by Sharon Lee
There was a rope hanging down from a big old brassy bell over his head, and a plate set into the dark wood frame ’round the door.
Down the city, he’d’ve knocked, most likely, ’less there was a plate, like there was here. The bell—a couple old places downtown had bells hanging outside the door, still, too high or too well connected to’ve been scavenged. Old Fire-and-Doom bells, they were, from back before the Agency left, when there’d been a fire department and city-wide security.
Smealy put his palm against the plate, and snatched it away again as energy rippled across his flesh. Soon’s he done it, he was sheepful; the buzz hadn’t hurt, it had just been . . . a surprise.
He hadn’t heard a bell ring inside. Might be it was broke, or might be he hadn’t pressed long enough. He was just thinking he might put his hand against the plate again, and not let the buzz pitch him off his game this time, when he did hear something from behind the door. Didn’t sound like a bell, though; sounded like . . . wheels. Wheels on wood.
And they was getting closer.
Before he could decide how he felt about that, the door opened, and he was staring at a . . . man-high metal cylinder, topped with an orange globe. It held the door open with one metal hand at the end of a long metal arm.
“Yes?” said a man’s voice.
Smealy almost made the mistake of looking around, but it came to him just in time that this must be a remote, like they used down the scrapyard, to go places too dangerous for a man to venture—and that the Road Boss’s ’hand or another one of the house’s security folks was looking at him through that flickering orange globe, and deciding if he was welcome or dead.
“Yeah,” he said, drawing himself up tall and looking straight into the globe. “I’m Smealy—Lionel Smealy—from down the city. I got bidness with the Road Boss.”
“Have you an appointment?”
That wasn’t no ’bleaker talkin’ to him through the remote, not with that accent. Road Boss’d brought his own security with him, too.
“No ’pointment. Don’t mind waitin’ if he’s too busy to see me right away.”
“I see. May I know the nature of your business?”
“Road bidness,” Smealy said. “I got a deal to offer the Boss.”
“Thank you.”
The remote went quiet, then, and Smealy braced himself for the door bein’ shut, which—snow and sleet!—would mean the power cell in Kreller’s hoopie’d been run down for no good reason, and him still on the hook to top it up, and he’d have to find the Road Boss in his port office, which meant people’d see him go in, or somebody’d recognize him in the waitin’ room, and this wasn’t the kind of deal that was best made under that kind of watchful—
“Boss yos’Phelium will see you,” the remote stated, and pivoted slightly, wheels rumbling on—Smealy looked down—wooden floorboards, clearing a space big enough for him to squeeze through.
The remote closed the door, spun and rolled away down the hall.
“Please follow me, Mr. Smealy.”
He followed for about twelve of his strides—almost as long as a reg’lar house—to another wooden door, not carved, and the hall goin’ on beyond it. The remote used its metal hand to twist the painted knob, and the door swung open into the room.
“Please wait here,” the driver of the remote told him. “Boss yos’Phelium will be with you shortly.”
Smealy entered, the door shut behind him, and he spun slowly around on a heel, giving the place the once-over.
Beige rug on the floor, no windows, a couple chairs with thin, curving wooden legs, seats covered in cloth, beige to match the rug, and figured with red and blue flowers. There was a little wooden table between the chairs, with the same spindly legs, and a couple little things on it—a wooden box with the damn Tree-and-Dragon carved into the top, and a round piece of glass bound by metal and tied into a black-wrapped handle. ’Round the other side of the room was another table, taller, longer, with a sturdy straight leg on each corner. There were a couple paper books on top of that, and a beige vase with red and blue flowers in it, to match the fabric on the chairs.
At the back of the room was another table; in between him and it set another couple beige-red-blue chairs with their own little table. There were pictures on the wall—flowers again—boxed in thin wooden frames.
It was, Smealy thought, a rich room. A Boss’s room; and just about what you’d expect for a house so out of common. No plastic in this house, that had come down onto Surebleak from another world entirely. The pictures weren’t just pinned to the wall, neither, they were boxed and held flat. Looked . . . he groped for the word his ma’d used, when she’d be particularly pleased with a meal, or a piece o’dressmakin’, or, rarely, how her son was turned out . . . elegant, that was it.
