I Dare

by Sharon

  He did have some memories of . . . conversations; long, intimate talks with his dead kin, of the sort they had rarely engaged in. There had been those things that he had wished to say—most especially to his son; and also to Shan, with whom he had so often been out of charity, so often for such little cause . . .

  "It was not my intention to disturb the staff," he managed now, his ragged voice waking the discomfort of a raw throat. He drew a breath, which also was also painful, but not beyond his ability to endure.

  "Natesa."

  Cheever grimaced and Pat Rin felt again the fiery pain of loss, as the pilot's face dissolved in a shameful wash of tears.

  "Naw, now, don't go jumping to endings.," The other man's voice was unexpectedly gentle. Pat Rin closed his eyes; the tears leaked beneath his lashes and left cold, wet trails down his cheeks.

  "Listen, Boss, she's gonna be fine. Caught a pellet in the shoulder—the jacket took most of it. If it hadn't been a custom load, it wouldn't've stopped her at all. As it is, she's gonna be outta bed and raisin' hell before what passes for the doctor 'round here lets you eat better'n oatmeal." He paused, then added, thoughtfully.

  "Thing is, Natesa's some peeved about you putting yourself on the line like that—I ain't exactly happy about it, myself. We're your security—I'm sure we told you this, couple dozen times, maybe. We take the chances while you get under cover—which this time, you did, according to Gwince, but then what'd you have to do but leave cover and set yourself up as a target nobody who wasn't drugged outta their brains—which Ivernet's were, your luck—coulda missed."

  "My oathsworn," Pat Rin whispered, eyes closed against the slow leak of tears, "are not expendable."

  "Yes, we are," Cheever said, plainly exasperated. "That's the point—ahh, never mind. I'll let Natesa pound it into your head. Maybe she'll have better luck."

  He lay there, letting the sense of it sink into his bones. Natesa was alive. She would be fine. Life went on.

  "And Boss Ivernet?" he asked, recalling at last the why of placing himself and his—gods pity him—his beloved, into such danger.

  "Wasn't enough of Boss Ivernet left to take to the crematory after the mob got through with him." There was a certain grim satisfaction in the Terran pilot's voice. Pat Rin opened his eyes and stared up into his face.

  "Mob?"

  "Right. See, after you went in and practically got yourself killed over this, wasn't much Penn Kalhoon could do but back you, not to mention Ivernet's own streeters suddenly understanding that there might be a way out and joining in . . . " He shook his head. "Wasn't pretty. Quick, though—it was that. Especially with the bosses on the other side of Ivernet comin' in to lend a hand. Turns out everybody wanted him outta there, but none of 'em could figure out how to go about it 'til you come along." He shrugged.

  "So, you got the turf. Penn's second—Marj Fender—she's sittin' in the Boss Chair, temporary-like, tryin' to get everything sorted out and stable. Penn wanted me to make sure you knew they was just holding it temp, and not making a turf-grab. You bled for it—it's yours. That's his words."

  "All honor to him," Pat Rin whispered, closing his eyes again. He was, ridiculously, exhausted, his face wet with more than the unabated run of tears.

  "We will need to send word to our other territories and—"

  "Done," Cheever interrupted. "Some of us been workin'."

  And all honor to Cheever McFarland, who held the course, as a pilot should, despite near catastrophe.

  His ears registered a sudden bustle across the room, and a brisk female voice, borne closer on the clatter of heels against tile.

  "Mr. McFarland! You promised!"

  "Sorry, ma'am. Got to talkin'."

  "Well, you can get to talkin' with Chim, downstairs," the unknown woman scolded, "and leave Mr. Conrad to rest up. Even bosses get timeout for gunshots and fever!" A sharp sound, as if she had brought her palms forcefully together. "Go on, now—out! That's enough damage for one day!"

  "Yes'm. Boss, I'm within range if you want me, got it?"

  "Yes," his voice was barely audible, even to himself. "Thank you, Mr. McFarland."

