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Authors: Steve Miller,Sharon Lee

Tags: #Science Fiction

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BOOK: Necessary Evils (Adventures in the Liaden Universe®?)
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"Of course you know I can deny you nothing," he replied. "I shall be . . . perhaps
delighted
is not precisely the word which expresses my state of mind, but don't have a care for that! What may I be honored to bring you from the Low Port, mother?"

"The answer to a riddle," she said composedly, and Daav felt his interest prick, despite himself. Riddles at the Low Port were often . . . compelling. And, sad to own, the Low Port itself was rather more to his liking than almost any other location on Liad, saving his clanhouse or at his brother's side.

"And the riddle?" he inquired, feigning boredom, which he was fairly certain deceived his parent not at all.

"Where do the pilots who visit Ilgay's Hell and Janif's Game Palace go after they depart the pleasures of the house?"

Daav considered her. "Surely, to their rightful berths, or to their clanhouses, the guildhall, or to the arms of a lover. Come, ma'am, this is not worthy of you! Hardly a riddle at all!"

"But if they do not arrive at their clanhouses, if their captains fill their berths from the will-call list, their lovers weep for their absence, and the guild assesses a fine against their licenses, and still they do not reappear? Does the riddle seem less tame then?"

Daav frowned. "Less tame and all but terrifying," he said slowly, considering the plural. "How many?"

"Eight, over the last two relumma," she replied. "The full particulars are on the computer in the study, if you find yourself interested."

"Interested," he allowed. "But is this not a matter, perhaps, for your acquaintance at mid-Port?"

"It would seem to be so. Alas, several relumma past, my acquaintance was kind enough to inform me that she was removing herself from her position--having achieved what she was pleased to term 'sufficient time in grade to make it stick'--and the last two replacements have not lasted even long enough for one to request a meeting upon neutral ground."

Daav frowned again. "If the balance is not firm at that juncture . . ." he murmured.

"Precisely!" his mother said, with a wide smile. "The thing wants examination from a number of angles, my child." She rose, waving a languid hand in the general direction of the study.

"Please, make yourself familiar with the particulars. I repose all faith in your ability to unravel this for me." Another brilliant smile and she was gone, dropping a light touch on his shoulder as she passed.

Daav sighed, and finished his tea, wishing he had as much confidence in his abilities as his parent pretended to. Still, he owned, it was an appealing problem--and not only for its locale. And pilots . . . pilots were the proper care of Korval, after all.

*

The start of it was easy enough, needing only a choice, and it was at Ilgay's Hell that he chose to begin his investigations.

Ilgay's was fortunately located hard by a port employment kiosk, at the center of a narrow street bracketed by food stalls and tea stands. There were folk enough about, and of various sort, so that the presence of an additional, and slightly ragged, pilot was nothing to turn heads.

First, he betook himself to the hiring kiosk, patiently waiting his turn in line for a chance at one of the three available terminals. He scrolled down the scanty offerings, frowning, then sighed, as would a man who had been disappointed not so much as vindicated, and left without even requesting a printout.

On the street again, he became one with the loose amble of those from the hiring hall, stopping at one stand to buy a rice ball and at another to purchase a paper cup of watery tea. Others, slightly plumper in pocket than the ragged pilot, bought synthasoy burgers, and sweet buns. All eventually moved down to the center of the street, to take up leans and crouches where they might study the door to Ilgay's Hell.

The number of patrons entering this establishment increased as the port-gate times cycled by; some were handlers or crew off-duty coming for the nearest respite, and some were those whose workday today had included only the need not to lie alone in a cheap room, watching the local free vid-feed.

Some few vehicles passed by, this being a roadable place, no matter that the way was thin and the populace not all that attentive to the needs of those well-off enough to go other than on foot.

Among the ragtag group of watchers among whom Daav had placed himself, there was a hierarchy. Some huddled together, passing small words and small containers between themselves, backs to the planet. Those were crew-folk left behind perhaps, or day labor never off-world, but they shared the chance that today might be better than yesterday.

Some, more desperate, attempted the occasional gambit and even the occasional offer to sell this or that item or service to those about to enter the Hell. Here, at least, dignity and melant'i was still in force. Here, if there was actual begging, it was done quietly and out of view of others.

The few pilots among the watchers, were, thankfully, none that Daav recognized. That worked both ways, for his face was long away from port, which he suspected now had weighed in his mother's decision to send him to accomplish this bit of work, rather than come herself. In any wise, it was not the face, then, but the jacket that kept the more unruly of the watchers from stretching melant'i enough to ask for a favor or a handout. These
were
folk, after all, and they knew that a pilot staring into the distance was not to be disturbed, for he might be thinking, calculating, might in fact be
doing
something and not simply be as lost as he or she looked. You spoke to a pilot, here, if he spoke to you, or if you were his equal.

