Skeen's Return (43 page)

“Oh, yes. Thanks. Tibo, Briony, Briony, Tibo.” She took the shirt, put it on, smoothed the closures together, chuckled. “See what I told you, he didn't know what he was taking on.” She stepped into the trousers, pulled them up.

Briony handed her the money belt. “They know you now,” she murmured. “Be careful, Ti.”

“I'm always careful.” Timka patted her arm. “That bit about going to his right, that was very useful. Thanks.”

“I have my pride,” Briony said softly, “what I sell should be worth the price.” She knelt, took the left boot. “Raise your foot.”

TIBO AND HIS MUM.

or

PROSPECTING FOR GOSSIP, PAST AND FUTURE.

The old woman looked up. Bright blue eyes held a sky-wide life in them. The ananiles had lost their kick for her and age sat on her body like a pleating iron, but nothing age could do touched the spirit inside the shriveling flesh. “Tibo.”

“Ta, Mum.” He kicked an ottoman across the silky rug (twenty years ago it would have brought a small fortune, now it was so worn from the old woman's broad bare feet and the few privileged others she let visit her here no one would pay a ten perc chip for it). Some while back when Tibo was beginning to learn the tumbler's trade and she was one of his several mums, she divorced the family to marry one of the passengers on the Worldship the extended family was hired to. It was a fairly amicable divorce and she'd never lost her fondness for the children she had co-mothered, especially Tibo who was born the same time as the daughter the family talked her into having though she was old for it, Tibo who suckled at her breast when his body-mother was busy reading the cards for the passengers.

“I hear you and Skeen have got yourselves a new mouser. A herd of folk in the Bubbles owes that cat a blessing and I won't say I'm not one of them.”

“Her name is Timka, Mum.”

“Hmm. Pretty thing. Is it your branching out or Skeen or maybe the both of you?”

“None of your business, Mum.”

“When you're old as I am, Tib, everything's your business.”

“Enjoy yourself, then. We're too tame for you.”

“So you are, Tib. So you are.” She touched a delicate china bell with the tip of her forefinger, producing a small ting. Her companion and nurse, a squat furry Abrushin named Henrietta came padding in and without a word set out a lush tea on the table beside Mamarana's chair, then went padding out again, never a sign she saw Tibo sitting there.

“That's new, isn't it?” He nodded at the porcelain tea pot and the two bowls, pale blue with a darker blue pattern, thin as paper and as translucent. “Nice.”

“Your brother Katsif stopped by a few months back. He gave it to me.”

“From the look of that, he's doing well.”

“Well enough. Though he hasn't got your flare, Tib, he'll never have Great Hounds like Abel Cidder sniffing after him.”

“It's a distinction we can do without, Skeen and me.”

“Skeen.” She sniffed. “So pour the tea and tell me what you've come for, Tib.”

“To delight in your blue eyes, Mamarana, and to drink your fine tea.”

“Hah! About the tea I don't know, as for eyes, you obviously prefer them yellow. Cat-eyes. Though I hear your pet's eyes are green.”

“No pet of mine, no pet at all.”

“I suppose that answers my question. Far too tame, my Tib. How's Skeen?”

“Thriving.”

“You going to tell me the story behind this?”

“Next time I come through Sundari. Can't now, not mine.”

“Ga'houbal came sniffing round here a while back. One of Cidder's noses. I hear the Undying has cut Cidder loose from all duties but chasing Skeen. One of these days he's going to catch up with her.”

“Maybe, maybe not. Me, I'll back Skeen. The only way he'll catch her is she wants him to. He might have more men and ships, but she's trickier.”

“Sometimes. And sometimes she's moon-foolish and you know it. Forget Skeen. Out with it, Tib. Do I have to call Henrietta to squeeze what you're after out of you?”

“Rostico Burn.”

“What about Rostico Burn?”

“Need to find him.”

“You?”

“Me. Skeen. What difference does it make. It's business.”

“Hers.”

“Mum, you're stubborn as a … Ours. Hers and mine.”

“Your cat friend involved?”

“Some.”

“Rostico Burn. Hmm. He's not on Sundari. Been gone a little more than two years.”

“Rooning, smuggling, thieving, what?”

“Mostly what, I suppose. He's a various sort. Turns his hand to what comes up.”

“Two years. That's a long job. You hear of him touching down at another Pit?”

“Who's to say I asked.”

“Well?”

“So I was interested. Coming out of nowhere like that. A boy like that. So I like to keep track of crazy kids.”

“Mamarana spins her web and nothing nothing nothing escapes her.” He touched her knee, grinned affectionately at her.

“Idiot. No more brains than your father, lovely man that he was. Rostico Burn. Clever boy. Talked a lot but never said much.”

“So the Buzzard said. There's always Mala Fortuna. Maybe he had to do some fast dancing and his foot slipped.”

“Like someone here who I could name but won't. This urgent?”

“So so. No hurry, but there's a deadline out there waiting for us.”

“So give me five days. If I don't know by then, no one can find out. And next time you come, bring that little cat with you. Tiny thing. She sure surprised Vanker. Smoosher Pete had his imager flaking and it's been on the com half a dozen times since. Trust that man to get the fots, it has to be a Talent, no man has that much luck come honestly. That cat suckered Vanker. Look out she don't sucker you. You're not going to tell me where you found her?”

“Ask Skeen, her story.”

“You're getting bad as her, Tib. Zipper mouth. I'll ask that cat. Maybe she'll know how to treat a poor old woman.”

“Old? Mamarana, you'll still be younger than me when you're dead ten years.”

