by Sharon
Pat Rin eyed the woman speculatively, and held up a hand. "Allow me to send Mr. McFarland, as well," he said, following her into Terran. "He understands my taste in coffee."
She gave him a half-smile and shrugged a proper Terran shrug. "Of course you will wish to send someone to attend your interests."
Pat Rin glanced to Cheever.
The pilot nodded, waiting for the bodyguard to rise. They walked side-by-side to the canteen, not quite bristling, like two strange cats thrown together on unknown turf.
The woman leaned toward Pat Rin, inclined her head in a motion that became a formal bow.
"Master, it is urgent that we speak—alone. I am Natesa. I believe our interests coincide."
THE TWO BIG MEN fidgeted, uncomfortable in their sudden roles as spectators, as the door sealed with a slight hiss.
"They are nervous of this," Natesa said as she walked with him down the ramp to the shooting floor. "It speaks well of them."
"I suspect we all four have some concerns," Pat Rin murmured, picking the dea'Nobli up from the bench. "Mr. McFarland tells me that you are a professional shooter and likely a first class pilot."
"Ah, and my guardian informs me that you are a better shot than you appear."
Pat Rin sent an exasperated glance toward the two-man audience, and Natesa laughed, soft and musical.
"I thought you might appreciate the level of assistance I am equipped with when the locals insist. Julier is a good man in a barroom brawl—as I suspect Mr. McFarland is—but he is perhaps in the second tier, both of shooters and of intellects, unlike Mr. McFarland." She smiled, and pointed. "I shall take the blue side."
Pat Rin appraised her coolly as she finished unloading the weapons from her bag. These disposed to her satisfaction upon the bench, she turned to face him fully, raising one hand, fingers spread wide, in the old, old, gesture of peace.
"By your leave, Master. I should test these as well."
From beneath her vest she pulled a palm gun, laying it carefully on the bench, its muzzle aimed, without a doubt, down the lane. The design was not familiar; and it was unclear from its lines whether it was a chemical weapon. Natesa reached beneath her vest once more and brought forth a tiny and strange weapon—which was immediately recognizable, despite that he had held one only once, and that many Standards in the past.
He raised an eyebrow, and she inclined her head, not without irony.
"I thank you for your care; you may rest assured that I know this is not a toy. It is best that we be plain with each other. I am called Natesa the Assassin—among other things—and that"—she pointed—" is a triple caliber pellet weapon. A single shot. Very high energy. Perhaps the equivalent of one of Mr. McFarland's special loads."
So. Pat Rin drew a careful breath, conscious that the stakes had risen, though not, or so he thought, out of all reason.
"I am not," he said to the woman's intelligent dark eyes, "a professional. Certainly I carry nothing to . . . "
She raised her finger to her lips with a sibilant Terran shush.
"You are correct, of course," she said, with a brisk nod. "Neither of us can be expected to display all of our weapons and backups. However, you should know that I see two of your hideaways."
He inclined his head, coming the lofty lordling. "My thanks."
Her lips twitched, and she bowed once more.
"Shall we say best of fifty?" she asked. "Mixed targets? I have here a match in caliber for your pellet pistol."
"Of course." He checked the charge on his weapon as she checked hers.
"Shall we alternate? Use the same targets? Or shoot duo?" He asked, automatically looking at the floor to be sure of his footing.
"Duo," she said promptly, and moved a hand toward the targeting switch. "I choose this. You choose the targets."
And that, Pat Rin thought, was a gambit. The gamester in him rose to the challenge: the best refutation of a gambit is acceptance.
He reached to the controls, punched his choices in, and held his finger on the presstab as he looked over to her.
"We shall have duplicate heavy game. The pace to be energetic. The distances to vary identically. If you agree."
She nodded rather than bowed, her face merely comely. "Indeed, heavy game. An excellent choice."
He raised five fingers to indicate the delay to start, activated the presstab, and stepped back to the line.
Numbers flickered on the ceiling, counting down. The lights dimmed. The targets came up.
Heavy game.
