Korval's Game (66 page)

Pat Rin sighed, and spared a glare for Cheever McFarland, who was once again studying the flowers. To Audrey, he inclined his head, slightly.

“I am . . . familiar . . . with most types of gaming and gambling practiced in the galaxy.”

“Well.” She finished her wine and put the glass down. “What’re you doing here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Rusticating.”

She didn’t smile. “Plan on sticking around?”

“Surely that’s my business.”

“Was,” she said, her voice almost stern. “But then you set yourself up as boss. That changes the rule of play.” She raised a hand, as if she’d felt his outrage.

“Hear me out, just hear me out. Nort Moran was a stupid, selfish animal, and the whole territory’s best off without him. Vindal—that was the boss before—she was smart, but she wasn’t tough. Word was she didn’t even try to pull when Moran walked in on her. You—you’re smart
and
you’re tough—and we need you. You’re gonna be good for business—this bank idea of yours, for one; and putting the gab-rag back on the street. That’s for day one. Who knows what you’ll come up with by the time you’re on the street a week?”

“Who, indeed,” Pat Rin said politely, sternly suppressing the shiver. For the second time in his life, he was being offered a Ring. Gods. At least, this offer was made with honor—or so he thought—perhaps leavened with a healthy dose of fear.

Audrey nodded. “Right. Right. You’re the boss. An’ I’m outta line.” She sighed, and pushed back from the table. “Just—think about it, OK?”

Apparently, their luncheon business was concluded. Pat Rin inclined his head and rose. “I will think about it. My thanks for a most delicious and convivial meal.”

“You’re welcome,” Audrey said, matching his formality. “I hope it’ll be the first of many.” She glanced up to Cheever McFarland. “Mr. McFarland, my pleasure.”

“No, ma’am.
My
pleasure,” the pilot assured her, gallantly, which won him an easy laugh before she led them back through the hallways and spacious rooms to the main entranceway.

There were rather more people about now, the clients obvious by their less grand—and more concealing—clothing. That several of the clients took him for a new addition to the house was plain from the stares of interest he intercepted. He sighed to himself, and followed his hostess, coming up to her side when she stopped a sleek young man dressed only in a pair of scarlet synth-silk trousers, and a purple sash. The young man favored him with a wide smile.

“Villy, love, run down to the pantry and bring a bottle of Autumn Wine up for the boss,” Audrey said, quite loudly enough to be heard across the room. In fact, several heads turned in their direction—clients and residents alike.

The young man’s smiled dimmed considerably, but he nodded briskly enough. “Sure thing, Ms. Audrey. Back in a sec.” He was gone, running lightly on bare feet.

“He’s a good boy,” Audrey said comfortably to Pat Rin. “Your wine will be here in a flash.”

“Ms. Audrey,” he said, softly, but with genuine feeling. “You must remind me never to dice with you.”

She laughed, and patted his arm. “Let them get a good look at you,” she said, her voice as soft as his. “Your security’s right behind you. Besides, it’s been a long time since anybody was stupid enough to draw in
my
house.”

There was a light patter of feet against floorboard, and Villy was back, bottle in hand. He presented it to Ms. Audrey with a flourish and prudently faded away.

“OK.” Audrey presented the bottle with a similar flourish, smiling as he took it from her hands.

“Thank you,” he said, pitching his voice to be heard.

“Glad to be able to oblige,” Audrey assured him, also in carrying tones. She smiled impartially around the room and they went on.

In the entrance hall, Cheever opened the door and examined the street.

“Clear,” he said, over his shoulder. Pat Rin bowed to Ms. Audrey—the bow between equals—turned.

“Oh,” she said. “One more thing.”

He looked back, eyebrow up.

“I’ll lease that rug from you for six months. Can you have it here tomorrow?”

***

THROUGHOUT THE AFTERNOON
they entertained a steady trickle of customers—most, so Pat Rin thought, come to look the new boss over. It was peculiarly unnerving, to be thus on display, and it required every bit of his considerable address to carry through, moving unhurriedly among his customers, answering questions with gentle and attentive courtesy.

Beside himself, the Sinners Carpet was the item of most intense interest. He lost count of how many times he displayed the knots; elucidated the fabric; told over its curious history—and revealed that, beginning on the morrow, it was on lease to Ms. Audrey, for a period of six months, Standard. Often enough, this led to a discussion of the concept of “lease,” as it had with Audrey.

