by Zen DiPietro
“I’ll arrange for someone to pick it up,” he countered mildly.
Rinna pouted. “Fine.”
She held the infoboard out and he transferred the cubics to her. “A pleasure doing business with you. Anything else of interest to you?”
“Not today. But thank you.”
“How about you?” Rinna fixed her gaze on Arlen.
“Afraid not.”
Cabot followed Arlen out, and it wasn’t until they were well out of earshot that she turned to him.
“Is that what you needed? I assume you didn’t buy that thing because you thought it would look nice in your quarters.”
He pretended to be offended. “What, you didn’t believe my story about my friend who really needs an ancient Briveen farming tool that’s taller than he is?”
“Not for a second.”
“Ah well. Yes, it’s for the job ahead. I’m not sure it’s enough, though. I’d like to find something I can present along with it.”
She nodded, looking thoughtful. “How will you know when we have what we need?”
In general, Cabot tried to deal out straight truth in tiny morsels. Information was not only too valuable to spread around willy-nilly, but it could also freak people out. This time, he went with unvarnished truth. “I can’t be sure. I’ve never done anything of this magnitude. That’s why I want to try to find something additional. To hedge my bets, so to speak.”
“I’ve never been much of a gambler,” she admitted.
“That is no surprise to me.”
She gave him a long look, trying to decide whether to be offended.
He helped her out with that. “I like that you’re careful, and knowing I can trust you.”
She smiled and opened her mouth to say something, but then froze with an odd expression. “What’s that smell?”
He’d just noticed the aroma wafting over them too. “Teriyaki chicken, Zerellian style. Delicious. Want to go get some? It’s lunchtime.”
“Already? That explains how hungry I suddenly am.”
“That’s the chicken. I’m convinced they use industrial fans to blast the scent out as far as possible. One whiff is irresistible and they know it.”
She laughed. “Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later they both sat down with steaming plates of chicken and vegetables coated in a brown sauce that smelled so good Cabot thought his stomach might turn itself inside out in anticipation.
They didn’t waste time with conversation, preferring to devote all their efforts on scarfing their lunch. He wasn’t sure where this dish originated, or who might have put their own spin on it. Zerellians might have taken it with them when they left Earth, or they could have invented it themselves.
He was sure there was nothing as delicious as that sauce, which was sweet, savory, and tangy all at once.
After scraping his plate clean, he sat back, sighing with satisfaction.
“Prelin’s ass, that was good.” Arlen wiped her mouth on her napkin.
Cabot generally found swearing unimaginative and boorish, but in this case, he had to agree.
“I’m having that again for dinner,” she declared.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
Her expression changed and her eyes tracked to the right of his head. Before he even turned to look, he had a gut instinct of who it would be.
Nagali. Maybe she had some subtle smell he subconsciously registered. Or perhaps she was so self-involved that she actually bent the space around her. He rather liked that idea, as much as he disliked her standing just over his shoulder. Yet standing or moving away would only give her the satisfaction of knowing she bothered him.
He stayed seated and said nothing, forcing her to speak first.
“Teriyaki chicken. Some things never change, do they?”
Finally, he turned his head to give her his coldest look. “They sure don’t.”
She blinked, and the small movement was a victory for him.
“Omar sent me. He arranged two appointments for you.” Her gaze wasn’t on him, though. She’d fixed in on Arlen. “Who’s your little friend?”
Arlen’s chin lifted. “Arlen.” She said nothing more, simply staring at Nagali with a look that said she’d be more than happy to show Nagali what her intestines looked like.
“I’m Nagali Freeborn. I’ll be your liaison today.” She laughed, as if this idea both pleased and amused her greatly. “This should be fun.”
It was most definitely not going to be fun.
4
Nagali liked nothing more than to agitate. Her shift to being gracious, entertaining, and pleasant didn’t fool Cabot. She wanted to irritate him by showing him just how much fun she could be when she chose. She swept down the corridor, leading them to their appointments, chattering on about entertainments that would be going on that evening and tips on doing business on Dauntless.
The sweeter she acted, the more keenly he hated her.
He imagined what she’d look like flying out an airlock, arms and legs slowly pinwheeling in space, but then felt disgusted with himself for letting her get to him.
Cabot didn’t let things bother him. He was pleasant and bland, as a rule. That she could provoke such enmity in him was just another reason to hate her. It was so sadly circular.
If only she looked as ugly on the outside as she was on the inside.
He summoned every ounce of self-control to maintain his passive demeanor, knowing that his failure to react to her was the best way to irritate her.
“Why didn’t Omar come instead of sending you?” Cabot had been clear about his feelings about dealing with her, but, as usual, Omar did what he wanted.
“He had some business to take care of. But don’t worry. These two people we’re going to see work with me more than him anyway. I’m the perfect person to make the introduction.” Nagali smiled brightly.
Arlen had fallen silent. She couldn’t know what had happened between him and Nagali, but clearly, Arlen had picked up on the tension. No matter how much Nagali flattered her or offered free advice, Arlen’s responses remained monosyllabic and toneless.
Her iciness endeared her to him all the more.