The first target swung out of the floor, at the far end of the alley, a crouching image of a man bringing a sighted rifle to bear. Pat Rin's shot was quick, and automatic. One shoots between the arms, below the stock, as close to the throat as one can. The target spun away, replaced by something out of the left wall—two men, side by side, with pistols, followed by a young girl with pistol, skip the young boy with the flowers in his hand, try the head shot on the figure with a gun sheltering by a tree trunk.
He was aware that in the other lane the targets came out at the same time, and that it seemed the sound of her gun was overlaying his . . . but the targets came on.
Pat Rin was sweating, the dea'Nobli's charge near exhausted, the targets each taken down in their turn, allowing the boy with flowers, the old man with his broom, the couple with their ice-licks, and the two tiny creatures—perhaps they were dogs?—to hold their ground.
In a moment, the scores.
Natesa whistled lightly. Blue side: 297 points. Green side: 298.
"May I?" she asked, reaching toward the controls.
Pat Rin bowed, and the assassin brought up the fine scores.
"So, Master. We each have fifty live targets. We each score fifty respectable hits. My times were—see here—slightly faster. Your shots were exceedingly accurate, if slower. Mine were all good enough."
Pat Rin bowed. "Your shots were all quicker than mine, and with heavy game, this is important. I will tell you that I noticed you overcorrecting a drift to the left at the end. Without that, you would have certainly had the three hundred."
She laughed then, and bowed lightly.
"Master. You see well enough to watch both our targets. And why the drift to the left, if you can tell me?"
He looked at her carefully, raised a finger and indicated that she should spin about. She shrugged and did so, coming to rest facing him, dark eyes quizzical. He moved his finger again, miming a slower spin, which was perhaps an error: he was momentarily distracted by her shape; and the tilt of her shoulders and head made it plain that she had noticed.
"I believe it is clear," he said in Liaden—in the mode of master to master. "Your vest bound you slightly as you worked. It is that very flat item above your left kidney that is the problem."
"Ah." For an instant only was Natesa the Assassin nonplused, then she bowed, deeply, in the mode of novice to master. "I am instructed."
She straightened and gave him a serious look.
"Let us inspect weapons a moment," she said, "and speak looking down the alleyway so that none behind us may read our lips."
Now it was come. Whatever it was. Pat Rin bowed agreement and proceeded to field strip his pistol.
"Master of Tey Dor's," she said softly, her hands busy and sure at her own weapon, "please consider me at your disposal. If you have need of transport, or a safe house; for additional bodyguards, for a cash advance—" She shot him a quick, dark glance. "Understand, I have discretion. More. I have jurisdiction. Much may be contrived, if you have need."
"And you offer from the goodness of yourself, no doubt . . . ." he murmured, glancing across to her.
She raised her head and looked fully into his face.
"If you like, you may consider this a formal offer of the Juntavas—an extension of the aid-and-comfort you may perhaps have heard." She paused.
That she was a Juntava did not surprise him—he had supposed as much. That she came to him with this generous and open offer of aid was—distr
essing. Still, it was best to hear her out, so that he might know what protections he might need to find—elsewhere.
Bland-faced, hands steady on his weapon, he inclined his head—courteous invitation to continue.
Natesa sighed. "Ah. I feared you would see it thus. Master, hear me—I repeat it: our interests coincide. I know, I know—the old agreement. But many things are . . . not as they have been." She held up a hand, her face earnest.
"So, I will tell you: the Juntavas discovers that there is something very wrong on Liad. Korval-in-person disappears from the breadth of space, but for you—perhaps you are the bait in a trap?—and the silly young cousin. Korval ships ply their routes, but we note the changes in long-established patterns, the captains redistributed, the crew-members put ashore, the heavy weapon pods mounted.
"In other sectors, confusions begin to grow, which seem to our analysis related to the . . . alterations in Korval's behaviors. We hear of—certain people one is wise to avoid; of some of those who have dealt with particular Liadens turning up—not ruined or shamed—but dead."
Plan B, thought Pat Rin, and then said it, softly: "Plan B is in effect. Korval is beset, Natesa the Assassin. We have gone into hiding."
