The Agent Gambit (30 page)

Her thoughts settled on Val Con, where they tumbled like the colors in floor and walls. Talk to me when the drive goes off, huh? she thought. What the hell does that mean? Damn Liadens. Never straight with anybody . . . She shifted sharply, setting the bottle aside without opening her eyes, and revising her opinion of whether she could sleep for three weeks.

She might even have drifted off, for she was not aware of his return, nor of the hand that hovered for an instant over her bright head before he took it away and sank to his knees before her.

"Miri?" He spoke softly, reluctant to disturb her, but she started violently, eyes snapping open, shoulders tightening-and relaxing instantly.

Silently, he offered three things for her inspection.

The first was recognizable through its flowing iridescence as a portable 'chora. The colors of the second thing writhed and shimmered too much for her to wrest sense from them. And the third-

She took it from him, shaping her hands around it to be sure, then brought it to her mouth, blew a ripple of notes, and sawed them back and forth. She looked up to find him grinning, and she grinned back.

"I ain't asking, notice, how you knew I play harmonica."

"Is that its name? I had never seen one before. I thought perhaps you might know . . . ." He was still smiling, delight showing in his bright green eyes.

"Harmonica," she affirmed, rubbing her fingers over the smooth metal sides. "Also, mouth organ." She squinted at the unidentifiable something. "What's that?"

He turned it over in his hands. "A guitar. I think. Something with strings and a soundboard, at least." He came smoothly to his feet and slid the two instruments into the food box. "Would you like to put the harmonica in here as well?"

"Do-" She frowned at him, loath to give the mouth organ up. "It's Edger's, ain't it? I better put it back."

Jerkily, she came to her knees, then stopped, because he was in front of her, hands out, inches from disaster.

"Miri, if it gives you pleasure, keep it. Edger named you kin, and this ship is Clan property, belonging to all equally. If you would repay Edger for the gift, play for him when next you meet."

"I don't steal from my friends," she insisted. "And Edger only said I was his sister because of-" She caught herself, dropping her head into her hands. "If this ain't the
stupidest
damn way to make a space drive!"

"Because of?" he asked, though he knew what the answer would be.

"Because of you," she said, and he longed to touch her, so worn did she sound. "He made a mistake. Said the knife you gave me-back in Econsey . . . " She couldn't finish it.

Val Con took a breath and let it out, very gently. "Edger thought I had knife-wed you," he said, keeping his voice even. "A reasonable assumption, from his standpoint, though I had not spoken to him, as would have been proper in a young brother. The fault is mine. I did not think. And I am sorry to have caused you pain."

He balled his left hand into a fist to keep from touching her and continued. "Of this other thing: Edger would not have named you sister only to rescind the honor. He has accepted you into his Clan. Whether we are wed or no, you carry a blade given you by one of his kin and he considers you worthy of it." He sighed when she still did not uncover her face, and tried once more.

"I can attempt to explain all I know of the tradition and customs of the Clutch and of Edger's Clan, though it will take a bit longer than either of us might find comfortable sitting on the floor here. Will it suffice you at this moment to know that Edger does not allow unworthy persons into his family; and that being named kin is a great burden and a great joy?" He bit his lip and leaned back, wondering if she had heard him at all.

"What this means in practical terms, right now, is: Does the harmonica please you? If so, you must take it and strive to master it, to the betterment of the Clan. It is no less than your duty."

"Yaaah!" Her whisper carried the inflection of a scream. She looked up suddenly and shook her head. "Well, it just goes to show you that things're never as bad as they look. When I started this run, I didn't have anything-no unit, no money, no place to go. Now, when I think I got even less, it turns out that somewhere along the line I picked up a husband, a family and a-what? hundredth share?-in a space rock powered by the looniest drive going.
Two
families," she amended and snapped to her feet, harmonica gripped tightly in her hand.

"Maybe they oughta lock
me
up, 'cause I sure don't know what I'm doing." She looked down at him for a moment, then waved her hands helplessly and spun away, marching unsteadily out of the storeroom.

Val Con came to his feet slowly and bent to retrieve the box.