  The bed shook slightly, echoing Cheever's path across the tiles. Pat Rin opened his eyes by a raw application of will, and found himself looking up into the round face of a smiling woman of about his own age.

  "I'm Kazi," she said. "Mr. McFarland says, 'the doctor, so-called.'" She lay one cool, plump hand against his forehead, tsk'd and brushed his hair back, as if he were a fractious child.

  "Wore you right down to nerves, didn't he? I don't know why, but people think bosses ain't human, somehow. Well. Let's wash your face, then I'll check your progress. You were lucky, if Mr. McFarland didn't tell you—the thigh shot missed the artery and the bone; it's a nice, clean wound. No problems there. The arm's a little trickier, but I think you're gonna to be just fine, so long as you're sensible. Can you be sensible?"

  She had produced a bowl and a cloth from somewhere. He watched her through slitted eyes as she dipped the cloth in the bowl and wrung it out.

  "Perhaps . . . I . . . can," he whispered. "I have . . . not attempted . . . recently."

  Kazi smiled, leaned forward and used the cool cloth to wipe his face. "There, that feels better, doesn't it?" She dropped the cloth into the bowl and put it aside.

  "OK, now I'll check the wounds. You can have a nap after—or if you fall asleep while I'm poking you, I won't be offended. I do want you to have some broth a little later, but the nap comes first." She folded the coverlet back from his left side and reached forward. "This might hurt you some. Feel free to yell and swear."

  Indeed, it hurt amazingly, though her hands were light and certain. Pat Rin closed his eyes and gave his attention wholly to recalling the order in which the books were shelved in his mother's study, starting from the topmost of the floor-to-ceiling shelves. He was just starting on the second shelf when Kazi spoke again.

  "They both look good." He opened his eyes to her face. She smiled and nodded. "Whyn't you go to sleep now? I'll be back in a while with something like dinner."

  Sleep. His weighty eyelids closed. "Thank you," he said—meant to say—and let the black velvet tide of sleep bear him away.

  Day 355

  Standard Year 1392

  Hamilton Street

  Surebleak

  "BOSS?" GWINCE PAUSED in the threshold of the parlor Penn Kalhoon had set aside for Pat Rin's use. "Boss Melina Sherton's here to see you."

  He looked up from the book he had been reading—a bow to Kazi's insistence that he "rest" between entertaining callers. Melina Sherton held a large territory considerably out from his present location; bordering on the almost-mythic "country", with its fresh vegetables, fields and wineries.

  "Pray show Ms. Sherton in," he said, putting his book aside; "and ask Dani to bring refreshments."

  "Yessir."

  Pat Rin straightened in his chair, careful of the arm in its awkward rigid bindings. A cane leaned against the table at his side, another concession to the doctor's list of instructions.

  He had not, of course, been able to acquiesce to all of her demands, though he did make a push to be sensible. Behold him, for an instance, guesting yet in Penn Kalhoon's household, rather than returning to his home turf, or going on tour with Cheever McFarland.

  Light footsteps sounded in the hall. Pat Rin turned his face toward the doorway, and inclined his head as his guest came through the door.

  "I hope that you will forgive me if I remain seated," he murmured. "I mean no disrespect to yourself."

  Thin reddish eyebrows arched above tan eyes.

  "I think a man who went down with a couple pellets in him six days ago has a right to stay seated for as long as he wants," she said. Her voice was strong and emphatic; her person thin of flesh; her face long and bony. She nodded.

  "Melina Sherton. I hold the territory behind Ira Gabriel."

  Boss Gabriel had called on Pat Rin yesterday afternoon, one of three on the d
ay, as opposed to two, the day before. He had proven himself to be a sensible man, and willing to deal. They had parted amicably, Ira clenching his portacomm in one outsized fist.

  "I have met Boss Gabriel," he said to Melina Sherton. "An excellent individual."

  "He knows what's good for business," she allowed, moving forward and seating herself in the chair facing him. "I've been dealing with Ira for almost eight years; he's a man believes in that Road, same like you do. I guess you talked about that."

  "Indeed, we did. And yourself?"

  She blinked. "Me?"