"Yes?" Her eyes gleamed. "But you have not gone into hiding, Master. And the Juntavas has made a study of Korval. We do not expect that the dragon is meek in its exile. We anticipate decisive action, from an unexpected quarter—and that soon." She paused, her eyes yet on his face.
"Understand me, Pat Rin yos'Phelium. As a Sector Judge I am able to provide what you may need. Whatever you may need. And if you should lead us to your kin, that the Clutch turtles may be satisfied that the Juntavas treats with honor, so much the better for us all."
"Sector Judge?" he repeated the unfamiliar title quietly, slowly fitting his gun back together.
"Yes, yes." Impatience was evident in her voice. "I am—a power. When there are disputes over territory, or of proper ownership of particular objects or properties, I am called in to find the answers, to make things smooth again. And if there is a problem which cannot be solved by discussion, I am empowered to solve it as I may." She paused as she concentrated on something finicky within her weapon.
"This is why I walk with Julier, who is a gift of the local boss while I am on planet. The boss wishes to be certain that I will agree with him when need be."
She glanced at him as the snick-click of the new charge going home broke the silence.
"The old agreement—that the Juntavas does not meddle with Korval. That Korval does not meddle with the Juntavas . . . " Pat Rin said, softly, so softly. "You counsel me to set it aside, you argue—persuasively!—that circumstances have altered so entirely that the boundaries of wisdom—the boundaries of mutual survival—have been re-drawn, placing the Juntavas and Korval side-by-side in the face of a common enemy." He moved his shoulders, of a sudden very weary.
"You know who I am. It is not within my scope to set aside clan policy. Certainly, not this, of all possible clan policies. No matter what the need."
She was silent. He stood and backed away from the work bench, his gun pointed specifically away from her. He glanced along the alley, and moved to the target console.
"Shall we shoot?" he asked, fiddling with the settings. "One hundred targets, descending from standard size and distance to one sixth size and double distance."
"You are certain?" she asked, and, indeed there was a tentative note in the soft, cultured voice.
Pat Rin glanced over his shoulder, saw her standing, gun reassembled and aimed at the innocent floor, slim and deadly and very comely, indeed. "Why should I not be certain?" he asked lightly. "A cantra to you, should you best my score."
She laughed then. "You are a gamester, aren't you? But no, I'll not put you out of pocket. Rather let us agree to part amicably." She bowed, lightly and with whimsy.
"And yes, Master, I would be very pleased to shoot again."
They disposed of the hundred targets in short order, failing yet again to find one of them ascendant over the other. Natesa had left him, then, with a graceful bow. He let her out of the theater to rejoin her gift bodyguard, and re-admitted Cheever McFarland.
"We will be departing Teriste earlier than anticipated, Mr. McFarland," he said as the big man loaded his second LaDemeter and stepped up to the line. "When we finish here, I will call at the bank. It would be best if you take leave this evening."
The pilot looked at him, wearing an expression between a grin and a grimace. "Got a date?"
"Mr. McFarland, I do. I must to the casino, else we arrive at our destination without enough cash to buy into a game."
"Oh. Yeah. But she's something, ain't she, Boss?"
"Pilot?"
"That Natesa. A bit of a looker and she shoots like a champion. She ought to, 'cause she's the reigning champ in this club."
"I am informed, but not surprised." Pat Rin stepped up to the line and squeezed off his first shot.
"Juntavas, huh?"
"You are apparently aware."
"The boy she was with had a half-dozen tell-tales on 'em. Tattoo here, 'nother one there. Carries official Juntavas ordinance—what that Natesa don't do—even wears the damn ring! Got no style at all. I gotta tell you, if he's a friend of that lady I'll be surprised."
"Indeed. I believe her to hold you in much higher esteem than that enjoyed by Julier."
"I sure hope so. He's about as subtle as a drunk merc at a nude beach."
"Mr. McFarland, if you think to spoil my aim by distracting me or by making me laugh, you're quite off the mark."
"Well, a guy's got to try. You're two whole shots up on me with twenty to go."
"Shoot, Mr. McFarland. If you continue, you may match Natesa's score."