Place looked elegant.
Smealy felt his hopes rise.
If this was the style of thing Little Brother was used to from the old world he’d had to leave, he was ripe for the deal Smealy had to offer him. An’ once he took it, they’d have a way in to Conrad, which was needful, and getting more so, Conrad being not what you’d call easy to figure.
It’d been Smealy’s idea to go after Little Brother, to play on nerves specific to little brothers, and tie him up tight into the Syndicate’s bidness. It’d been Smealy’s idea and that was why he was here to pitch it, nobody else being quite so keen on trying.
It’d be why he’d get the top share, too, when everything came together.
There was a sharp sound behind him. He spun as the door swung open and a man entered the room.
Smealy kept his face easy and smooth. He’d seen Conrad, after all, up close and personal, and wind knew he’d seen plenty other Liadens; lately a man couldn’t move without tripping over six or eight of ’em. Short folks, they were; thin and fragile, which you’d think’d mean they’d be a little careful ’bout throwin’ their weight around.
You’d think wrong, though.
Miz and Mister Better’n You, every damn one of ’em. Didn’t help that they all come onto Surebleak with their pockets fulla money. Wasn’t nobody nor nothin’ they couldn’t buy, while native ’bleakers went wantin’.
The boy, now; he was younger’n Smealy’d expected, somehow, even knowing he was Conrad’s little brother. Couldn’t really mistake him for anything but Conrad’s brother, both of ’em wearing serious, pointy faces.
“Mr. Smealy?” the kid asked in a voice as soft as one o’Jolie’s joy-girls. “I am Val Con yos’Phelium, the Road Boss.”
Smealy got his feet under him, mentally, slapped a smile on his face like the kid was his own missing brother, and went briskly forward, hand out for a shake.
The boy turned back from shutting the door, eyebrows going up over eyes as green as the baize on a snooker table. He took a step forward, and extended his hand, his palm chilly against Smealy’s.
Yeah, that was another thing; warm as it was in this private little room, and him wearin’ a high-neck sweater, an’ a heavy pair o’dungarees, the boy’s hand was cold. All them folks come in from Liad, they were cold alla time, and wrapped up snug, actin’ like it were high winter ’stead o’midsummer.
“Lionel Smealy,” he said, shaking the cold hand enthusiastically. “I’m real glad you could see me, Boss.”
“Yes, but I cannot see you for long,” the Road Boss told him, withdrawing his hand. “Other business awaits my attention, and had you arrived five minutes later, you would have been obliged to wait for an hour.”
“Timing’s everything, they say!”
“Indeed. May I suggest that, if you wish to speak with the Road Boss in future, you go to the office on the port? I am there on alternate days, and Road Boss Robertson is there on the days I am not. Either one of us will be able to assist you in any matter regarding the road. There is no need for you to travel so far.”
“Right, right!” Smealy said, remembering that the Road Boss shared his title with his wife. Local girl, the wife, come up on Kal
hoon’s turf, before Kalhoon retired Ostay. Word on the street was they’d been kids together, the wife and Kalhoon. That’d been an interesting rumor; made a man wonder just where Conrad’s notion of conquerin’ Surebleak had its roots.
“See, though,” he said to the boy with the smooth, pretty face, “the deal I want to offer you, it ain’t the kinda thing you talk about where just anybody can overhear.”
“Ah,” said the kid, and moved a hand, apparently pointing at the two shaky-lookin’ chairs and matchin’ table. “In that case, please, sit down. Will you have a glass of wine to refresh you from your journey?”
“That’d be great,” Smealy said. Truth was, he could use a drink. The drive all the way out here to the end of the road in Kreller’s hoopie’d been nerve-wracking. Smealy knew how far the Road Boss’s house was from Hamilton Street; known it in his head, that was. Driving it was a different thing altogether.
“Taste o’wine’d be real welcome,” he said, and added, remembering Anj tellin’ ’em how it had been to call on Conrad like they’d done—who knew wine came in colors?—“Red, if you got a bottle open.”
