The Agent Gambit (11 page)

"What use can any being have for flawed knives?" Handler asked, squinting his eyes in puzzlement.

"Ah, they are to be given to certain special individuals in the organization of this Justin Hostro. These individuals are entrusted with tasks having much to do with the honor and integrity of the organization. It is Justin Hostro's thought that a blade used for such a purpose need be used for that purpose alone and never for any other. More, it should be a weapon of impeccable crafting, that it not fail during the task itself.

"These knives fit the criteria Justin Hostro has set down most admirably, is it not so, brother?" This last was directed to Selector, who inclined his head.

"It is, indeed, as if the Cavern of Flawed Blades were created and discovered only for this bargain we have struck with Justin Hostro."

Val Con, perched on the arm of a chair set a little apart from the circle of Clutch members, grinned at the undercurrent of venom in that comment and glanced up as Miri's door sighed open.

She was dressed in a dark blue gown that sheathed her like a second skin in some places, and flowed loose and elegant, like a fall of midnight waters, in others. On the right side, her hair was arranged in a complex knot through which was thrust a slender, gleaming stick; the rest of the copper mass was allowed to fall free. Her throat was bare, as was one arm; her hands were innocent of rings.

He stood as she approached Edger, and faded back toward his own room as she made her bow.

"Yes, my youngest of sisters," the T'carais boomed, recognizing her immediately. "That color becomes you-it sets off the flame of your hair. A wise choice, indeed."

Miri bowed her thanks. "I wanted to thank you for the chance to have this dress. It's the prettiest thing I've ever worn."

"The artistry of you is thanks enough. You and my so-beautiful young brother-where has he gone?" The big head swiveled.

"Here." Val Con smiled, coming silently back into the room. "I had forgotten something."

He was beautiful, Miri saw. The dark leathers were gone, replaced by a wide-sleeved white shirt, banded tight at the wrists, lacy ruffles half-concealing slender hands. There was lace at his throat, and his trousers were dark burgundy, made of some soft material that cried out to be stroked. A green drop hung in his right ear, and a gold and green ring was on his left hand. The dark hair gleamed silken in the room's buttery light.

He bowed to her and offered the box he carried. "I am sorry to have offended you."

"It's okay." She took the box and cautiously lifted the lid.

Inside shone a necklace of silver net, holding a single stone of faceted blue, and a silver ring in the shape of an improbable serpent, clutching its jaws tight around a stone of matching blue.

She stood very, very still, then took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes.

"Thank you. I-" She shook her head and tried again.
"Palesci modassa."
That was the formal phrase of thanksgiving.

Val Con smiled. "You're welcome," he replied, since it seemed safer to stay with Terran. He touched the necklace lightly with a forefinger. "Shall I?"

Her mouth quirked toward a grin. "Sure, why not?"

First she slid the ring onto her left hand, then raised both hands to hold her hair off her neck.

He slid the necklace around her throat with a skill that hinted at past experience, then gently took her hair from her hands, arranging its cascade down her back. Miri bit down on a sudden surge of excitement and managed to keep her face expressionless as he came to her side and bowed to Edger.

"I think that we are prepared to celebrate, elder brother," Val Con said. "Does it please you to walk with us?"

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHARLIE NARANSHEK
slipped his service piece into the sleeve pocket of his dress tunic. He always carried it there, though his employers at the Grotto had supplied him with a large and very ornate weapon, with instructions to wear it prominently. It was a matter of feelings. Charlie felt better on his shift as bouncer when he knew that his daytime gun was at hand. He got the heebie-jeebies whenever he thought about having to draw and aim the pretty piece he wore on his belt.

Feelings, Charlie thought, slamming the locker door, were important. Clues to the inner man. It was smart to pay attention to one's feelings, to act with them.

He raised his hand as he passed the desk. "Night, Pat."

"Hey, Charlie?" She waved him over, spinning the screen on its lazy Susan so he could see the bright amber letters. "Take a look at this, willya? Something you might run into down on the second job."

He frowned at the letters: Be On The Lookout . . . .

"Four turtles and two humans? Are they crazy?"

