Korval's Game (85 page)

Commander of Agents rose from behind his desk. He paced his office from end to end and side to side. At the beginning of his fourth pass, he checked, and deliberately called to mind the calming exercise he had first been taught as an Agent-in-Training, many years ago.

Slowly, he brought his heartbeat down, normalized his breathing, bled off the unneeded adrenaline. When he had done, he stood yet another few heartbeats, eyes closed; meditative.

Eventually, he opened his eyes and returned to his desk, ordered the hardcopy which he had in his agitation flung down, and set it to one side while he accessed his screen.

Alas, that ill news stalked the hour, the latest in the form of a memorandum from the financial department chair. Another of the Department’s bleed-off funds had been uncovered, the program destroyed by the Masters of the Accountants Guild.

Commander of Agents flicked through the report, until he found the name of the Master in charge of the investigation.

dea’Gauss.

Very softly, Commander of Agents sighed.

dea’Gauss. Korval’s man of business.

Commander of Agents extended an arm and touched the switch on his console.

“Commander?” His second’s voice betrayed an edge of startlement.

“That matter we wished to place before the Council of Clans.”

“Yes, Commander. We have been awaiting the most appropriate moment.”

“So we had. I advise you that the moment has arrived.”

“Yes, Commander.”

“On another matter—I will wish to meet with a squad leader in . . .” He glanced over at the chronometered wall. “In fifteen Standard minutes, in the Level A meeting room. That is all.”

“Yes, Commander.” The connection light went out.

DAY 31
Standard Year 1393
Surebleak Spaceport

VILLY BENT OVER
the table, black pick held delicately, hook properly extended, between thumb and forefinger, eyes narrowed in concentration.

The pick hovered over the jumbled pile of brightly colored sticks, flicked out and deftly flipped a silver from the tangle onto the counting cloth. The boy took a careful breath, and the pick stabbed out again, three times, placing a red, an orange and a blue stick next to the silver on the cloth.

Pat Rin, viewing the performance with an expert’s eye, saw the tell-tale quiver of a purple stick three layers down in the tangle, but Villy, in pursuit of the gold, either ignored the tremor or had determined that boldness would win the day.

He extended the pick, delicate—so delicate—touched the gold stick . . . lifted it . . .

“Oh,
sleet
!” he exclaimed as the sticks broke from their self-described formation and went rolling and tumbling every-which-way. He looked up, shamefaced.

“Sorry, sir.”

Pat Rin raised an eyebrow. “Not entirely. Indeed, I see that you have been working. Your touch is much improved. Now, you must sharpen your eye. Attend me.”

He swept the twenty-four brightly colored sticks up in a practiced motion, tamped them, placed them on end in the yellow-tiled circle which had been set into the table-top for just this purpose—and let go.

Obedient to gravity, the sticks fell, creating a satisfyingly complex multi-colored tangle.

“So,” he said, receiving the black pick from Villy. “We have a dreadful mess, here, do we not? I will wager you twenty cash that all of those sticks may be extracted and placed on the cloth while disturbing no other in the formation. Have we a bet?”

Villy shook his head. “I know better than to bet against you.”

“Youth today,” Pat Rin mused aloud, while his eyes traced the intricate pattern created by the sticks; “lack the adventurous spirit.” It was, he decided, a difficult fall. He could easily see his way clear to acquiring sixteen, even eighteen, of the twenty-four. The rest . . . well.

“Only twenty cash?” a rich voice asked from near at hand. “Why not a wager worthy of your skill?”

Calmly, he looked up and met Natesa’s amused black eyes.

“What would you wager, my lady?”

“Let us consider.” She tipped her head to one side, a finger over her lips as she ostentatiously considered the matter.

“I know,” she said at last. “If you miss the twenty-four, I will have the Sinner’s Carpet out of Ms. Audrey’s house.”

“Ah, will you?” He looked at her appreciatively. “And what is my prize, should I succeed?”

She smiled at him, slow and seductive. “Why, something very nice.”

He laughed.

“Done,” he said, fingering the pick into the proper hold. “Attend now, child,” he said to Villy; “this may be the last time you see me play.”

He looked down to the bright jumble, and let the room fade out of his consciousness, until it was only himself, the sticks, and the necessity to win.

The pick flashed out.

