The Wizard of Karres wok-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  He thought about asking her directly about that. But she seemed to have something else on her mind altogether, and as far as he could tell, it didn't have anything to do with the potentials of this next planetfall. He caught her, more and more often, gazing off into space with a puzzled and wistful expression, and he wasn't the only one.

  In fact, she was acting very oddly, one minute her old self, then the next, someone softer, and so unlike her normal self that he wouldn't have recognized her. But it was Dame Ethulassia who finally put an end to his bemusement with what—he was sure—was the right answer.

  They were both offstage, waiting for their cues, during a rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet, watching Hulik pour out her feelings into the waiting ears of Romeo. Ethulassia said suddenly: "That woman is in love with someone—and she hasn't even realized it for herself yet."

  "What?" he replied. "But who?"

  Not me! he thought, in half a panic. Not that Hulik wasn't stunningly beautiful—but he really didn't want anyone that dangerous in love with him!

  "Oh, no one in your crew, or even on the Petey B, I don't think. Which is why she hasn't yet realized that she's in love with whoever it is." Ethulassia rubbed her finger along the side of her nose and continued to watch Hulik with narrowed eyes. "If I know that young woman at all, and I think I do, she's the kind that gets what she goes after. And she would leave Hulik-shaped holes in anything that got between her and the one she loved. Whoever he is, he may be the luckiest, or the unluckiest, man in the universe—depending on how he feels about her."

  Since that was a perfectly accurate description of the former ISS agent, Pausert nodded agreement. And he was quite relieved to hear that the object of her affections was someone other than himself.

  But of course, that left the question open—who was it?

  And what was Hulik going to do when she figured it out?

  CHAPTER 20

  The judge facing Sedmon pursed his lips. "I've had a well-placed official request to dismiss the case. The witnesses have left. The charges may not stand up to a serious perusal. Attempted kidnapping is a vague sort of thing, after all."

  Sedmon smiled at him. "On the other hand, Your Honor, fraud is usually not a vague sort of thing. Certain people might be very interested in the Arimann Trust."

  The judge went absolutely white. Sedmon continued breezily. "And I do have certain knowledge that, if not child kidnapping, all of the prisoners have potential murder dockets. The evidence will be with you this afternoon. I trust the case will be handled then?"

  The Daal had some of the best forgers in galaxy on his staff. But it had proved unnecessary to use them. ISS agents were used to being above the law. Breaking it was just too easy. On sensitive cases like this, the Daal knew, they didn't carry ID, just a communicator number in their heads. And with a little leaning he'd have that senior officer. "And just who did this well-placed official request come from, Your Honor?"

  "Uh, a certain Colonel Pasker. He's a part of the Imperial Governor's staff," said the judge, nervously. "Er. About the Arimann Trust. It was just to tide me over . . ."

  "And so it shall," said Sedmon. "Just as soon as these cases are dealt with." Then he left, to go and arrange an accident—of reasonably long duration—for a certain Colonel Pasker. And then to get aboard the Thunderbird and head, finally, towards Altim Four.

  "I do wish that Pausert was tidier about these things," said Sedmon, plaintively.

  CHAPTER 21

  Vaudevillia had been, in Pausert's opinion, one of the ugliest mud-balls in the universe. Altim Four made Vaudevillia look like a pleasure-planet.

  At least it wasn't a swamp. The vegetation was limited to the local versions of mosses and lichens; the local fauna was lower reptiles and whatever was swimming in the oceans, and a lot of insects. Fortunately, none of them found any of the invaders at all tasty, but they were a nuisance, anyway. All the heavy metals made it dangerous to drink the water without a lot of processing. Eating anything grown here, except what was grown hydroponically, was out of the question. The water was a curious green color—copper salts, Pausert thought. And while the air was breathable, it left a faintly bitter taste in the back of the throat.