Pat shrugged. "Who knows? Don't you think the turtles would eat the Grotto up? That fancy no-grav dance floor?" She wiggled her shoulders in a uniformed parody of a dance that may have been in fashion on some steamy jungle world where spears and canoes were still considered pretty radical stuff.

Charlie grunted. "Sure. But it's not no-grav; it's
low
-grav." He shook his head at the screen. "'Observe, but do not contact. Report whereabouts to Headquarters, Mixla City . . . continue observation . . . Considered armed and dangerous'?"

He looked at Pat, who grimaced and touched her keypad. Physical descriptions of the two human members of the party scrolled into place.

"'Male, brown hair, green eyes, slender build, approximately five-five, age eighteen to twenty-five. Female, red hair, gray eyes, slender build, approximately five-two, age eighteen to twenty-five.'" He straightened, pushing the screen back where it belonged. "This is armed and dangerous? Ain't neither one of 'em big enough to pick up a gun, much less use it. The turtles now-one of them could hurt you, if he stepped on you."

Pat laughed and flipped her hand at him. "Get out of here, you damn moonlighter. I don't know what I expected from somebody who can't live on a cop's salary."

He grinned, moving toward the door. "See you later, Pat. Try not to let one of them kids take over the station while I'm gone, okay?"

"Yah-just don't go dancin' with no turtles, old man."

The door slid closed on her laughter and Charlie sprinted for the nearest taxi stand. He'd have to step on it now, or he'd be late.

HANDLER HAD OUTDONE himself
. Not only was the Clutch party seated within an exclusive alcove with excellent sight of the musicians and the famous dance floor, as well as two of the six bars, but he had further arranged-since the Clutch, after all, were visiting human space-that the four nonhumans should eat their meal using Terran utensils.

One by one Edger extracted his set from the sheathing napkin, turning each fork, knife, and spoon this way and that, subjecting it to saucer-eyed scrutiny.

"What think you, brothers?" he asked the table at large, extending a spoon. "Is this also a knife? It has an edge, of sorts . . . ."

Handler pulled one of his spoons free and tried the balance in one large hand. "It is true that it
could
be a knife, elder brother, and it is not beyond our skill to encourage such a shape. But this other-" He proffered a dessert fork.
"Three
points? Six edges, I fear me."

"A trifle!" Edger asserted. "Think if we but bring the problem to-" Here sense was lost in a sonorous rumbling that Miri realized must be Clutch-talk.

She leaned to her partner. "Are they serious, or what?"

"Hm?" He started slightly and turned to her, his full sleeve brushing her bare arm. "Of course they're serious. Middle River Clan produces the finest knives in Edger's society. Which is the same as saying that they produce the finest knives anywhere yet discovered."

"What does that mean-the finest? Does it mean pretty or useful or indestructible?"

He grinned and refilled their glasses. "Yes. Middle River knives are crystal, delicately crafted, superbly handled, exquisitely sheathed-things of beauty, without doubt. Also useful, since a knife is, after all, a tool. Edger and his Clan encourage as many blades as there are uses for blades, from screwdrivers to grace knives." He sipped wine. "Indestructible? Edger is very careful to say that a Middle River blade
will
shatter, under conditions that he likes to call 'traumatic.' These being the total destruction of the building or vehicle the knife resides within, while the knife is so resident . . . ."

She laughed. "But
spoons?"

He removed one of the many folded in his napkin. Flippling the lace away from his hand in absent-minded grace, he held the utensil out for her inspection and ran a finger around the edge. "There is symmetry, you see. And purpose. Utility. A certain pleasing quality, indeed, to the form." He shrugged and lay the spoon aside. "Who can tell? Perhaps soon-within, let us say, the late middle life of your grandchildren-Middle River spoons may be the very rage among the wealthy and influential."

"Indeed," Edger boomed, "such was my thought, young brother! If these be things that are used daily, why then should they be wrought of soft metal, that so quickly wears out? Why not, indeed, of crystal from our Clan's encouragement, so that they may be used for hundreds and hundreds of your Standard Years?"

Miri laughed again, raising her glass. "No reason at all! Humans are just shortsighted, I guess."

"We do not blame you for it," Handler said quickly, "for it is true that you cannot help the shortness of your lives. But it does seem wasteful and somewhat chauvinistic to condemn your works to obsolescence only because you, yourselves-" He floundered, the end of his sentence in sight and no graceful exit apparent, but Edger rescued him noisily.