When at last Barth arrived to take up his post as night guard, Pat Rin felt he had been, in the idiom of Shan’s mother,
spin washed and hung out to dry
. His head ached, and he wanted the study of his house in Solcintra, with its comforts of books, and comm screen, and a chair that cherished the contours of his body—wanted it so fiercely that his sight misted and he bent his head, biting his lip.

It is gone
, he told himself, grimly.
Everything and everyone—gone, dead, destroyed, unmade. Believe it. Make your Balance your focus, or you will surely go mad.

“You all right, sir?” Cheever McFarland’s voice was soft, for a wonder, and carried a strong note of concern.

Pat Rin straightened. He must not display weakness before his oathsworn. He took a breath. “I am perfectly fine, Mr. McFarland,” he said coolly and strode up the sidewalk, toward the “mansion” he called his home.

The door was opened to them by Gwince, grinning good-naturedly.

“Evening, Boss. Mr. McFarland. Natesa said to tell you, Boss, that the work you wanted done is in process. Cook asks when you want to eat supper. Printer’s boy brought a package for you. Natesa put it in your office.”

Pat Rin closed his eyes, there in the tiny vestibule of his house, and tried to recall what tasks he had particularly wished Natesa to accomplish. Ah. That would be the upgrading of Boss Moran’s security arrangements. Very good. News of the delivery from the printer was also welcome—he had two persons of honor on the day, which surely found him richer than yesterday. What had been the—yes. Supper.

“Please tell the cook that Mr. McFarland, Natesa and I will dine in one Standard Hour. Mr. McFarland has a bottle of wine, which we will wish to drink with the meal.”

She took the bottle from Cheever, eyebrows twitching in what might have been surprise, but she merely murmured a respectful, “Yessir, will do.”

“Thank you, Gwince,” he said and began to turn away, then swung back. “I wonder, do you know Ajay Naylor?”

Gwince looked surprised. “Sure, Boss. Everybody knows Ajay.”

“Alas, not everyone,” Pat Rin murmured. “I have not had the honor, an oversight that I wish to rectify. Do you think you might ask her to call on me at the store tomorrow, mid-morning?”

Now, Gwince looked puzzled, even faintly alarmed. “Sure, I can do that.” She sent a glance into Cheever McFarland’s face, but apparently found nothing there to ease her distress.

“Um, Boss—just so you know. Ajay’s like four hunnert years old. She ain’t—well, she ain’t—” Gwince stumbled to a halt, regrouped, and produced a rather faint, “She makes rugs, see? And trades ’em out for stuff she needs.”

Gods, what a filthy place
! Pat Rin thought, furiously.
As if I would murder an old woman—
His fury flamed out, leaving him cold and shaken. While it was true that he had not yet murdered an old woman, who could say where the necessities of his Balance might take him? Gwince was within her rights to be wary of his reasons for wanting Ajay Naylor. He sighed and met her eyes.

“I have business to discuss with Ajay Naylor,” he said, mildly, and was absurdly pleased to see the alarm fade from her eyes.

“Right,” she said, briskly. “Mid-morning tomorrow, at the rug store. I’ll tell her, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said again, and walked down the short hallway, Cheever McFarland a large and ridiculously comforting presence at his back—and paused on the threshold of the front parlor.

Last seen, this chamber had been very nearly as grubby as the printer he had interviewed there. This evening, while the furnishings must still dismay any person of taste, other matters had undergone a change for the better.

The floor, for instance. This morning, it had been a dull and slightly sticky gray. It now flaunted its true color for all to see—a pale, and not unbecoming blue—and showed a small, repeating pattern of a darker blue—flowers, perhaps, or some sort of decorative insect.

The walls, which had this morning been of a dinginess in competition with the floor, had been washed, revealing that they had, at some all but forgotten time in the past, been painted a blue to match the floor. The ceiling, likewise relieved of several years of grime, was discovered to be white, the central globe-shaped light fixture yellow. The effect was unexpectedly pleasant—rather like walking into a sunlit sky.

“Well,” he murmured, and heard Cheever McFarland grunt behind him.

“Thought she was going to sleep.”

Pat Rin glanced at the big man, eyebrows up. “You think Natesa did this?”

“Well, sure, don’t you?”

