Korval's Game (81 page)

A light step interrupted these ruminations.

“Pat Rin.” A soft voice murmured in his ear. Strong hands came down on his shoulders, kneading. “You promised that you would rest this afternoon, denubia.”

He smiled and leaned back into her hands.

“I am resting,” he murmured. “I am sitting in a comfortable chair, with my cat on my lap, and my beloved by me. Were I any more restful, I would be asleep.”

“Ah. But there remain some hours until the first guests arrive. Perhaps a nap would not be entirely out of order.” He felt her fingers against his hair. “Not entirely out of order,” she repeated, her fingers moving in long, soothing strokes.

He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and the cat curled on his lap began to purr in earnest.

“I am surrounded and overpowered,” he complained, forcing his eyes open—just. “Wretch—you have attached a potent ally.”

She laughed, low, and came ’round to offer him her hand. “Come, upstairs with you! Silk and I will engage to sit on you, if that is necessary to making you rest.”

“I scarcely think I
would
rest under such conditions,” he commented, shifting his knees. Silk woke with a long, sensuous stretch, leapt to the floor and strolled off. Pat Rin put his hand into the hand of his love and allowed her to help him to his feet.

“We shall mount an investigation,” she said, slipping his arm through hers. “And, then, perhaps both of us will rest.”

***

THEY RECEIVED TWENTY,
in the final count, with rather more of the associated bosses in attendance than Pat Rin had anticipated. It seemed that, despite the commonly held goals, there remained some, certainly understandable, rivalry between the allies, and none wished to quit the floor to the potential advantage of another.

He mentioned this to Penn Kalhoon when his hostly duties brought him at last to that gentleman’s side; the other man nodded, unsurprised.

“We gotta expect that. I mean, most of the long-holders—Ira, Whit, Melina, me—we shot for boss because we thought we could do it better’n it was being done. And mostly, we were right. Not to say we didn’t make mistakes.” He sipped his juice and sighed. ’s good. I need to talk to Melina about getting some of this into my turf, now the Road’s open.” He grinned suddenly.

“See? Boss-think. You got it yourself, only bigger, better, flashier. None of
us
figured out how to open the Road, and I gotta tell you I been kicking myself about it daily since the day you come into my office and offered to deal.” He had another sip of juice, and glanced up, light shining off the lenses of his spectacles. “That newspaper of yours—you know it’s feeding the jealousy, don’t you?”

Pat Rin frowned. “Is it? I had no notion. My thought had been to . . . inform . . . the residents of my own streets on subjects of interest to themselves. It was a severe shock, if you will have the truth, when Ira showed me the copy that had been brought into his territory. It was long out of date, but . . .” He hesitated on the edge of a possible indiscretion.

“But he was all warm to know that Deacon’d had a water-filtering plant in his turf, and that you was sponsoring free reading lessons to all comers. Now the Road’s open, and news is easier to spread, we’re all gonna find out pretty quick that Melina has a winery, and Ira’s got six clinics, and Penn’s got a school system—and everyone of us is gonna want what we’re short of.”

“Well, then.” Pat Rin had recourse to his own glass—grape cider, according to Melina, and very pleasant, indeed. “If that is the case, then we must discover how to bring improvements to all territories, each according to their needs.”

Penn laughed.

“Bigger, better, flashier. Count me in, whatever you come up with. Meantime, this is a—a
triumph
, in case you don’t know it. Twenty bosses in the same room—bosses
only
, no ’hands to cover ’em, and their personal guns on file downstairs with your people?” He shook his head. “Never thought I’d see it. Sleet, never even thought of the idea. Something else to kick myself for.”

“Surely,” Pat Rin murmured, “you have had enough to occupy you in keeping your territory stable for ten years?”

“Yeah, but see, I
knew
keeping my streets clean wasn’t enough. What I didn’t know was how to expand without—well, without starting a war. Now I seen it, and I learned something.”

“Ah,” Pat Rin said, and turned the conversation, gracefully, to Penn’s wife and children, whom he had met during his convalescence.

Later, moving among his guests, he was stopped by a young person scarcely beyond halfling, her dark eyes darting nervously from side to side.

“Boss Conrad?” Her voice was high and louder than necessary.

He admitted it and she nodded, jerkily. “Voral Jene. Gough Street turf.”

