Adventures in the Liaden Universe. Collaterial Adventures (liaden) Page 23

  Betea sen’Equa came forward, frowned at the synopsis, reached down and called for more information, then stood looking at it for far longer than it should have taken her to read it. Eventually, however, she recalled herself and turned to Pat Rin, her face somewhat paler than it had been.

  “What is written next to my name,” she asked steadily, “in Fal Den’s debt-book?”

  She had offered him neither a chair nor refreshment, which discourtesy was irritating. Pat Rin discovered himself more inclined to believe the debt lay on the lady’s side, which did no honor to his duty. If Fal Den himself had not known which of the two of them was owing and owed…

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “I regret, only your name appears. It is the very last notation in the book, written on the day of his death, and it is very possible that the process that ended with his self-murder was even then at work.”

  She stared at him, eyes and face without expression.

  Pat Rin sighed. “Perhaps if we speak together of your dealings with Fal Den on the occasion of your last meeting, we may discover between us both the fault and the Balance owed.”

  Still she stared at him, and she was not, by Pat Rin’s judgment, either a half-wit or a fool…

  “Self-murder,” she said abruptly. “Are they certain of that?”

  He frowned. “It is what his kin has sworn to the Council. Have you reason to believe that Fal Den came by his death in another fashion?”

  “Perhaps. I don’t…” She spun aside, rudely, and paced to the far end of the room, where she stood for the slow count of six heartbeats, facing the wall, showing him her back.

  At last, she took a deep breath, turned and walked back to the center of the room, she stopped several paces away and looked boldly into his eyes.

  “I know why my name is written in Fal Den’s book,” she said, and her voice was as hard as her eyes. “I know who owes and who is owing. I will tell you these things. For a price.”

  “A price?” Pat Rin raised his eyebrows. “Madam, your name is written in a dead man’s book. You do not bargain price with me.”

  “But I do,” she said sharply. “You may be bound to play by High Port rules, lordship, but I am not. My mother died at the hand of a High Port lord. She had no book nor no other high friends to call in her debt, and the lord himself said the thing was outside of lawful Balance, for she had no Name to protect her.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and now the bold gaze was a glare. “I am selling the information you need. You will buy it, or you will not.” She inclined her head, brusquely. “Your throw, lordship.”

  It was on the end of his tongue to tell her that he had no need to buy anything from her—but that was only pique, such as would make Luken laugh and bid him to climb down from the high branches.

  Mastering his irritation, he looked at her, standing tall and stern before him.

  The lady has the winning hand, he told himself, wryly, which rubbed ill against his pride as a gamester. And he was not come here, he reminded himself, as a gamester, but as the agent of Fal Den’s will, upon which the petty prides and irritations of Pat Rin yos’Phelium had no right to intrude.

  He bowed to the lady, very slightly.

  “What is your price?”

  * * *

  VIEWED CORRECTLY, Pat Rin thought, shaking his lace into order and frowning at his reflection in the dressing-glass, the situation was piquant. Indeed, one was persuaded that ore’s deplorable cousin Shan would find it rich in hilarity. And, to be just, had it been Shan dressing just now to attend, of all things, an express, Pat Rin might have found himself more inclined toward laughter.

  His partner in this evening’s enterprise could not be dislodged from her conviction that he attended such affairs as a matter of course on every quarter-day, nor from the equally demented belief that his very presence held her proof against whatever predations she imagined that Hia Cyn yo’Tonin intended to visit upon her.

  Though, Pat Rin allowed, fixing the sapphire in his ear, to be wary of Hia Cyn yo’Tonin proved Betea sen’Equa to be a woman of sense, however late in her life.

  It had taken all of his powers of persuasion, and not a little High House hauteur, to wring the information he required from Betea after he had given his word to attend this evening’s festivities.

  The tale she had told was a simple one, nor was Fal Den the first to come away from an acquaintance with Betea sen’Equa lighter by certain equities and certificates of stock.

