Agent of Change (12 page)

Teeth gritted, she faked a stumble, locking her hands around his wrists. He did not sway when her weight pushed into him; she held tighter, creasing the fine lace cuffs, and forced a breathless little laugh.

"Here's my brother now, so we can both apologize," she said to Charlie, giving the wrists she gripped a small shake before releasing them.

"Danny, this is Charlie Naranshek," she said, squeezing brightness into her voice around the lump of dread in her throat. "He asked me to dance while you were gone and I said yes. I'm sorry. I should've known you'd worry." She tipped her head, slanting gray eyes at his cold green ones.

Charlie added his voice to this, frowning slightly at the boy before him. Pretty, and that was a fact. But there was more warmth to be had from the eardrop or the faceted ring-jewel than from the eyes that rested on his. He moved his shoulders, grinning.

"I'm really sorry, Mr.—? But I saw your sister sitting there looking so pretty and so lonesome and all. I thought we could maybe have some fun. Do a little dancing. Talk. You know." He smiled again. "I understand how you could he a little upset. Man can't be too careful of his sister these days, and I know that to be a fact. But there really isn't any harm in me and I never meant to get her in trouble with you."

One eyebrow had slipped slightly out of alignment and the eyes themselves seemed somewhat thawed. "My sister is certainly capable of taking care of herself, sir, and I very much doubt that she is afraid of my displeasure." He offered a smile that went a lot farther toward melting his expression.

"If she's been feeding you stories of my temper, I'm afraid I will have to assure you that my bark is considerably worse than my bite."

This was much better, Charlie thought. "Well, that's fine. I'd have been real sorry to make trouble between a brother and sister." He turned to the girl. "So what's say we give it another round?"

She laughed and shook her head. "Sorry, Charlie. I think we've left our friends alone long enough. Be a shame to offend them."

Charlie's eyes flicked to the table where the four turtles sat, silent now, saucer eyes turned toward—the dance floor? Or the three of them? Charlie didn't know, though his stomach seemed to think it did.

Carefully, he made his bows—a low one to her, hand over heart, a slighter one to him, hands folded at belt level—and received theirs in return. He watched until they were back at their table before turning again to his duties as bouncer and peacemaker, his feelings in disarray.

VAL CON WAITED until they were both seated and the talk of Clutch began its sonorous weaving around them once more. He poured wine for the two of them and tasted his, playing for more time as he struggled to smooth out the unaccustomed emotion—anger, he told himself in vague consternation. He caught a glimmer of the Loop. CPS was at .79.

Taking up her own glass, Miri watched the side of his face. It was no longer the face she associated with lies and death, but neither was it the face of her charming companion of the early evening. Calling herself a fool did not improve matters, so she leaned back in her chair, sipped wine and waited for the storm to break.

Finally, he took a deep breath. "Miri."

"Yo."

"You must understand," he said slowly, watching the eddy and flow of people in the South quarter, rather than her face, "that I am a highly trained individual. This means that I react quickly to situations I perceive as dangerous. Given your present circumstance, to go while I am not in the room and dance with a man who carries two guns is—"

"One
gun," she corrected. "You're seeing double."

"Two
guns." There was very nearly a snap in the usually even voice. "Do not blame me because you are blind."

She sucked air in through her teeth, searched out and found Charlie in the crowd by the near bar, talking to a fat woman, and stared at him, considering.

"One gun," she repeated. "In the belt."

"Second gun," he instructed, still snapping. "Sleeve pocket, right-hand side. Also the belt itself is a weapon, in that it contains a device by which he may call for aid."

It was there—now she could see the flat outline of a pellet gun in the pocket of his right sleeve. It would be a more serviceable weapon, she thought absently, than the pretty toy in his belt. She picked up her glass and tossed back the rest of her wine, heaving a huge sigh.

"I apologize," she said as he refilled her glass. "And I'll arrange to get my eyes checked in the morning."

THERE WERE TO be fireworks over the ocean at midnight.

When the meaning of this announcement had been made clear to him by his youngest brother, the musician, there was nothing for it but that Edger must attend. Here was yet another manifestation of what he was pleased to name the Art Ephemeral: Only think of something made but that it may unmake!