“I think I might have. Please do sit down while I pour.”
Smealy approached the chairs with caution, picked the one that looked less shaky and eased down into it. For a wonder, the thing held him up, and he was able to watch the Road Boss at the back table pouring two little glasses half full of a liquid the color of new blood. He stoppered the bottle he’d poured from, picked up the two glasses and brought ’em ahead, without even putting any ice in.
Well, Smealy reminded himself, the kid was cold; him and his didn’t know it was summer.
He took the glass offered him with a nod, and waited while the Road Boss sat down, and tasted his wine, all polite—an’ that’s all it was, was polite; he’d seen both glasses come outta the same bottle. Still, it was . . . easeful to see the kid knew how to behave like a ’bleaker, at least as far as reg’lar hospitality went.
The boy’d just taken a tiny sip, and Smealy could see the point in that, with the glasses so small and the pourin’ so light. Must be a tight-pocket week, he thought. That could work in his favor.
He took a tiny sip, just like the kid done, and was glad he had. The stuff was sour, not sweet at all, an’ warm, too.
The kid settled into the other chair, and put his glass on the rickety table. Relieved, Smealy did the same, then leaned forward a little, so he could look direct into those cat-green eyes.
“You’re a busy man, like you said, so I’ll come direct to the point,” he said. He paused then, in case the kid wanted to say something, but he only nodded, like he was wantin’ Smealy to go on.
“Now, I’m the chairman of the Citizens’ Heavy Loads Committee, which is just like it says in the name—a buncha citizens concerned about the movin’ of heavy loads up and down the Port Road. Especially, we’re innerested in the new rules an’ fines an’ all the Council o’Bosses is puttin’ in for oversize loads, or weights too heavy. There ain’t one need for all them penalties, or for havin’ roadmen out in all weather, riskin’ frostbite and poomonya so they can stop trucks that maybe sorta look like they’re too wide or too heavy, makin’ the driver miss his schedule and causin’ all that unnecessary unhappiness.”
He paused, and this time the Road Boss did have something to say.
“You paint a black picture,” he murmured.
“That’s right, that’s right—it’s black as night, the way the Bosses wanna see the thing done. These rules and fines—that might be how it’s done out there on Liad, but it ain’t ever how it’s been done here on Surebleak.”
He had the boy’s attention; those bright eyes never left his face.
Smealy smiled.
“Now, see, here on Surebleak we know that everybody all up and down the ladder deserves a piece of the action. Fella like you, to take a f’rinstance, Little Brother and sub-Boss, there ain’t anything in this rule-and-fine system the Big Bosses made that takes care of you. All that money just goes into their pockets, and I’m here to tell you that ain’t how it’s been done on Surebleak.”
“And how has it,” the Road Boss asked, “been done on Surebleak?”
“Well, I’m gettin’ to that. Here on Surebleak, everybody gets a piece, see? The Boss gets his insurance money, an’ the streeters dicker ’mong themselves for the best price on this, that, or anythin’ else. It’s our system and it’s been workin’ real good for us.
“But you, this new system leaves you outta the loop. You got all the work of enforcing the laws, and collectin’ the fines, but you don’t get nothin’ for your trouble.”
“It seems a sad case.”
“It does, don’t it? But, see, all’s got to happen to set everythin’ right is for you—you being Road Boss—is for you to sell exceptions. So, say, I wanna move my big lorry down-Road to the port, an’ you bet it’s gonna be overweight, ’cause why should I make two, three trips when one’ll do it?”
“Why, indeed?” the Road Boss murmured.
Smealy nodded, pleased to see the boy was keeping up.
“Just makes sense that a man wants to be paid for his work. So, me, I got a lorry to move, quick as I can, no trouble, no delays. I come to you, and I say, ‘Boss—’” Smealy was particularly pleased with that Boss: that was settin’ the hook proper for Little Brother.