“No,” said Pat Rin, looking ’round the room and considering its possibilities. “I think she had it done. I wonder what else has gone forth, as we were whiling our hours in pleasure?”

“Guess we could take the tour and find out.”

“We could,” Pat Rin conceded. “Or we could ask Natesa, which would be much less fatiguing.” He turned to look up the big man.

“Mr. McFarland, I am going to prepare for dinner. I don’t doubt that you are heartily sick of the sight of me and wish a few moments to yourself. I give you my word that I will not be assassinated before the dinner hour.”

Surprisingly, Cheever grinned. “Dismissed!” he said cheerfully and nodded. “See you at dinner.”

Blessedly alone, Pat Rin took one more look at the blue room, reminding himself to congratulate Natesa on the result, and went upstairs to dress for dinner.

***

THE MEAL ARRIVED
in a surprising two courses. The first consisted of a plate of tinned soup for each, and a communal platter of crackers and cheese. This was removed by a main course of baked tubers under a spicy brown sauce accompanied by thin slices of meat braised with onion; fresh bread, butter, tea, and Autumn Wine.

“Much improved,” Pat Rin murmured, and heard Cheever McFarland chuckle.

“Improved ain’t the word. I’m thinking that the cook was after poisoning us last night, eh, Natesa?”

“Possibly,” she answered. “Just as possibly, he was frightened enough to have been thrown off his skill.” She sipped the wine cautiously, and Pat Rin saw her eyebrows lift.

“This is pleasant,” she said. “Have we a winery?”

“Alas. The bottle is a gift. And we are instructed that it is a fragile thing, not to be held far into the spring.” He moved his shoulders. “We are further told that this vintage originates in the country, and that sometimes as many as two dozen bottles make it into this territory, whereupon they are purchased by Ms. Audrey.”

“Ah.” Her face lit. “You called upon Ms. Audrey?”

“Rather, she called upon us. We had a very pleasant discussion over lunch in her house.”

“Where the boss here sweet-talked her into startin’ a bank—no, hold it, a mercantile association—since pawn shops ain’t good enough for him, and she tried to get him to promise to be boss for life.” Cheever forked a slice of tuber and looked at it meditatively. “’Course, that’s how it works here, anyhow, but she seemed of the opinion that his life was gonna be longer than most. Right taken with him, she was. Thought he was elegant.”

Natesa laughed.

“We have also,” Pat Rin murmured, “placed the Sinner’s Carpet at lease for six months’, Standard, at a rate of eight hundred cash per month.”

“Ms. Audrey, of course,” Natesa said. “No one else could afford it.” She paused, her head slightly to one side. “Indeed, I am surprised to hear that
she
can afford it.”

“A test of trust,” he said softly, finishing the last of his meal with real regret. “She must know if we can work together—which is what I must know, as well. Also, I believe that her smuggling operation is profitable.” He moved his shoulders. “So, we have progress upon the day.” He pushed his plate aside and reached for his wine.

“I have noticed the improvement in the front parlor,” he said, which phrase would have been entirely appropriate in the High Tongue, but struck the ear oddly in Terran, almost as an accusation.

However, Natesa, who spoke Liaden, seemed to have heard the commendation he intended to convey. She inclined her head politely and murmured that she would inform the staff of his approval.

“How’s house security?” Cheever asked then.

Natesa turned to him. “Like the meal, much improved. We are not impregnable, of course, but we are difficult . If tomorrow’s work goes as well, we will be formidable.”

“That’s good. What about the overheads? I can help out tonight, if you need it.”

“Thank you; assistance would be most welcome. There is also a . . . device . . . in the sub-cellar that I would like to have your—”

The door to the dining room opened just enough to admit a thin person dressed in what appeared to be the street standard: Ill-fitting trousers and shirt, with a second shirt worn over the first, as a jacket. This particular specimen also had a shapeless cap crammed down over his ears. He came two steps into the room, a flicker of shadow at his heels, and froze, eyes stretched wide in a pointed brown face.

Pat Rin tipped his head, considering this apparition. He was young—a boy only; at a guess, several Standards younger than Quin—and bore himself with the tentativeness one might expect of a smaller and weaker “extra”—those who loitered in crowds on street corners, and were available for such day-labor as might manifest.

“Good evening,” he said gently to the wide, frightened eyes. “I am the boss.”