Eventually, as he had hoped, Daav was noticed by several people going into the club--seen to be a pilot, waiting--and by several more, some of whom eyed him speculatively before going in. He amused himself by determining which of the burly door-folk were basic security and which was the day shift bouncer.

He had determined to make his own entrance when the day shift bouncer ceded his post to the night shift. In fact, that event was imminent, and he was gathering his lanky form to move across the street and through the door, when he paused, head tipped in order to more clearly hear the approaching ruckus. About him, the other watchers stirred, straightened, shook themselves slightly. The very air changed--from
waiting
to
anticipation
.

From around several corners, then, came, noisily, an advance crew--obviously working together, obviously security of some kind, well-armed and well-fed. They settled themselves about the crowd, and the sense of anticipation grew, edged with something that Daav hesitated to name
hope
, but still as if the event bearing down upon them were the beginning of what they'd been waiting this past clock-count, be it day or year.

The ruckus came on, and 'round the corner by the tea shop came a large, even an opulent, vehicle, ostentatiously fan-lifted above the narrow street, its mirror finish reflecting sky, worn faces, and old boots in egalitarian elegance.

Daav drifted toward the back of the crowd, ears and eyes alert. Words moved around him, heard in snatches: "New boss . . . ," "free food, sometimes!" and "Possibly Juntavas, but work is work--" and not all the words were Liaden.

The car stopped and two of the traveling security force moved forward to open the door. A man alighted, moving with pilot grace, his body language eloquently alert. The clothes he uneasily wore were those of a prosperous merchant of no discernible clan. His copper-colored hair was slightly shorter than current fashion, and brushed severely back from a pale, round face. His eyes were very blue.

That electric blue glance swept the crowd and he bowed an encompassing bow, saying a few words to those closest. His hands moved subtly, coins and perhaps vouchers appearing between his fingers, vanishing as quickly, and the word moved through the crowd: "Day work tomorrow . . ."

Perhaps it was the jacket, though certainly his was not the only leather on the street. Perhaps it was merely his height, notable even in this mixed company. Whichever, those very blue eyes paused in their efficient scan of the crowd, lingering a moment, and a moment more, on Daav's face. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't been recognized--and the man turned away.

Security moved to enter the club, the man following, two more security at his back. The car swept away, spitting city-grit at the legs and faces of the unwary. Daav joined those who followed at a respectful distance; the night bouncer nodded at his jacket and let him enter the precincts of joy.

*

Within, there was some slight disarray, as the copper-haired man was ushered to a table hastily swept and settled for him near the center of the floor. Gravely, he sat, flanked by his security, as one of the staff ran for the bar and others came forward in ones and twos and made their bows, for all the worlds as if the delm of gaming hells had come to sit among them, and take their census.

Daav slipped to the right before those sharp eyes might find him again, and made his way to the back of the room, and the various wheels of fortune.

*

"Buy some luck, Pilot?"

The person who asked it was very nearly as tall as he was, with lush, if improbable, violet hair, and in such a state of expansive undress as must surely have put her health at risk, chilly as the house was kept.

Daav considered his small pile of chips wryly, and glanced back to her. He'd spent a good deal of energy over the last few hours carefully building the pile, and then making it dwindle.

"I'll be needing more than luck to turn this night around," he said gruffly, keeping to his character. "And nothing to spare for random results."

She smiled, to his eye honestly amused, and slid bonelessly between him and the next player.

"A bargain, then," she murmured, wrapping her hands around his arm. "If your luck changes for the better across the next three spins, you'll own I know my business and pay me double my usual fee."

He grunted, considered his small holdings once more, and snapped his fingers. "Done," he said. "See you do your work well, to mutual profit." He divided what remained of his holdings into thirds with over-careful fingers, and dropped the first third onto the ship symbol. The lady wrapped 'round him reached down a long, naked arm and hefted his empty glass.

"Wine for my pilot!" she called across to the smaller bar, and in a twinkling a fresh glass was by his hand.

"Do you pay for that out of your fee?" he asked, and she laughed, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, violet hair ticking his chin.

"Winners drink free," she murmured.

"The stakes keep rising," he commented, and she laughed again, low in her throat.

"That's life."

"All bets frozen!" the croupier called and spun the wheel with a will.

Lights flashed merrily, the ebon ball dancing among them. His provisional luck extended her slender hand and picked up the wine glass, sipping languidly before raising it to his lips.

"To winning big," she murmured. Daav sipped, unsurprised to find the vintage much superior to that of his first glass, and she drank again before replacing the glass in its holder.

The wheel stopped; there was a moment of stillness--and then an eruption of chimes as the wheel and the square claimed by his small pile of chips began to flash a matching, exuberant green.

BOOK: Necessary Evils (Adventures in the Liaden Universe®?)
9.02Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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