  If Altim wasn't a swamp, it was nonetheless warm, humid, and overcast most of the time. That was above ground, of course, a place where the miners mostly weren't. Every man, woman and neuter among them was spending most waking hours trying to dig out a fortune without poisoning themselves.

  The ones who had it easiest were the ones who had staked their claims to EmCorp's tailings. That ore was already out of the ground and processed. It didn't need mining equipment to dig it out again, it just needed more processing to extract whatever else was lurking in there—and a decontamination unit to clean out residual radioactives. Those machines could run themselves. The hard part of their job was that in return for the stakes, by the terms of their charter these miners also served as reclamation techs, turning poisonous tailings into something benign and restoring the landscape. What there was of it.

  Still, no telling what might evolve. Or what might turn up one day to take them to task for ruining the place. Better to be safe than sorry.

  The spaceport was huge, built to take EmCorp's enormous freighters, and lots of them. Now it was mostly empty, which meant the Petey B was able to come in, set down, and set up on real tarmac without inconveniencing anyone. Better yet, since Altim Four was still officially EmCorp's private property, that meant that there was not an ISS presence. What passed for law around here was EmCorp's security service. They acted pretty much like local police, and enforced what little law there was. Lawbreakers were brought up in front of a magistrate and either fined or booted off the planet. Since being booted off the planet was the last thing any of the miners wanted, it was a simple, but effective, form of justice. The miners were all rugged individualists who didn't give a damn about government, anyway. They paid EmCorp for their stake, EmCorp kept the spaceport running and utter mayhem from breaking loose, and everyone seemed reasonably satisfied with the arrangement. EmCorp didn't even try the usual heavy-handed tactics of unrestrained giant corporations. Dealing with wildcat miners, that . . . could be risky.

  Himbo Petey did not do a leaflet drop as they came in; with most of the miners underground, that would have been a wasted effort. And for the same reason, few people saw the showboat come in to land. Instead, he did something that a showboat almost never did: he bought advertising time on the news com-channel.

  There was only one, and probably all of the miners listened to it at least once a day; it was just about the only way these far-scattered and reclusive people could keep track of what was going on with the rest of the universe. And there wasn't much else here that needed to purchase advertising; everyone knew every single bar, eatery, and entertainment-parlor there was. That would change, of course, as other merchants got wind of the place and decided it was worth the chance of poisoning to set up shop here. But, for now, Port-town was the only center of population, and it was pretty much as it had been when EmCorp moved out.

  Only four locals appeared to watch the setup, and they were all viding for the local newsfeed. Pausert was surprised. Usually there were lots of folk turning out for what amounted to a free show. But miners, he was told by other members of the slowship's company, were always an odd bunch. It would be like them to figure they could get a better view on the vid during their downtime, and meanwhile, they could be making money.

  Himbo Petey realized that this amounted to free advertising, of course, and immediately sent out Mannicholo (for the exotic look), the most articulate of the clowns (for the comedic aspect) and the prettiest of the female aerialists to give the vid-crew the full tour and the best shots of the setup. Mannicholo extolled the wonders of Sideshow Alley and acted as the clown's straight-man, the clown cracked some excellent jokes, and the girl waxed eloquent over the delights under the Big Top and on the stage of the Theater. Pausert watched some of it himself; it was a good
show, and if the cameraman spent a lot of time with the lens focused on the aerialist, well, that was hardly a shock since the population ran to seventy-five percent male. And given the usual programming available—mostly "educational" programs, which the station could get for free—it wasn't surprising that the show got a major chunk of the broadcasting day, with one initial play and two replays to cover all three work-shifts.

  No doubt about it, the Petey B was Big News so far as Altim Four was concerned.

  Pausert expected that, given all the coverage, Himbo Petey would want things up and running immediately, if not sooner. But, no. The whole first day, the showboat was dark, running extra dress rehearsals for every act, even the sideshows. Pausert learned later from Mannicholo that this was for two reasons: Petey wanted the chance for every miner to have seen the 'cast, and he wanted anticipation to build on both sides of the equation.

