Resort Debauch

by Roxanne Smolen

  She pictured Syoney writhing in flames.

  The fortuneteller turned away. Regaining her composure, she took out her Babesh stones. She knelt in the gravel, black robes flowing around her, golden light bathing her face—but for a moment, Anneliese looked beyond Duessa-Kimmer and saw an old crone sitting in the marketplace. A boy sat beside her, his face marked with drool.

  Anneliese closed her eyes. She remembered the vacant child, remembered her loathing at the sight of him. Her cheeks burned with shame.

  Suddenly her life passed before her mind's eye: a humiliating parade of narcissism and prejudice. She wanted to tear at her breast, to throw back her head and howl. This is who I am! If you must judge me, let it be for the truth.

  Again, the seer rolled the stones—old hands, young hands, old hands, young. Anneliese staggered. She saw the dancers climb from their pedestals, clinging to each other, staring. Ente rushed from the stage. Sayer-Kihn's face loomed, eyes stark with horror. He spoke, but his voice was lost to the sound of rushing wind.

  Anneliese thought her veins were on fire. She grit her teeth. Was this what it was to die? No! She would not allow them to kill her. She'd survived an overdose of the drug before—she would live through this now.

  Duessa-Kimmer chanted softly, matching card to stone. Her fingers moved with the grace of long familiarity. But, as they came to the final card, they hesitated, placing the image down reverently.

  A woman with two faces holding a sword overhead, one foot poised over a chasm.

  Slowly, the soothsayer looked up at Anneliese. Shock contorted her face.

  And for the first time, Anneliese knew what she had to do.

  "Yes! Jefe-Naik!” She snatched up the card. “From this point you may go in either direction. Recant your Fool's War. There is a better way."

  A deepening silence clenched the room. Anneliese held the card for all to see. Her body shook with exhilaration, adrenaline intensifying the effects of the drug. The air beat as with the wings of a bird.

  Then Wathe-Taln said, “You can rid us of the Resort?"

  The scorn in his voice slapped her awake. She glanced about, viewing the gathered faces as if from a great height. Then she saw Sayer-Kihn, saw his pride in her, his absolute certainty.

  "Yes. I can,” she said smiling, and knew at last she could fly.

  CHAPTER 38

  Anneliese knelt at the jagged crevice, looking out from the mouth of the tunnel. Stars filled the sky and for a moment she could only stare, it seemed so long since she'd last seen them.

  Reaching into a sack at her side, she withdrew a fist-sized piece of malpais, holding it into a shaft of moonlight. The stone glowed like black-green ice.

  "Magnificent,” she whispered.

  Behind her, Sayer-Kihn said, “I don't like this. I should be with you."

  "We can't risk it. You've been to the Trader City too many times. Someone would recognize you.” She rewrapped the stone in a cloth, stowing it with the others in her sack. “Everything will go smoothly."

  "But you are the Jefe-Naik, our prophet of change. You should remain in safety, let others carry out your vision."

  "I am no more special than you were when you located the water with your divining rod.” Anneliese shook her head. “Besides, we're making a business proposition, and who among you understands the merits of versatile profit?"

  "But what if the Resort is searching for you there?"

  "Why would they do that?” She paused, expecting him to say more. “I have to go. My partner will become surly."

  "Take me with you,” Sayer-Kihn said.

  "I can't."

  He turned away. “But why Wathe-Taln? There are others in the barrow who speak Standard."

  Because he feels diminished, she thought. Because he needs to redeem himself—and she needs to know she can forgive. Aloud, she said, “Wathe believes I am the Jefe-Naik. He'll keep me safe enough."

  Moving to Sayer's side, she ran her fingers across the scars along his cheek—rites of passage, he'd once told her, one slash for each level of learning. She had also been marked, she thought, but her scars were internal.

  Sayer exhaled sharply, but after a moment, he smiled. Reaching for her hand, he dropped two coins into her palm.

  "Is this my allowance?” she asked.

  "It will help you to look like a prospector. Go now. I will wait for you here."

  She blinked. “But I might be gone a day or more, especially if I can't get that abandoned skip-chaser to float."

