by Sharon Lee
Roving Gambler
At times we, as coauthors, talk about and know so much about what’s going on in the universe that we forget that we haven’t written it down. “Roving Gambler” came from that abundance of information—dealing with story stuff that we knew but hadn’t quite managed to get into a novel or another short story yet. We have a lot of characters, and they are all involved—even if we haven’t had time to write them in. So here’s a story featuring Quin—we knew that Quin was isolated, we knew that the arrival of Korval on Surebleak was not going to be easy on the clan and on Pat Rin. Something, of course, was going to have to happen. “Roving Gambler” helps get Quin happening.
He woke instantly, more pilot than person, swinging his legs from the bed as soon as his eyes were open. The three coordinate sets in his head were good enough if there was—
But there wasn’t; the nearest ship deck was a cab ride and check-in away. The coords got mentally filed away in order, Lytaxin, Springwood, Tinsori Light. Well, that last one, that was one he’d been supposed to forget, to put out of his head as a last resort just ahead of, or maybe behind, Jumping into a sun. He’d not have had it at all except for the oddity of his grandmother knowing it, though she was not now and never had been a pilot.
Not dressed yet, Quin yos’Phelium Clan Korval stood in the cold of the near attic, falling into a dance routine to steady himself to gravity before he dressed. Surebleak’s gravity was a bit light to his standards, not that the planet knew nor cared. Odd that he should still be dancing to the gravity of a world and school he’d been pulled from because of Plan B—but his small class at Trigrace was long graduated and he’d not be back there, probably ever.
There was a cat, briefly, a quick strop against his bare legs and away, regally.
“Silk,” he called. “Silk?” He could use a moment of cat-time . . .
When calling the cat’s name didn’t halt the move toward the mystery space beneath the bookcase he made the silly Terran catchacat-catchacat sound this household preferred to the more-sibilant Liaden fizwisswisswiss . . .
Cat eyes glowed at him momentarily from the cat-way, gave a slow, comforting blink, and then melted soundlessly into shadow.
“Tomorrow,” he offered at the disappeared cat, and finished his stretches. His ring flashed in the morning light, reminding him he’d not chosen an earring yet . . . and that he was finally due for a quiet dinner with his father, the Boss.
It was Quin’s rule never to leave his rooms without a gun—that had been the rule on the Rock, after all, to always go armed—and he’d not forgotten the memorable dust-up on the occasion of the recent All Boss party at Jelaza Kazone, where Cousin Theo’d showed Padi and him that, however good their training, they’d much to learn.
He’d been on the fringe of the action there—truthfully it was a good thing he’d not been in the middle of it else his martial failings would have surely been revealed to all.
But that action had been proof that things weren’t settled here, so armed he and all the clan went.
Generally he had at least his gun, his backup, and knife. No one gainsaid him this—the clan was sure enough of him not to be concerned he’d misuse them and fond enough of him to permit what was hardly an ill-conceived notion on the chaotically burgeoning portside of Surebleak.
The guns were an added comfort for his familiarity with them, and the satisfaction he got from practice. He’d shot every other day when he was undertree and missed it dearly—both Nelirikk and Cheever McFarland applauded his skill, and he had no doubt that his last few impromptu matches there—he’d beaten both of them the last time—had been genuine. Nelirikk considered that he was the equal of his father with the pistol at distance . . . and that was good. He was also an excellent shot with a long arm, and improving on both.
He’d been set to shoot with his father and Natesa, perhaps a chance to test his skill against them both—but some necessity or another had always delayed that, and then he was called to the city, untimely.
Later this day was set a meal; he’d need to be sure to be dressed for that as well. So he had worn two simple blue-gemmed bar cuffs, in case it meant a semi-formal event with his grandmother in attendance. She was stickler for detail . . . manners, cards, code, or clothes—she expected the best in all sides.
