Korval's Game (64 page)

“And an invoice,” Pat Rin cautioned her. “I
will
purchase these from you.”

“Sure, Boss. Whatever you say.” She moved her feet again, clearly aching to be gone.

“Thank you,” Pat Rin told her. “You have done well. Natesa will see you out.”

“Right. Uh—you’re welcome. Boss.” She darted after Natesa and Pat Rin closed his eyes, wishing most heartily for a cup of tea.

Pat Rin put the tin down on the kitchen table, not quite able to repress the shudder, and stood, head bent, striving for patience. Once, the tin before him had contained a perfectly unexceptional blend of afternoon tea. Now . . .

The cook, who had been hovering, hands twisting in his apron, sighed.

“Bad, huh?” He said it almost wistfully.

“On several counts,” Pat Rin told him, with really commendable calmness. “First, it is old. Second, it is damp. This sort is a dry leaf tea.” He took a careful breath. “Well. We shall have to purchase more. When—”

The cook was shaking his head vigorously. “No, sir. Or, at least, not if you’re after more that look like that tin there. Got a bunch of ’em in the pantry.”

“Which are of like age?” Natesa murmured.

Pat Rin moved a shoulder. “The age perhaps does not matter so much,” he said. “This tin had been stasis-sealed. If the others have not been breached, there may actually be something in this house worth drinking.” He waved a languid hand at the cook. “Take me to the pantry.”

The man blinked. “Ain’t no need of that, Boss. Won’t take me a minute to fetch ’em out for you.”

“Yes, but you see,” Pat Rin explained gently, “eventually I will wish to partake of a meal, and I am afraid that the quality displayed last evening must improve. Rapidly. So, I am interested in what else might be in the pantry in addition to tea; and if any of it is eatable, or may be made to be eatable.” He fixed the man in his eye and frowned. “In short, I wish to ascertain whether I need a new pantry or a new cook.”

“Oh,” the cook said. “Gotcha.” He unwrapped his hands from his apron, and pointed. “Right this way, Boss.”

Pat Rin followed, Natesa at his back. The pantry was at the end of a narrow hallway, behind a heavy wooden door. The cook pushed this portal open and brought up the lights, revealing half-a-dozen orderly shelves of tinned stuffs, and bags that announced their contents in letters and pictograph: salt, sugar, flour, rice. To the right of these were a few bins, covered over with old blankets. Above, suspended by cords from the center beam, were perhaps a dozen round, waxy balls.

The cook stood respectfully aside as Pat Rin toured the room. There were more empty shelves than full, which struck him as odd in the house of a supposed Power—but, then, much about the late Boss Moran’s house struck him as odd. He perused the stocks leisurely, finding first ten stasis sealed tins of the same unexceptional blend as that which had been spoilt. He picked one up and stood with it cradled in his hand, reading the labels of the other tins.

It appeared that he was wealthy in tinned fish, tinned crackers, and two or three varieties of tinned soup. Next to these things were perhaps half-a-dozen glass jars, vacuum-sealed, each bearing a hand-lettered label:
Jam
. He took one of those, too, and carried it and the tea-tin in the crook of his arm as he moved over to inspect the contents of the bins, Natesa to his right, and a step behind.

Further to the right, within the shadows cast by of a row of empty shelves, something moved; at the door, the cook gasped, and stiffened. Beside him, Natesa drew, fierce and fluid—

“Do not!” He flung a hand out, and she whirled, staring at him out of obsidian eyes that must surely have done damage—
had
done damage . . . He shook away the wound and pointed. “It is only a cat.”

She looked down the line of his finger and the cat obliged him by strolling out into the greater light, sparing the two of them a yellow-eyed glance of utter boredom before trotting off down the room, to be lost once more in the shadows.

“I . . . see,” Natesa said, on a long sigh, slipping her weapon away. She looked back at him, eyes considerably less sharp, and inclined her head. “Master.”

“Surely, merely lucky?” he responded, deliberately flippant, and looked over to the cook, standing clenched and slightly pale by the door. “I have some . . . familiarity . . . with cats.”

“Yessir, Boss. Boss Moran, he liked to shoot cats.”

“Yes, well. I prefer not to have mice.” Taking a deep breath, he continued to the bins.

