Korval's Game (69 page)

Pushing his plate aside, he sat quietly sipping tea. There was eventually a lull in the discussion of protections and defenses, offensives and attacks, and Natesa turned to him, her eyes dark and luminous, her face subtle in shadow and nuance.

“Has Ms. Audrey a place in her school for Jonni?” she asked, with every appearance of interest.

“Curiously, she does, though she doubts he will come to her. He had used to live in Ms. Audrey’s house, until his mother got her death there, whereupon he ran away. We left it that I shall speak with him, and if he will not go to her, she will send a tutor here.”

“That is well, then,” she said, approvingly.

“Well enough,” he agreed, and hesitated on the edge of mentioning his conversation with Al. But—no. That was something he wished to examine thoroughly himself, weighing his melant’i well, before he sought the opinion of a Juntavas Sector Judge.

So. “We have a contract with Ajay Naylor for rugs on commission. She doubts the spaceport, as well, though she tells me the Port Road had been open and neutral in her youth.”

“It had been, until several concurrent tragedies changed the rule,” said Natesa. “First, there was a turf war between two neighboring bosses, which ended, not as might be expected—in one boss annexing the other’s territory—but in the subdivision—in the several subdivisions—of both territories. From there grew chaos, which might have eventually settled, had it not been for the arrival of an epidemic virus. There was a vaccine at the Port—Surebleak belonged to the Health Net in those days, too—and it was to be delivered by Port personnel. But the Port was short-handed, and, rather than sending Port personnel, in an armored car, with appropriate weaponry, they sent several natives, who were employed at the Port, with a list of territories and the number of vaccines to be left with each boss.”

Pat Rin put his mug down. “They were robbed?”

“Ah, no. But that was only because they sold the entire shipment to the boss just next the spaceport, and disappeared.” She moved her shoulders, eloquent as a Liaden. “Perhaps they were clever enough to keep vaccines for themselves. One rather hopes they forgot that detail. It was, by all reports, a horrible disease, and thousands died for lack of the cash to purchase the cure.”

He closed his eyes. Gods. What sort of world produced such people? And yet, Al and Audrey, Gwince, Jonni, Ajay, Villy . . .

“Master?”

He opened his eyes, seeing what appeared to be honest concern for himself reflected in her face.

“I wonder,” he said, changing the subject brutally. “What are our options of communication devices? I find no radio, for instance, among Mr. Moran’s former possessions. How do the bosses keep contact among themselves? Worse, I find no local radios, so that we might communicate between ourselves—myself to you from the store, for instance.”

Cheever grunted. “Been tryin’ to crack that nut,” he said. “Got a couple people on staff who say there’s a native equivalent of a portacomm, but the trade’s controlled by one of the bosses out from here. I’m going down to check on the ship, day after tomorrow. Thinking about making a side trip to check out the portacomm trade while I’m over that way.” He paused. “Speakin’ of which, the emergency talkies off the ship’ll do fine to keep us three in touch. I’ll bring them on back, if you want.”

“Yes, do that,” Pat Rin murmured. He finished his tea, put the mug down, and looked up to find Natesa’s eyes yet upon him.

“
Do
the bosses communicate between themselves?” he asked her.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “My information indicated that the more powerful bosses, who control larger territories—that there had been communication between them, arrangements of trade, alliances. Whether this is still so . . . I doubt. Matters seem to have deteriorated badly since the report was written.” She sighed, sharply, and leaned forward, eyes and face intense.

“The difficulty with Surebleak is that the boss system is rotting from the core. There is no orderly transfer of authority when bosses are often murdered by a wild gun who aspires only to their power. Such guns rarely have any notion of responsibility, or of administration, never mind compromise and mutual profit. So, the territories are proliferating in number while they dwindle in size, and chaos is become the order of the day.”

“Chaos is what we wanted,” Cheever pointed out from his end of the table.

Natesa nodded. “Indeed, chaos serves us very well in what we propose to do. But it hardly serves those who live here, and who cling to survival amidst the slow disintegration of their world. Nor is it good for business.”

Juntavas business, that would be. Pat Rin considered her.

“I would think the Juntavas a supporter of chaos.”

