A Liaden Universe® Constellation: Volume Two

by Sharon Lee

  “Why so, Mother of Baking?” Vertu ventured, pulling her hat off and checking the room in the same motion. The Hooper sat in his corner, hands cupped around his mug of ’toot . . . she knew it was ’toot because he asked for it by name, and sometimes she was here before he was. He got “’toot and crackers” most mornings, the “crackers” being yesterday’s flatbread covered in a pasty flour sauce with soy crumbles.

  Granita extended a hand with two fingers straight up, which meant, here, “hold that thought” and rushed to the back to do something in response to a quick triple-beat beeping noise. The ticking wall clock chimed about then—it did count the quarters—and Vertu wondered if the clock-count was part of Granita’s secret to good service . . .

  Vertu’s usual morning dish of Ronian Cheese was warming, it being a port-staple at all hours, and a proper-sized cup sat on the counter side among a triple-dozen of other unmatching and mostly oversized cups, the one waiting on Vertu, as had become a custom at the Flourpower these last seventy-seven mornings.

  The Hooper said little to anyone, save Granita. In respect of his station, and also in acknowledgment of a service done her, Vertu accorded him a nod, and a half-raised hand, which was considered a “good morning” here.

  Chatter overheard from others of Flourpower’s reggers taught Vertu that The Hooper was an “organeer”—a musician, so she gathered, though the precise instrument eluded her understanding. Still, it would seem that any life event of importance—births, deaths, trothings—was made more so by the presence of The Hooper and the blessing of his art. There were such on Liad—galan’ranubiet they were called: Treasures of the House.

  True enough that The Hooper little looked like a Treasure. His clothes in winter-come were the same as in winter-coming—a brown hat with a brim all around and a small crown festooned with tiny green and white feathers—and a coatlet half as thick as hers, which he took off without fail upon entering, to reveal a vest with two dozen varisize pockets, each pocket showing the tip of something metallic. He rarely took off his hat, which covered a half-bald spot in a head of otherwise bushy colorless hair, and when he did, it was to neaten the thick sideburns of the same no-color that stopped abruptly in a razor-sharp line, giving way some days to a light stubble and others to a face as smooth as hers.

  Vertu had thought him an elder when first she had seen him; an impression that persisted. Others of the reggers called him Old Fellow, and others his proper name—and none with anything but respect.

  Some mornings, The Hooper bent over his mug as if hoarding it, sipping his ’toot with no crackers, and those mornings his hands moved restlessly over his pockets, as if he counted, as if the contents were pets that required gentling. On other mornings, he sat relaxed with his ’toot and crackers, and a side of morning beans, and even engaged in an odd kind of conversation with others of the reggers, though never with Vertu herself.

  Quite outside his obvious status as a Treasure, Vertu acknowledged a debt to The Hooper. Her first morning worldside, cold beyond any previous experience, disoriented and lost, she had someway stumbled after The Hooper, who had walked as a man who knew his street and also his destination, entered Flourpower in his wake, and stood behind him at the counter. He had ordered his meal, and she, tired and ragged-minded, uncomprehending the menu scrawled upon the pale blue wipeboard, had scarcely managed a whisper—“What he is having, I will have.”

  That was the second from the last time she had willfully ordered ’toot, though of a day she might yet ask for crackers, and now that she was an acknowledged regger, she owed him too for the information that, “Dems reggers that brin thanown cup, dems saves a cup of fife!”

  The fifth filled cup was free if you had your own cup, brought to the counter and offered, that stayed on the premises. Both Granita and her late-help, Bets, knew each cup by its owner, and knew, too, what went into each without fail.

  Vertu’s beverage might be the oddest of all, for into her cup now went a measured haspoon of the local Yellobud tea, which was acceptable if brewed half as long as the locals did, the boiled water tempered by a cube before it was poured.

  By now, besides The Hooper, she probably knew most of the reggers by face, and could tell if they’d been in, as they’d know if she had. If her cup wasn’t on the counter and she wasn’t at one of the two back tables she favored, then she’d “comin-gawn,” because usually dishwashing happened once per day at close.

