Sound (22 page)

Chapter 20

T
he waters outside Ny Kyoto are murky with sediment and light from the spindles. I watch through the back viewport of the Tsukinos' submersible as the ocean closes over the city like so many scarves layered one on top of the other. The light fades. I look away. The water feels heavier in the dark, somehow.

I close my eyes and lean back against the bulkhead.
Pressure on a submerged object is equal to fluid density times gravity acceleration times the height of any fluid above—

Rubio nudges me. “What are you whispering about?”

My eyes fly open. “Nothing.” My face flames. Was I saying that out loud?

Rubio gives me a look that says he's pretty sure I'm going mental, but before he can say anything, a massive shadow flickers across the viewport.

I yelp. “What was that?”

Freja peers out the window. “A harrow, probably. Don't worry, they won't attack anything with lights on it.”

I glance nervously at the window. “You're sure?”

One of Freja's comrades snickers, and the rest of them exchange grins.

Freja smirks. “I think I know more about my own moon than you, bureaubrat.”

Before I can respond, Freja's grandfather ducks in.

“All right,
besättning
, we're under way.” He looks over the twelve of us in the passenger hold—Freja, Cassia, Rubio, eight of his people who met us on the dock, and me—then wipes his nose and stuffs the rag in his back pocket. “Another few hours, and we'll be at Rangnvaldsson's gates. I want a quick, clean handoff. No friendly-making with their crew, but no brawling, either. We help them unload, chop, chop—we're back on our way with full pockets.”

His crew shifts in their seats, murmur their assent.

“You three.” He points at Cassia, Rubio, and me. “A word up front.” He jerks his head at the cockpit.

We follow him to the darkened front of the submersible. The ceiling hangs so low Rubio has to duck to fit in.

Herr Tsukino drops himself into the pilot's seat with a small grunt. The control panel lights his face, giving him a bluish pallor. Beyond the viewport, nothing shows but thick darkness and the occasional flicker of debris caught in the ship's perimeter lights.

He clears his throat. “I'm letting you come along on account of the good trade we've done with the Kalderos over the years.” He shifts his eyes to Rubio and me. “But you two don't know me, so it's only fair warning: you ruin my trade, you're out on the ice.” He extends a finger up, toward the surface.

Rubio and I exchange a look. The Enceladan surface is hundreds of degrees below zero. Even with a suit, out on the ice means dead in a matter of hours. A weak, nervous laugh escapes me.

“I'm not joking, girl.” Herr Tsukino frowns. “I don't play games with my livelihood. Understand?”

“Right.” I nod. “Sorry. Of course. Got it.”

Herr Tsukino bobs his head at the door. “Go on, then. Rest up. We've got another six hours before we reach Rangnvaldsson's.”

We shuffle out of the cockpit and start making our way back to the hold.

“Cassia,” Herr Tsukino calls after her.

She follows him back to the darkened room. I pause, listening outside in the narrow corridor.

“About your brother . . . I'm sorry,” he says gently. “It shouldn't happen. Not to anybody, but especially not after his wife—”

“Thank you.” Cassia's voice is hard. “I appreciate all you've done for us.”

“Have you thought . . .” Herr Tsukino pauses. “I know you don't want to hear this, but Enceladus is a big moon, and even if Rangnvaldsson did buy him, he might not be there still. Maybe it's better if there's someone around to take good care of that little girl of his. Might be what he'd want.”

“What he'd want is to see her again.”

Herr Tsukino's voice is quiet. “Even if it costs his sister's life?”

Silence. The back of my neck prickles and my palms itch.

Finally Cassia speaks. “Thank you again, Herr Tsukino.” Her voice comes near to breaking.

I turn as she stalks out of the cockpit. “Cass—”

But she brushes by me and hurries away as if I haven't been standing there waiting for her.

The smell of fresh-cut flowers and lemongrass pervades the dock at Rangnvaldsson's. Everything is bright white, as
blinding as snow. Even Rangnvaldsson's heavy machinery operators wear white. The Tsukino crew's worn brown jumpsuits and stained boots stand out like smudges against the pristine dock.

A woman with butter-yellow hair and a crisp sky-blue kimono patterned with lingonberries strides to Freja's grandfather, arms open wide. A cluster of attendants in the palest pastels shadow her.

“Tsukino-san. It's been too long.”