“Have you tried the gelato here?” Nagali was downright bubbly as she glided along between him and Arlen. “Best in this galaxy, in my opinion. Chocolate and tango fruit are the most popular flavors, but my favorite is the pistachio.”
Arlen looked straight ahead as she walked. “No.”
“She doesn’t talk much, does she?” Nagali looked to him for confirmation.
“She talks as much as she needs to. Apparently, she doesn’t find you worth the effort.” As soon as he said it, Cabot regretted it. The jab at her ego didn’t convey the neutral tone he wanted to maintain.
Nagali pretended not to notice the insult. “Ah well. Definitely do try the gelato, though. Oh! And the foot massages at Pralitec’s salon. Only Pralitec’s, though. The others don’t measure up. They’ll be gone in no time.”
“I might have some gelato later,” Cabot said evenly. “Probably not a foot massage, though.”
“It’s more than just a massage, you know,” Nagali said.
When Cabot slanted her a dark look, she laughed.
“Not that. I mean it’s medically therapeutic. Feet can suffer from bad circulation in artificial gravity environments. Pralitec’s therapists are all PAC-certified health practitioners. The salon is held to the same standards as those that require inspections. You’ll get a full foot and peripheral artery diagnostic. Very health conscious, and much cheaper than the same services on a Bennite hospi-ship. Plus, you get the massage, which is amazing.”
“Perhaps I’ll try it, if I find the time.” He had no intention of it, but equivocal agreement was the path to blandness.
“You’ll thank me,” she chirped.
He suppressed a sigh. Nagali being nice was worse than Nagali being selfish and obnoxious. It only made him wonder when she would stab him in the back.
> Nagali gave him a sidelong glance. “I’m not going to cheat you. Or set you up. You already know that you have what I want. Why would I ruin that for myself?”
He met her gaze briefly and simply raised his eyebrows.
She sighed. “I’m not as bad as you think, Cabot.”
“Of course you’re not.”
“I’m not,” she insisted.
“So we’re agreed.” Hah. It was petty, but he loved the rare opportunity to score a point with her.
“Fine. I’ll prove it to you.” Nagali stopped in front of a door. “And I’ll start right now.”
***
Once inside the slightly underlit quarters, Cabot paused to take stock of the oddity of the situation.
Here he stood, with a friend he hadn’t expected to have, and an enemy he hadn’t intended to see again. Not only that, but the three stood side by side facing a wizened little Trallian that looked more like a dead tree stump than a trader.
Not that Cabot didn’t like Trallians. They were a likeable, small-statured species with bark-like skin and huge eyes. Their facial features gave them the sort of adorableness that kittens and babies had. Most people found them charming. Fortunately, on the whole, Trallians were as sweet as they looked. All species have their outliers, though, and Cabot was looking right at one.
This Trallian wore a deep frown that seemed permanently carved into his face. His large eyes narrowed in a suspicious squint. He sat on his knees atop a cushion, glaring at Nagali.
“Omar said one person. Not two.”
She stepped near, smiling down at him. “Two potential buyers are always better than one, right?”
“I don’t like it when things aren’t as stated.”
“It will be worth it, if you have something they like.” Nagali looked over her shoulder at Cabot.
Taking his cue, he took one step closer. “Yes, we’re looking for something special. Something unique. The kind of thing that doesn’t sell often, but when it does, it makes your monthly revenues spike.”
The Trallian’s eyes narrowed even further, turning them into slits. “No names. Transfer from non-PAC account only.”
Cabot resisted a glance at Nagali. Clearly, this guy didn’t operate above board. “Not a problem.”
The Trallian relaxed slightly, crossing his hands over his belly. “What is it you’re looking for?”
He knew he had the Trallian’s interest then. He could smell it the way a predator could smell blood. “Like I said, something special. Something that would impress a person who wanted to be impressed. But not because of its value—the cost itself is irrelevant. The gift has to be rare.”
The Trallian rubbed his fingers over his chin. “Hmm, interesting. Precious gems and metals are out of the question. What we’re looking for is something either so old that there are few examples of it that remain, or something that was made to be one of a kind. Like art.”
“I was thinking along those same lines,” Cabot agreed. “If possible, I think my preference would be something innately unique. Art or some handmade craft.”
“I have a few things that might work.” But instead of getting up to retrieve them, he just sat there.
“May we see them?” Nagali asked in her smoothest, smokiest voice. She leaned closer to the Trallian, smiling more with her eyes than she did with her lips.
“Five hundred cubic viewing fee, credited against any purchase.” The Trallian’s brow scrunched into furrows.
As much as Cabot disliked looking to Nagali for her advice, she knew this guy and he didn’t.
She answered his glance with a nod.
“Agreed.” He hated the idea of a viewing fee, though. That meant this guy didn’t want people poking around just to see what they could see. Probably because he had something to hide, like stolen goods.
Cabot didn’t deal in stolen goods. Not anymore.
The Trallian heaved himself to his feet and shuffled away. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Arlen’s lips were pressed into a hard line, and a look at Nagali revealed only a sunny smile. But that told him nothing. Nagali was a chameleon and a champ at acting.