“Ah, yes.” One of the unallied bosses. He inclined his head, remembering to smile. “I am pleased that you were able to come this evening.”

“No problem,” she said. “I wanted to talk to you about—I mean, couple the other bosses here say the Road’s really open, that I can walk end to end, from the port to the farms, an’ nobody’ll stop me or make me pay a toll.”

“That is correct.”

Her busy eyes searched his face. “Why?” she asked, voice keying higher. “Why’d you do that?”

Something was wrong, here, Pat Rin thought, considering the frantic young face. Perhaps she had partaken of one of the all-too-common street drugs, which had now turned on her. He glanced casually to one side, saw Melina Sherton over by the buffet table, talking to Ira Gabriel.

“Why?” Voral Jene demanded.

Pat Rin frowned. “Because the trade is important,” he said, keeping his voice soft and reasonable. “Both between territories and between the world and the greater galaxy. The trade will—”

“The plague come from the spaceport,” she interrupted, very loudly, now. “You know that, don’t you? It come outta the spaceport and damn’ near killed everybody! I was just a kid, but I remember it! And you went and opened up the Road again! You’re trying to kill us!”

The room was alerted now. From the edge of his eye, he saw Melina moving in, and Penn Kalhoon, too. Many of the other bosses were staring at them, their conversations interrupted by Voral Jene’s shouted accusations.

Something else moved—out of place and stealthy—behind Melina. Pat Rin turned his head at the motion and the girl grabbed his wounded arm, shouting now. “You’re going to kill us! We’re all going to die!”

Gasping, he shook her loose and saw the man behind the buffet pull an outsized gun from beneath his jacket.

“’Ware!” Pat Rin shouted, and Melina spun.

Her first kick destroyed the gunman’s aim, sending the pellet into the blameless ceiling; her second knocked his legs out from under him. Ira Gabriel was there in a rush, first kicking the weapon out of the man’s hand, then kicking him in the ribs. The gun skittered a few paces across the floor before being snatched up by Penn Kalhoon.

Two other bosses were holding Voral Jene by her arms, despite her cries and struggles. The door burst open, admitting Natesa, Cheever, Gwince and Filmin.

Cheever was at the buffet in two strides, and had the downed gunman by the collar. Scarcely less quick, Natesa gained Pat Rin’s side, her eyes cold, and her mouth tight.

“Search her,” she directed Gwince, and the two bosses obligingly escorted Voral Jene to the nearer wall.

A few steps away, Penn reversed the gun he had captured and handed it peaceably to Filmin.

Cries of “Kill him!” “Kill them both!” were rising as Cheever hauled the erstwhile gunman to his feet. The man moaned and shook his head, and Pat Rin recognized him as Victor Armhaut, of Conklin turf.

Pat Rin took a breath. “Silence!” he snapped, the command mode ringing against the shattered ceiling.

Silence there was.

“Is anyone hurt?”

Against the wall, Voral Jene was sobbing, while Victor Armhaut reeled in Cheever McFarland’s grasp, shivering and panting for breath.

Save for the ceiling, there were no injuries.

“What do we do now, Boss?” Cheever asked, shaking his captive a little.

Pat Rin raised a hand, drawing all eyes to himself. “An excellent question. We have gathered for a party, not an execution.” He eyed the assembled multitude. His associates, all of whom had been in danger of the gunman; all of whom had some right to Balance.

“It is in my mind to fling these two into the street so that we might continue our evening,” he said to his associates, acutely aware of Natesa’s presence at his side. “What to you think?”

The room filled immediately with voices, and opinions.

“Can’t just let them get away with . . .”

“Ought to shoot ’em both . . . .”

“Kick ’em in the head . . .”

“No, wait! Conrad—I know!”

“Josh Cruthers,” Pat Rin said, raising his voice to be heard above the din. “What is your solution?”

The angry shouts died back to a bass rumble, then fell into silence as a thin bald man scarcely taller than Pat Rin himself stepped into the center of the room.

“Josh Cruthers, boss of Arcadja Alleys,” he said, looking around at the assembled bosses. “Look, Conrad’s right—we come here to get to know each other, not for a killin’ . . . .”

“They drew on the man in his own house!” somebody shouted from the back of the room.

Josh Cruthers held up a hand. “Hear me out. Just hear me out, and if it don’t make sense, well, then we ain’t no worse off, right?”