“Fru Rangnvaldsson.” Herr Tsukino inclines his head in a slight bow. “What do they say? ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.'”

“And pockets lighter.” Fru Rangnvaldsson offers her hand to Herr Tsukino. “Please, Tsukino-san, you're always so formal. You must call me Nanami.”

So this is the woman who might have Nethanel. I glance at Cassia. She looks like she wants to tackle Fru Rangnvaldsson to the deck and knock out all of her perfectly bleached teeth.

Herr Tsukino grunts in what might be agreement and delivers a perfunctory kiss to the back of her hand. “The pockets we can fix. You want the cryatine here, or are we taking it to storage for you?”

Fru Rangnvaldsson smiles wide, but it doesn't reach
her eyes. “But, please
,
your crew must be famished. We have a dinner laid out for you.
Dozo
, come and eat. We can worry about cargo after.”

“Domo tack gozaimasu,”
Herr Tsukino answers. “How can we refuse such a generous offer?”

“You'll want to leave guards, of course.” Fru Rangnvaldsson tilts her head at the submersible. “We'll bring a nice little something out to them.”

“How kind.” Herr Tsukino gives a stiff nod and locks eyes with two of his crew. “Shun. Alvar. You have the watch. Everyone else with me.”

“This way.” Fru Rangnvaldsson beckons us, kimono sleeves billowing.

I fall in close behind Freja and Herr Tsukino as we make our way down the hall, Cassia, Rubio, and the others following after. The walls glister like mother-of-pearl, and glowing nests of lights hang from the high ceiling.

“I can't tell you how delighted we are to renew trade with you, Tsukino-san,” Fru Rangnvaldsson calls over her shoulder as she walks. “It's been so long since you had such interesting cargo.”

A tinge of purple-red flares along Herr Tsukino's jawline. “Hmn,” he grunts.

Freja doubles her steps to keep up with her grandfather.
“Shun and Alvar?” she hisses under her breath. “You shouldn't have split us up, Jiiji.”

He slows his pace ever so slightly, lengthening their distance from Fru Rangnvaldsson, and speaks low. “Steady, Freja-chan. If things go badly, you make for the sub, understand?”

“Yes, Jiiji,” she mutters, then glances back at me and scowls. I concentrate on the floor and try to keep up the polite fiction that I'm not listening.

“Take the tinker girl and her friends, too,” Herr Tsukino says. “No one's going to say I let Rangnvaldsson or anyone else do harm to my guests.”

Freja nods stiffly.

Ahead, the hallway opens onto a vast dining room with vaulted ceilings rising some twenty meters above our heads, a long table draped in snowy linen, and Lucite chairs lined up for the meal. More light nests shine above us, and glowing panels line the walls, chasing away any hint of shadow.

“Forgive the formality.” Rangnvaldsson places a hand to her chest and waits as one of her attendants draws out the chair at the head of the table for her. “We were so thrilled to hear from you again, Tsukino-san. Perhaps we have gone too far?”

Herr Tsukino clears the phlegm from his throat.
“Not at all. We all love a good fish, don't we?” He glances down the table at the rest of us, a warning in his eye.

“Of course,” Freja says a bit too loud. The rest of us nod along together.

We take our seats. A young woman in a powder-blue
yukata
circles the table, pouring a sour-smelling liquid the color of skimmed milk into each of our glasses. Circular panels at the center of the table slide back, and silver platters loaded with buttered turnips and what look like enormous rings of pale calamari rise into place. A pungent vinegar smell rolls off the plates.

“Please, help yourselves.” Fru Rangnvaldsson smiles at us.

I slide a ring of fish onto my plate. To my right, Rubio attempts a bite and gags. Cassia and Freja glare at him.

“This one must be new to your crew.” Fru Rangnvaldsson smiles. “Offworlders often tell me whiteroot is an acquired taste.”

“Yes,” Herr Tsukino agrees. Beads of sweat dot his hairline, even in the cool air of the dining room. “I have several new indentures I'm training.”

“You'll come to like it, young man.” Fru Rangnvaldsson nods knowingly at Rubio. “Your body needs the protein.”

I lean close to Cassia and eye the not-calamari. “What's whiteroot?”

“It's a tuber worm that grows on the seafloor,” she whispers back. “They harvest them when the summer currents come through and preserve them for later in the year.”