Selector and Sheather had no interest in this display of art and made known their joint desire to walk about the city and see what wonders unfolded. This decided, they took their leave of the rest of the party, who each had another glass of whatever it was they were drinking, to pass the time until midnight.

"Would you bear me company tomorrow morning, brother?" Val Con asked Handler. "I've an errand to run, and your assistance would be valuable to me."

Handler inclined his head. "I am at the service of my brother's brother."

"An errand, young brother?" Edger asked. "Of an artistic nature, perhaps?"

Val Con laughed. "Hardly. It only seems to me that Miri and I will soon require transportation and I wish to arrange for it before the moment is upon us."

"My brother is wise. But know that our ship, which is at dock at the so-named Station Prime in orbit about this planet, is at your command, should you have need." He paused, his large, luminous eyes on the small form of his brother. "You are an honored member of the Clan, Val Con yos'Phelium Scout. Do not forget."

Val Con froze in the act of placing his glass on the table, then completed the action slowly. "You are too generous. I am made glad by your goodness and thank you. But I do not think we will need to commandeer your ship, Edger."

"Nonetheless," the T'carais said, quaffing beer, "remember that it is yours at the speaking of a word, should the need arise."

"I will remember," his brother promised softly.

"It is sufficient," Edger announced. "Now then, who accompanies me to this fireworks display?"

"I shall, elder brother," Handler offered, finishing off his beer in a swallow.

Miri smothered a yawn. "I'm sorry, Edger, but I'm so tired I'm afraid I'd go to sleep in the middle and fall into the ocean."

"Ah. But that would not happen," Edger told her, "for your brothers would surround and protect you. If you are very tired, however, it would be wisdom to return to your room and sleep. That is, unless you long to see this wonder?"

"Fireworks? I seen fireworks before. Guess I can miss this batch."

"Have you so, indeed? We will have to compare observations upon the morrow, if you would honor me?" He heaved his bulk to a standing position, extending an arm to steady Handler, who appeared to have drunk one beer too many.

Miri stifled another yawn and grinned up at the hugeness of him. "Sure, we'll talk fireworks tomorrow. Why not?"

"It is well. Young brother, what will you?"

Val Con stood to help Miri ease back her chair and winced imperceptibly when she ignored the arm he offered. "I will go with Miri back to the rooms, I think," he told Edger. "I am tired, also."

"We will look forward to seeing you upon the morrow, then. Sleep deeply. Dream well."

Miri watched as Edger and Handler wove their majestic way across the crowded floor. That they did not bump into and seriously maim some innocent merrymaker, she noted, was not so much due to the elegance of their progress as it was to the vigilance of those same merrymakers. She grinned at her companion.

"Drunk as judges, as they say in my hometown."

"Why judges?" he wondered, allowing her to precede him around the table.

"Where I come from, Tough Guy, the only people dumb enough to be judges are drunks."

They threaded a less spectacular route through the bright swirls of people, arriving at the South door at the same time Charlie Naranshek came through the gateway of the two bars, on the second leg of his round.

"Aw, now, Roberta, you're not going to leave without one more dance, are you?"

Her brother, walking at her shoulder, spun quickly and neatly, his eyes locking with Charlie's. She turned more slowly, grinned, and shook her head.

"Charlie, I'm beat! Exhausted. Done in." She waved a tiny hand at the noisy crowd. "Whyn't you go find yourself a live one?"

"Am I gonna see you again?" he asked, putting as much schmaltz as he could manage into the question.

She laughed and took her brother's arm, turning him with her toward the door. "If you look hard. Take care of yourself, Charlie."

"You do the same, Roberta," he told the empty doorway, and turned back to finish his beat.

A COFFEE POT and a tea pot, with attendant pitchers, bowls, spoons, and cups, had been set out with a plate of biscuits on the table by the two softest chairs in the common room. Miri laughed when she saw them and moved in that direction.

"Whoever said there ain't guardian angels is a filthy liar," she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. "Want some?"

