Skyblaze (6 page)

The soup was hot and nourishing if not up to
the standards of a fine Liaden restaurant -- certainly there were
too many beans and tubers, and too much salt -- but with the butter
and the biscuits Vertu felt on the cusp of content, despite the
coming frosty trudge to her small apartment in the Hearstings.
Vertu concentrated on her food, trying to be inconspicuous -- she'd
never heard The Hooper open up quite so much, nor speak quite so
clearly.

The door shook with the wind, and then
opened roughly -- not the wind, but a large man in a rustic black
coat nearly as long as her own, and wearing a hooded overcape so
covered in snow as to deaden the loud stripes to spots.

He looked in and around, pushed the door
against the wind and noise and yelled ''Get in!''

Two more snow-covered forms trailed behind,
and the last of them pulled the door to with a will, slapping at
the day-locks like a guard before stamping his feet and shaking the
snow away.

It wasn't her imagination: the sound The
Hooper made was close to a sob, right then, overwhelmed instantly
by the loud and bitter, ''Get out!'' Granita the baker offered them
as she brandished her slops tray like a weapon.

*

The big man looked past Granita, right at
Vertu.

''You belong here, do you? Just eating? Or
you from the Patrol?''

''Get out,'' Granita repeated. ''Closin'
time; we're done.''

The big man casually turned to her,
laughing.

''You got no right to run me out, girl. Just
shut up!''

For a moment they stared at each, and then
the baker fled toward the rear of the place, leaving a pile of
dishes on the table.

The other men were noisily looking about and
taking coats off, but there was no doubt that this one, hand to the
inside of his coat, was both wary and dangerous.

Her voice caught in her throat for a long
moment.

''You talk at all? Speak up!''

The words formed, finally, on her lips.

''I eat here. Often. I --''

''She got herself a mug, Harley, so she's a
regger. Pretty little regger, ain't she?''

''Quiet, gots to be sure. Patrol?''

She shook her head, Terran-style.

''Not Patrol. I just eat here.''

''Don't know you, so you're new. Good.
Bidness is good all over they say, 'cept for the dead bosses who
ain't saying nothing. You work for a Boss?''

She shook her head again, aghast at his
rudeness, unable to marshal a fitting response to it. The cut
direct, she suspected, would be lost on this person. And that left
only civil answers to his questions as defense.

''Looking for work,'' she said.

The man turned his back on her, to look at
The Hooper, huddled in the corner.

''More than you do, old man,'' he said,
pointing at Vertu. ''Least she's looking for work. All you do is
make silly sounds and trouble for people. You know what I mean, old
man. More than once the news spread I did this or that and the only
one might know was you, can see right through them closed eyes of
yours when you're drunk, can't you? But we can work this out,
'cause there's a great storm here right now, and we'll all be here
for a good long time while this new patrol's out looking for
us.''

Vertu had caught a movement out of the
corner of her eye and saw Granita, face pale and stern, standing
behind the counter with a strange looking weapon --

''Out, Harley! Get out!''

He turned on her, his hand full of a gun of
his own.

''I staked you to this, girl, and we was
just about married, and that means this is my place, too. You got
no right to --''

Granita raised her weapon, and it was her
turn to say, ''Shut up.''

''These things,'' he said, ignoring the gun
entire and picking up one of the mugs; ''These are mine aren't
they? It was my idea, I told you how they did it, off-world.'' He
smashed the mug into the pile of dishes, picked up another and
smashed it, turned the tray over and laughed as they fell, kicking
at the remains.

He moved his hand, and his confederates
rushed into The Hopper's corner, lifting him effortlessly and
dragging him to stand before Harley.

''Can't rightly aim that, can you?'' He said
to Granita. ''Your old regger here -- him and me got a lot to talk
about. Might as well put that down -- we got what we need for a
snow party now, don't we? We can have some music, and we got us a
couple women, we got food and 'toot, and since the old man don't
need none, that's enough women to get us by 'til this storm's done
in a couple days, all comfortable and snug.''

''Let him go, Harley -- this ain't his
fight.''

