Ghost Ship Page 5
“If this is to be our home port, more changes are inevitable.” Val Con swept out a hand on which Korval’s Ring glittered, showing her the tidy little street. “The yards alone will generate change—not to consider the warehousing required by a major tradeship such as Dutiful Passage.”
And the Passage wasn’t the only tradeship Korval owned—or owned in part. Miri’d been studying the books, in between the details of packing up to leave, and had come to be grateful that it fell to Ms. dea’Gauss to keep the count of ships, cantra, and cats.
“But,” her lifemate continued, “Pat Rin will not be required to spend all of his energies on the port. Many hands make the work light, as my foster-mother used to say. And we will, you know, shortly have many hands—most of them belonging to people who will want and need work.”
“Right.” Korval had pledges from pilots, from scouts, from affiliated and allied Houses, from—hell, it seemed like most of Liad was coming with them. Not all right at first, granted. Clan Korval and its absolute necessaries were more than enough to bring onto Surebleak at one time.
And what Surebleak would make of them . . .
Miri spun on a heel, taking in the scene. There were a good number of pedestrians about for this early in the day, not all of ’em spacers. Delivery people wove in and out of the busy crowd, pushing hand trucks and pulling wagons; shopkeepers called out to this one or that, easy and friendly. The shops were inviting, with wide, clean display windows; sharp with new paint. The tarmac had been patched and leveled—it even looked like it’d been swept sometime within the last couple days.
She shook her head, shivering as the breeze quickened. The weather at least was the same—bitter cold.
Though they were going to be changing that, too.
Miri looked to Val Con, remembering the reason they were here. “We’re early for the car, and it looks like we’ve mostly toured what there is to tour. You wanna hang around the portmaster’s office for a couple hours, or does something else look interesting?”
“Shall we stop at the Emerald Casino?” he asked. “I’ve heard that it’s top-flight.”
Pat Rin yos’Phelium—Boss Conrad, according to Surebleak—had been a pro gamer and a high roller in his former life. Remembering that, it made sense that he’d open a casino as his personal bit toward bringing the port up to “proper.”
“Top-flight, is it?” She looked down at her leathers, then back to Val Con’s grin. “Think they’ll let us in?”
“If not the front door,” he said, offering his arm, “then the back.”
- - - - -
The screens were grey, the countdown to Jump-exit running quietly in the lower right-hand corner of Number One. Inside the next eight Standard Hours she’d raise a world called Denko. She was to set down on the reserved hotpad, open the supply chute and wait exactly two Standard Hours. If all went as it should, during that brief time a plastic envelope would come up the conveyer, pass through the Toss’s automated security and arrive in the supplies locker, from which Theo was to convey it, unopened, to the safe, and lock it in.
If it happened that a packet did not arrive in this decidedly odd fashion, she was not to wait, but to lift according to the schedule filed with Denkoport Tower and proceed to Gondola.
In the pilot’s chair, Theo finished her snack and her tea and wondered if courier pilots ever died of curiosity.
On the other hand, it was probably better that she didn’t know what she was carrying. She rose and moved toward the galley. Ignorance was protection, sort of, in case she pulled a Guild inspection—which would only happen if somebody filed against Uncle—or, worse, if the Federated Trade Commission drew the Toss in a random pool. Not that the FTC targeted Guild pilots, exactly, but the stats showed higher fees and more “violations” filed against Guild, when they were stopped.
Theo put her teacup into the washer, and moved out into the bridge. In the wide space between the galley’s door and the pilots’ chairs, she danced a compact and neat dance she’d learned from one of Primadonna’s archived Fun and Education programs. The dance was designed to work key muscle groups and offset the effects of long hours at the board.
Though it was a small dance, it required significant concentration, which was the other thing Theo liked about it. By the time she’d gone through the phrases and come to a rest, her mind felt like it had been stretched, too.
Moving lightly, she went to the copilot’s chair, where she’d set up her personal comm, and accessed Kamele’s letter again.