Checked, did he, on his protections then—glancing in the mirrors—and then looking to the infrared on the video to be sure that only the ornate public gun showed easily. It was an ostentation of a gun, in being only half-small and shiny, and on a trick-shot holster he’d won at Tey Dor’s. Oddly, at Tey Dor’s one would hardly ever wear such a thing—it was a holster meant for competition only. Here . . .
On Surebleak, there was such a thing as being over-subtle, a mistake the clan would not want made again. Showing no gun would be oversubtle. Showing this gun? A young person’s fancy gun on a young person, who should be surprised? He knew his clan would forgive him since they knew it not to be his only protection. And this was the gun he’d matched shots even-up with Cheever. He would be forgiven for wearing it—it made him look in control.
In reality, control meant that he needed to recall that he was on Surebleak, and allow some play to his features, more than might be allowed on Liad—and that meant he had to feign a constant contentedness. He recalled the face that he’d practiced in the mirror, knowing his control was good.
So down to breakfast, reviewing his day’s agenda. Besides attending a late-day discussion about Uncle Shan’s possible relocation out of the port, his classroom piloting lessons—actually math lessons, without immediate reference to board or vids—were scheduled early. A Scout mentored him there, since his lacks were esoteric rather than generic. Lunch would be latish and he could walk from Griswold Plaza if he wanted, there being an opportunity to visit the rug and sock shop, or not, depending on time. Dinner—now that would be up to the Boss.
He sighed, considering the Boss, his father. Yes, Plan B had brought the family into open contention with their enemies, and Plan B had brought them here—here where his father, now the Boss, might insist that the proper study of a gently born Liaden was the history of warring turfs, the balance of power between east side and west side, the weather—always the weather—and the details of neighborhoods and . . .
Well it was that the first thing he’d learned to study at Trigrace Eclectic was how to study, with classless independent study the norm and access to working scholars, and practical thinkers a requirement. Piloting, yes, he’d had that—something his father had never learned formally! He’d also had language study far beyond the usual Liaden range, and . . . well, since his early tests had shown he was neither destined for the Healer Halls nor the Scouts, he’d gone for Piloting as major, with a minor as Generalist. His father’s studies had been more independent than that, of course. Despite being clan-bred, his father was very much a self-made man.
Quin, clan-bred as well, was a pilot now, but in the tradition of the clans he was expected to follow orders, which now meant he needed to prepare to be Boss. From what little he’d seen of his father since being ordered from Jelaza Kazone to the city, being a Boss had no reprieve, and little enough joy. His generalist background—well, that was useful—perhaps he could learn, or get by until he could escape to pilot.
The stairs he took were old and creaky. Near the dark spot at the bottom he slowed, whispering “Mistress Miranda,” but not finding that ancient cat in the cubby-corner she’d adopted for busy mornings—close to the kitchen and dining room but away from the sometimes rushed comings and goings. Mistress was an old cat, and still grumpily recovering from her evacuation from his father’s former home on Liad, where she’d rarely been beset by more than three or four visitors at once. At her Liad town home, too, she’d been the solo cat—and here, of course, there was already a resident feline.
Quin hoped she was curled comfortably somewhere. He could certainly sympathize with her problems—brought across space unexpectedly after a long separat
ion from Pat Rin, to a strange house, only to find interlopers: both a new cat and a permanently ensconced human often occupying favored spots.
Breakfast staff had the small table reserved for Grandfather and him set, but it was obvious by lack of steaming cup that Luken was off again—likely at Ms. Audrey’s, just as likely never home from last night.
Quin smiled, just a little. Grandfather’s hints in that direction were growing stronger and Quin had been with him when Grandfather’d taken a call about the property across the street from Ms. Audrey’s front door. He might set up an annex there for the carpet center, was one thing. But there were extensive living quarters above the store front—which had been of much interest to Grandfather as well.
Breakfast for him came with two steaming cups—today’s task was to name each beverage—so said the note with his tray. One was, thankfully, Morning’s Fresh Blush Tea—and the other was much harder, it being a coffee. Like tea, coffee was said to have provenance. And like tea, coffee was said to have a perfect brewing time.
