Carefully Val Con hurried, half searching behind for the agent, half searching ahead for his lifemate.
Equations flowed and altered as sig'Alda ran; certainties became questions. Assuming that the Terran had been near the transmitter—had been
stationed
near the transmitter—as part of a deliberate and prearranged plan, the chance that she had taken the drug was markedly less; though, of course, for an addict, such possibility was never entirely eliminated.
The Loop offered figures that were marginally in favor of her having used the Cloud, noting that she had had none prior to the performance. Cloud was potent; its lure to one sensitized was irresistible.
The light was uncertain, mostly derived from the glow of the fair behind him and a few lanterns and electric lights set about the train. The red-haired Terran was not where he had left her, and the multitude of tracks about made any attempt to discover her direction hopeless.
He glanced behind. There was no sign yet of yos'Phelium. sig'Alda sought further and found his quarry still within the limits of the fair light, speaking, it seemed, with a local.
The conversation ended abruptly, with the local walking back into the depths of the fair and yos'Phelium all but running, in sig'Alda's very direction.
sig'Alda smiled, admiring the clearness with which he could see that backlit runner. At this distance, it was still a chancy shot with a handgun, depending more on the luck that had saved him twice so far than any amount of skill he might bring to bear. But there was no hurry. yos'Phelium was coming to the transmitter. It remained only for Tyl Von sig'Alda to find an appropriate place to wait until his target ran within range.
Miri crouched behind the flatbed, watching the Liaden watch, fuming and trying to think.
Val Con had not killed the guy, though she was sure some of the craziness in his pattern had had to do with a conflict between them. Ergo, she thought, half grinning in self-derision. Ergo, Robertson, this monkey's more valuable alive then he is dead. Figure out why.
The answer was so simple, so pure, that it took her breath away. Spaceship. Damn and hell and blaze it all to cinders! She fingered the coins in her pocket, pulled out the stickknife and flipped it—open . . .shut—and sighed. The way she saw it, the patrol broke down into two separate options.
One: Keep an eye on the Liaden until Val Con arrived and gave her some kind of clue to what was going down. And two: If it looked like the target was moving out, stall him—without killing him.
Always draw the challenging watch, doncha, Robertson? she asked herself sardonically, remembering that Skel had always accused her of deliberately taking the storm shift, as if a body knew when trouble would break.
The Liaden she was watching moved, reaching into his fancy leather jacket and pulling out a gun. Miri craned around the corner of her protection, trying to sight along his line of vision, and nearly yelled.
Val Con was moving toward the train, backlit from the main fair—a target even a mediocre marksman could hardly miss. She checked his pattern and found it alive on several levels, encompassing that twist she associated with consciousness of danger. But he was running, all the same. And in another few moments he would be within range of the Liaden's gun.
All bets're off, Robertson, she told herself. She slid forward, knife out.
Her melody changed again. It was denser, more brilliant, and intensely alert, as if she had suddenly slipped into a role where intuition, reflex, and intent were inexpressibly more important than thought.
As if she were—hunting.
He broke into a run, flat out and danger be damned, as the Loop leapt to full life, elucidating .85 that she was stalking the agent; .35 that she would survive the first encounter by more than a minute; .20 that she would survive at all.
Miri, Miri, Miri!
He flung his will out, trying to speak to her as Shan had spoken to him.
Miri, DON'T!
There was no sign that she heard; her song reached a plateau, drew in upon itself, and formed into a lance.
Heart wailing, mind cold and certain, Val Con pulled on deep-buried reserves, feeling
L'apeleka
and override programs and desperation fueling the fresh burst of speed. Hunch prodded him into evasive action, and the next second he saw the flash; he heard one pellet snarl by his ear as another ripped the sleeve of his jacket.
The Middle River blade was loose in its special arm sheath, ready to slide into his hand in an instant. Before him—still so far away!—he saw the agent turn, gun rising; he saw Miri coming in, low and fast and mean, knife gleaming in her hand; saw the agent take the force of her charge on his gun arm; saw the downward slice and—
Saw the gun fly away.