Jen Sar has disappeared in midsemester, without notice to me or to the Administration, on his off day before mid-tests. The only clue I can gather is of a small and dilapidated spaceship long unflown, departing Delgado the same day, from an airfield within easy drive, flown by one of his description. His car, keys on seat, fishing gear in place, sat in an assigned spot there. The spaceship, so station informs me, is not in Delgado space.
Within a day of his departure, I discover that the house on Leafydale Place, all possessions, and especially the cats, are gifts to me. I continue the tea run, with fading hopes. I felt that you must be told, and can only hope your connections with your father are not as fully disrupted as my own.
Right. Theo ticked the points off on her fingers:
1. Jen Sar left
a. suddenly
b. without a word to anyone
2. Departure via a spaceship nobody knew he owned
3. All of his possessions—house, car, cats—were now Kamele’s
4. Subtext: Theo, if you know where your father is, please tell me that he’s safe.
Father’s story about his previous arrangement with . . . with Scholar Caylon, and his Balance—that was interesting, and merited both thought and fact-checking. It was even possible—no, he definitely owed Kamele the truth he had given Theo, and an apology, and whatever else that was due a relationship that covered so many years, and so many memories.
But that was Father’s debt to Kamele, not Theo’s.
She—well, she’d seen Father, and he was safe.
That was a truth that a daughter could—and should—share with her mother.
She’d make sure—she’d make time—to stop at a Guild Hall the next time she was at a port, and she’d send a message to her mother. The truth, no more nor less.
- - - - -
He’d opened his table up just in time, Villy thought, watching the man and the red-haired woman. They were space-pilots, you could tell by the leather jackets. The man was a little taller than the woman, and neither one a heavyweight, though she had something in the oven, like his gran used to say. They were kind of cute, Villy thought, and visibly happy with each other, holding hands and talking low between themselves. The man seemed to be trying to convince her to try the sticks. For a second, it looked like she was gonna walk away, then she laughed and shrugged, and the two of ’em came up to the table.
“What odds?” the man asked in a soft mannerly voice that reminded Villy of Boss Conrad, sorta.
“Evens for a twelve-fall, House sets the sticks. Buy the bundle for twenty-four cash, House pays double for every stick that makes it to the cloth; twelve times the total if all twenty-four are liberated. No rollers, no double-flipping, no spotting.” He didn’t have to think about the patter, which gave him time to size up his patrons. A certain kind of pilot seemed to think the sticks were gonna be easy, on account of them being so fast. But the sticks just weren’t about fast, they were about thinking and strategy, and—Boss Conrad said—luck.
The woman was watching, interested, but willing to let the man take the lead. The man . . . he did remind Villy of Boss Conrad. Not so much that they looked alike, but that they seemed alike. Almost like the man had been studying the Boss’s ways, or—
“The bundle, please,” he said, dropping tokens onto the game surface with his right hand. He glanced to the woman. “Cha’trez, will you play?”
“Me?” She laughed. “I’m gonna stand back and let you show m
e how it’s done.”
“That’s put me on my mettle.”
She grinned and went one step back, giving him elbow room. Villy swept up the tokens and reached into his drawer, bringing out the bundle with a flourish, holding it so the patron could see the seal, numbered and signed by the floor boss.
“Excellent.” The man extended his left hand.
The glitter of a ring drew Villy’s eye; he gasped—he couldn’t help it, not with this guy wearing the Boss’s own ring.
“Wait—” the man said, raising both hands to show himself harmless, but it was the Boss’s ring; Villy’d seen it enough times, and if this guy had Boss Conrad’s ring that meant, it meant—and besides, his foot had already hit the panic button on the floor under his counter.
Security came fast—two big guys from Boss Vine’s territory, vests back to show their motivators.
“What’s up?” the biggest one—Jeremy, his name was—asked.
Villy swallowed, and nodded at the man, who was watching him with calm green eyes. “He’s got Boss Conrad’s ring.”