  It would have seemed simple thievery, and the lady herself the final culprit, yet there was another player in the game, whose presence muddied the score considerably.

  As Betea told it, her first meeting with Hia Cyn yo’Tonin was mere chance. Pat Rin, who knew the man, doubted this, but had not thought it appropriate to interrupt the lady’s account with his private speculations.

  In any case, Hia Cyn, through design or mischance, came into the orbit of Betea sen’Equa and very quickly showed her how she might increase profits. Betea had ambitions, Pat Rin learned, but not much understanding of the ways of what she termed ‘the high world’.

  Hia Cyn brought to her young people—mostly young men—who were slightly in awe of the gaming world, and slightly in awe of her, she who was tall and exotic, and who held modest court within her own houses.

  The games were—initially—honest, with small friendly wagers. But after a time, the stakes would alter, in the private parlors, the victims would play for small sums until some point of melant’i or other would be brought into the conversation and slowly the net would be drawn about them. Carefully, then, while served sympathetic portions of wine, or perhaps one of Hia Cyn’s special cigarillos, the mark would be brought to promise against their quartershare, or against their inheritance. Especially, Hia Cyn liked them to promise something that would come to them only when the person immediately before them in their Clan’s line of succession came to die.

  Thus the stakes were things like quitclaims to islands, access codes to small and private lodges, the desperately secret formula of some proprietary process.

  This, she learned later; she had delivered the first few keywords and certificate numbers to Hia Cyn without ever knowing what they were, earning thereby what he was pleased to call a “finder’s fee”. In cash.

  No one ever came back to her and confronted her with their loss, which for a time fed the comforting illusion that what she dealt in were “might-happens” of no value.

  Alas, she was not a lady who allowed herself to repose long in ignorance. If what she gained for Hia Cyn was worthless, she reasoned, why then was she paid to procure it?

  And so she finally learned that these items promised at late night in the heat of play were more than a gambler’s losses. They became the very evidence of a threat—perhaps a mortal threat!—to a person of melant’i. As such, they were bought back with ridiculous ease, often with items or in amounts the victims themselves suggested—things that were in one way or another extremely liquid and little prone to tracking.

  Knowledge should have set her free, for surely even Nameless Port-folk might report larceny to the Proctors. However, Betea weighed the risk of being implicated along with Hia Cyn and the all-too-probable outcome of being found the sole offender, and did not call the Proctors. In any wise, she said, the trade was slowing down. Indeed, for several relumma, Hia Cyn introduced her to no one new.

  And then, at the beginning of the present relumma, he had brought Fal Den ter’Antod to her attention.

  “And now he has died,” Betea had said, stone-faced in the office above her modest gambling house. “None of the others cared so much.”

  She had named those others in the course of her narration and Pat Rin had taken those names to the redoubtable dea’Gauss, Clan Korval’s man of business, who was even now in the process of checking accounts with various of the masters of the Accountants Guild.

  Which left Pat Rin free to attend a party in the deplored and deplorable express mode, with only six hours le
ft him to correctly place and Balance the error that had brought Fal Den to his death.

  It was well here to reflect upon Fal Den, Pat Rin thought, and the nicety of his honor, which had not allowed him to place a debt of which he was uncertain.

  Pat Rin sighed and gave his lace a last, unnecessary, shake. Time and past time to get on with the pursuit of pleasure.

  Express, indeed.

  * * *

  THE ADDRESS WAS in Solcintra Mid-Port, on a street well-known to a certain set of self-styled adventurers and high rollers. An adventurer he was not, but in the course of learning to be a high roller, it had sometimes been necessary for Pat Rin to attend parties on this street. Now an acknowledged player, he still received invitations to such parties, but of late he had more and more often discovered himself, regretfully, with a conflicting engagement. To be seen in the area during a business day was unexceptional, of course, but to be seen here in the evening, dressed in all his finery….

  At least he was not alone. He saw several vaguely familiar faces in the distance, all of them younger than he, each carrying their sealed red packet inscribed with the legend, “To Be Opened Expressly at the House of Chance.”