  "I will be here. I will wait until you need me. Now go. Your partner grows impatient."

  Anneliese hesitated, wanting to tell him how flimsy she thought her plan was and how frightened she was trying to carry it out, wanting to tell him how much he meant to her.

  She watched the chiliarch beneath the cover of semi-darkness, and then realized he could see her plainly, even in the scant light. Glancing out at the night, she slung the bag over her shoulder.

  "Good-bye,” was all she could think to say.

  Slipping through the crevice between the rocks, Anneliese stepped from the tunnel. Fresh air struck like a tonic, cool and dry and silent. Huge twin moons bathed the land in coppery light, gathering the hills in stark relief. She found the sight oddly comforting, as if she'd come home.

  Sighing, she brushed back her hair then replaced her misshapen hat. She'd traded her robes for a musty jacket, her sandals for keratol boots. Prospector attire. She shuddered, wondering where they might have been found.

  "I am here,” a voice called.

  She turned toward Wathe-Taln, picking her way toward him over the uneven stone. In a rocky pocket, she found the fallen skip-chaser, its sleek, arrow-shaped form crumpled and scuffed. The hatch was askew, the side view ports smashed, but the wind bonnet was smooth and intact.

  Wathe-Taln looked up as she approached. “I've moved the bodies beyond those rocks. No one will find them."

  She circled the craft then peered inside. “How long has this been here?"

  "Who can say? Can you fly it?"

  "I can if there's power. What made it go down, I wonder?” She remembered the stories of hunters at night, swooping down through the canyons.

  Wathe-Taln sneered. “Perhaps the land reached up to smite them. Hateful off-worlders."

  Anneliese snapped upright, meeting his eyes squarely. “Clean out some of this dust,” she demanded. “We want the vehicle to look worn, not abandoned. I'll see if the battery packs were damaged.” Moving to the rear, she slid back the hood.

  She had no idea what she was looking at. A braid of cables lay to one side, a sheet of leathery bubbles to the other. A narrow cylinder seemed to be ajar and she pushed until it snapped into place. She listened to Wathe-Taln's movements inside, heard him break out the remainder of the ruined view ports. Gently, she replaced the hood.

  "Let's see if that did it,” Anneliese said, dusting her hands and climbing into the pilot's cage.

  The air was stale despite being open to the elements. The stink of mummies, she thought wryly. Placing the sack of malpais between her feet upon the floor, she turned her attention to the control panel. Altitude. Orientation. The computer grid remained dark. She pried loose the keychip, and then slammed it home again.

  The tiny craft roared. Anneliese squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She could do this—she'd flown skip-chasers before. She pulled the flight harness over her head.

  "You'd better strap in up here,” she said. “The bay is only for carry-on."

  Wathe-Taln appeared beside her, face pale in the moonlight.

  She reached over, securing his harness. “Relax. We aren't in the air yet."

  "I know,” he said.

  Smiling to herself, Anneliese pressed ORIENTATION, holding them level as the craft rose. The grid came on-line, fixing the cabin in a green glow. Outside, the night became impenetrable.

  "No lights,” she said. “You'll have to guide me."

  He swallowed audibly before answering. “In that
direction, beyond the ridge."

  She swung the ship about, one eye on the simulation as it flowed across the grid. They darted forward, tilting haphazardly, slowly picking up speed.

  Wind rushed through the portholes, and Anneliese raised her voice over the racket. “Who are these traders we're supposed to meet?"

  "My contact said only that they were hungry."

  "Perfect. That gives us the advantage."

  "Or puts us at further risk,” he said.

  Anneliese laughed, covering her nervousness. She'd seen her father negotiate hundreds of times, she thought. She could handle a few hungry traders.

  But as their silence grew, her misgivings took root. Anneliese gnawed her lip, concentrating upon flying the lightweight plane. As her hands stroked the control panel, she noticed Wathe-Taln watching closely as if memorizing her movements.

  The sky grayed with dawn. Anneliese saw the outlines of rocks. She saw ships taking off like arcing sparks. Then the glow of a city rose from the horizon.