Arlen’s dark expression suggested she’d recognized this man as a ripper. It didn’t matter. Cabot didn’t expect them to become the best of friends.
While he waited for the Trallian to return, Cabot noted the details of the room. A lightweight jacket hung on a peg near the door. Too small for a Rescan and far too large for a Trallian. Yet it wasn’t an item for sale. It belonged to someone who stayed in these quarters. Interesting. He noted a carved bone tea set and a box of playing cards, both of which had recently been in use. He tucked these details away, in case they became useful later on.
Rule of Sales Number 8: Sometimes, information is more valuable than anything.
The Trallian returned with an oddly waddling sort of walk. He carried a large box that obscured his head. He set it down next to the chair he had recently vacated, then took his time settling back in.
When his backside fit into the cushion just right, he reached into the box with a gusty sigh and pulled out a red square. He set it on the table in front of him and cleared his throat.
Ah. An old-school trader. Rather than simply allowing the customer to first examine an item, this guy did it the old way. He wanted to put on a performance, extolling the item’s virtues before letting Cabot lay a finger on it.
Fine. He knew this guy’s type. But rather than continue to stand, he pulled up an upholstered footrest alongside the table and sat on it. Showing he was not a supplicant, but an equal.
The Trallian did not acknowledge this subtext, instead launching into his speech. “This is an exceptional item, and you’ll not find another in this sector of the galaxy. It’s a dragon-scale trinket box. Not that it’s made from any animal, though. Each scale was hand-forged from steel, and articulated to the others, lining the outside of the box. Piece by piece, it was made by a master metalworker, in a tradition that hasn’t been taught for three hundred years. So, this is a truly special item. At least five hundred years old, from the Catozian Empire.”
The Trallian ran a finger over the lid and carefully opened it to demonstrate, then closed the lid and flourished his hand at it, giving Cabot permission to examine it closer.
“Hmm, Catozian.” Cabot passed a hand over the box’s lid, feeling the uniform scales. Its maker had made each individual piece both smooth across its surface, yet sharp along the edges. Not enough to cut, but enough to look dangerous. “Exquisitely crafted.”
Like the Trallian had, he opened and closed the box. It was beautiful, and it was unique. But it wasn’t right.
“What else do you have?” he asked.
The Trallian immediately reached into the box again and pulled out a larger object. This one was shallow but about the length of Cabot’s forearm. Its flat black exterior gave no hint of its purpose.
“Here we have something truly special, for a very particular type of collector. It’s a Trivenian hand-torturing device. You see, the hand was inserted here—” He turned the box to display its opening on the front. “And then you push this button.” He pantomimed the action. “The machine sends out high-resonance vibration, tuned just perfectly to cause exquisite pain without causing damage to the cellular structures.”
“Sonic torture.” Cabot immediately disliked the thing. Besides, giving the Briveen such a thing would not strike the tone he was hoping for. “Not the right item for this occasion. Do you have anything else?”
Unperturbed, the Trallian nodded. “I saved the best for last.”
Cabot sure hoped so.
The man reached into the box, more carefully this time. He used one hand to lift and the other to steady what looked like a tiny suit of armor.
Except it had four legs, and sparkling gems inlaid into the metal. Even from this distance, Cabot was certain, by the quality of the piece, that both the gems and the metal were precious.
“What is that?” he a
sked, intrigued despite himself.
The Trallian set the thing on the table, then he quivered with glee. “It’s a fully articulated, fully functional suit of armor. For a housecat. In the early days of the colonization of Zerellus, the expats of Earth had two goals. Well, three, if you include survival. But once survival became a given, they wanted to set themselves apart from their home planet by developing their own culture. And status symbols became important. In those days, few could afford an item that is so clearly useless in every way. There are only six of these known to be in existence, and I’ve only seen one other besides this one. It wasn’t in nearly the condition this is. Look at it—it’s perfect.”
Cabot leaned closer and looked at the smooth curves of metal, the perfect lines, the uniform thickness. The way the legs of the armor, mounted upon a small stand, were both delicate yet strong.
It was perfect. Something so strange, so rare, and so exquisite would please the Briveen. He didn’t want to appear too interested, though.
He never tired of bargaining. He lived for it. He had no use for mind-altering drugs or drinking to excess. Putting his nose for business to work at haggling was the greatest high he’d ever get.
“It’s certainly well made. And unique, which is what I’m looking for. But it’s strange. There’s no purpose for it except to sit there, looking strange.”
“A conversation piece,” the Trallian suggested enthusiastically.
“Hm,” Cabot said, noncommittally. He looked to Arlen “What do you think?”
She shrugged, looking unimpressed. “I think something functional might be better.”
“You might be right,” he murmured, leaning forward to examine the cat armor more closely. He glanced to his other side at Nagali. “What’s your opinion?”
“I wouldn’t want that.” She laughed, the sound deep and rich like caramel. “It’s gaudy. But maybe your friend likes that kind of thing.” She laughed again, dipping her chin and looking at the Trallian through her lashes.
The trader chuckled. “Personally, it’s not my style, either, but it certainly is everything your friend described.” His attention rested entirely on Nagali.