He sighed, taking the dark drink without recourse to any available additives. Those things confused the palate as much for coffee as for tea—and he’d been trying to get used to dealing with his food and drink as he might find it visiting in any honest home on Surebleak, where additives might be too expensive, or too chancy, for the hosts.
He sighed again with the first sip. Not, then, what Cousin Miri would hold up as Merc Super—Merc Standard being a coffeetoot still worthy of two or three of the poorer food stands a distance from the Road, and Merc Super being what happened when a Merc cook dumped real ground coffee into a pot and kept it at near boil for a day or two, so as to always be ready for a needy troop.
He settled, after a third sip, on Lankshire Lakes Bold. That was a half-cheat, though, and it made him wonder. He’d seen the new packs arriving several days earlier . . . but no, that’s what it was. Results and answers were required of him, not explanations about how he arrived at his conclusions.
His ride today was to be Mr. McFarland, a man who was as much a pilot as anyone on the planet, as far as Quin could figure, a man with amazing patience and . . .
. . . he ought to be having breakfast now, too.
That eight-person “ready room” table where the Boss and his immediate hands often sat was empty.
He looked again, analyzing. It wasn’t merely devoid of people, it was devoid of—everything. No set-up, no cups, no utensils. It had been cleared then, and not set for a morning snack or lunch yet.
Too, there was no sign of Natesa—called Natesa the Assassin by some, and called Boss Natesa by others, and called Lifemate by his father. He sighed at that, for worse than the “natural lifemating” that happened to some in his clan, where the universe and genes conspired to make two people into one as with Delm Val Con and Delm Miri, this lifemating of Natesa and Pat Rin was a voluntary thing, born out of . . . born out of he did not know what. That they admired each other was sure. He’d heard one of the Surebleak hands say that they “deserved each other” . . . and might be that was as good a reason they were together as any other.
Natesa had Boss duties of her own and so when the Boss was away she often sat solo at a table on the kitchen level above the half-stairs, like a cat with a perch of her own, overlooking the street through a gunslit converted to bulletproof window.
“You’ll have more?”
Quin had heard the steps behind him, and recognized them, but he sat staring at McFarland’s usual place at the empty table next to where his father often sat at morning council.
“Am I waiting for Mr. McFarland? He appears to have overslept.”
“Nah, you know better, youngster. Overslept ain’t like that man, and never was. That table’s clear to supper or beyond. Cheever, he’s with the Boss—the Port’s decided to do their ship-station move early and they need all the pilots they have to . . .”
The coffee continued motion to his lips, the turn he’d begun to the cook’s assistant never slowed. He nodded an acknowledgment of the news at her, his recent extra training at the knee of his grandmother serving him in good stead, his near smile still wedded to his face.
“Indeed? They needed pilots, did they? I wonder that I was not called . . .”
The assistant shrugged artlessly.
“Foo, Master Quin, how’d I know it? The messages come all in a rush while I was starting the bread oven to going; McFarland, the Boss, don’t know who else called out. Oh, Ms. Natesa, she went. They’ll let you know later, I’m sure—but might have been a Boss secret in it.”
He finished his cup in a rush, which he knew better than to do, and looking into its depth he conceived a need to steady his face.
Him a pilot, and not called. His lessons, his plans all put aside. Clearly the duty-day schedule was wiped. . . .
He fumbled for words, seething, his stomach fighting him momentarily, then a need to not move, for if he did get up now he’d run all the way to the tree. Best to stay here, in the seat, to pin himself to this place.
He covered the fumble with a cough smothered in a napkin, followed by downing the last of his juice. He must not run!
Breath caught, he managed to gain time to think.
“More of this exact coffee, Jennetta, if I can, and yes, if I’m not on call, some of what’s hot, sausages and spuds and rolls bashed with butter!”
“Why, that sounds like an honest breakfast for a change, don’t it? It’ll take a minute.”
The servant dashed away, pleased, and he could hear her trading the news in the kitchen, “that boy’s hungry today, without answering quiz-questions of the Boss and company for a change . . .”