  Trader City. Just days ago, all she wanted was to be there—now all she wanted was to finish her business so she could leave. A change in perspective, she thought, smiling.

  Anneliese pulled the craft to a halt in a courtyard. A thunderous roar startled her. She saw a flash then a fireball as it streaked across the sky: a shuttle blasting away.

  Unlatching the harness, she said, “This won't take long. We may as well leave the food and water here."

  "We do not leave water behind,” Wathe growled.

  "Then it's your baggage. Go outside and see what we're up against."

  She heard him clamor through the aft hatch. A tiresome man, she thought, for all that he believed her a prophet. Perhaps she should have brought Sayer-Kihn instead.

  The thought caused a twinge of panic. She had become too close to the chiliarch, too fast. She didn't want another love affair to end as badly as her first.

  She pulled the keychip from the slot, and then thinking better of it, left it in place—they might need a quick escape if they ran into trouble. Reaching for her sack of malpais, she brushed against a shelf beneath the console. A gun fell to the floor.

  Gingerly, she picked it up. It was old, almost archaic. A needle gun. She turned it over in her hands, wondering if it still worked.

  "It is safe.” Wathe-Taln rapped upon the wind bonnet.

  Anneliese jerked upright. She slid the weapon into her sack, and then climbed from the hatch.

  Scattered ships lined the courtyard: flitters and skip-chasers, planet-bound craft. The shuttles were at port in the center of the city—she could see their lights.

  She slung the bag over her shoulder. “How are we to know these traders your informants ferreted out?"

  "They will know us. We are to wait at the Wayfarer Inn. Near the shipping docks."

  "Then follow me,” she said.

  Increasing her pace, Anneliese entered the city. The streets were wide and smooth, the buildings rounded lumps in the darkness. Mud huts, she thought. A hive of insects.

  She clenched her fists against a coursing fear, drawing her father's face from the shadows. Stare down your opponent, he would say.

  Trade is power.

  Pirates and brigands darted past, off-worlders filling the streets. Anneliese watched them furtively, aware of the gun's weight in her sack. The sky lightened, allowing her to see her surroundings. She stopped at a sign printed in Standard: Shipping Port C.

  She pointed at the runes painted below. “Are those Llaird words?"

  Wathe-Taln ran his fingers over the sign. “It gives directions."

  "Any we can use?” She scowled as the silence lengthened. “Well, we can't just wander the streets hoping to find...."

  "One side. Out of my way!” A voice rose over a sudden clatter.

  Anneliese turned to see a man barrel into a woman, sending her sprawling into the street. A metal cup flew from her hand, bouncing a few feet away.

  "Filthy local,” the man snapped.

  The woman flinched, groping about, finding the coins that had fallen from her cup.

  A beggar woman, Anneliese realized. She glared at the man as he passed, then turned her ire upon Wathe.

  "How can you just stand there?” she asked.

  "It is as it is. Should I change the world?"

  "Yes!” she snapped.

  Anneliese crossed over to the woman, taking her elbow. The face that looked up was no more than eighteen years old. Defiant and scared. Shunted aside. Anneliese cringed as if she looked into her own face.

  A child's voice cried out—a boy peeking around a building—and the woman hissed at him, warning him in her guttural tongue. She turned back to Anneliese, scraping and bowing, rattling her cup.

  Stiffly, Anneliese rose. She glanced at Wathe-Taln. “Tell her this, in my words. Are you truly a beggar, then, a filthy local as that naplaugh named you? Well, I do not give to those who believe themselves worthless.” She paused as Wathe finished translating, waiting for her words to register. “However, I will be happy to buy information from you, if you've any to sell."

  The woman got to her feet. She was taller than Anneliese, even hunched within her robes. She glanced between them then nodded.

  "Ask her where we can find the Wayfarer Inn.” Anneliese listened to their clipped discourse, hearing for the first time the patterns and music of their speech.

  Wathe said, “The tavern is in that direction."

  "Very good."