There was a mutter of approval, and he continued.

“So, what I’m thinkin’ is, I’ll have my car drive these two back to Gough Street and let ’em out—so we ain’t gotta see ’em. Then, tomorrow, the gab-rag puts out the news on ’em. Let everybody know Boss Jene and Boss Armhaut ain’t gonna be allowed to join the Affiliation ’cause they pulled a gun on Conrad in his house, while we was all here on his invite. Ain’t none of us wants to deal with ’em—so Gough and Conklin turfs won’t get no help with clinics, or school tutors, or gardens, or nothin’—not till they got themselves bosses willin’ to see there’s a better way to get stuff done. . . .”

Pat Rin heard Penn Kalhoon’s “They won’t last a week!” amid a chorus of agreement.

Privately, he thought that the two renegade bosses would do well to last a week, but the Balance was no more than precise. Pat Rin inclined his head.

“With Boss Cruther’s loan of a car and Mr. McFarland’s assistance as an escort, I believe that our party may continue. Please—take them away.”

He looked ’round the room, remembering to smile, and set about putting his guests at ease, which was the duty of a host.

“My apologies for the disturbance,” he said to the room at large. “I direct everyone’s attention to the buffet, where we still have many delights to share! Please, friends, party on!”

DAY 51
Standard Year 1393
Departing Lytaxin

DAAV HAD BEEN
taught patience, years and worlds away, at the tent of an expert, but he had never learned to delight in its practice.

Therefore, he waited, patiently, at the airfield with a small kit-bag composed mostly of necessities others thought he needed. Before he had departed Erob’s house, young Alys Tiazan had come to him with a tin of tea, as well as a surprise: A flatpic of Val Con and Miri, captured, so Alys said, on the night Miri was acknowledged kin to Erob. Miri’s expression was grave to the point of grimness, as she stood very close to full attention, as if her dinner dress were a particularly uncomfortable uniform. Val Con stood easier, as a scout would, bland-faced and non-committal.

Daav had thanked the child for her gifts, and was rewarded with a beguiling smile and a bow so accurate in its complexity that he thought she must have practiced for hours—a bow to the parents of one’s most admired mentor.

Now, rather than pace—which would not have been patient—or taking the offered observer’s seat at the temporary control tower, where he might have been diverted by this or that happenstance, Daav lounged on a small hummock, with the airfield, the Truax Liftmaster Plus which was the Clutch turtle’s idea of a world-to-space shuttle, and his kit-bag all in view.

The kit was, as he well knew, inadequate. Even dangerously inadequate. Beyond the gifts, and a few odds and end of toiletries, he had packed several changes of clothes, a pocket recorder, extra ammunition . . .

“Daav, don’t fret so,” her voice murmured in his ear.

“Well enough for you to say it;” he responded, glaring at the kit as if he might transmute its contents by will alone into the appropriate and needful equipment—aye, and a working team of scout specialists, too. “I’m merely waiting for the Honorable to arrive—and doing quite a creditable job of it, too.”

Aelliana’s voice carried an undercurrent of amusement. “Ah, yes. I see you being patient, patient, patient. Truly, van’chela, if you become any more patient you will kick your poor bag down the hill and—”

He laughed, half-hearted, for all that she was right; and ran a quick rainbow to center himself—and perhaps to buy some real patience.

“I am concerned of this mission, too,” Aelliana continued. “But I cannot see how we might have altered event in order to accompany those returning to Liad—not when Korval Themselves gave us the task.”

“Light-witted, ill-conceived . . .” Daav began and heard his lifemate chuckle.

“Yes, as much you like,” she said, soothingly. “Of course we cannot create from thin air a proper scout diplomatic mission, outfitted with experts of protocol, biology, language, and geology. Nor could our delm. We are the cards they had to hand—and so they play us. You know very well that you had done just the same, when you stood Korval! And while we are
not
a scout team, we are certainly better than thin air. Besides, the Tree of Erob has gifted us at our new daughter’s bidding, and so we are doubly fortified!”

“That,” Daav admitted, “was unexpected. For her to calmly hold out her hand and expect to catch such gifts as if she had been born beneath a Tree and spent her childhood at home in its branches—and for the Tree to so willingly comply . . .”

“Here,” Miri had said, handing the two seedpods to Daav. “One for each of you. Eat ’em when Edger shows you to your cave.”