Loose Cannon (4 page)

Closing the door behind her, leaving behind
the sound of the morning shuttles lifting under the clouds, and the
jitneys in the streets, she settled into the quiet of the
thick-walled old building, checking the time to see that she was
early enough to set tea to boil, and to warm and wolf the leftover
rolls she carried from last night's work. She started those tasks,
glancing through the scratched flex-glass of the door as she moved
the few semi-valuable pieces from their hiding places to the case,
and uncovered the special twirling display that held her choice
Festival masks behind a clear plastic shield.

Cyra admired the green
feathered mask as it twirled by, recalled the evening her aunt had
brought her the ancient box and said, "This green does not become
me, and I doubt I'll go again to Festival. This was
my
aunt's, after all, and
is much out of style--but if you wish it, it is yours."

And so she'd worn it to her first Festival,
finding delight in the games of walking and eyeing, the while
looking for people she might know and seeking one who might not
know her....

Later, she'd been doubly
glad of that Festival, for the marriage her uncle found for her was
without joy
or
success, which had scandalized him despite the medic's
assurance that she was healthy--and quashing her chance at full
time study at the Art Institute.

Now, of course, she was denied the Festival
at all.

She took her hand from beneath the plastic
shield, where it had strayed, unbidden, and returned to routine,
eyes drawn to the sudden flash of color outside the window, as the
light began to rise with real daybreak.

He--at the distance the
wildy abundant Terran beard was about all she could be sure of,
aside from the bright blue skullcap he wore to hide his
hair--
he
was
dressed in what may have once been fine clothes, but which looked
somewhat worse than they ought. She doubted he could see her, but
his face and eyes seemed to spend about half their time watching
her shop door and the other half watching chel'Venga's
Pawnshop.

She sighed gently. The ones who had not the
good sense to wait until the store was respectably open were the
ones who were selling something. She wasn't sure which sort was
worse--the ones who needed something they wouldn't be able to
afford or the ones who couldn't afford to sell what they had to
offer for a price she was able to give. At least he'd be out soon,
no doubt, and she'd be able to keep the fantasy she held to heart
from being overly tarnished yet again, the fantasy that Port Gem
Exchange was yet a jewelry store and not yet a pawnshop in
truth.

The clock stared back at her. Once upon a
time she had slept until mid-day when she wished. Now she used each
hour as if there was not a moment to waste. And for what this early
morning? So that she might eat without being observed, and without
companions. No need to rush--chel'Venga's Pawnshop rarely opened on
time.

* * *

THE TERRAN STOOD at his corner across the
way, left hand in pocket, watching across the way as the increasing
jitney traffic blocked his view from time to time, his beard waving
in the wind. He'd seen her work the door and had straightened; and
was there when she went back inside to get the rope-web doormat
that welcomed her visitors. The pawnshop had no such amenities as
rugs or mats. Perhaps it made no difference to her customers, but
such were among the few luxuries she had these days.

He was not on the corner when she
straightened from placing the mat in doorway and a quick glance
showed him nowhere on the street. The lights had gone on in the
pawnshop. They'd likely stolen the man away. Now Cyra regretted not
giving in to the impulse to beckon to him as she unlocked the door,
no matter the poor manners of it. It was hard to keep good melant'i
in this part of the city, after all.

And then he was back, this time carrying a
large, flat blue package of some kind, and he was hurrying,
fighting the wind and the traffic, threatening at one point to run
into a jitney rather than risk his burden.

Then he was there, larger than she'd
realized, his relative slenderness accentuating his height, the
dense beard distorting and lengthening his already long face, and
his plentiful dark brown hair, brushed straight back from the high
forehead, making him seem that much taller now that he'd taken the
hat respectfully off to enter her store.

He came in quietly, with the noise of a
large transport lifting from the port masking not only his sounds
but those of the door until it closed, leaving his breathing--and
hers--loud in the room.