“I’d say, ‘Boss, I’m gonna be movin’ a big load down from Sherton’s turf all the way to the Port Bazaar. It’ll be movin’ two nights from today, just at middle night, ’cause it’s big and it’s heavy and it moves slow and I don’t wanna hold up daytime bidness. Figure it’s about fifteen hunnert pounds over limit.”
“Whereupon,” the Road Boss said, “I fine you.”
“No, you don’t fine me!” Smealy said sharply. “What’s the use of finin’ me? You sell me an exception, like I said, for, say, half the fine. I pay you good cash, your crew don’t gotta be walkin’ up and down the road, lookin’ for somebody to fine, on account you know there’s just gonna be me and my big old lorry, and I already paid the exception up front, see?” He leaned over the table and tapped it with his finger.
“That money goes right into your pocket, where it’ll do you some good. And word gets ’round, see, if you want somethin’ fixed about the road, or to slide past the rules, you go to the Road Boss, not to Conrad.” He nodded, and leaned back in his chair. “Build you up some consequence, so you ain’t always sittin’ in the shade o’Big Brother’s lamp. You got consequence back where you come from—I know you do, ’cept you call it”—he frowned, shaking his head in frustration at not having the word to tongue— “what do you call it?”
“Possibly, you mean melant’i,” the Road Boss said. He was sitting back in his chair, booted ankle on the opposite knee. He shook his head.
“It is an . . . interesting proposition, Mr. Smealy, and I thank you for your concern regarding my . . . consequence. However, family dynamics aside, I must remind you that I am under contract to the Bosses of Surebleak, to maintain the Port Road, to hold it open, and to enforce those rules regarding the road that the Bosses set in place.”
It was said so serious that for half a second Smealy thought the kid meant it. Then he realized that nobody could be that wet behind the ears, and that the Road Boss was havin’ a joke.
He grinned, to show he got it, and offered a piece of streeter smarts.
“Contracts’re made to be broken.”
The Road Boss sat up sudden and straight in his chair, both feet on the floor, hands braced against the arms.
Smealy stared, almost thinking that the kid was going to jump up and try to clock him—but no.
The Road Boss relaxed; he smiled; he shook his head. “Mr. Smealy, never say that to a Liaden.”
“Well, but—”
The kid raised a hand, and Smealy stopped talking.
“Thank you. Now, allow me to tell you something that will make it very much easier for you to deal, going forward. Contracts ar
e made to be broken is an extremely dangerous position to take with a Liaden. With any Liaden. Understand that I have . . . traveled to many worlds and am counted something of an expert on . . . odd customs. I am, in fact, an atypical Liaden—and your statement . . . shocked me. Had I been less-traveled, I might possibly have shot you on the instant, as a danger to society.”
Smealy blinked, opened his mouth—and shut it again, as the Boss shook his head.
“Liadens consider contracts to be one of the binding forces of the universe. Liadens write contracts to impose order, and while they will do their utmost to ensure that the terms favor them and their interests, once the terms are fixed, they are inalterable. To cheat on a contract is to cheat on the universe; no good can come of either.
“To sign a contract with the intention of breaking it . . . that is either the action of a sociopath, or a man who is far more courageous than I am.”
The Road Boss stood then, suddenly seeming tall. Smealy stood, too, but somehow the Boss didn’t get short again.
“Mr. Smealy,” the Boss said, “I advise you to obey the rules and laws that the Council of Bosses set down. And now I bid you good day. Please, if you have other business that you wish to bring to the Road Boss, do so at our office at the port. You will not be permitted on these grounds again.”
“But—” Smealy began.
The Boss ignored him. “Jeeves,” he said, apparently talking to the air. “Mr. Smealy’s business is concluded.”
From the hall came the determined rumble of wheels. The door popped open and the remote was there.
“Follow me, please, Mr. Smealy.”
There wasn’t, Smealy thought, no use arguing with a pissed-off Boss. That was another piece of streeter smarts. Wasn’t much to do, really, ’cept nod at the man, to show respect, and follow the remote down the hall.
The front door closed hard behind him, and Smealy stood there in the open air for . . . a little while before he opened the hoopie’s door, climbed in, and started ’er up.