First, he betook himself to the hiring kiosk, patiently waiting his turn in line for a chance at one of the three available terminals. He scrolled down the scanty offerings, frowning, then sighed, as would a man who had been disappointed not so much as vindicated, and left without even requesting a printout.

  On the street again, he became one with the loose amble of those from the hiring hall, stopping at one stand to buy a rice ball and at another to purchase a paper cup of watery tea. Others, slightly plumper in pocket than the ragged pilot, bought synthasoy burgers, and sweet buns. All eventually moved down to the center of the street to take up leans and crouches where they might study the door to Ilgay’s Hell.

  The number of patrons entering this establishment increased as the portgate times cycled by; some were handlers or crew off-duty coming for the nearest respite, and some were those whose workday had included only the need to not lie alone in a cheap room, watching the local free vid-feed.

  Some few vehicles passed by, this being a roadable place, no matter that the way was thin and the populace not all that attentive to the needs of those well-off enough to go other than on foot.

  Among the ragtag group of watchers among whom Daav had placed himself there was a hierarchy. Some huddled together, passing small words and small containers between themselves, backs to the planet. Those were crewfolk left behind perhaps, or day-labor never off-world, but they shared the chance that today might be better than yesterday.

  Some, more desperate, attempted the occasional gambit and even the occasional offer to sell this or that item or service to those about to enter the Hell. Here, at least, dignity and melant’i were still in force. Here, if there was actual begging, it was done quietly and out of view of others.

  The few pilots among the watchers, were, thankfully, none that Daav recognized. That worked both ways, for his face was long away from port, which he suspected now had weighed in his mother’s decision to send him to accomplish this bit of work, rather than come herself. In any wise, it was not the face, then, but the jacket that kept the more unruly of the watchers from stretching melant’i enough to ask for a favor or a handout. These were port folk, after all, and they knew that a pilot staring into the distance was not to be disturbed, for he might be thinking, calculating, might in fact be doing something and not simply be as lost as he or she looked. You spoke to a pilot, here, if he spoke to you, or if you were his equal.

  Eventually, as he had hoped, Daav was noticed by several people going into the club—seen to be a pilot, waiting—and by several more, some of whom eyed him speculatively before going in. He amused himself by determining which of the burly doorfolk were basic security and which was the day-shift bouncer.

  He had determined to make his own entrance when the day-shift bouncer ceded his post to the night-shift. In fact, that event was imminent, and he was gathering his lanky form to move across the street and through the door when he paused, head tipped in order to more clearly hear the approaching ruckus. About him, the other watchers stirred, straightened, shook themselves slightly. The very air changed—from waiting to anticipation.

  From around several corners then, came, noisily, an advance crew—obviously working together, obviously security of some kind, well-armed and well-fed. They settled themselves about the crowd, and the sense of anticipation grew, edged with something that Daav hesitated to name as hope, but still as if the event bearing down upon them was the beginning of what they’d been waiting for this past clock-count, be it day or year.

  The ruckus came on, and ’round the corner by the tea shop came a large, even an opulent, vehicle, ostentatiously fan-lifted above the narrow street, its mirror finish reflecting sky, worn faces, and old boots in egalitarian elegance.

  Daav drifted toward the back of the crowd, ears and eyes alert. Words moved around him, heard in snatches: “New boss . . .”, “free food, sometimes!”, and “Possibly Juntavas, but work is work—” and not all the words were Liaden.

  The car stopped and two of the traveling security force moved forward to open the door. A man alighted, moving with pilot grace, his body language eloquently alert. The clothes he uneasily wore were those of a prosperous merchant of no discernible clan. His copper-colored hair was slightly shorter than current fashion, and brushed severely back from a pale, round face. His eyes were very blue.

  That electric blue glance swept the crowd and he bowed an encompassing bow, saying a few words to those closest. His hands moved subtly, coins and perhaps vouchers appearing between his fingers, vanishing as quickly, and the word moved through the crowd: “Day-work tomorrow . . . ”

  Perhaps it was the jacket, though certainly his was not the only leather on the street. Perhaps it was merely his height, notable even in this mixed company. Whichever, those very blue eyes paused in their efficient scan of the crowd, lingering a moment, and a moment more, on Daav’s face. Daav held his breath, hoping he hadn’t been recognized—and the man turned away.

  Security moved to enter the club, the man following, two more security at his back. The car swept away, spitting city-grit at the legs and faces of the unwary. Daav joined those who followed at a respectful distance; the night bouncer nodded at his jacket and let him enter the precincts of joy.

  * * *

  Within, there was some slight disarray, as the copper-haired man was ushered to a table hastily swept and settled for him near the center of the floor. Gravely, he sat, flanked by his security, as one of the staff ran for the bar and others came forward in ones and twos and made their bows, for all the worlds as if the delm of gaming hells had come to sit among them, and take their census.

  Daav slipped to the right before those sharp eyes might find him again, and made his way to the back of the room, and the various wheels of fortune.

  * * *

  “Buy some luck, Pilot?”

  The person who asked it was very nearly as tall as he was, with lush, if improbable, violet hair, and in such a state of expansive undress as must surely have put her health at risk, chilly as the house was kept.

  Daav considered his small pile of chips wryly, and glanced back to her. He’d spent a good deal of energy over the last few hours carefully building the pile, and then making it dwindle.

  “I’ll be needing more than luck to turn this night around,” he said gru
ffly, keeping to his character. “And nothing to spare for random results.”

  She smiled, to his eye honestly amused, and slid bonelessly between him and the next player.

  “A bargain, then,” she murmured, wrapping her hands around his arm. “If your luck changes for the better across the next three spins, you’ll own I know my business and pay me double my usual fee.”

  He grunted, considered his small holdings once more, and snapped his fingers. “Done,” he said. “See you do your work well, to mutual profit.” He divided what remained of his holdings into thirds with overcareful fingers, and dropped the first third onto the ship symbol. The lady wrapped ’round him and reached down a long, naked arm to heft his empty glass.

  “Wine for my pilot!” she called across to the smaller bar, and in a twinkling a fresh glass was by his hand.

  “Do you pay for that out of your fee?” he asked, and she laughed, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, violet hair ticking his chin.

  “Winners drink free,” she murmured.

  “The stakes keep rising,” he commented, and she laughed again, low in her throat.

  “That’s life.”

  “All bets frozen!” the croupier called and spun the wheel with a will.

  Lights flashed merrily, the ebon ball dancing among them. His provisional luck extended her slender hand and picked up the wine glass, sipping languidly before raising it to his lips.

  “To winning big,” she murmured. Daav sipped, unsurprised to find the vintage much superior to that of his first glass, and she drank again before replacing the glass in its holder.

  The wheel stopped; there was a moment of stillness—and then an eruption of chimes as the wheel and the square claimed by his small pile of chips began to flash a matching, exuberant green.

  “We have,” the croupier called, “a winner!”

  His luck let loose with an ear-splitting whoop, and reached up to cuddle his cheek in her palm. Her fingers were, surprisingly, calloused; the same pattern of callouses his own hands bore.

  The croupier paid out of the bank two golds and a stack of silvers. Daav had tripled his wager on that run, and he had no doubt the next two would be winners, as well. After which, if matters progressed along the usual pattern of such things, his luck would undertake to get him drunk or elsewise besotted, and then stand by as her confederates relieved him of the house’s money.