He glanced down at her, nodded Terran-style,
and looked over the shop carefully. Somehow she felt he might be
looking at the tops of the cases--it had been many days since she'd
thought to dust them, for who ever climbs a stool to inspect
them?

He smiled at her, his light brown eyes
inspecting her face so quickly that she hadn't time to flinch at
the unexpected attention; nodded again, and said in surprisingly
mannered Liaden, "I regret it has taken me so long to find your
operation. I suspect we are both the poorer for it. "

At that he pulled from his pocket a large
handful of glittery objects, some jeweled, some enameled or
overlaid; pins, rings, earrings, necklaces....

And, she suspected quickly, all of them
real.

"These are for sale," he said, "for a
reasonable return. Since I am very close to crashing I will not
haggle nor argue. I will simply accept or reject your offers on
each. I would hope to get more than scrap value. You are a jeweler,
however, and will know what you need."

His hands were the competent hands of an
artisan, she decided as he turned the items out on her sales cloth.
Despite the items he sold, he was ringless and despite the worn
look of his clothes the marks on his hands were those of someone
who worked with them regularly, not one who was careless or
unemployed. Indeed, there were spatters, or patterns of colors on
his skin, masked somewhat by the unusual amount of hair on his
wrists, on the back of his hands, even down to his knuckles. Cyra
was distracted, yes, even shocked: she had never seen a man with
hair so thick it looked like fur!

"Indeed, we shall look," she managed,
fretting at herself for the incivility of staring at someone's
hands.

Quickly she sorted, finding far too many
items of real interest. A dozen earrings--some of them paired and
some not--all of quality. A strangely designed clasp pin, set with
diamonds, starstones, and enamel work. A necklace, of platinum she
thought, set with amethyst. Then the glass was in her hand, and the
densitometer turned on, and the UV light, as well.

In a twelve day she would rarely expect to
see so many fine pieces, much less at once.

"The pin," she said finally, "is obviously
custom work. I suspect it of more value to the owner or designer
than to me...."

"My great-uncle designed that himself," said
the man, "and he is always one for the gaudy. Set it aside and we
can talk about it later. Else?"

Cyra looked up--way up--into those brown
eyes. He looked at her without sign of distress, and so she
continued, oddly comforted.

"I would offer to buy the lot if we were
closer to Festival," she admitted, "even the pin. But these are all
quality items, as you do know, and they are somewhat
more--extravagant, let us say--than I might usually invest in at
this season."

"That's not an offer," the Terran returned,
his face suddenly strained. "And I will need something for later,
too."

"Perhaps," she suggested, "you should choose
those least dear to you and point them out to me. I will offer on
them."

His hands carefully moved the earrings to a
small pile, and the necklace, leaving the pin by itself, and
retrieving deftly other pins and the two rings. He leaned his hands
on the counter then, as if tired.

"An offer," he said, "with and without the
pin. You know that it is platinum; know that it is platinum from
the very Amity object--and the provenance can be proved...."

Cyra grabbed up the pin, admiring its weight
and the clasp design. Impulsively she touched his hand, the one
that held the other retrieved objects, and turning it over, pressed
the pin into it.

"In that case, this is better placed with
someone among the High Houses. They fail to arrive here in
sufficient number to make my purchase worthwhile...."

And then she named a price which was far
more of her available capital than she normally risked--but far
less than the value she perceived before her--and was oddly annoyed
by the man's rather curt, "That will do."

She was even more annoyed by the rapt
attention he paid as she counted the cash out--as if each coin was
in doubt. The she realized he was looking at her face.
Involuntarily, she colored, which made her angry. Too long among
the Terrans if she could blush so easily....

"No," he said suddenly, his Liaden gone
stiffly formal. " I did not mean to disturb you. I sought--I was
trying to see if I might read or recognize the etchings or tattoos
on your face."

Cyra felt her face heat even more. She
covered the scars with close-held fingers, looking up.

