The Backworlds (6 page)
Gattar scooted closer. “Yeah? What
kind of fortunes?”
Their point of mutual interest was
broached and so started the real contest between them. Gattar didn’t seem like
the sharing type. Craze wasn’t so much in the mood either.
“Business. Money,” he said. “I want
to own a tavern. A nice one. A destination.”
She toyed with her zipper again; up
and down, up and down, peek-a-boo with her bulging cleavage. “That’s quite a
dream. You ain’t going back to Siegna then?”
Craze followed the motions of her
zipper. The Jix was definitely open to seduction. Now he needed to find out
whether she was capable of any sympathy. “Can’t. The elders want to branch out.
They chased me off.”
The smile faded from her eyes and
she quit playing with her zipper. “You their emissary? Your kind has aims on
the Backworlds?”
The words snapped out like an
attack of sting beasts in the swamp. So, no. Empathy wasn’t in the Jix’s
vernacular. Back to the art of conquest it was then. Whatever it took to hook
into her avenues of commerce in the Backworlds, he would do.
Craze flexed his fingers, reaching
toward hers, falling short in a beckoning dance. “Yup.”
Gattar lurched forward in her seat,
grabbing his wrist, squeezing and twisting until Craze winced. “Give up them
thoughts, Crazy boy. The Jix be out here ‘n we don’t like sharing. You tell
your hick friends that. OK?”
No, she definitely wasn’t the
sharing type. The threat worked in his favor, though. She’d finally touched
him. Craze had her now, turning his hand and raking his fingertips gently
against the inside of her forearm. “I’ll tell them. Tell them my good friend
Gattar is out here already
negotiatin
’.
Negotiatin
’ for what?”
Her grip lessened and she pressed
her flesh against his hand. “Opportunities.” The Jix caressed his soft skin,
delving her fingers into the plumper regions of his arm. “
Ooo
.
Very lovely. Enhancement or yours?”
He flashed his dimples, tendering
more of his charms. “Bequeathed to the Verkinn by the Fo’wo’s.”
“The Foreworlders came up with some
imaginative improvements from time to time.” She ran her hand up his arm,
gripping around his bicep. “You strong, too. Huh?”
“No one on Siegna messes with the
Verkinn.” He flexed the muscle for her delight.
The Jix giggled, petting his flesh.
“Very nice. The kind of nice that makes a gal a nice partner. You interested in
such opportunity?” She lifted the pitcher to make a toast, swinging it toward
his cup, the smile suddenly dripping off her lips. “You not drinking your ale.”
The stuff tasted as vile as
Croakman
piss, but Gattar seemed to like it, so he couldn’t
say that without offending her. He couldn’t mess this up again, not when the
Jix stood on the verge of falling for Craze’s wiles. It didn’t take him long to
come up with another excuse. “Not craving beer at the moment.” His lips pursed
and he leaned in, stroking her wrist. “I’m interested. You find leads to
fortune here?”
The Jix dumped his cup into the
pitcher and finished the ale off, belching as she put the empty ewer down. Then
she moved closer, her smelly breath inches from Craze’s wide nose. “The perfect
one should be arriving shortly. When I spied you, I had you in mind for this
deal.”
He tried not to inhale much, the
reek of the house beer making him queasy. Despite that, he inched closer to
her. Whatever racket she exploited on Elstwhere, he had interest, as long as
she didn’t prove to be a psychopath or worse. Craze didn’t want to wind up in
jail.
Gattar didn’t seem as dubious as
Bast though. No bloodlust sparked in her enormous eyes. So far. He hoped it
would stay that way. If it didn’t, well, he’d deal with the insanity then. This
much he knew, the Jix wanted a rube for something and probably something quite
risky to pluck at aid from a stranger. Risk meant great fortune. Fine. He’d
play the part, and while doing so would figure out how to veer circumstances to
his advantage. Seducing her was merely exploiting a weakness, not a plan.
He breathed his words against her
neck, watching
goosebumps
of pleasure rise on her
skin. “What’d you have in mind?”