Leaning over, he flicked back the blankets. Bin One contained a goodly number of some sort of tuber, still wearing their native soil. Bin Two was wholly given over to pungent-smelling bulbs—possibly the local equivalent of onion. Bin Three was filled near to overflowing with large orange fruits, which appeared to be of a robust habit.

Pat Rin turned to face the cook, and pointed up at the center beam.

“Cheese?”

“Right you are, Boss. Best cheese in the city.”

“Ah. As it happens, I am partial to cheese.”

The cook smiled. “We’ll getcha a slice off the one in the kitchen, when we go back. Man who likes cheese’ll find it a friend.”

Pat Rin eyed him. “I infer from this that Mr. Moran did not care for cheese?”

“Nossir. Boss Moran, he didn’t like much, ’cept to hoard his money. And makin’ his ’hands crawl—he did get a heapin’ cup o’pleasure outta that.”

“I wonder that you stayed with so unsatisfactory a master,” Pat Rin commented, but the man only stared at him. Sighing, he jerked his head toward the bins.

“Those tubers—are they a local specialty?”

The cook nodded. “Jonni grows ’em up on the roof. He takes care of ’most all the vegetables.”

“I see. Yet when Mr. McFarland particularly desired vegetables for last evening’s meal, you sent in a mess of leaves. I wonder why?”

“After
greens
, is what he told me. We’re too early in the season for greens. Froze some stuff, end of last growin’ season, but it’s gone now, too.”

“I see,” Pat Rin said again, and used his free hand to motion the cook out into the hallway. “Let us repair to the kitchen. I am very much in need of tea, and perhaps some of your excellent bread, with jam on it.”

They were seated ’round the kitchen table sometime later when Cheever McFarland arrived, all three supplied with a beer tankard filled with a gently steaming pale green liquid. Plates before each bore the sticky remains of toast-and-jam sandwiches. Pat Rin and the cook had their heads together, apparently engaged in producing a grocery list, while Natesa looked on, her eyes heavy, and faintly amused.

“Mornin’,” he said to her, and pointed at the wreckage. “Any more of any of that left?”

She moved her head in a subtle nod toward the counter. “There is tea, and there is jam, and there is bread. Toast is made on the grill.”

“Right.” He considered her. “Long night?”

The fingers of her left hand flickered in the sign-language known as Old Trade, letting him know the boss hadn’t slept—and neither had she.

“Right,” he said again. “I’m on shift now. Get some rest. I’ll sit on him.”

She smiled faintly. “I wish you good fortune, but I believe you will find yourself bested,” she murmured, easing out of her chair. At the sink, she emptied what was left of her tea, rinsed the beer mug and set it to be washed.

She looked back as she left the kitchen. Pat Rin yos’Phelium and the cook were still deep in their plans; the cook laboriously writing down the boss’ suggestions.

***

“DON’T LOOK LIKE
the ad’s
drawing so good,” Cheever commented at about half-past lunch. “What say we shut the store for an hour and go on down to Tobi’s for bite?”

Pat Rin glanced up from the battered notebook he’d been studying for most of the morning. “We do not appear to be awash in customers,” he allowed, courteously. “Nor have I properly attended the hour. By all means, Mr. McFarland, provide yourself with lunch.”

Cheever sighed mightily and shook his head. “I thought we’d got the concept of ‘security’ through to you. I ain’t leavin’ you here on your own, even if you probably are the best shot on the planet.” He swung a hand around, impatiently. “Think about it! What if five guns come in through the front door right now and you was alone?”

The Liaden smiled, politely, like Cheever’d maybe told him a slightly off-color joke. “Why, then, Mr. McFarland, I should immediately be out the back door.”

“If I believed that—which I don’t—how’d you plan on dealin’ with the two they sent ’round to watch the alley?” He frowned, as ugly as he knew how. “You ain’t making things easy for your security, Boss. My copy of the plan don’t include the part where your head gets blown off.”

“Ah.” He closed his eyes. Cheever considered him, letting the frown go, and allowed as how he was worried. The plan—because there was one, hammered out between the three of them long before they raised Surebleak—was only good to a point. Taking over Moran’s territory—that had been according to plan. They had to have a planetary base, and while Moran’s streets weren’t exactly convenient to the spaceport, they had been the nearest most accessible target. From here, they could consolidate, and figure out how to get past the more powerful fatcats who controlled the territories surrounding the port.

He’d considered that they’d be using their guns more than once, ’cause that was how business was done on Surebleak, and didn’t think much more about it.