“Five days, you hear? And bring your harem or you'll hear nothing from me. Not a word. Listen how terrible I sound. Your loving Mum and I have to bribe you to bring your women to see me. Ay ay, oh, Tib.” She giggled. “Go away, Tib. My secrets are mine and so they stay. Five days. And bring Skeen too so we can bicker some. Clears out my sinuses. And that cat so I can tease out of her where she comes from. Five days. No sooner and not a heartbeat longer.”

He got to his feet, kissed her wrinkled cheek. It seemed to birth more wrinkles as he watched. She was close to three hundred now, already long past the two-fifty promised by the ananile drugs. Praise whatever ruled this universe, she kept a mind as sharp as her spirit was young. She would not last much longer, though, he knew that at the pit of his stomach. And the hole she'd leave in his life was too big for anyone else to fill, even Skeen. But he knew too, she looked forward to that approaching end with a serenity he couldn't understand. The last time he visited her she tried to explain it to him, but her explanation was just a string of words, he couldn't make sense out of them. I've enjoyed my life, she said, there's a lot of things I haven't seen or done, but most of them I've run through my dreams so I don't need to do them. That isn't it, though. This is. I'm ready. When fruit is ready, it falls. I'm ready. Not pushing for, not pushing against, just waiting.

Tibo found Skeen in the Junker's Bar talking now and then with the cyborg bartender who'd added another bit of hardware to his body, a finger laser on his left hand, just hot enough to heat up a drink if that was what the customer wanted, or boil an egg inside its shell, or char letters into wet paper napkins, which was what he was showing Skeen at that moment. Skeen was drinking tonic water; she liked the bitter bite of it when she didn't want anything stronger. He settled on the stool beside her. “Ta, Flake,” he said. “Stir me up a tod.”

“Eh, Tib. Coming up.”

“How's the mum, Tib?” Skeen sipped at the tonic, the ice shifting in a tumble of clicks.

“Older.” He gloomed at the bar. “You can watch wrinkles adding on, Skeen, I swear she turned up a dozen more while I was there.”

Skeen patted his hand. “She's a tough old bird, Tib. She'll last longer than you think.”

“She wants to meet Timka.”

“Who doesn't these days.” Skeen chuckled. “Ti is having herself a grand time going round with Briony after the girl gets off work.”

“Mamarana wants to see you too, says bickering with you cleans out her sinuses.”

“Sounds like she's mellowing some. When do we go?”

“Five days.”

Flake Factry came back with the steaming tod, gave the drink another pass with his laser finger before setting it down by Tibo. “I was telling Skeen about Ga'houbal. He was in here 'bout five six days after you left last time. Swert the Mouth was sucking his fissatit and in two other worlds. Ga'hou got him off in a corner and spent half the night muttering at him. Mala Fortuna solo knows what he managed to get out of him before Neep and Cleep pushed in beside them and shut the dribble down. And you know what, you know what that festered pimple did? He bugged my bar. He left a trail of lice behind like a tink shedding his winter coat. I wouldn't a known a thing about it either, except that clothead had them set so they started a feedback in my kneejoints. I had a Sweep in and he rousted a pile big enough to fill a shot glass. He come in here again, Junker says throw him out so hard he bounces. Junker says he can't afford to sweep the place every fuckin' time that maggotmeat walks in. Cidder's got his hooks in him, Skeen. The Hound's hot after you, Skeen the Lean. You hear me, you call a Sweep for Picarefy every Pit you hit.” Flake wandered off, picked up a polish cloth and began working on his beautifully articulated metal hand, rubbing and smoothing it until the metal gleamed a rich blued-silver.

The ice rattled again as Skeen drained the last drops of diluted tonic water. “The Buzzard's got a party tonight, Tib. Henry O came in yesterday with a load of totems and godfaces. The Virgin and Hopeless followed him in, still living on the gelt from their Helix finds. I forget who else he said would be there. He said bring Timka and I think Petro might like it, she's been working too hard.”

Flake Factry looked up from his polishing. “Virgin and Hopeless, they starting their second round?”

“That's what Hopeless said. I ran into her when I went to check on Picarefy. She said they hit every Pit anyone's ever heard of and still came back with enough credit to stuff a grinch. She said they're going to have to give up and do something sensible with it like endow a home for pregnant fish. She said she and the Virgin 're getting so bored with doing nothing, they've made twin axes to chop each other up into bloody gobbets of quivering flesh while they send the Abode into the nearest sun. You know Hopeless and how she gets. She said they wanted to get to work again, but it's bloody immoral making more money while they still had that much sitting around.” Skeen poked Tibo with her elbow, woke him from his morose contemplation of the dregs of the tod. “I had an idea,” she said. He grunted, pushed her elbow away. “Virgin and Hopeless, they're looking for something grand and noble and horribly expensive. I thought I'd have them buy and outfit a colony transport and keep it handy till we needed it.”

Tibo gloomed at his glass. “If we need it.”

Skeen pinched the tight skin on the back of his wrist. “Funerary ware. Lighten up.” She glanced at her ringchron. “Time to pretty up for the party.” She smoothed her hand over Tibo's gleaming head, stroked the nape of his neck, then got to her feet and moved her hands over the tense muscles of his shoulders. “You can't stop time, love. Come on. Picarefy has negotiated for water and meat, we've got hot showers and bloody steaks waiting for us.”

Skeen talked Lipitero into forgetting her trepidations and venturing away from the workshop, telling her that her brain would fry and fall out her ears if she didn't take a break. Lipitero was skeptical but willing.

READER'S ALERT: EXPOSITORY LUMPS AHEAD. SKIP OVER IF DISTRESSED BY SUCH.