The first eight were simple liberations, after which the challenge began in earnest.

Quickly, he proceeded, dexterously avoiding anchor-sticks and rolling traps, while with every cunning infiltration of the pick another stick fell to the counting cloth.

It came at last to three, lying one against the other.

Pat Rin reversed the pick, inserted the flat tail in the whisker-wide space between the yellow stick and the blue, rolled the yellow, reversed the pick, and caught the stick in the hook to flip it, with a showy snap of the wrist, to the cloth.

The blue stick was likewise appropriated, and then the final orange, delivered to the cloth in a toss that sent it spinning high, turning over three times on its descent to the cloth.

Pat Rin placed the pick on the cloth next to the sticks, and smiled at Villy.

“That is how it is done, do you see?”

The boy shook his head. “I see that I’m gonna hafta practice a
lot
more.”

“I did not say it would be easy, working in the casino,” Pat Rin reminded him. “Perhaps, you would rather Sheyn took the sticks table?”

Sheyn was Villy’s chief rival in popularity at Audrey’s house, and though the rivalry was mostly friendly, still Villy would not easily bear having a task taken from him and given to the other boy.

“Nossir, Mr. Conrad! I’ll practice.”

“Good,” said Pat Rin, stepping back from the table. “I will return later today.”

He walked away, Natesa at his side.

“So,” he said to her softly. “When may I collect my winnings?”

“Youth today,” she said, calmly, “lack patience.”

“Ah, but I am far beyond my youth. What you choose to see as impatience is merely the necessity of man with too few hours left him.”

She looked at him gravely. “Yes, exactly so.”

“I was certain that you must see it eventually,” he murmured, allowing her to proceed him through the door and into the port proper.

The day was cool and bright—Surebleak high summer—and the port itself displayed a gratifying amount of activity. Work was going forth on several collaborative efforts, notably the duty-free shop—boldly named The Planetary Cooperative—and situated in the space formerly occupied, according to the ancient signage, by a Learning Shop; a fresh fruit, vegetable, and flower stall; and no less than two repair stations. Individual efforts included a beverage bar, featuring local fruit ciders; and a pastry shop. And, of course, the casino.

Pat Rin had hopes of a restaurant in the future, as well as a gemstone and spice exchange. But, for the moment, progress was made. And it was good.

Side by side, they proceeded, slowed considerably by the numerous, “Morning, Boss.” “Mr. Conrad, sir. Ms. Natesa. Good to see you both.” One of the mechanics called out that the concordance books had arrived; and plastic cups of cider were pressed into their hands, with a smiling, “Just in from the farms this morning. Boss Sherton’s compliments, Mr. Conrad.”

“You are well-loved,” Natesa remarked as they went on.

“So well-loved that you yet insist upon tasting my drink ahead of me,” he said ironically. “When shall you give over security, Inas?”

Black eyebrows arched. “Why, I have done so. If my care now seems more particular, it is because I have a personal stake in your continued good health.”

He looked at her consideringly. “I see that I have done ill, then, in returning you your oath.”

“Not at all. I asked for its return because my interest had grown beyond mere business. You complied because the request was reasonable.” She inclined her head, formally. “Thus, we comported ourselves with honor. What lies before us is a different game entirely.”

“Which cannot be won,” he said, soberly. “Attend me, my lady. This is Surebleak; I may be murdered in the next hour—and you, at my side. And if that fails, there are always those other enemies of my clan, who may discover me at any moment, and likewise slay us both.”

“That is,” she said in her calm way, “acceptable.” She sipped from her own cup. “But not likely. The cider is good.”

“You amaze me,” he said, and sipped, finding it very good, indeed. So good, in fact, that it was quite gone by the time they reached the portmaster’s office, a scant stroll from the new juice stand.

“Good morning, Mr. Conrad—Ms. Natesa.” Claren Liu nodded easily as they entered.

“Portmaster. A pleasant day to you.”

“It has been so far.” She waved a hand at the main screen. “Never thought I’d see Surebleak Port so busy. If it keeps up like this, we’ll be in competition with Terraport!”

“Never so large as Terraport,” Pat Rin said softly. “Will you settle, I wonder, for a small, rustic jewel of a port?”

Portmaster Liu laughed. “Sure, I’ll take that.” She pushed out of her chair and went to her desk, pulling some few sheets of hardcopy from a file.