''He don't get fight, he just gets hurt.''
One of the followers that was, suddenly launching a flurry of
strikes and blows at The Hooper while his mate held the sobbing
man.

Vertu stirred, then, not sure how to best
interfere, how to help --

''See? You can't do it! You had a knife on
me and you couldn't use it!''

They were slapping the The Hooper now, one
after another. He made no move to resist, only holding his hands
down over his vest, over his precious things -- until Harley
stepped in, snatching at pockets, fishing out one, two, three tiny
objects, slick and silvery as fish as they fell to the floor. Heavy
boots rose -- fell . . .

The Hooper yelled, wordless, fighting now,
the one who held him laughing as he twisted the old arms
harder.

''Stop!''

Authority rang in that voice, and for a
moment Vertu thought that the Patrol had arrived.

But no, she realized, standing tall with
Tommee's gift ready in her hand -- it was only Vertu dea'San,
playing the fool once more.

She hit the side switch that would throw the
weapon power, the hum adding itself to the racket in the room.

'''Ware! Gun!'' The follower pointed, too
far away to interfere with her.

Harley turned, his weapon shining in the
light, his eyes targeting her as he moved.

There were two explosions, then perhaps a
third . . . a rush of smoke and whining, zinging things. There came
a groan, the room was full of smoke, and Granita shouted, ''Don't
shoot!''

*

The Patrol arrived, stepping in through the
door the moment Granita snapped the locks back. Two went
immediately forward: one to The Hooper where he knelt on the floor,
moaning as he picked up bits of silver and what might be reed, and
placing them in a startlingly white kerchief.

The second Patrolwoman went to Harley and
his mates, standing cowed beneath the baleful glare of Vertu's gun,
unsnapping wrist restraints from her belt as she walked.

The third -- was Liaden, and walked with the
soundless step of a Scout, to Vertu's very side, taking care to be
seen, yet not be in her sights. He paused at the proper distance
for speaking to a stranger and bowed gently.

''
Galandaria
, I am grateful for your
assistance, and regret that it was necessary. I am Scout Lieutenant
ter'Volla, detached to the Surebleak Street Patrol. My crew and I
are tardy, but now we are come. You may stand down, if you
please.''

In truth, the Nordley had grown heavy, and
it was all she could do, to hold it on target. Vertu inclined her
head to indicate that she had heard, averted the gun's gaze, and
touched the power-stud.

The hum died, and she slid the weapon away
before turning to face the Scout and showing him empty palms.

''It is well,'' he said. ''Again, I regret.
I will need your name, for the reports, and also, please a
description of what has happened here.''

*

The wind had lessened, and the snow fell
silent and bewitching in the meager day-light. Vertu dea'San stood
at the crossroads, her hat pulled low and her gloved hands tucked
into her coat pockets, checking her direction against the maps she
had memorized.

The Patrol, having gained names and reports,
had dispersed, two taking Harley and his mates on foot to the
so-called ''station house,'' while the Scout and Granita coaxed The
Hooper into the Patrol's own car, for transport to Ms. Audrey's
whorehouse, where it appeared he had call upon a room at need, and
folk to give him the care due kin.

That was, in Vertu's view, only proper -- a
Treasure of the House deserved nothing less.

For herself, she had been left staring at
the white kerchief and its burden of bits and splinters, and one
instrument nearly whole so that she might say with authority that
she had never before seen its like.

''These,'' she said to
Scout Lieutenant ter'Volla. ''The Hooper is
galan'ranubiet
. These are the
instruments of his art.''

The Scout moved his shoulders. ''He has
others, yet safe in their pockets. The lack of these will not
silence his voice.''

''Only limit what he might say,'' Vertu
answered, perhaps more sharply than was required.

He looked at her, the Scout, and abruptly he
bowed as to one who has spoken a pure truth.

''This is so. Have you an interest?''

An interest? She looked at the broken bits,
stark against the white kerchief, remembered The Hooper checking
his pockets of a morning, gentling his pets.

''Somebody,'' she said, ''ought to do
something.''