  The reggers sometimes talked about the years with numbers of the local calendar, and it had been those discussions—forwarded perhaps for her edification, who knew?—that had convinced her of the good boots. They had told over people she saw sometimes daily, walking with a gait they’d “picked up on ’66 and they’d lost the little toe for burnfrost,” or “backta ’59” when the rains came for a week in mid-winter and toes and feet had mildewed or molded along with the clothes, until the thaw died.

  Granita returned from the kitchen, her skinny face coming back to a smile from its work-a-day lines, as she answered Vertu’s question.

  “Huh, Girl. You come in here wif snow in your curls and boots, and down inside the collar. That’s a day with wind, and newfuns sometimes takeaback when the real weather gets in. Still, you’re a worker, I can tell, and bet you don’t let no boss-down timewise.”

  The bow fell from her shoulders along with the nod—here at least, no one was annoyed if she might have Liaden habits, nor asked. Here were reggers, locals, strangers, or flights, and reggers might share a confidence, or might never. She’d seen some of the reggers in the wider world, where they’d sometimes think to raise left hand to left eyebrow in recognition, but else reggers mostly left reggers be, if not invited to converse.

  “Not my best sun, this morning,” she said, using one of the common phrases, “but bright enough to get in!”

  Granita’s smile broadened, and she pointed toward the warming tray.

  “Got’s some starcheese just in to spice our Ronian Cheese if you want some, or the crackers haven’t been hardly dredged yet ’cept for The Hooper, if you want something ribstickers.”

  Vertu blinked, considering. She’d be early in line if the snow slowed folks down: early-in and, as likely, early-out.

  “Ronian Cheese, that be fine.”

  The bow came to her shoulders again, but the woman was already fetching the cube for her cup, and missed it.

  * * *

  Her ears burned, and not from the wind and snow.

  Vertu held herself at her fullest height, glad for a new reason that her collar was high and her coat voluminous. She continued to look ahead as well she could while the man behind her muttered to the man behind him in a Terran so odd even that one had requested a sayagain.

  There were things on Surebleak of which she was still unsure and finding answers was not always as easy as asking the person in line behind you, nor reading an infoscreen.

  “Hworked treedays, mysel, liddle miz, donya haz to hwork toady yuwon booznrazzle. Payada ferya, feedsya an feelya fine. Gotz heat, gotz smokes, gotz dembigbed, yez, no bliz tashov, no dreamslong.”

  That was as clear as she’d made it out after he’d tapped her diffidently on the shoulder—he’d apparently been repeating something that she hadn’t understood was directed at her.

  She shouldn’t have asked for a sayagain, for it came with a wide gap-toothed grin and the clear odor of alcohol and smoke and rampant decay.

  The hurt of it was that his face was comely with mouth closed, and his person elsewise no more unkempt than any of the seven in line behind him.

  She’d managed a “Nothangya,” accented as well as she might recall from bakery talk, holding back the bow as much as it hurt her nerves to do so, for the bow would have brought her closer to the lips with their near-blue inner smoke stains.

  For the first time this day, she doubted her decision to leave Liad and then shook herself with a derisive inner laughter in recognition that the choice had barely been hers.

  Still, of the
outcomes she’d considered, public solicitation for prostitution was proof that she’d erred—

  NO!

  She stamped her foot, the act stinging for her and unremarked by others here—who knew when one needed to rid the boot of snow or ice or mud, after all?

  Well, at least the foot was warm, if still tingling from her anger. She bowed a tiny bow to herself, permission to admit error. That was a trick her only social mentor taught her a bare day before she was off to be contract-wifed: sometimes the only real person in the room is yourself, but manners must be served even so.

  In fact she was being unfair to herself, for she’d had such offers from travelers and drunks from the time she’d first driven for her clan, in fact since her second fare. Well she recalled that, and moreso since that person was seated yet on Liad, comfortable and honored on the Council of Clans, while she, Ring stripped from her finger, stood in danger of—but, again, no. She would not permit herself to believe that this banishment, this mercy from her daughter the delm, might yet end in the death for which the Council had sued.