  It was smart thinking; as Pausert had long since realized, just one more example of Himbo Petey's shrewd business sense, which lurked beneath his sometimes buffoonish exterior appearance.

  All four of the new plays were now in production: Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, A Midsummer Night's Dream, and The Merchant of Venice. For the moment, the previous four, Hamlet, Othello, Twelfth Night, and As You Like It were out. Although Dame Ethulassia told Pausert confidentially that if the miners responded with enthusiasm to these plays from Old Yarthe, Cravan would probably put all four of the old ones back in performance, and have the Venture's crew understudy for parts already held by the original cast.

  Maybe being a witch—or a wizard—made memorization a lot easier than it was for most people. Pausert was mildly surprised to realize that the idea of memorizing four parts (or more, if he was going to understudy more than one in each play) didn't bother him that much.

  Before the Petey B set down, Himbo Petey had delivered a cautionary speech to the entire crew, warning them not to expect that the miners had made fabulous strikes and were laden with wealth. Even though the conditions were right for such a thing, that did not mean it had happened. But when the first of the crew actually made it into town and saw the hideously inflated prices—set out in weights and karats, rather than maels—there was no mistaking the feverish look in the eyes of anyone with an act.

  And that was when Pausert got an idea.

  He went into the bowels of the ship, looking for engineers. He had the feeling that these, the people who kept the ship and not the show running, might be the forgotten ones in all of the hurly-burly. And that although they were getting crew-share of the new profits, they were probably feeling a bit resentful that they were not going to be able to make more.

  "How many of you don't have an act?" he asked the chief engineer bluntly.

  The grizzled old man rubbed the back of his head thoughtfully. "Most of us," he admitted.

  "Good. I have a proposition for you, then. There's no rule that stalls can't sell things. In fact, there are souvenir stalls salted all through Sideshow Alley, and I have a hold full of tinklewood fishing poles and allweather cloaks. There's fish here, you know. Even if you can't eat them, there's still sport in catching them, and it certainly rains here plenty enough. All you have to do is make them into souvenir fishing poles and allweather cloaks. Just slap 'Petey, Byrum and Keep, the Greatest Show In the Galaxy' on them, and you lot can take turns off-shift in the stall selling them."

  The chief engineer brightened. He'd seen the prices of merely ordinary objects here. A souvenir of the showboat could be marked up a bit more than that. Still, he was cautious. "So—what do you get out of this?"

  "I need my ship fixed," Pausert said bluntly. "I know you patched her to keep her from leaking too much, but I need her fixed right. You boys get the poles and the cloaks and anything else that used to be in the holds to peddle as souvenirs, and in your off-shift time, you fix my ship right and tight. But—oh, you'd better not try to do anything with those educational toys," he added hastily. "They tend to explode."

  "Can we take 'em apart and do something with the bits?" the chief engineer asked.

  "So long as you don't get blown up, you're welcome to," Pausert replied, wondering if he was finally going to get rid of the wretched things after all. "Is it a deal?"

  "Let me get the crew together and you can put it to them," the chief said. "But on the surface of it, I like it."

  "And I'll get my niece."

  With Goth doing the negotiating, an agreement was soon reached that was satisfactory for both sides. Even Himbo Petey approved when he was approached for permission.

  "That's a cut above fluffy clown-dog toys and whirligigs," he said, rubbing his hands with pleasure. "With no children on this planet, I was wondering what we were going to do for souvenirs. In fact, I ought to canvas the rest of the ship to see if anyone has any more ideas, besides programs."