"Our transaction is finished. You may
go."

He reached his hand toward her face and she
flinched.

"Ah," he said, wisely. "The rule is that you
may reach and touch my hand, but I, I may not reach and touch
yours. When the crash is coming I see things so clearly...."

Startled, she stepped back.

"Forgive me," she managed,
and paused, seeking the proper words. Indeed,
she
had overstepped before he had; it
was folly to assume that one who was Terran had no measure of
manners.

Then: "But why this crash? Crash? You do not
seem to be on drugs or drink, and..."

Now she was truly flustered; more so when he
laughed gently.

"In truth, I am very much on drugs right
now. I have been drinking coffee constantly for the last three
days. Starting last night, I have been drinking strong tea, as
well. It has almost been enough, you see, but I could tell it would
not continue to work, so I need to buy food--I should eat very
soon--I need to write the notes, though, and look once more before
the crash."

Cyra held her hands even closer to her
face.

"You need not look at all. These are
none--"

But he was shaking his head,
Terran-wise.

"No, you misunderstand. I need to look at
the art so I remember what comes next... sometimes it is not so
obvious to me when I start moving again."

Cyra was sure she
must
be
misunderstanding--but before she could reply he pocketed the coins
from the counter top and hefted the fabric-covered blue case or
portfolio he'd brought in, laying it across the counter and
reaching quickly for the seals.

"You, you love beautiful things--you must
see this!" he said, nearly running over his words in his haste.
"This one is my best so far! This is the reason I have come to
Liad....this is where the Scouts are!"

Now he wasn't staring at Cyra at all, and
she found the willpower to bring her hands down and come forward to
see what might be revealed.

Some kind of tissue was swirled back from
inside the case and before her was a photograph of a double
star--with one redder and the other bluer--taken from the surface
of an obviously wind-swept desert world with tendrils of high gray
clouds just entering the photograph.

But sections were missing or else the
photo-download had been incomplete or--

Now the odor came to her, eerily taking her
back to the brief time she studied painting before turning to
jewelry.

"You painted this? You are painting it now?"
She looked up into his face and rapidly down to the work again. The
detail was amazing, the composition near perfect, the--

"Yes," he was saying, "yes,
it is my work. But I must not paint
now
, because now I am tired and spent
and will only ruin what I have done. For now, the work is not safe
near me!"

Cyra recalled working long and hard on her
first real commission, so long and hard in fact that she'd finally
fallen asleep in the midst, and woke to find the beaten metal
scratched and chewed in the polishing machine, destroyed by the
very process which should have perfected it.

She heard her voice before she realized she
was speaking--

"If you need a place--I can keep it here. It
will be safe! Then, when you are awake and ready, you can claim
it."

He laughed, sudden and short, and with an
odd twist of amusement pulling his grin into his beard.

"When I wake. Yes, that is a good way to put
it. When I wake."

With a flourish he waved his hand over the
tissue, swept it back over the painting, and sealed the
portfolio.

"My name," he said quite formally, "is
Harold Geneset Hsu Belansium. Among my family I am known as Little
Gene. To the census people I am BelansiumHGH, 4113." He paused,
smoothed his beard, and smiled wryly before continuing.

"When I'm lucky, the pretty ladies of the
universe call me Bell. Please, lady, if I may have your name, I
would appreciate it if you would call me Bell."

With that he handed the portfolio into her
care.

She bowed. "Bell you wish? Then Bell it is.
I am Cyra the Jeweler to the neighbors here, or simply Cyra. I will
see you when you wake."

* * *

SOUND RUMBLED THROUGH the
walls and rattled the room around Cyra, who involuntarily looked
toward the ceiling. This one was an explosion then--more blasting,
for the expansion-- and not a re-routed transport flying low
overhead. Rumor had it that several of the older houses two streets
over were settling dangerously, but that was just rumor as far as
she was concerned. Her store would be fine. It
would
.