“Not so—not so, Master. The Juntavas is a champion of order. We require certain things so that business may go forth: safe and easy access; safe and easy egress; steady supply; an economy. And a consistent structure of command, with which profitable associations may be forged. Surebleak offers none of these things. It is a bitter waste—and not only for the Juntavas.”

“But if a boss arose who was able to consolidate and hold the territories—and train a successor to do likewise?” Pat Rin asked.

“Perhaps the rot might be excised,” she said slowly. “Perhaps. But we must first ask if Surebleak is able to produce such a boss.”

“Surely, there are honorable people in other territories, as we have found here?” he said.

“Surely, there are,” she agreed. “But, consider the present system, if we may dignify it so. Did a person of honor and integrity arise, yet she must take the path to power which is open to her—cold murder. To unite all—even most—of the territories, she will need to murder much more than once. And, upon achieving her goal of one cohesive territory, she must transform herself into a statesman, capable of compromise, slow to slay even the most intractable dissident.” She shook her head. “I do not know that one individual could successfully encompass both roles, and yet they are inseparable.”

“Yet, you are yourself both judge and assassin.”

She smiled. “I am
called
Assassin,” she said, amusement rippling her voice. “Would you like to know why?”

“Yes,” Pat Rin said seriously. “I would.”

But Natesa merely laughed and came lightly to her feet. “Perhaps I will tell you one day.” She glanced aside. “Mr. McFarland, if I may have a few moments of your time?”

“Sure thing.” The big man got to his feet, and looked at Pat Rin, who raised a hand.

“Gwince. I will try not to frighten her. Thank you, Mr. McFarland.”

“Good-night, Boss.”

Alone in the dining room, Pat Rin sighed, closed his eyes and simply sat for the space of a dozen heartbeats. He was tired, gods. Already he was tired—and there was so much yet that he must do.

“The shortest way to finish is through begun,” he murmured, which was what Uncle Daav had used to say. The Liaden words felt odd in his mouth, after even so few days of speaking only Terran. Would he be able to speak Liaden at all, when he at last returned to the homeworld to destroy Korval’s enemy?

Well. One thing at a time—and that was Anne Davis advising him now. “Er Thom’s Terran,” according to his mother, but never in Uncle Daav or in Cousin Er Thom’s hearing.

Pat Rin pushed back from the table, gathered Gwince from her post at the door and went down to the kitchen.

The cook was polishing a soup pot; he set both rag and pot aside when Pat Rin walked in and nodded politely.

“Evening, Boss. What can I get you?”

“Nothing just now, I thank you. I merely wished to tell you that I am pleased with the standard of cooking displayed since yesterday’s dinner.”

The man grinned, and shuffled one foot. “That’s—thank you, Boss. I mean to keep the standards high.”

“I am delighted to hear you say so,” Pat Rin assured him, and turned to go, his mission accomplished.

Two steps toward the door, he recalled something else and turned back.

“The brown and black cat,” he said to the cook’s suddenly anxious face.

The anxiety deepened. “Yessir. He ain’t bothering you, is he?”

“Not at all. I merely wished to know his name.”

“Name?” the cook repeated, hands twisting in his apron.

“Well . . . Cat, I guess. I mean—who names cats?”

Pat Rin paused, then inclined his head. “A personal idiosyncrasy. Good evening.”

“See ya,” said the cook.

The office was the next order of business. He left Gwince guarding the door and went over to the file cabinet to retrieve his log book.

He had written perhaps three pages when Gwince put her head in the door.

“Jonni’s here, Boss.”

He glanced up. “That is well. Send him in, please.”

She vanished, and a moment later Jonni stepped tentatively within, his pointed face showing wariness.

“I’m not going to eat you, you know,” Pat Rin said mildly, and motioned at the yellow plastic chair. “Sit a moment. I have a proposition for you.”

Still tentative, Jonni sat.

“Thank you. Ms. Audrey has said that she will teach you to read better, to do sums and to write. I wish that you will undertake these things. Do you understand me?”

The boy nodded, insufficiently exuberant—his cap remained on his head.

“That is good. Now. Ms. Audrey tells me that you may not wish to go to her house for lessons. If this is so, then she will send a teacher, and you will have your lessons in this house.” He fixed the child with a stern eye, much as he had done with Quin, by way of enforcing his filial authority. “The lessons are not negotiable, but the location is. Which do you choose?”