The sweep of the Jix’s neck curved
gracefully. She didn’t push Craze away. In fact, Gattar moved her chair so she
practically sat on top of him, encouraging his attention. He obliged, sliding
an arm around her, flattening his palm against her stomach, splaying his
fingers wide.
“So you need me in your
negotiatin
’?” he asked, using his experiences in scamming
for Bast to keep the keen interest out of his tone and expression.
The rhythm of her breathing changed
and she nestled in against his side. Craze suppressed an urge to gloat. She was
putty in his hands, which meant more chips would be coming his way soon, and
perhaps a heftier sum if he kept the Jix happy and purring.
“I need a big, strong man,” Gattar
said.
Ah, now she played him back. His
potential fortune shrank again. For now he’d let her think she had him, to lure
her in deeper.
“That takes no effort on my part,”
he said.
“Good.” Her fingers curled over
his, tracing the valleys and joints. Then she suddenly broke away, pushing his
hands off and her chair back to its side of the table. “Go ‘n get us more
drink. Huh?” Gattar slid the empty pitcher at Craze.
From the corner of his eye he
glanced behind him, noting three figures draped in black making their way
toward the table he shared with the Jix. They swaggered, pushing around the
rough bar patrons as they passed by them, flashing peeks of weaponry concealed
in their clothing. The air became more fouled with trouble.
Shit. Craze could use a good nip to
steel his nerves for the contest about to start, but he couldn’t drink any more
of that crappy beer. “Do you mind if I upgrade?” he asked the Jix.
“I still want ale ‘n that’s my
favorite one.” Her fingers drummed and her shoulders stiffened, ramping up her
game to deal with the shadowy trio. Hardness stole over her features, a side
Craze hadn’t seen yet. Oily she was, oilier than a leaky valve. As quickly as
her mettle showed, she tucked it away. With a big exhale, Gattar donned the
smile of a coquette and blew Craze a kiss, giggling like a twit.
The change in her moods could
disorient a whirligig. Craze knew he didn’t want to be involved with her past
one good transaction, which would put more chips in his fund. Nope. Beyond that
would be utter foolishness.
The dark-clad people reinforced his
decision. The kind of profit they might proffer, well, it had to be as shadowy
as their clothes. Black market, illicit channels, secret trade, dripped off
their hems like dew in the evenings on the
ganya
trees. They might as well have worn lit-up signs saying so on their heads.
Craze would have to be careful not
to jump like a
Croakman
after freshly hatched
ricklits. Eagerness would cost him in this venture. A mere percentage playing
the Jix’s patsy was hardly worth the risk. No, he wanted a bigger payoff and he
knew if he could figure it out, the opportunity had just walked in.
For now, he followed Gattar’s lead,
playfully catching her kiss, holding it against his heart. “Ale it is for you,
Sweets.”
He only had to stand and take a
half step to the left to lean over the bar and summon the barkeep. Placing
Gattar’s empty pitcher on the counter, he said, “Refill, please.” He pulled out
his tab, punching in the saloon’s pay code that was painted several times in
neon on the wall behind the bartender. “How much?”
“Two chips.” The tank of a woman
grabbed hold of the handle and settled the ewer under the nozzle, drawing the
tap.
The beer gurgled out,
glunking
and sputtering in an uneven flow. Craze’s stomach
bucked, but he sent her the payment.
Head bent, he glanced sideways. The
shady figures surrounded Gattar. She maneuvered her chair so her back faced
none of them. She had some smarts. Craze couldn’t deny that. He wasn’t so sure
about his own, standing deep in a den of cons slicker than Bast. He hoped his
skills were up to this challenge.
“What you got in single malt?” he
asked the barkeep.
She set two bottles on the bar. One
would leech all the color off of the composites making up the furniture and
fixtures in here. He pointed at the other in a round bottle that would still
kick his belly, but it was at least drinkable.
“How much?” He hated paying for
booze when better bottles lay in his bag, but it was rude to bring liquor to a
bar. And in a place like this, it could get him stomped until he became part of
the sticky crap on the floor.
The bartender set the full pitcher
down before him, then patted the top of the malt. “Ten.”