“Yeah? Turn around, the both of you. Slow.”
- - - - -
Daav yos’Phelium carried a cup of tea out of the galley, glancing at the countdown and comparing it with the timeline in his head. Yes. They would sleep in-House tonight.
Sighing, he relaxed into the copilot’s chair, deliberately boneless, and closed his eyes.
“Aelliana?”
Yes, van’chela?
Having taken the decision to ask the question, now he hesitated. And yet, who better to ask for news of the discorporate than the dead?
“I seem to have . . . become disconnected,” he said slowly, which was one way to describe the feeling of absence inside his head. “And I wonder if you know, van’chela, where Kiladi has gone to.”
Silence was his answer; so long a silence that he began to think he would have no other.
Aelliana sighed in his ear, her breath ruffling his hair, so he would swear. He felt the weight of her arms around his neck and her cheek, soft against his. He took a careful breath and did not, most assuredly did not, open his eyes.
“I don’t know,” she said, her voice somber. “I fear . . . Daav, I very much fear that he has been lost.”
SEVEN
Emerald Casino
Surebleak Port
As holding cells went, the so-called waiting room wasn’t too bad, Miri thought. There were a couple good chairs, a table and a deck of cards. No window, o’ course, and a guard on the outside of the door. Still, she’d seen worse—and from the inside, too.
“How long do you think they’ll let us cool?” she asked.
Val Con had pulled one of the chairs out, and was fussing over its placement with regard to the door. “Not long. However, I fear that whoever is sent to deal with us may be somewhat irritable.”
He paused, considering the chair. Apparently satisfied, he stepped to her side and took her hand. “Cha’trez, you should sit.”
“I should, should I? Well, why not?”
She settled in, leaned her head back and smiled up at him.
“The view’s pretty, but I’m gonna get a crick in my neck unless you sit down, too.”
“I think that can be arranged.”
He perched on the arm of the chair, his hip companionably against her arm. His left hand rested flat on his thigh, putting Korval’s Ring on prominent display.
“Think they’re gonna come in shooting?” she asked interestedly.
“It is a possibility,” he admitted, turning his head to smile down at her, “though the odds are not particularly high.”
“Which is why you’re between me and the door.”
His smile softened.
“It harms no one to be prudent.”
“Now, the way I heard it . . .” she began, then stopped at the sound of voices outside the door.
One was the security guy—Jeremy—explaining to a lower, sterner voice how they hadn’t given him no trouble, which they hadn’t. Would’ve put a strain on the kin-bond to go breaking up Pat Rin’s gaming house and, besides, security’d only been doing their job.
The lower voice said something short and definitive and the door came open, sharp, just in case they were crowding it. Jeremy, the security guy, took point, followed by a man who was surely a pro, the gun showing on his belt more of a neighborly warning than a threat. The third man was—familiar. Yellow hair so light it just missed white, steel-rimmed spectacles, and a tough, wiry build. She knew this guy, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t quite bring to mind—
“See, Boss?” Jeremy said, jerking his head in their general direction. “No trouble, no chatter. Nothing. Sleet, he’s even naked.”
Inside her head, she saw the ripple of Val Con’s amusement. His head was turned away, but she knew as sure as if she’d seen it that the eyebrow had gone up.
The blond man’s smile was tight, but his voice was calm and even friendly.
“It’s what we say here, when somebody’s not carrying.”
“I thank you,” Val Con answered, “I was unaware of the usage.”
“Welcome. Now, we got some questions for the pair of you—”
The pattern clicked. Miri came to her feet, moving around to get a better look, registering Val Con falling in by her off-arm, but not paying much attention, because she had it now. By damn if it wasn’t—
“Penn Kalhoon—is that really you?”
He looked over to her, light sliding off his glasses, wary puzzlement in the set of his shoulders. His bodyguard shifted, a friendly reminder that he was on the job, that was all—and no worries; she wasn’t going to make a lunge for his boss. Penn Kalhoon. Now she had it, she could see the kid he’d been, back when she’d worked pickup at his father’s garage. He’d been her friend.