The agent snapped into offensive, missed his setup as Miri dodged and ducked and slashed low, trying to cut his legs out front under him, and recovered enough to slap the knife away, arcing silver into the shadows.
Miri twisted and landed on her feet, countering the next attack—blindingly fast—with a move he had taught her. The agent was surprised to meet that familiar counter: he slowed minutely, slipped in the snow, and twisted as if to regain his balance, throat exposed and defenseless.
Val Con drew one last burst of speed from somewhere, not daring to scream and risk destroying her concentration, hoping against all knowledge that the agent's misstep had been real.
Miri lunged forward and took the bait.
The agent steadied, accepted her weight and momentum, bent, spun, and completed the kill with the sureness of a man thoroughly trained.
Miri went up and over his back, arching high into the air—a thin, red-haired doll in a blue hooded jacket—and smashed down onto the hard-packed snow.
She lay utterly still.
Val Con heard himself scream even as the blade came into his hand, saw the agent bend over to make certain of his work, then saw him start back, choking and gasping. Ship be damned and kin be damned and Liad and universe and life: the crystal blade caught and held the light as it came to ready, and Val Con jumped forward to close with the murderer of his wife.
The cannonball hit him just below the knees, pitching him into the snow while a banshee voice howled in his ear, "Stay away from him! It's Cloud—poison!"
He rolled and came to his feet; one glance showed him the agent snatching something that gleamed black metal out of the snow; saw Miri completing her own roll and diving toward him again, knocking him sideways.
Heard the cough of the pellet gun and felt Miri's body go stiff, and then slack, against him.
He was alive. No second shot had been made, either to be certain of the first kill or to set up the next. Val Con shifted Miri's weight, sighted through the splash of her hair across her face. The agent was standing perhaps three feet away, gun held ready, an expression of most unagentlike vacancy on his face.
Val Con brought his attention to his lifemate, discovering a feeble pulse in the thin wrist under his finger, and a patch of sticky wetness that seeped through, coat and shirt, to his skin, that could only be blood.
Her
blood.
Gently, reverently, he slipped from beneath her and came with slow fluidity to his feet and faced the agent, Middle River blade held in plain view, ready for the kill.
Gun steady, the agent looked at him out of wide, soft eyes, but he seemed inattentive. Val Con hesitated, then walked forward, extended a hand, and plucked the gun away. The man blinked but offered no resistance.
"I was to have shot someone," he said, the High Tongue registering wondering confusion. "I cannot properly recall . . .I was to have shot—
some
one . . ."
"And so you have!" Val Con snapped, his own voice taking on the cadence of authority. "Give me your kit!"
Dreamily the agent reached around his belt, unclipped something from beneath his jacket, and held it out.
Val Con snatched it out of his hand and spun back to the small huddled shape on the snow.
The wound was just above the right breast. His hands shook as he sealed the entry and exit holes and sprayed the dressings with antiseptic. Gods, gods—so close. And what he had to give her was rough first aid, though better than the rough-and-ready assistance a local medic might offer. For surety, for complete and quick healing, it was imperative to get her to an autodoc.
"Is she hurt badly?" the agent inquired from just behind his shoulder.
Val Con spun on one knee. "Badly enough," he managed with some semblance of sanity. He considered the agent's soft eyes, dreamy face, and careless stance. Cloud, Miri had said. Memory provided the relevant bit from the Lectures. " . . .
Lethecronaxion, street names: Cloud, Lethe, Now:
memory inhibitor; effects lasting from one to twelve hours; physical addiction, as well as psychological need of user to shield painful associations, make Lethecronaxion among the most deadly of the unregulated drugs."
Val Con sighed. "What is your name?"
The agent looked startled; covered it with a bow of introduction. "Tyl Von sig'Alda," he said most properly. "Clan Rugare."
"So." Val Con stared deep into the pupil-drowned eyes and saw nothing but guileless confusion. "Where is your ship?"
Confusion intensified. "My—ship, sir? I—Rugare is not a . . .I have no ship—of my own. I am a pilot-for-hire, if you have a ship but do not care to pilot yourself—"
Val Con cut him off, the High Tongue shaping the words into dismissal. "I see." Miri
had
to have assistance, and an autodoc was so far superior to a local hospital . . .