He nodded, considering the folks
chatting with Gattar. Their clothes didn’t have tears or patches. They weren’t
worn at all either. Along with the scent of trouble, Craze detected money. A
lot of it. He hoped they were of a mind to share, and he would get the idea
going by offering them some malt. It was a manipulation that had often worked
for him on Siegna—give to get.
“Five cups with the bottle,
please.” He pinged tank woman the cost and a tip. Not tipping here would be as
poor of a decision as drinking from the bottles in his pack, especially with
opportunity so close.
He set the pitcher in front of
Gattar and the bottle and cups in the center of the table, greeting the three
folks in black with a thrust of his chin. Craze poured himself a hefty serving.
It was a far cry from
Bast’s
magic carpet, but steps
above the rubbish the Jix drank. Then he gestured between the three strangers
and the bottle. “Thirsty? There’s a cup for you, too,” he said to Gattar.
She shook her head, opening her
throat, gulping down more of the house horror ale. That she could drink so much
of it, like it, and not get sick baffled Craze. Perhaps it was one of the
modifications her race’s DNA had been given when it was spliced and diced up by
the Foreworlders back on the fabled Earth.
He pulled at the smoky warmth in
his cup, wincing at the sharp, bitter notes, notes that had no business in
malt. The Jix and her shady friends had better make this up to him and his
taste buds. Otherwise, this was the second worst hour of his life after the
most recent one spent with Bast.
One of the gloom-clad things
fidgeted, the drape of fabric rustling. “
Yo
still up
for this, Gattar?” The words grated as if sifted through rocks.
So they knew each other and the Jix
already knew what opportunity these mystery people offered. Craze wondered when
he’d be let in on it.
The gravelly voice had to belong to
a male. No telling what race of Backworlder he was though. Gravel Voice set a
small bar, about the size of Craze’s thumb, down on the table. It was wrapped
in gold foil and a fancy red-gelatin casing that sealed in whatever it was.
Such protection hinted at great value.
Gravel voice’s thumb flicked in
Craze’s direction. “This
yo
new partner?”
Gattar arched her brows at Craze,
indicating he should answer. Craze understood she had set him up, but he didn’t
know for what. Bending over, he tried to give himself more of the information
he sought, sniffing at the wrapped bar on the table. The preservative casing
held in any identifying scent, but he recognized the mark on the foil. He had
seen it only once before in one of
Bast’s
blown
deals.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation,
because if that bar was part of a shipment of chocolate, he was about to become
the richest Verkinn that ever lived.
Whispers from the underworld
claimed chocolate only came from the Foreworlds, its origins still tied to the
fairy-
taled
Earth. Craze didn’t believe that, but he
knew chocolate was rare and held dear, dearer than air and water on many
worlds. Channeled through clandestine sources, the one bar on the table cost more
than his entire startup fund. No matter what Gattar’s intentions, Craze wanted
to be involved in this trade.
“We partners,” he said, moving to
rub at the Jix’s back, a show of solidarity.
“Then the deal is on,” Gravel Voice
said. “
Yo
know where we want to meet. Three hours
before sunup.”
Gattar nodded. “Agreed. See you
then, friend.”
Gravel Voice held out a small rod.
The bar of chocolate floated up off of the sticky tabletop, attracted to the
rod, clinging to it. The mystery man slid both objects into his pocket and
glided toward the exit with his entourage.
The foil had to be magnetized to do
that. Interesting. “Who is they?” Craze asked, sinking back down into his seat.
“Opportunity,” Gattar said. “One we
have to play perfectly. You need a lot of schooling might quick if we to pull
this off.”
Craze wasn’t sure what they would
be pulling off, but gave his consent. “OK. Let’s get started.”
“Not here.” She stood up, draining
the pitcher, setting it down, and wiping her mouth before she took her first
step toward the door. Despite its inferior quality, Craze dumped the bottle of
malt in his bag and followed.
His eyelids fluttered against the
glare of daylight outside and he stumbled, bumping into Gattar. “Sorry.” He
donned a sheepish grin, wanting to grind home he was the rube she thought. He
couldn’t miss out on this deal.
The Jix considered him in silence,
standing still. Craze didn’t know what other factors she weighed other than she
needed someone like him, someone fresh and strong with an intimidating build.