Since yesterday, though, he’d thought about it a lot.

Pat Rin . . . Pat Rin wasn’t a pro. Oh, he was a good shot; he walked the walk, and that cool, pretty face of his didn’t give away much, but that was gambler bravado—plus a measure of pure cussedness, give the boy his due—and nothing like what marked Natesa out as a gun to fear.

Pat Rin had a revenge to accomplish. Cheever understood that. In fact, he sanctioned it. And he didn’t doubt—if the boss had to personally shoot every fatcat and loyal ’hand on Surebleak to do it, that the job would get done. What worried him, considerable, was the question of what would be left of Pat Rin yos’Phelium at the end of the campaign. He’d already taken a hit that would’ve unhinged most Liadens, as Cheever understood it. Pat Rin hadn’t come unhinged—at least, not so you’d notice—but he was starting to show some strain. Even as he sat there in his chair, eyes closed and restful looking, Cheever could see the tension in his muscles, and new lines starting to etch in around his mouth. The success of the game depended on this man, Cheever thought—and came suddenly to the realization that nobody—maybe not even Pat Rin himself—knew what Pat Rin would do next.

“Well.” The Liaden opened his eyes and slipped the little book away into his jacket. “One does not build an entire day’s labor upon a jam sandwich.” He stood, a shade less graceful than his usual, which Cheever thought was the sleepless night starting to show.

“Let us have lunch, Mr. McFarland.”

Come down to it, Cheever hadn’t expected to win the argument, and he wasn’t sure he liked the idea of the boss in Tobi’s surrounded by workaday streeters, now that he had the victory. Still, they had to show their faces around town—that was the point of the rug store, after all. As if to enforce this line of reasoning, Cheever felt his stomach rumble an order for a brew and a sandwich.

That being settled, he followed the boss into the store proper just as the first customer on the day walked in off the street.

She was a sight to behold—on first glance as out of place on the street as Pat Rin himself. Second glance found the silk to be second-grade synthetic; the jewelry light-gold set with mine-cut stones. Still, she bore herself as would a person of melant’i, come to call upon an equal.

Accordingly, Pat Rin bowed.

The lady considered him out of clever blue eyes, and shook her pale, elaborately coiffed head.

“I won’t even try to duplicate that,” she said, and her voice was high and sweet. “Let’s just consider that I done what was polite.”

“Indeed,” Pat Rin said, smiling. “Let us do so. Have I pleasure of addressing Ms. Audrey?”

She nodded, unsurprised. “Expecting me, were you? Well, I guess you shoulda been, after last night. I was out on business, or I’d’ve tried to set things straight then. I’m hoping we can come to an accommodation today, if you got time?”

“Mr. McFarland and I were on our way to lunch. If you would care to join us . . . ?”

“Great minds think alike,” she said, with a grin. “I was hoping you’d see your way clear to having a bite at my place. Not as public as Tobi’s, and the food’s better.”

Pat Rin considered her, noting a certain tension—which was certainly expectable in one come to call upon the new and unknown quantity to whom one owed allegiance—as well as a certainty of her own worth. The clever eyes met his with frankness, which was rare in this place where he found himself. She was not by any means in her first youth, and struck him as both competent and commanding.

In fact, she was just such a one as he would need by him, if they were able to forge an alliance built on mutual profit.

He inclined his head. “Almost, you persuade me,” he murmured. “Mr. McFarland?”

He felt, rather than heard the big man sigh. “Sounds great,” he said. “Tobi’s ain’t the kind of place to do business, Boss.”

So
, Pat Rin thought grumpily,
I have cleared the matter with ‘security.’ Behold me, virtuous.

“Well, now, that’s—” the lady began, and cut herself off, frank gaze going over Pat Rin’s shoulder.

“Will you
look
at that,” she breathed, reverently. “I ain’t
ever
. . .” She brought her eyes back to Pat Rin’s face with a visible effort.

“That is one hell of a rug.”

“So it is,” he agreed smoothly, slipping into his merchant’s role. He moved a hand, inviting her to make a closer inspection. Nothing could have been more to her liking.

At his direction, she sampled the nap, her fingers as reverent as her voice, and obediently inspected the underside, admiring the precious, hand-tied knots.

“Who’d make something like this?” she asked, when he had done and stepped back to allow her to commune with the carpet.