Gylles itself did not have a hospital, the nearest being in the next town, thirty miles southeast. Too far, mind and heart clamored, while his finger tracked the thready, ragged pulse. He looked again at the agent, trying to recall if there had been a way—
any
way—known to his instructors to bring an individual out of a Cloud-trance.
After a moment, he gave up. If the instructors of agents had the key to unlock a mind shrouded in Cloud, they had not shared it with Agent-in-Training Val Con yos'Phelium. There was, however, something else . . .
Slowly he came to his feet, careful to keep his body between Tyl Von sig'Alda, Clan Rugare, pilot-for-hire and Agent of Change, and Miri Robertson, lifemate, partner, lover, and friend. The dark, clouded eyes followed him, distant puzzlement plain on a face peculiarly vulnerable.
"Do you know me?" Val Con demanded.
The other signaled negation, half bowing. "Sir, I regret . . ."
"I am Val Con yos'Phelium." He watched for the flicker of recognition, hoping that the stimulants the man had taken were of the more powerful variety, and that the dose was sufficient to speed the Cloud through his system.
Nothing showed in face or eyes, then slowly something dawned. "Clan Korval?" he asked hesitantly.
"Exactly Clan Korval," Val Con snapped. "And this lady you have shot—in your passion to shoot
some
one—is my lifemate! How came you to do something so ill, man? And now you tell me you have no ship, when I know you must have, and are denying me the use of the 'doc out of murderous spite! Do you want my lifemate to
die?
Do you want the weight of my Balance to come down upon your head?" He leaned close and fancied he saw a glimmer of some returning sense deep in the dark, dark eyes. "Have you heard the tales of Korval's past Balances? They are true—every one!"
"Yes." The agent's voice held a note of actual ridicule. "Terrifying—the Balance dealt Plemia!"
Val Con smiled. "My brother is a merciful man," he said softly. "Do you think to find me so?"
The agent leapt forward and to the side, muscles coherent and alert. Val Con twisted and got a grip on him—then lost it as the man dropped, feinted, and came up with a palm-gun. Val Con froze, watching the eyes, which were changing yet again.
The gun was steady, the face firm and full of purpose. Val Con saw the finger tighten on the trigger—and he dove, tackling the man as Miri had tackled him.
The gun discharged into the air; the agent twisted, trying to lever himself to the top; Val Con countered, grabbed the wrist of the other's gun hand, and slammed it against the hard snow until the fingers opened and the tiny weapon spun away.
Again the agent tried to twist free, to gain the advantage. But Val Con willed himself a boulder—a dead weight to pin a struggling, hasty man—got his hands around the other's slender throat, and exerted pressure.
The agent froze.
Val Con kept the pressure constant, neither increasing nor decreasing, and let the silence grow for a moment while he felt the frenzied beating of the pulse beneath his fingers. Gods, how many stimulants had the man taken? Or had the Department merely issued their most potent because one of the commander's arcane calculations had rendered acceptable the odds that Tyl Von sig'Alda would achieve mission success before the accelerants wore out his heart? "Where is the ship?" he demanded.
The man beneath his hands was silent.
Val Con dared to raise himself and look into the other's face. The black eyes glittered with an inward-looking intensity bordering on madness; the face was flushed, the muscles painfully tight. Val Con felt hope flicker. This was a state he knew well: a deep MemStim frenzy. Carefully he took his hands away from the other's throat and sat next to him in the snow.
"Agent Tyl Von sig'Alda," he said, reaching into his memory for the commander's nightmare voice and speaking the High Tongue in the dialect of Ultimate Authority. "You will report as questioned. You will speak to answer questions. You will be silent when ordered. Is that understood?"
"Understood." The ravenous eyes looked upon him without recognition; sweat dewed his upper lip and forehead, and the pulse in his throat beat fast and ever harder.
Val Con willed himself into patience, making himself consider the proper questions and the proper order of asking.
"Timeframe," he said. "Directly before tracking the target to the Winterfair. You landed and secreted your vessel, correct?"