Normally he’d be put out of humor to hear himself called “that boy,” but he let it pass. He was practicing what Grandmother called appropriate restraint.
Grandmother. Well, yes, she and Grandfather had been firm while they were off on Runig’s Rock—studies along with gun training, studies of card-games and card-skill, studies along with security work, studies along with ship-sitting. Studies . . . they’d had no moment for ruminations, that they had seen to.
He stared at but didn’t see the table for some moments, memory returning to that haven, to the days when he had been the best pilot available and the clan’s last hope if the enemy had come to them.
He went weak—he’d brought the ship out of there, he had, Runig’s Rock under attack, Padi backing him up and . . .
And here he sat, while pilots were needed? What did they think, that he’d forgotten how to fly? What secret could be more precious than a cargo of the clan’s last children? What . . .
But Grandmother had schooled him well, and to any observer still in the house his face was as unconcerned and uncomplicated as that of any simple day laborer on Wall-down duty.
“But here, Master Quin,” came Jennetta’s carrying voice well before her appearance from the kitchen, “there’s a note left for you—for personal delivery at breakfast, the driver said.”
She held it out for him with one hand, juggling a perilously filled bowl of rolls, a dish of butter, and a jam jar in the other before precariously bringing them successfully to table.
Dear Grandson, the note said in impeccable Liaden longhand. It was a familiar hand—not surprising, since Luken bel’Tarda, his grandfather, was quite fond of sending notes and letters and signed books—Boss Conrad’s business is quite pressing today and he has commandeered your driver and your pilot-mentor, and deputized myself and many others, likely for the whole of the day. I consulted with the Boss, who feels it is perhaps best for you to stay busy—and that rather than staying in house and being bored or joining me at Ms Audrey’s, where I am involved with delicate negotiations, that you relocate for the day to The Emerald Casino and find occupation there. You will await the Boss, who will meet you there as time permits.
To call upon the casino for refreshments or a private parlor, merely show your dragon pin and say your name, and they’ll have a scanner that will read
your credentials.
You’ll find Jemie’s Cab Service is awaiting a call from you at your earliest convenience.
Text and subtext—whatever the Boss was doing was important, too important to share with the inexperienced. Too important for a note even from the Boss—his grandfather’d taken the informant role upon himself. Yes, Grandfather was a kinder man than his father, and more alert in some ways, too.
Perhaps unwisely he chugged the not half-full cup of coffee.
Jennetta, alert as she returned with the rest of his food, rushed to refill his cup, face full of smiles.
“Oh, good, I’m so glad you like it. We have a lot of it, and the tea bin got damp when the sink backed up. You’ll be set for weeks!”
He nodded absently at her, wishing he was alone, or maybe doing the perimeter tour on Runig’s Rock, one more time.
This cup of coffee was hotter, so he sipped it, scanned the food. Yes, he’d eat his breakfast and take his time; no reason to upset the staff by being short with them. They were not the ones ignoring him, they were not the ones forgetting his place in the family, they were not the ones forgetting his role in the clan!
Yes, he’d wait for the Boss . . . they had a lot to talk about.
He was basically dressed well enough for a daytime casino visit on Surebleak, of that he felt certain. First, of course, he’d need to call the taxi, and then, of course, select his jacket—and perhaps better jewelry, too, if his father was going to meet him there. Oh, and surely he’d not need snow-lugs at the Emerald Casino, if he was going by taxi, so he’d wear some better boots—at least his grandfather or grandmother might notice that he was somewhat dressed for society.
Halfway up the stairs he knew what jacket he’d wear, and so, which boots.
Villy Butler threw the sticks across the polished table, wrist snap sharp and accurate. Palaz Dwaygo sticks tumbled together in what he’d been taught to call a bar-galaxy, the kind of jumble that produced good betting and plenty of room for mischance. This was a setup ideal for a challenge match—if he’d been playing House against it—well—he would. Good practice.