He nodded. "Tea, please, though."

"Coffee ain't good enough for you?" she demanded, switching pots and juggling cups.

"I don't really like coffee," he said, taking the chair with the best view of the door. He accepted his cup with a smile.

"You, my man, are a maniac." She sank into the chair opposite, sighing deeply. "How much did we
drink?"

He regarded his tea doubtfully, judged it too hot to drink, and set the cup on the table. "Three bottles between us."

"Three! No wonder I'm acting like a lackwit know-nothing. Oh, my aching head tomorrow—or is it tomorrow, now?"

"In a few minutes." He sharpened his gaze upon her face, picking out the tight muscles around her eyes, the smile held in place by will, not pleasure . . . .

As if she felt the intensity of his study, she moved her head sharply, tossing her hair behind a bare shoulder. "You and me gotta talk."

"All right," he said amiably. "You start."

The full mouth flickered into a grin, then straightened. "I ain't going to Liad, Tough Guy. Straight dope. No lies. I like who I am. I like how I look. I don't
want
to be somebody else." She took a sip of coffee, made a face as she burned her tongue, and set the cup on the table.

"I know that probably sounds crazy to somebody's got three or four identities going at once—but, hell, I'm just a dumb hired gun. And that's what I want to stay. So thanks, but no thanks, for the generous offer. I appreciate it, but I can't approve it."

He sat at ease, eyes on her face, hands loosely draped over the arms of the chair, ankles crossed before him.

After a time, she leaned forward. "Ain't you gonna take your turn?" she asked softly.

He lifted a brow. "I was waiting for the rest of it."

"You were," she said, without any particular inflection. She sighed. "Okay, then, the rest of it is this: I'm grateful for your help—which has been substantial and timely. I know I would've been a deader if you hadn't come along. I owe you a life, and I can't pay except to give you yours by splitting. Now.

"So, tomorrow I'll get my cash from Murph and then I'll walk out, easy and slow, with nobody the wiser. I don't need a car, so you can let poor Handler off the hook. And I
sure
don't need a spaceship, so Edger can relax." She picked up her cup, took a less scalding swallow, and continued.

"I think that—with your help—the Juntavas is off the trail for the time being. I should be able to get off-world before they know I'm missing. I can handle it from here, okay? I've played singles odds my whole life long and I've managed to make it this far . . . ."

In the chair across from her, he had closed his eyes. As she let her voice drift to silence his lashes flicked up and he sighed.

"Miri, if you follow your plan as outlined, your chance of getting off-world is less than two percent. One chance in fifty. Your chance of being alive this time tomorrow is perhaps point three: thirty percent—three chances in ten. Your chance of being alive the day after falls by a factor of ten."

"So you say!" she started, anger rising.

"So
I
say!" he overrode with a snap. "And
I
say because
I
know! Did I tell you I was highly trained? Specially trained? One of the benefits is the ability to calculate—to render odds, if you will—based on known factors and subconsciously and unconsciously noted details, extrapolating on an immense amount of data I have noted. If I say you will likely be dead tomorrow evening if you leave without my aid, believe it, for it is
so."

"Why the
hell
should I?"

He closed his eyes and took a very deep breath. "You should believe it," he said, and each word was distinct, as if he were following a ritual, "because I have said it and it is true. Since you seem to demand it, I will swear it." His eyes snapped open, captured and held hers.
"On the Honor of Clan Korval, I, Second Speaker, Attest This Truth."

That was a stopper. Liadens rarely mentioned the honor of their Clan: it was a sacred thing. To swear on the honor of the Clan said they meant business, down-and-dirty, one-hundred-percent-business, no matter what.

And the eyes that held hers—they were angry, even bitter; they were bright with frustration, but they told no lie. She flinched, the weight of his meaning falling onto her all at once. He
truly believes
you're gonna be dead tomorrow if you leave this menagerie, Robertson.

"Okay, you said it, and you believe it," she said, making a bid for some thinking time. "You'll understand if I find it a little hard to believe. I never met anyone who could foresee the future." It was scarcely an apology, nor did it appease him.