  They did. Recordings of the circus music. Banners to brighten up Spartan quarters, cut from spare synthasilk and printed with the same images as the posters and fliers. Badges for coveralls, of animals and clown-faces. Carryalls and cups and drink-bottles with "Petey, Byrum and Keep" blazoned across them. Copies of the scripts of the plays, with holos of the performers in costume. The showboat began to buzz with frenzied activity as those who hadn't come up with acts, or whose acts were marginal at best, began working frantically to produce souvenirs aimed at adult pockets, rather than children's. And in the meantime, there was a showboat crammed full of things—unused or duplicate personal items, stuff that was still in the holds of the ships that had been bought and incorporated into the frame, forgotten bits and bobs that people had brought aboard and discovered they didn't need—much of which could be branded with the showboat name and logo and put into a stall until the real souvenirs were ready. Himbo Petey beamed with approval upon it all, for the ship got a cut of the profits from every stall, and he got a cut of the ship's portion.

  In fact, he elected to keep the show dark for an unprecedented second day to allow the merchandise stalls to take the place of those who decided that they would rather peddle souvenirs than compete on talent alone.

  Meanwhile, the rumors outside the gates continued to swell. Curious and increasingly impatient miners began to show up at the ticket office to demand schedules and ask about advance tickets for particular shows. So when the gates did open at last, at dawn on the third day, there was a gratifyingly large crowd.

  Which Pausert didn't see, of course, because he was in morning rehearsal. But when the cast broke for lunch, he was gratified to see several of his allweather cloaks and one or two of those dratted fishing poles going past in the possession of new owners.

  He inhaled his food, and headed for Sideshow Alley. The stalls were never actually empty. The morning shift in his stall was being maintained by one of the aerial contortionists from the Big Top who was part of the curtain act and the Spanish web ensemble. Here she performed solo contortion and balancing on the tiny stage. As Pausert entered the stall from the back, she passed him, dressed in her street clothes, with a friendly wave. "No accolades yet," she said cheerfully. "But I'm getting a full house every turn."

  "Excellent," he replied, and ducked inside.

  There was just enough room behind the stage for him to change into his Escapist costume—in his case, a skin-tight shirt in silvery synthasilk and looser breeches in electric blue. As he put his own props up on the stage, he heard the talker outside, running his pitch, talking up the act. Sometimes, when things were slow, acts would come out in front for a free-see. Pausert had the feeling that would not be the case here.

  Then he relled vatch.

  Do you need me? asked Silver-eyes.

  Are you willing to be my assistant, the way Second Littlest is usually?

  Sure. You don't even need to feed me.

  Unbelievable. A cooperative vatch; at least, for as long as it wasn't bored. But maybe the reactions of the audience would keep it from being bored. He could hope, anyway.

  The persona he had cooked up for this
act was, in truth, based a bit on the way he used to think of himself, and a lot on some of the overinflated egos of his superiors on Nikkeldepain. He waited a bit nervously behind the curtain for the talker to give him the signal that the stall was as full as it was going to get—a flashing red light just above his head. Then it was his turn to toe the control that set the automated lights and his recorded music going and the curtain to rise.

  Then he struck a pose. As the curtain came up, the stage lights brightened and the house lights dimmed, the audience of miners saw a fellow in flamboyant costume in an exaggerated "strong-man" pose. He took a couple more—equally exaggerated—poses, while his recorded music played, until the audience began to chuckle, realizing that he was "playing" someone who was altogether too full of himself.

  Then his talker came in, and began doing the spiel, and he went into his act.

  The first couple of escapes were done "straight," though with a ridiculous amount of flourish. Then came the comic sequence.

  He wasn't altogether certain that the vatch was going to help—until, practically on cue!—he felt the cool breath of air on his hands that told him that Silver-eyes was doing Goth's job exactly. The roar of laughter as he struggled, while the talker pretended consternation, came as a relief and a surprise. There were a lot of people in here!

  He finished the act exactly as scripted, and went into the "blow-off" poses to gales of laughter as the curtain went down.

  Perfect! he thought at the vatch.

  That was fun! replied Silver-eyes with enthusiasm. I like the watchers! But what was that noise they were making?

  It's called laughing, and it means that they are having fun, too.