  Reaching into her jacket, Anneliese dropped one of Sayer's coins into the woman's cup. The beggar smiled, jabbering her thanks. Anneliese crossed the street, and then glancing back, saw the woman place the coin into her mouth.

  The sky turned pink along the edges. A skip-chaser roared overhead. Anneliese pushed through the crowded shipping yard, dodging stacks of crates. She saw several Llaird, all of them laborers, but the majority of the people were off-world traders.

  She'd seen such traders in her father's meeting rooms. They were curt and single-minded, dressed so much alike it seemed almost a uniform: short-pants and boots, tailored vests, and a bulge in back from a holstered gun. They bellowed and cussed, lording over their booty. Anneliese ran her eyes over the melee.

  Then she noticed a hut pocked with small disks. A communications array! Waves of homesickness washed over her. She thought of her father grieving over her reported death. When she was finished at the Inn, she would send a message, she decided. But she imagined her father arriving, insisting on taking her away. Smothering her.

  "There.” Wathe-Taln spoke over the din.

  Anneliese looked toward a small dome-shaped building and a hand-painted sign: Wayfarer Inn. A group of men burst from the door, laughing and jostling. Fear clutched her. No, not fear—exhilaration.

  Wathe asked, “Do you want me to wait elsewhere while you speak with the smugglers?"

  "No,” she said. “I need you to stand at my back, in case someone tries to slip a knife into it."

  CHAPTER 39

  Anneliese pushed through the tavern's heavy drape, entering the noisy room. The underground Inn was larger than she'd expected. A full-length bar dominated one end, crowded tables the other. Heads turned as she stepped into their midst.

  Trade is power, she recited soundlessly.

  She slapped her remaining coin onto the bar as if she'd been born to such things. “Give us something cold to drink."

  The barkeep brought two glasses of a frothy liquid—the milk concoction she'd tasted at Surah's lounge. Anneliese cradled the coolness in both hands, and then drank half of it down.

  Slowly, she warned herself. Don't appear too eager. You are a prospector, not some naive young girl running one step ahead of trouble.

  But beside her, Wathe-Taln smacked his lips, setting his empty glass upon the bar.

  She smiled at him, shaking her head. “Let's find a large table in back."

  The tables were of molded plasticene, stools attached to the base, their once bright colors
scuffed and stained. Anneliese took another sip of her drink then set the glass upon an empty tabletop, staking her claim.

  A man sat down at the table. He picked up her glass. “Yllib milk? Rather boring. Let me buy you a real drink."

  "This seat is taken,” Anneliese said, still standing, “and I am here to conduct business, not to imbibe."

  The man smiled. His blue eyes were startling. “And I don't conduct business unless I imbibe.” He motioned toward Wathe-Taln. “Your servant?"

  "My partner."

  He stood. “The deal was with you."

  Anneliese's head whirled, finally realizing that he was one of the traders. “He doesn't speak Standard,” she said quickly.

  "Then how do you communicate?"

  She leaned against Wathe as she had seen Surah lean against Pol. “We have our ways."

  An older man stepped forward, glaring at the first. “I wasn't informed there would be a counter offer."

  The man laughed. “Perhaps you expect exclusive rights?"

  "I expect honesty in my business dealings."

  "Luckily, the lady here is not so big a fool."

  Anneliese hardened her eyes. “Lower your voices,” she said. “We are expecting one more."

  "That would be me,” said a man.

  She turned to face the third trader. A shock of familiarity rushed through her—where had she seen him before?

  Unsettled, Anneliese leveled her gaze upon the other two. “You question if I am fool or lady, and the answer is no to both. As for counter offers, life wouldn't be worth much without them.” She let her words rest for a moment, and then took her seat. Wathe stood warm at her back—watching for knives, she thought. “I assume you know what I've found and have already queried prospective buyers. I will now sweeten the proverbial pot."

  Reaching into the bag upon her lap, she withdrew a fist-sized piece of malpais. The blue-eyed man handled it admiringly, reluctant to pass it on. Anneliese took out the other two stones, setting them before her.

  "You are handing out samples?” the third man asked.

  She smiled. “I guarantee, once you have them appraised, your contacts will leap into the bidding."