  He bowed distantly in the direction of a young lady whose name escaped him—her face notable in that Pat Rin had witnessed the end of a match at Teydor’s in which this gentle became the dozen dozenth of the current year’s list. Pat Rin sighed—no doubt he would be singled out during the Express to give hints and best wishes, if not to lend countenance to the rather interesting costume that the lady had found appropriate to wear to an event that might turn out to be nothing more than an evening of light play.

  Indeed, she gained his side as he came up to the gaudily painted doorway, and just in time he recalled her name—Dela bel’Urik, Clan Shelart.

  Together, they entered the sen’Equa’s House of Chance, he in his evening lace, and she as she might appear for an evening among friends to her house; or even friends to her bed. Assuredly, someone ought to speak to the lady regarding the attire generally held to be proper for public outings — but it would not be he.

  A servant, bland-faced, admitted them to the house, and waved them to a small room to the right of the entranceway.

  “You may open your envelopes and don your accessories in this chamber,” he said. “After you have appropriately adorned yourselves, you may find the rest of the guests in the larger room. Buffets will be laid in the private parlors at mid-revel.”

  It was at this point that Betea sen’Equa herself appeared, slightly breathless, as if she had run down from her office the moment the monitor showed his arrival. Immediately was Dela bel’Urik’s costume discovered to be mere commonplace, quite cast into the shade by Betea’s choice of flame red shirt, cut low across her breasts, form-fitting leather trousers, and soft-soled leather house-boots.

  Nor was the young bel’Urik’s address sufficient to assure her place at Pat Rin’s side. Betea swept forward, using her height much as he sometimes used his, to clear a path through a crowd and arrive at his destination unrumpled and unimpeded.

  “He has not yet arrived,” she said, leading the way into the accessory chamber. Pat Rin followed, but not without a wistful thought to the bel’Urik.

  “I have been through our records,” she said, pulling what appeared to be a small square of leather from between her breasts. “Never has the House of Chance hosted such an event. Why must it be here—”

  “… Is something that we shall perhaps discover of Hia Cyn, when we have an opportunity to speak,” Pat Rin interrupted, striving for patience. He was here, he reminded himself, as an instrument of Balance. His personal pets and peeves had no brief here. Looking down, he broke the seal on his Express packet, and, wonderingly, pulled out a folded bit of leather, much like the one Betea had…

  The leather unfolded, revealing its form: A half-mask in supple black leather, with ribands of the same color.

  Betea’s mask was flame red. As he watched, she tied it into place and let the ribands fall over one shoulder, the tasseled ends kissing the swell of her breast.

  Pat Rin’s uncle, Daav yos’Phelium—Val Con’s very father—had once told Pat Rin a story about a world where all went masked and revealed themselves only to their most intimate kin. The story had turned upon a man with whom Uncle Daav had sworn to be acquainted, who had one day formed a desire to go about his daily business unmasked, and the unlooked-for and increasingly distressful situations that arose from taking that single, seemingly correct, decision.

  The story had a lesson at its heart, of course—a scout lesson, with which one’s mother most emphatically disagreed. The lesson was that custom was arbitrary and oft-times nonsensical, and that the superior person was one who was not shackled by the custom of his homeworld, but moved freely from one set of traditions to another, without offense to any.

  To wear a mask on Liad was, of course, to be very wicked. Masks were erotic, intoxicating and entirely outside of Code.

  “Well?” Betea sen’Equa asked, not a little snappish. “Are you going to put that on, or are you not?”

  * * *

  THE HOUR WAS growing late.

  Not that the young gentleman of leisure was at all concerned for the final outcome of the evening, he only wished that Betea would approach him so that the matter could be settled, finally and for all. She oversaw for a time the room’s small spin-wheel, and joined a party at cards, making certain that the money and the drink flowed, as a proper hostess must do.