“’beam came through for you last night. I knew you were gonna be here today, or I’d’ve sent it in to you.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at the papers, saw the Health Net logo, and folded them into his pocket for later perusal.

“Other thing we’re gonna want,” she said abruptly, “is traffic. Fine as it is to have a small rustic gem of a port, if nobody lands, what we got is no better’n what we had.”

“True enough. My associates and I have been considering that. There are trade bands, are there not? And pilot frequencies, where the goods and services of this or that port may be advertised?”

She blinked. “Well . . . sure. You’re thinking about
advertising
Surebleak?”

“What harm can it do?” Pat Rin asked reasonably, feeling Natesa’s presence at his shoulder as a comfort. “A few small advertisements only—perhaps in praise of our ciders and—our handmade rugs. We are not so out of the way that ships
may not
stop, if given good cause. That they
have not
been stopping has been due to our . . . reputation as a dangerous and backward world, served by—forgive me—a port of the lower tier.”

“Nothing to forgive in the truth,” Claren Liu said, brusquely, and stared off over his head for a long moment, before coming to herself with a nod.

“Tell you what. The port’ll go in half with whatever the association comes up with for advertisement. We got a promo budget. Up ’til this second, I didn’t have the barest idea of what to do with it.” She grinned, self-mocking. “Add Surebleak to your pay-route! It’s cold and they’ll break your neck, too!”

At his shoulder, Natesa laughed.

“And now we may say—Stop at Surebleak, and enjoy the play.”

“Not bad,” Claren Liu told her, the grin somewhat less mocking. “Hold on a sec—I’ve got the rate book here.” She bent again to the desk, rummaged briefly and emerged triumphant, waving a tattered brown booklet.

“Here you are,” she said, handing it to Pat Rin. He glanced at the cover, found the rates in force until Day 96, Standard Year 1393, and slipped it away, too, for later study.

“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head. “As always, it has been a fruitful visit. One of my house will be on the port in two days’ time. If you have need of me before—”

“I’ll call,” she said, interrupting good-naturedly. “Those talkies were a good idea. Yeah, like you’ve had a bad one.” She attempted the formal nod—at which she was slowly gaining proficiency, Pat Rin allowed—and straightened.

“Good to see you, then, sir—ma’am. Hope to see you again soon.”

“Good-day, Portmaster,” Pat Rin murmured.

“Good-day,” Natesa echoed and the two of them departed, heading for the casino, a second training session, and an afternoon meeting in Elva Whitmore’s territory.

***

“STILL AWAKE,
Boss?” Cheever McFarland’s big voice preceded him into the room.

Pat Rin glanced up from a frowning study of the Health Net papers.

“As you see, Mr. McFarland, I am not only awake, but irritable.”

“Long hours’ll do that,” Cheever said cheerfully. “I’ve got a report, if you want it.”

Pat Rin pushed the papers aside. “Indeed, I do.” He considered the man, noting the subtle signs of weariness. “However, I would not keep you from your bed. Tomorrow is soon enough, if you are in need of rest.”

Cheever shook his head. “Too wound up to sleep. What I’m after right now is a sandwich and a beer. What say we compromise and hit the kitchen?”

“Very well.” He rose, leaving the papers on his desk.

“It’s comin’ along fine,” Cheever said some minutes later, around a truly formidable sandwich constructed of cheese, greens, and onion between thick slices of the cook’s homemade bread. “Got the rubbish cleared out. Got a couple of the local techs through the sleep-learner and put ’em to work fabricating the equipment. Got a couple building squads throwing us up some bays and dorms. Talked to somebody just ’fore I left this morning—sharp one, name of Perl—anyhow, she’s been studying on the schematics for the cradle and thinks she’s got a line on the how-to. Ain’t gonna be pretty, right at first, but we’ll have us a working yard that ain’t dependent on the port.”

He took a bite of sandwich and washed it down with a mighty swallow of beer. Pat Rin sipped his fruit cider. The warehouse district they had taken over for Korval’s first ship yard on Surebleak had been burned out in some long-forgotten riot, and remained unclaimed by any current boss. Pat Rin had annexed it by the simple expedient of sending Cheever McFarland and a work crew to the area with the goal of cleaning it up.