"Three
families," he murmured.

THE BOUNCECOMM BEGAN
to chatter, bringing Jefferson, cursing and on the run.

He scanned Hostro's incoming instructions and jabbed the button for a hardcopy. Cursing ever more fluently, he cleared the board and warped a message to Tanser. The machine chattered, went silent, and chattered again before spitting back the message he wanted to send. The ship was in drive.

Curses exhausted, he set the comm to resend the message every ten minutes until received by Tanser's ship, and then sat staring at the screen, stomach tight.

Abruptly, he thought of his son; and, shaking his head, he tried to assure himself that the message would reach Tanser before Tanser reached the prey.

* * *

THE STUFF EDGER
used for soap
was
sand. Miri used it liberally, relishing the minor pain, then unbraided her hair and washed that, too.

Music filled the poolroom, though she hadn't thought a portable 'chora had that kind of range on it. There was, as far as she could tell, no order to the play list. Terran ballads mixed with Liaden chorales mixed with bawdy spacing songs mixed with other things the like of which she'd never heard mixed with scraps of see-sawing notes that sounded like the melodies of children's rhyming games.

On and on and on and on it went: Val Con playing every shard of music he'd ever heard. In some ways, it was worse than the drive effects.

The music broke and came back together, jagged-toothed and snarling, reminding her of the language he'd cursed in. She struck out for the edge of the pool as he added a new element to the sounds he was making-a high-pitched, whispery keening, twisting and twining through the hateful main line, sometimes louder, sometimes not, resembling, it seemed to her as she levered herself onto the lawn, one of the Liaden songs he'd played earlier.

And then it changed, shifting louder, intensifying until the breath caught in her throat: a wail that rattled the heart in her chest and the thoughts in her head.

She reached her piled belongings and crumpled them to her chest. Slowly, bent as if against the stormwinds of Surebleak's winter, Miri sought refuge in the bookroom.

THE SHIP HAD
been at rest for perhaps fifteen minutes when she entered the control room, her hair still loose and damp from her bath.

"I give you good greeting, Star Captain," she told Val Con's back in what she hoped was much improved High Liaden.

"Entranzia volecta, cha'trez,"
he murmured absently, his attention divided between board and tank.

Miri wandered over to the map table. Avoiding the silent 'chora and the guitar, she set down the cheese.

"How," she wondered, pulling out her knife, "am I gonna learn High Liaden if you keep answering in Low?"

"Do I? I must be having trouble with the accent."

Her brows rose. "You got the makings of a nasty temper there, friend."

He leaned back, hands busy on the board and eyes on the tank. "I am usually considered patient," he said softly. "Of course, I've never been tested under such severe conditions before."

She laughed and sliced herself a sliver of cheese. "Very nasty temper. Sarcastic, too. It ain't my fault you don't remember your milk tongue."

He made two more adjustments to the board and stood, then came over to the table. She whacked off a slab of cheese and offered it to him on knife point. He took it and sat down on the bench near the 'chora, one foot braced on the seat.

"Thank you."

"No problem." She sliced a piece for herself and sat astride the second bench. "What did you say, just then?"

One eyebrow lifted. "Are the roots so different?"

"Oh, I got 'good greetings' okay, but there was another word-sha . . . "

"Cha'trez,"
he murmured, nibbling cheese.

"Right. What's that?"

He closed his eyes, frowning slightly. When he finally opened his eyes, he sighed a little. "Heartsong?" He shook his head briefly. "Not quite, though it has the right flavor."

She blinked and changed the subject. "How many languages you speak?"

He finished his cheese and dusted off his hands. "At the level at which I speak Terran-five. I know enough of nine more to ask for meat and bed. And Liaden. And Trade."

"All that?" She shook her head. "And you speak Terran better'n most born to it. Little weird, though, you not having an accent."

He shifted, reaching to take up the guitar and fidgeting with the knobs projecting from the top. "I had one once," he murmured, turning a knob and plucking a string, "but when I was put on-detached duty-it was not considered politic for me to speak Terran with a Liaden accent."

"Oh." She took a breath. "My friend, you ought to chuck that job."