  Indeed, he would quite miss Betea, and where he would find another cat’s paw so perfectly situated, he could not predict. However, he was a young man of an optimistic cast of mind and rarely allowed the problems of tomorrow to oppress him today. He did not doubt for a moment that Betea would find herself able to accommodate the arrangements he had made for her. After all, what could it matter to a Clanless where she lived or to whom she owed duty?

  If only she would she would stop circulating and come within his orbit so the evening could go forward…

  * * *

  IT WAS… DISCONCERTING… to enter a room filled with people dressed with entire propriety, saving only that their features were masked. Pat Rin, master of any social situation described in the Code, felt ill-at-ease, which sensation he found unsatisfactory in the extreme.

  By contrast, Betea strolled into the room as if she had gone masked all her life, moving among people whose motives and desires were hidden from her. Which, Pat Rin thought, the echoes of Uncle Daav’s old story suddenly ringing in his ears, perhaps she had.

  He raised his head and moved into the room, ignoring, as best as he was able, the supple caress of leather against his cheeks. A masked servant offered him wine from a tray, which he accepted, and, sipping, moved even further into the room.

  Betea, he saw, was well advanced of him, her crimson shirt a beacon among the pastel evening colors of the Festival season.

  Strolling through the room, Pat Rin recovered somewhat of his equilibrium. He had a good ear for voices, and he found that he recognized the accents of more than one social acquaintance in conversation, mask to mask.

  So acclimated did he become, in fact, that, when hailed by a yellow-haired lady in an emerald green mask, he inclined his head gravely and murmured, “Good evening, Eyan. I hope I find you well?”

  The lady gave a startled laugh and moved forward to lay her hand on his arm.

  “Quick, my friend. Very quick. A word in your ear, however: We name no names here.”

  Pat Rin sipped his wine. “Whyever not?”

  “Oh, it adds to the mystery, the intrigue, the naughtiness! Is it not absurd?”

  “Perhaps. But it is possible that you will change my mind. I am not accustomed to finding you engaged in the absurd."

  “Prettily said,” smiled the lady. “Alas, I am here at the whim of a friend, who had heard of such affairs being all the rage from her cha’leket. I must seek her soon, to find if the telling matches reality, or if we m
ay go and find a less… melant’i challenging… gathering.” She had recourse to her own glass, eyes quizzing him over the crystal rim. “But how do I find you present at such an exercise? Pay-off on a wager? Never say that you lost!”

  Pat Rin inclined his head. “I find my situation similar to your own; and am here at the necessity of another.” He swept a glance across the room, looking for the crimson shirt—and failing to find it.

  “Pat Rin?” Her hand was on his sleeve once more. “What’s amiss?”

  “I—am not certain,” he replied, and turned sharply on his heel. “Perhaps nothing is amiss. Your pardon, Eyan…” He moved off into the crowded room, leaving her frowning behind him.

  * * *

  IT HAD BEEN absurdly easy. Betea had all but literally walked into his arms, and it had been simplicity itself to guide her into the parlor where his business associate awaited them.

  “This is she?” The man behind the table asked, while Hia Cyn held Betea firmly by her arm.

  “It is,” he said, adroitly avoiding the kick she aimed at his shins.

  “And you have the right to sell her into indenture?”

  “Sir, I have,” said Hia Cyn. “There is a debt between us of long standing, which she makes not the slightest push to settle. I certainly—”

  “That,” snarled Betea, twisting against his grip, “is a lie! I owe you nothing!”

  “Yes, well…” Hia Cyn shifted his grip and got her arm up behind her, hand between her shoulder-blades, which quietened her quick enough. “I have the papers, sir, which you’ve seen. The Council itself acknowledges my right to redeem my money through the sale of this woman’s work for a period of seven standard years.”

  “He’s a wizard with papers, this one!” Betea snarled. “Look twice at any signatures he shows you, lordship—Ah!”

  “Respect for your betters, Betea,” Hia Cyn said pleasantly, but the man behind the table frowned.

  “She’s worth less to me with a broken arm,” he said, sternly. “Nor do I wish to buy at hazard.”

  “Sir—”