He wasn’t sharing her moment of clarity, though.
“C’mon, Penn, I changed so much since? I can still fit in the little places.”
His face cleared, stance going from baffled to disbelief.
“Miri Robertson? What the sleet’re you doing, coming back here?”
She laughed. “Asked myself the same thing more times than you wanna know. You’re looking good—prosperous.”
“You’re looking the same,” he said cordially, but keeping one eye on Val Con, who hadn’t been explained yet. “Soldierin’ agreed with you.”
“It did. Mustered out with a captain’s chop on my sleeve.” She extended a hand, slow and easy out of consideration for the nerves of the man with the gun. “Penn, this is my partner, Val Con yos’Phelium. Val Con, here’s Penn Kalhoon. We was kids together, over on Hamilton Street—Latimer’s turf it was then.”
“Boss Kalhoon’s turf now,” the pro added.
Val Con nodded gravely. “Penn Kalhoon, I am pleased to meet you.”
“Pleasure,” Penn answered, which was maybe a little brief. He moved a hand, showing them the bodyguard. “This my ’hand, Joey Valish. You met Jeremy.”
“Indeed. Gun-sworn Valish, I am pleased to see you.”
The ’hand grinned, showing a sizable gap in the top row of his teeth. “Got that right.”
Penn frowned, like maybe he was getting a headache, which was possible, Miri thought. They seemed to have that effect on people.
“Interesting ring you got there.”
“It is a family heirloom,” Val Con said, raising his hand so Penn could see it better. “My kinsman wears one very like it.”
“You wanna expand on that?”
Miri heard rapid steps in the hall, saw a shadow at the open door and, that quick, Val Con had shifted, putting himself between her and a fast-moving, dark-haired woman, his empty hands held out, and her whole attention focusing instantly on his face.
She stopped, brows pulling together.
“The resemblance is not—”
“Some consider it marked,” Val Con interrupted. “But it was not the face that distressed the child, it was the Ring.”
“The sticks dealer.”
Her shoulders moved slightly. “Villy. Yes, he . . . has an attachment.”
Penn cleared his throat.
“Excuse me,” he said, when the newcomer turned her head to look at him. “You know each other?”
There was a small, charged silence.
“Indeed, no, we do not.” She turned back and bowed, sweet and solemn. Not a Liaden bow exactly, but it got the point across. “I ask that you forgive my lapse of manners, sir and lady. The report I received was . . . troubling in the extreme, and I fear that, in my haste, I overlooked proper behavior.” She bowed again. “Please allow me to welcome you to Surebleak.”
“Nothing to forgive,” Miri said. “And thanks for the welcome.” She stepped up to Val Con’s side and gave the woman a cordial nod. “Happens Penn and me go way back, and we’re introduced to Joey and Jeremy. Who’re you, exactly?”
She bowed again.
“I,” she said with a calm that sounded forced to Miri’s ear, “am called Natesa.”
Oh, she thought, Natesa. Also known as Inas Bhar. Also known as Juntavas Judge Natesa, gun-name Natesa the Assassin.
Pat Rin’s lifemate.
She inclined her head, catching Val Con’s intent half-breath before he spoke.
“I See you.”
Her coloring was a rich brown. It could’ve been that she paled. She did absolutely freeze, then swayed into a bow so smooth and deep a body might have doubted the moment of hesitation.
“Korval,” she said, and straightened.
“Boss Conrad was delayed at the far point of the road. I have instructions from him that the car is to proceed from the port with Boss Kalhoon representing the Surebleak Bosses. Boss Conrad will join the procession at Hamilton Street.” She paused. “Departure time approaches; the car awaits you at Portmaster Liu’s office.”
“We are, I believe, ready to leave very soon.” Val Con said, and looked to Miri. “Cha’trez?”