  "Yes. Do you believe in the Road? I anticipate that holding it open might cause difficulties for you, with your territory situated as it is."

  "Because a road goes both ways, you mean." She tipped her head to a side, considering him. "I thought about that—thought about it a lot, if you want to know, because I got an interest in the border farms, and some trade further in. And what I decided . . . "

  Here, Dani appeared with the tray, which she disposed quickly and quietly on the table. Hands steady and sure, she poured—for Pat Rin, who took a sip to demonstrate that the beverage was undrugged—and for the guest. She departed, also quickly, but without seeming in haste, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her, as per his standing instructions.

  Pat Rin sipped again and put his cup on the table. "Forgive me," he said to the other boss, "we had been discussing your decision regarding the freedom of the Port Road through your territories."

  "Right." She held her cup against her knee, and leaned forward, tan eyes intense. "I decided that it's OK for the Road to go to the Port and to the country. Sleet, I started in trying to figure out how we could have more of them—a safe-road out to the coast and back! Another one up into the hills and back!" She laughed.

  "Same sorta thinking that got me in trouble eight years ago, when I decided the only way to protect our farms was to set up as boss of the turf next in—act as a kinda buffer zone. That's what it was gonna be, a safety zone between the rest of the city and the holdings. Then I got to looking around my streets, seeing what was needed and who was where. Got in touch with Ira and found him to be of the same general tendencies . . . " She shook her head. "Ancient history. What I'm trying to tell you is, if you're still offering that deal like you got with Penn, I'll be pleased to sign on and hold the Road clear, share out info and help settin' up schools and clinics. Might be some of mine could teach some of yours to grow eatables in little land-patches, or up on the roofs."

  Memory's eye provided a vivid picture of a garden shrouded on a rooftop, awaiting the touch of the gardener who would never come again . . .

  Carefully, he took a breath; another—and met Melina Sherton's eyes.

  "That is precisely the sort of partnership we wish to form—a cooperative of skill and knowledge, which will benefit everyone."

  She nodded. "Sure would. And if anybody can hold that kind of cooperative open, it's you. A boss who ain't afraid to put his life down on what he believes to be best? I'll team with him."

  "Thank you," Pat Rin murmured, reaching for his tea cup. He sipped at leisure, and turned the conversation to the particulars of her turf. Sometime later, they found themselves in agreement, with a date set on which Pat Rin would call on her at home. She received her portacomm gravely, and Gwince showed her out, closing the door gently behind her.

  Pat Rin wilted against the back of his chair, and closed his eyes. He could feel the trembling in his legs and in his unbound arm. Though he was much improved in health, yet even seated negotiation had the ability to exhaust him, and Melina Sherton had been his fourth interview on this day.

  Seated thus, he might have dozed. In fact, given his weakened condition, it was inevitable that he doze. The next thing he was aware of was the light snick of the door being pushed to.

  He opened his eyes and beheld Natesa.

  Their paths had crossed but seldom in past days. As Cheever had predicted, she had risen from her sickbed while he was yet confined by weakness, and set herself to whatever tasks had need of her skill. It did occur to him that it was anger which kept her from his side; a notion he had tried—without much success—to put down to the morbid affect of ill-health.

  And now, she was here, having sought him out of her own desire, whether to throttle him or to mock him remained to be discovered.

  "Master." She bowed, elegance itself, and straightened, her black eyes and grave, sweet face unreadable.

  He inclined his head, approximating the bow between equals as best he might, seated and awkward as he was.

  "Natesa. I am pleased to see you, well and dancing."

  "I am pleased to see you, also, Master, though it must on the mend, with the dance yet before you."

  He smiled, rueful. "Both Mr. McFarland and Doctor Kazi allow me to know that I am fortunate to be able to hear the music."

  Natesa inclined her head. "You did a very foolish thing; that is so. Very brave and very foolish. I have often marked how frequently courage and foolhardiness make partners. I am persuaded that you have made this same observation."

  "Alas, mine has not been an existence where courage is commonly found, although certainly I have seen fools. The most recent, in my mirror."