"I am considering it."

"What's to consider?"

"How it might be done." He plucked another string.
Twong!

She stared at him. 'Tell 'em you're all done now, detached duty is over and you'd like to go back and be a Scout, please."

Plonk!
He shook his head, listening to the vibration of the string.

"It is not possible they would agree to that. I've lived too long, learned too much, guessed a great deal . . . ."
Bong.

"They'll kill you?" Plainly, she did not believe it, and he cherished the effort she made to keep her voice matter-of-fact.

He ran his fingers in a sweep across the strings near the bridge and winced at the ensuing discord. Numbers were running behind his eyes: He should not be having this conversation; he should not have helped Miri in the first place; he should not have gone back for her-that was what the numbers seemed determined to say. And now his life was forfeit. He tried to ignore the numbers. CMS was at .08.

"Val Con."

He looked up, holding the guitar across his lap by its fragile neck. The numbers were running faster, switching from one Loop to the other, almost too rapidly for him to scan.

Death and danger. Disgrace and death. Dishonor and destruction. . . .

His muscles were tightening, his breathing quickened-and still the numbers raced.

"Val Con." Rising concern was evident in her voice.

He shook his head, struggling for words. "It is most likely that they will kill me," he managed, fascinated, watching the numbers flash, reverse themselves, and flash again as they counted the reduced chances of his living out the month, the week. . . . "Though it is true that my Clan is a powerful one, which reduces somewhat-" It was hard to breathe; he seemed to hear himself
out there
somewhere, while back here, where the truth was, where
he
was, he felt heat and a need to hide. "-the chance that they would kill me outright." His mouth was too dry; the rushing in his ears amplified the sound of his heart pounding against nearly empty lungs.

He tightened his grip on the guitar and sought out Miri's eyes.

"They would not want trouble . . . trouble with Korval. So it is-possible-that they would only . . . " He was sweating, but his hands were cold.

"Only?" Her question was barely a whisper.

"Only wipe me . . . and let my body go home."

The air was too hot and too thin, but it wasn't happening to Miri; he needed to run from her to get out
get out-look at the numbers!

CRR-RACK!
The guitar's neck snapped in his grip and he jumped back, dropping it and gasping, looking for a way out. His shirt was choking him and the numbers were glaring behind his eyes: dead, dead, zero percent chance of survival. He grabbed a wall and held fast.

"No! No! Not here! Dammit, not here!"
I won't die here! I'll get out . . . .

"Val Con!"

The scream penetrated his panic, piercing the terror for an instant. It seemed so sure a name-Val Con. In fact: Val Con yos'Phelium Scout, Artist of the Ephemeral, Slayer of the Eldest Dragon, Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spearmaker's Den-and from somewhere her voice added, "Tough Guy!"

He sobbed and held on, then found himself gasping against the strong stone wall. Several feet away, hand outstretched and terror in her eyes, was Miri. He brought his breathing down slowly and calmed himself, feeling the air cool him as his hands began to warm.

The numbers were clear: zero and zero. No chance of surviving the mission. The mission itself a failure. Accordingly, he was dead.

He took another breath, leaned back against the wall, and accepted the slow slide to the floor as natural, even comforting; the sound he made verged on laughter.

"Val Con? You there?"

He nodded. "Here," he said raggedly.

She approached cautiously and knelt by his side, gray eyes intent on his face.

"Miri?"

"Yo."

His breath was still slowing; his lungs ached from the hyperbreathing he'd done, but he was calm. He knew his name and with that he knew he was safe. "Miri, I think I died just then."

Her brows twitched upward and she reached out to lay cool fingers on the pulse at the base of his throat. Shaking her head, she removed them.

"Sergeant Robertson regrets to report a glitch in the system, sir."

He laughed, a jagged stone of sound, then lifted both hands and ran them through sweat-soaked hair.

"Dead," he said. "The Loop showed me dead at the moment I told you I would be wiped." His breath was nearly back, and he felt at ease, though drained in a way he'd never been drained before. "I think I believed it-panicked or-something. I
believed
them . . . ."