"Guess she was distracted, huh? I think she likes you, Boss."
"Mr. McFarland . . . ."
"Yeah. Right. Gotcha. My shot."
THE PRIVATE ACCOUNTS manager was new since the last time Pat Rin had accessed his funds at Teriste Speculator's Trust. The former manager had been male, soft-spoken and respectful.
The new manager was female, breathless and provoking.
"I very much beg your pardon, sir," she dithered, her fingers stuttering over her keyboard. "I don't seem to find that account. I—oh, here! Ah, no. No, that's not it."
Pat Rin swallowed a caustic comment, counted to twelve and pointed out that the paperwork he had provided listed not only his name and his account number, but the first of his two pass phrases, which really should be all she needed in order to locate his funds.
"Yes, yes, of course, you are quite correct, sir!" she babbled. "It is only that—well! I see that I will need to bring the branch manager in. Only a moment, sir, of your goodness. I will return immediately—" She leapt up from her chair and fled, the door sealing behind her.
Pat Rin bit down on his annoyance. Really, this was preposterous. There should not be the slightest difficulty in accessing his account. The manager had very likely miscoded the request; indeed, it was a rare wonder that she had been able to type at all, as badly as her hands had been shaking.
And why had her hands been shaking? He wondered abruptly. He was hardly a fearsome individual, after all; and his request had been merely commonplace.
Frowning, he got up and walked 'round the desk. The screen was still active, awash with red lines and danger-signals. In the center of it all was the code for his private account, showing a balance of some ninety-six cantra; followed by an unfamiliar code, also in red.
Just so.
Absolutely calm, he retrieved his paperwork from the desktop, folded it into the inside pocket of his jacket, rounded the desk and lay his hand against the door. It slid open at his touch, which surprised him somewhat, but he rather thought that the new manager was unused to dealing with dangerous clients.
Walking quickly, he went down the hall and through the discreet common office, heading for the door to the street. Behind him, he heard a clatter of heels and a g
asped, "Sir? Sir, a moment, please!" He did not turn his head, but swept out the door.
Gaining the street, he strode on, despite the fact that his knees had developed a disconcerting wobble. He had scarcely gone six steps before he was joined by a large man carrying a pair of gun bags.
"Business concluded, Boss?" Cheever asked.
"Concluded," he said, rather breathlessly, "but not to our advantage. I was not able to withdraw funds. Worse . . . Mr. McFarland, I fear I may have alerted someone . . . unsavory . . . to my presence."
"Bound to happen, I guess," Cheever said philosophically. "Time to lift?"
Pat Rin walked on, somewhat less quickly now, and forced himself to focus. Panic was never a winning hand.
"No. I must attempt the casinos. With the ship's fund and my personal accounts beyond reach, the need for money becomes desperate."
"If they know you're here, they'll be watching the casinos," Cheever pointed out, reasonably enough.
Pat Rin moved a hand in agreement. "They will. But the casinos have security on-staff and an investment in maintaining the safety of their clients. I may be seen, but it is unlikely that I will be importuned." He sighed. "The risk must be accepted in any case. We must have cash."
There was a short pause, then a sigh.
"If that's the way it's gotta be, then we go with it," he said. "I'll be coming with you."
It was perhaps indicative of his state of mind that Pat Rin felt not annoyance at this presumption, but relief.
"Thank you, Mr. McFarland," he said. "I will be glad of your company."
Teriste
Casino District
The Practical Statistician
"LORD PAT RIN—a moment, if you will!"
The beautifully dressed gentleman did not look up at the hail. He received the dice, shook them briefly and threw with an expert's snap of the wrist, rings flashing richly in the table lights. The dice struck the felt-covered end wall, rebounded, rolled twice and stopped; the first and second die each showed one pip, while the third displayed five. The gentleman stood quietly, dark head tipped, calmly awaiting the House's judgment.
"Seven called and seven rolled!" the croupier announced, deftly separating three coins from the bank and placing them before the winner. "House pays three gold to the gentleman with the blue earring." The dice rattled to the cloth beside the coins. "Roll again, sir?"