  The line moved, with the work-pair who’d stood in front of her moving now together toward a table to the left while four other tables with work supplicants in place were revealed to her. A very short line; apparently the weather was expected, indeed, to “turn bad.”

  The man behind shuffled close and whispered toward her, and she glanced at him, hard, pushing the lingo through her teeth, near as she could.

  “Nothangya, heerit?”

  He mumbled and backed away a half-step, lips tight.

  Compared to the offer from a clan head to pet her face with tongue and tumescence, this man’s offer was downright honorable: “I’ve worked three days myself, little miss. You don’t have to work today if you want to booze and wrestle. Payday for you, food for you, feels fine for you. Got heat, got smokes, got a damn big bed. Yes, I say no blizzard to shovel, no dreaming alone.”

  Her delm had been unimpressed by her outrage—a lesson well-learned, that. A Lower House could hardly bring such a complaint against one of the High without evidence—and such evidence, were there any, would hardly survive the impoundment.

  Here, the offer was a passing of the time of day. Practical and even, perhaps honorable. That she had living funds for less than a Standard more in this place weighed on her, but work was in fact available at times . . . and she was in no ways desperate, this day.

  The table to the right cleared, a man of middle height and middle years smiling and hurrying off with a bright blue chit in hand—going to do something for the street association, she’d figured out over time. That would be day-pay and not long-term, she’d heard in the bakery, but day-pay was day-pay, after all.

  She took the vacant spot with alacrity.

  “Heavy manual labor?”

  The man behind the table was familiar; his voice was brusque and impartial as ever. She raised her head in consideration, and made a counteroffer, staring at the seven bright blue tubs behind him, each mostly empty, and the brown one, with scraps in the bottom.

  “Mechanics, systems, detail work, Trade-writing, Liaden-writing, light stock and inventory, driving.”

  The man pursed his lips.

  “Picked up anything new overnight? This ain’t being a busy day.”

  “Translation? Garden design?”

  He shook his head, muttering, “Don’t think so.”

  He turned dutifully and pulled the few sheets of hard-copy out of the brown tub, fanning them, glancing up with a sigh and going through the sheets one by one, the first quite dismissively.

  “I got armed security, long-term—bring your own gun, night work. I got ’crete formula mixer, experienced.” He paused, shook his head. “That one I bet you can do, sound of you, but they want experienced, which I’m betting you can’t.”

  “This is true,” she admitted. “I can learn—”

  “No on-the-job training, they’re right clear, since wintertime set-up is nothing for beginners.”

  He pulled another sheet. “Whorehouse needs all positions, mixed hours.”

  She closed her eyes. Not yet.

  “Serious work there,” he said earnestly. “An’ they got need for some folk who ain’t doing the customers . . .”

  She moved a hand, cutting him off. “And else?”

  He dropped the cards back into the tub with a shrug.

  “Guess else is tomorrow, if we can keep the doors open.”

  A half-bow she offered, and then gave a second thought.

  “Security, night work? Is it experienced?”

  The man sat back, looked at her shrewdly, appraising.

  “Bring your own gun,” he reminded her, but he reached into the tub for the flimsy.

  “If necessary, I can do that.” She straightened, and took a deep breath. Be assured, she told herself. Show no doubt. She had done well, Skyblaze night, had she not? She could—

  “Yeah, I mean we all can, right? But they’re looking for serious hardware . . . damn, I was impressed when I read it coming in.”

  He flipped the sheet, then pulled free the clip-attached sheet, with notes on both sides, running his gaze rapidly down first one side, then the other.

  “Here it is, let’s see . . . dumbty here it is . . . ‘Must be Nordley, Bangtu, Lademeter, or certified genuine Resh & Rolfe or Zombin.”’ He looked up into her face. “Big guns, ma’am; not streetwear.”