"Not so, brother, for ephemera is an art form. Indeed, it may be art at its highest form-I have yet to conceive an opinion and have heard no others. Have we not all seen the works of this, our younger brother, employing the mediums of sound, of movement pattern, and reflected light? Done, gone, changing as it goes. Art, brothers. And who is to say that . . . " Perceiving that Edger was in the throes of his passion yet again, his Clan members composed themselves to listen.

The remaining two members of the party exchanged glances, grins, and a sip of wine.

CHARLIE CAME THROUGH
the East door of the Grotto exactly on time and hardly out of breath, waving at his day-shift counterpart.

"Hey, George! What's the news, man? All quiet in underground Econsey?"

"Pretty quiet," allowed the other, a thin, dark man who'd been thrown off the force for hitting a kid and killing him. "There's a party over in the South quarter might bear some extra attention. Group of genuine Clutch-type turtles and a couple humans."

"Say what?" Charlie stared, then quickly forced himself to blink.

"Turtles," George repeated patiently. "Four of 'em. Two humans: male and female. Young. No problems-just a little noisy. But that's turtles for you-can't hold a conversation without cracking the walls next door. I just like to keep an eye on 'em. Not that we get that many 'phobes in here."

Charlie nodded. "Yeah, but you never know. I'll check in on 'em every so often. What about the kids?"

"Pretty couple. He's dark. She's a redhead. Not orange," he elaborated surprisingly. "Kind of a reddish brown."

"Auburn."

"Yeah, auburn. Little thing. Seem to be having a good time-all six of 'em. Million laughs." He shrugged and shuffled a step toward the bar.

"Well, good," Charlie said, taking his hint. "I hope they enjoy their stay in beautiful Econsey." He raised a hand. "See you 'round, buddy."

"Take it easy." George was already waving at Macy behind the bar to set up his first drink.

CHARLIE'S BEAT WAS
the East
and South quarters, with one eye tipped to the low-grav dance floor at the center of things. Janees Dalton patrolled West and North, one of her eyes also on the floor, and two floaters circulated, their eyes on everything.

East was quiet. Charlie intercepted a bill dispute before it got noisy and passed it to the nearest floor manager; he escorted an early drunk to the nearest exit and put her in a cab; he nodded hello to a couple of regulars and moved across to South.

Good mob tonight, he thought, flicking a glance to the dance floor and another to twin bars marking the gateway from East to South. He spotted one of the floaters, Mark Swenger, and waved him over.

"How's it goin'?"

"Not too bad." Mark grinned. A nice kid, he worked the Grotto nights and went to school days, aiming to be a lawyer. Charlie hoped that wouldn't happen-law was a bad way to lose a friend.

"What about the turtle party?" he asked. "Still running?"

"Oh, yeah. It looks like they'll be there for the next year." Mark shook his head. "Man, you would not believe the beer and wine that table's going through! They might
have
to stay a year."

Charlie tipped his head. "Disorderly?"

"Naw, just having a good time. A little loud, but I think turtles just
are,
since they're so big and everything. It's wild, though, to walk past and hear the big one booming out in Terran to the girl, and the next littlest one booming just a little less loud to the boy in Trade, and the other two going to town in something I don't think anybody can speak!" He laughed.

"Real cosmopolitan, huh?" Charlie was grinning, too.

"Real circus," Mark corrected. "But not obnoxious. Kind of heartwarming, actually. They don't seem to have a care to care about." He scanned the crowd and lifted a hand. "I'd better be drifting like the tides, man."

Charlie nodded, moving off in the other direction. "See you later, kid."

South was starting to fill up, though there weren't many people on the dance floor. Early yet for dancing, Charlie thought; the band was barely warm. He saw an opening in the mob around the hors d'oeuvre table and slipped through, working his way back to the far wall.

And there they were. Four turtles, looming and booming. Two humans: She, pale-skinned and tiny, the blue of her dress feeding the flame of her hair; he, dark and in no way large, casual in the fine white shirt, as if these were the clothes he always wore. Charlie saw him lean close to speak into her ear. She laughed and raised her glass to drink.