The boy held up a hand, fingers rippling—
wait.

Fair enough; it was bound to be a weighty choice, between honor and horror. Pat Rin leaned cautiously back in his own chair, prepared to wait for some time, if necessary.

It was unnecessary. Jonni sat for several moments with his head bent, contemplating, perhaps, the hole in the right knee of his trousers, then looked up, eyes bright. He made a sign as appropriate as it was lewd.

“You will go to Ms. Audrey?” Pat Rin asked, to be certain.

Jonni nodded, placing his cap in peril of a tumble.

Pat Rin smiled. “I am pleased. Be in the front hallway when I leave tomorrow morning, and you may walk with me as far as Ms. Audrey’s house.”

The boy grinned, and nodded again.

“Good. Is there anything else?”

A headshake, grin unabated.

“Then our business is concluded. Good night.” He made the sign that he knew as “farewell”.

The boy rose, hesitated and—bowed. It was in no discernible mode, though it was done with grace and good intent—and surprised entirely.

Before Pat Rin could clear his throat, Jonni was gone, ghosting out the door.

Another victory upon the day, he thought, picking up his pen and returning his attention to the log book.

It was well.

***

HE WAS RUNNING
down cold and twisting hallways, gun in hand. The ones who pursued him also had guns—as he knew to his dismay—and there were many more of them than his pellets could account for. He could not do this on his own. He needed help. He needed kin.

The hallway twisted, right, left, right, and spilled him into a dingy gray room, where a lone man sat in a chair, legs thrust out before him, holding a glass of wine. Pat Rin’s heart leaped and he ran forward.

“Val Con! Cousin, you must help me—” He extended a hand, touched his cousin’s shoulder—and leapt back, an unvoiced scream choking him.

The man in the chair was a skeleton, grinning death into his eyes.

Gasping, Pat Rin awoke. Slowly, he oriented himself, and brought his labored breathing down. He turned somewhat in his twisted nest of blankets, and his knee bumped something solid.

Carefully, he put his hand down—felt warm fur and the beginning vibration of a purr—the nameless brown and black cat.

Smiling, he put his head back down on the flat pillow, his hand still on the cat.

The rest of his night passed, dreamless.

DAY 310
Standard Year 1392
Blair Road
Surebleak

THE CAT DOGGED
his heels from the bedroom to the kitchen, sat by his knee while he broke his fast with bread, cheese, and tea; and trotted, tail high and jaunty, at his side down the hallway to the vestibule.

It was a strangely crowded vestibule. In addition to Cheever McFarland, who was entirely capable of filling the small space without assistance, there was Jonni, and the slender subtlety that was Natesa.

“Good morning,” Pat Rin said to his oathsworn, simultaneously offering the same greeting in sign to the child.

“Mornin’, Boss.”

“Good-day, Master.”

The child likewise returned his greeting; paused and signed something else, not, Pat Rin thought, to himself, but to—

The cat.

“Good morning, Boss Silk,” he murmured, reading—and captured Jonni’s attention with an interrogative wave.

“The cat’s name is Silk?” he asked, imitating the soft, smoothly flowing sign.

The boy nodded, grinning, and tossed a spangle of sign off his fingers.

“Ah, did he so? I had thought him a cat of discernment.”

“What does he say?” Natesa wondered softly.

Pat Rin shook himself. “Why only that this cat—this Silk—had the good sense to scratch the late Boss Moran very thoroughly not too long ago, to the vast amusement of one barbaric and bloodthirsty child.” He tipped his head. “Forgive me if I pry, but am I to understand that you will be accompanying us today?”

“My business today is on the street, and I thought to walk with you and Mr. McFarland—and one bloodthirsty child—until my way turns from yours.” She bent her head gracefully, suggesting a full bow in her favorite mode of student to master.

“Perhaps I am inconvenient.”

“Or perhaps you are not,” he said dryly. “One merely inquired.”

“Cat comin’, Boss?” Cheever asked lazily from his lean against the door.

“I believe that his duties keep him at home,” Pat Rin replied, and looked sternly down at his attendant feline. Silk blinked molten gold eyes, then turned and flowed away down the hall toward the kitchen.