  She held his eyes a moment, then half-bowed, hiding her sigh, and her hand.

  “Do they mention caliber or charge-range?”

  He glanced down, then again to her.

  “It says here, ‘service rating’. That’s a gun that can be shot every day and—”

  “Yes,” she said, drawing close as if to peer at the paper, at the same time briefly displaying her cradled hands.

  His eyes widened. He nodded, several times, and cleared his throat.

  “Oh, yes, umm, a Nordley Thirty Pack would do, but . . .”

  He turned the papers over; finger tracing the details.

  “You gotta supply your own night-sight gear, too, combat-status. And a cold-weather suit.”

  She said something very potent under her breath and he held his hands up, palm out, placating.

  “These things grow on trees on Surebleak?”

  He blinked, eyes flicking to her hands. Vertu smiled, deliberately, and tucked the weapon away.

  “Forgive, it was not to threaten you. But work is good.”

  He nodded, relaxing visibly, still using his hands for emphasis.

  “I was hoping we had you a match today, much as I seen you in here. Maybe come winter-gone, if you can get in with ’em. It’s port security, they’re beefing up big time, but best come here unless you get an in with a boss to put your name through.”

  She made a puffing sound with her lips as the gun found its inner pocket.

  “Security is not my first choice, please.”

  “Got that,” he said, nodding. “Yes, got that.”

  He opened his hands wide—and went on, “Far as I know, all the others is digging, shoveling, construction, work-crew things. Even the forefolk gotta be able to stand shoulder-up with the rest of the crew . . .”

  “Ayes and more,” she said, drawing from the bakery, and making his eyes widen again. “I understand.”

  “Good. And sorry. You best get on to cover by lunch, ’specting a bad one, I hear.”

  “Heard it, ya.” She nodded and turned at the dismissal, striding with unexpected purpose past the man who’d been behind her, who must have seen or heard something of her discussion, because he cleared room for her, hissing, “Seery, seery, ma’am, nothinmen.”

  Nothing meant.

  Perhaps she should break into her precious capital to buy herself a coldsuit and dark goggles? Work was, truly said, work, and the contract had been long-term. Weighing the matter, she nearly walked all unsealed into the storm.

  Warned by the clatter of the door and the frigid breeze that kisse
d her face, she stopped there in the vestibule to seal her coat against the wind and snow. She pulled her hat on, and gloves, being sure that the coat’s collar was well up around her face.

  Think, Vertu, can you really report to your daughter, the delm, that you’ve hired on as a gun-hand? That report she must take to the Council and Wylan is not yet safe from the price of your errors. You are a dangerously unbalanced radical, in league with the villains Korval. Gunhire is the last thing you want—even less than the whorehouse.

  Mouth tight, she slapped the door with her palm, unnecessarily hard, and stepped out into the storm.

  She hesitated then, at the side of the door, considering her best route. Her first day, her first purchase, save The Hooper-imitated meal, was a set of maps: port map, city map, country map, world map. The disorientation she had felt, disembarking from the ship, the understanding that she knew where nothing in this city was situated, nor the three best routes to gain them. Then, at that moment, she had almost carried out the Council’s first judgment, that her delm had appealed and fought and argued until Vertu had her life back, but not, never again, on Liad.

  The moment had passed, and she had resolutely gone forward, trying to feel out a new life—a life without Clan—on this strange and bitter world. There were moments—of course there were moments, of doubt, and of loneliness. Those things she endured, as befit one who had once been Wylan Herself.

  Now though, just this instant, staring out into the swirling snow, and the street near empty of traffic—gods, how she wanted her cab, to feel the controls in her hands, and the seat that knew her form, and the whole of the Port in her head, as familiar as the face of a lover.

  The snow swirled, wrapping her in impenetrable whiteness, then parted, revealing—a cab.

  That it was not her cab was quickly and painfully apparent, yet it proceeded as a cab should, businesslike and foursquare down the snow-filled street, the yellow ready-light set atop it turning the dancing flakes into gold.