  A frown disturbed the serenity of her brow. "No," she said eventually, as one who had given the matter due consideration. "No, I would not have it so, though you must, of course, please yourself." She paused, then bowed once more—oathsworn to oathholder—and Pat Rin felt his blood chill.

  "Master, I have come to ask you for a thing. I hope that you will be able to accommodate me."

  He inclined his head. "I would not be so churlish as to refuse you anything," he said softly, while he felt his chest muscles tighten, as if in anticipation of a blow.

  "Ah." Another grave inclination of the head, before she looked directly into his eyes.

  "I would have my oath returned to me."

  The familiar flames of loss blew high, taking his breath, and his voice; incinerating what was left of his heart.

  He bought time with a stately, seated bow, straightened and raised his one good hand, palm up, in the gesture of release.

  "Your oath is returned to you, honored and unsullied," he said, and it was the High Tongue that came off of his lips, though he had not willed it so. "Pray accept my gratitude, for service given well and without stint."

  Deeply, she bowed. "I receive my oath with joy," she said, which was the proper beginning of the ritual phrase, properly spoken in the High Tongue. She straightened, and finished, in Terran: "I do not want your gratitude, Pat Rin yos'Phelium."

  He had thought himself beyond any further hurt—thrice a fool! Gasping, he averted his face, his cheeks stinging as if she had struck him—and felt her fingers in truth against his cheeks, cool and soft and soothing.

  "Gently," she murmured. "Pat Rin, hear the rest."

  He allowed her strong, cool fingers to turn his face, so he looked into her eyes, inches away from his own.

  "I do not want your gratitude," she repeated, the vicious words transformed by her voice into a caress. "I want your love."

  Shivering, he raised his hand and touched her satin cheek. "You have it, always."

  She laughed, softly. "And he asks for nothing in return! Very well, sir, I will give you a gift."

  She bent closer, her breath warm and sweet against his face.

  "I love you, Pat Rin," she said, in the mode between intimates. And kissed him on the lips.

  Day 51

  Standard Year 1393

  Lytaxin

  Erob's Clanhouse

  SHAN SAT ON A chair in the hallway outside the room where his long-absent uncle Daav was reported to be in the care of the autodoc. Nova had gone to Erob, in order to offer what assistance an allied clan might in the aftermath of the discovery of murderous intruders in a protected garden.

  Having begged off this duty, Shan closed his eyes and meticulously went through several levels of exercise designed to raise hi
s energy levels, clear his thinking, and sharpen his flagging Healer senses. He would of course pay for this indulgence later, and he would be well-served indeed if he fell flat on his nose just when he was needed most.

  And whether that would be when he was called to identify the dead, broken bodies of his brother and his brother's lifemate, the gods alone knew.

  Really, Shan, have some sense, he told himself, opening his eyes with a sigh. Didn't you just explain to Nova that they are very fierce individuals?

  Which in no way meant they were invincible.

  Beside him, the door swished open. He turned in his seat and found himself doubly netted by a straight black glance and the heart-stoppingly familiar glitter of a pattern that he had last seen in his childhood.

  "Shannie?" The deep, grainy voice was precisely the same. He came to his feet, feeling his mouth stretch into an idiot smile.

  "Uncle Daav. Where have you been?"

  He held up a hand on which a ring flickered silver lightnings. "Now, do not, I beg you, begin! I have done quite enough explaining to your cha'leket. Apply to him for details."

  "If he shows himself, I will," Shan said, suddenly somber. "He and Miri are missing in the aftermath of your little fracas in Erob's garden." He tipped his head, Healer senses tracing an anomaly.

  "Will my brother also explain the very odd . . . resonance that I find in your pattern?"

  "Ah, you did come a Healer! Excellent." Daav smiled. "He might very well explain it, as he deduced both its presence and its cause with what I would have said was extremely scanty evidence. However, as you are a Healer, a practical demonstration might be of benefit to you . . . " He closed his eyes, and said, quite distinctly, in the mode between lovers.