“A tuber worm?”

“Don't be such a snob.” Cassia takes a bite of her whiteroot and makes a face. “It's much better fresh.”

“How is your daughter, Fru Rangnvaldsson?” Herr Tsukino asks. “Still seeing that luxuries trader in Ny Kyoto?”

Fru Rangnvaldsson smiles down at her drink. “Engaged.”

“Congratulations,” he says.

An awkward silence falls, full of the clink and scrape of forks. Freja nudges her grandfather. Cassia and I exchange a glance, and I bite the inside of my lip. Will he do what we've agreed?

Herr Tsukino scowls at her but turns to our host. “I wondered, Fru Rangnvaldsson . . . we're finding ourselves short on the labor end of things.” He throws a meaningful look at the servant hovering behind her. “We thought you might have contacts that could help us turn up some extra warm bodies.”

Fru Rangnvaldsson places her fork gently beside her plate, folds her fingers, and stares over them at him. “You're interested in sponsoring more indentures?”

Herr Tsukino's face darkens. He shifts his eyes to Cassia. “I was looking for something more . . . permanent.”

The clinking of cutlery stops short.

Fru Rangnvaldsson raises an eyebrow. “Tsukino-san, I'm surprised at you.” She wags a finger. “I thought you were against such practices. If I remember correctly, you called them
barbaric
, no?”

Herr Tsukino clears his throat and shoots a look at his granddaughter. I've seen Soraya give me that look before.
I'm doing this because I love you very much, but I also want to kill you a little bit.
“We've found it's . . . an unpleasant necessity.”

“Yes, well, I can see that.” Fru Rangnvaldsson nods slowly, as if she's considering Enceladan economics for the first time. “You spend time and money training indentures, and then you have them for, what? Three years? Five? That's quite a hit for small traders such as yourselves.”

“That's . . . the whole of it.” Herr Tsukino's face has turned a dangerous shade of purple red. He balls his dinner napkin in his fist.

Fru Rangnvaldsson picks up her fork and toys with
it, studying Herr Tsukino. I try to focus on my plate and pretend not to be interested, like the rest of the Tsukino crew. Everyone is studiously chewing their food, except Cassia. She stares at Fru Rangnvaldsson, nearly vibrating. I find her hand beneath the table. It's cold and clammy, as if she has a fever.
Please give us something, some small clue. . . .

“I'm sorry to say, Tsukino-san, but I can't help you. We only deal in indentures here.” Fru Rangnvaldsson spears another ring of whiteroot. “Small dealers can fly beneath Earth's notice, but we have contracts to keep. The International Orbital Patrol Authority, the Obremski Group, DSRI—”

My head snaps up. “DSRI?”

Rubio kicks me beneath the table, and Freja and her grandfather give me a death glare. Fru Rangnvaldsson looks at me as if I've merely lost my mind.

“You see what I have to work with.” Herr Tsukino waves a hand at me. “Indentures!”

“I truly wish I could help you,” Fru Rangnvaldsson says. “But the flesh trade isn't in our line.”

Cassia pulls her hand from mine and wipes it furiously with her napkin.
Vaat.
Even if our hostess knows where Nethanel is, she's never going to admit it.

“In fact,” Fru Rangnvaldsson says, “I had to turn away
a group of gentlemen selling exactly what you're talking about not three weeks ago.”

Beside me, Cassia stiffens.

“Did you?” Herr Tsukino leans forward and attacks his turnips. “Any idea where they were bound, these gentlemen?”

“Someplace to the south.” Fru Rangnvaldsson waves her hands vaguely. “Ny Skaderna, I think. But that's too far to be worth your while.”

Ny Skaderna.
That was on the
dakait
's list. I force myself not to look at Cassia or Rubio, not to betray anything.
Ny Skaderna, Ny Skaderna.
Don't forget.

Herr Tsukino shoots a look at Cassia and grunts. “
Hai.
Too far.”

Fru Rangnvaldsson picks up her cloudy white drink and examines it. “If you're short on funds, though, I have a proposition that might interest you.” She takes a delicate sip and smiles at Freja's grandfather.

Herr Tsukino and Freja exchange a look. “What's that?”

“Yes, well . . .” Fru Rangnvaldsson pushes away her plate. “We're having a bit of a problem with harrows, you see.”

“Harrows?” His eyebrows shoot up.