''Ah.'' The Scout looked toward the ceiling,
as if seeking advice from the lighting, then looked back to Vertu.
''If you find that it falls to you to serve one who is, in truth, a
Treasure, then you may bear these to the Port Repair and ask for
Andy Mack, who may, or may not, be inclined to repair them. Say
that ter'Volla sent you, and that these are rescues.'' There was a
pause, and perhaps the glimmer of a smile, before he added, ''Say
also that, yes, I do know that he is busy, and he may call upon me
for Balance.''

So it was that Vertu dea'San found herself
at the crossroads, consulting the map in her head and counseling
herself that it was too far, at this time, in this weather, to
walk.

The pieces of The Hooper's instruments, tied
up in their white kerchief, were sealed into an inner coat pocket,
safe from the snow. For herself, however . . . she was cold, and
the Port no small distance from where she stood.

Truly, she thought, one needed a cab.

And as before, precisely as if her thought
had summoned it, there came a cab, the very same garish yellow cab
she had seen earlier, the roof-mounted light telling all who might
care that it was available for hire.

Vertu's hand signal flashed out and up as
the cab proceeded down the street, and past her to about its own
length, before it pulled aside and stopped, the door nearest the
walk popping open.

She -- did not run; the footing was too
uncertain for that. She did, however, hurry, noting as she entered
the passenger compartment the name painted in too-thin letters on
the side door: Jemie's Taxi.

''Where to?'' a cheerful voice asked her as
the door sealed behind her.

''The Port, if you please. The repair shop
of Andy Mack.'' Vertu said, looking up to find, not a screen, but
merely a glass partition with a speaker set at low center.

The figure in the driver's slot was thin and
gave the impression of extreme youth. An impression which was not
amended when the driver turned to face Vertu through the glass,
shaking ragged black bangs out of brilliant blue eyes.

''Port's outta reach right
now, sorry to say. Road was open, but what's some amateur gotta do
but put his delivery wagon right across all lanes at Vine's toll --
at what
ustabe
Vine's tollbooths. Word comes down --'' She leaned to her
control board and tapped what Vertu took to be the router -- that
the road crew's working on it, but the weather ain't makin' things
easy. Don't suppose you got a backup plan?''

''In fact,'' Vertu said to that absurdly
young and open face, ''I do. If traffic is stopped at Vine's
tollbooths, then we may re-route down Fuller Avenue.''

A startled blink was her answer, followed by
a look of concentration.

''Yanno . . .'' The driver paused, possibly
checking the map in her head, even as Vertu rechecked her own.

''Yeah, that'd work. Thanks!''

She faced front, and gave the vehicle its
office, moving inexorably through the snow.

''Weather update says storm's about done,''
she said over her shoulder. ''So, not as bad as we'd braced for,
but plenty bad enough. I'm Jemie, by the way. You?''

There was no need for the driver of a taxi
to know the name of a particular fare, except insofar as Unicredit
or some other voucher might record it within the payment system.
Nonetheless, Vertu answered, choosing to see the question as a
pleasantry born, perhaps, of a slow day.

'
'My name is Vertu,'' she said, giving only one, as Jemie had
done.

''That's pretty. Liaden, huh?''

''Indeed.''

''Pretty good idea 'bout goin' around.
Fuller's nice and wide -- oughta be able to get down there, no
problem. You drive?''

It was Vertu's turn to blink. ''Your
pardon?''

''You drive? Like a cab, or maybe a delivery
wagon? Don't meet many who got the streets laid out in their head.
Meet more who think it's kinda funny that I do.''

''Once, I had owned a small fleet,'' she
said, slowly. ''Three cabs, and thinking of a fourth.''

''Yeah?'' blue eyes met hers in the rearview
mirror. ''What happened?''

''There was . . . a war action. At -- On
Liad, they name it Skyblaze. I -- my cab and I -- picked up the
wrong fare.''

''Hey, that's tough.'' There was a moment of
silence, as the driver maneuvered them around what appeared to be
another car, abandoned in the center of the road.

''Amateurs,'' Jemie muttered. ''Could at
least've pulled it to the curb. So!'' she said a moment later, the
hazard to travel safely behind them, ''you lookin to set up?''