Changeling (7 page)

"Got the go," she said now.

"Then we go," Ren Zel replied, and engaged
the gyros.

* * *

NIGHT PORT WAS IN its last hours when Ren Zel
and Suzan walked through the gate and into the company's office.
Christopher's second, a dour person called Atwood, waved them over
to the counter.

"Guy in here looking for you, Ren Zel."

His blood chilled. Gods, no. Let it not be
that Christopher was forced to send him away.

Some of his distress must have shown on his
face, more shame to him, for Suzan frowned and put her big hand on
his sleeve. "Pilot?"

He shook her off, staring at Atwood, trying
to calm his pounding heart. "A--guy. The same who asked
before?"

Atwood shook her head. "New. Chris says," she
glanced down, reading the message off the computer screen: "Tell
Ren Zel there's another guy looking for him. This one's a
gentleman. Asked for him by name. Might be a job in it." She looked
up. "It says he--the guy--will be back here second hour, Day Port,
and wants to talk to you."

He took a breath, imposing
calmness.
By name
?
And who on Casia would speak his name, saving these, his comrades,
Terrans, all. Ah. Christopher perhaps would ... understand
...
Terran
gentleman. How such a one might have the name of Ren Zel
dea'Judan was a mystery, but a mystery easily solved.

He glanced at the clock over the schedule
board: last hour, Night Port, was half gone. Too little time to
return to his room, on the ragged edge of Mid Port. Too long to
simply wait on a bench in the hall...

"'Bout enough time to have a bite to eat."
Suzan grinned and jerked her head toward the door.

"There's a place couple streets down that
actually brews real coffee," she said. "C'mon, Pilot. My
treat."

* * *

COFFEE, REN ZEL thought, some little while
later, was clearly an acquired taste.

The rest of the meal was unexceptional--even
enjoyable--in its oddness. The one blight was the lack of what
Suzan styled 'poorbellows'. An inquiry after this unknown and
absent foodstuff gained Ren Zel the information that poorbellows
were a kind of edible fungus, after which the coffee tasted not
quite as bitter as he had at first thought it.

The meal done, Suzan drained her third cup
and went to the front to settle the bill, stubbornly refusing his
offer to pay for his share with a, "Told you it was my treat,
didn't I?"

Ren Zel shrugged into his jacket and followed
her slowly. "Treat" was a Terran concept, roughly translating into
"a gift freely given," with no Balance attending. Still, it went
against his sense of propriety, that his co-pilot should give him a
gift. Perhaps he might search out some of these poorbellows
elsewhere on port and make her a gift in return? He considered it,
then found his thoughts drifting elsewhere, to the mysterious
"gentleman" whom he was, very soon now, to meet.

That the "gentleman" was Terran seemed
certain. That he would, indeed, offer Ren Zel dea'Judan a
jump-pilot's contract, as Christopher seemed to think, was--not so
certain.

But if the offer was made? Ren Zel wondered,
stepping out onto the walkway and slipping his hands in the pockets
of his jacket. If the unknown gentleman offered a standard jump
contract, with its guarantee of setting the pilot on the world of
his choice after the terms were fulfilled, then Ren Zel might yet
prosper, though in a solitary, Terran sort of way. If he chose his
port wisely, he--

"There!" The unfamiliar voice disrupted his
thoughts, the single word in Liaden. He looked toward the sound,
and saw a gaggle of five standing half-way to the corner. All were
dressed in Low Port motley; four also wore the leather jackets of
jump-pilots.

And not one of them, to Ren Zel's eye, was
anything like a pilot.

The foremost, perhaps the one who had spoken,
bowed, slightly and with very real malice.

"Dead man," he said with mock courtesy, "I am
delighted to find you so quickly. We are commissioned to deliver
you a gift."

Yes--and all too likely the gift was a knife
set between his ribs, after which his jacket would become a prize
for the fifth in the pack.

"All right, Pilot, let's get us back to hall
and see this mystery man of--" Suzan froze, the door to the
restaurant still balanced on the ends of her fingers, looking from
Ren Zel to the wolf pack.

"Friends of yours?"

He dared not take his eyes from the face of
the leader, who seemed dismayed by the advent of a second, much
larger, player in the game.

"No," he told Suzan.

"Right," she said, and pushed the door wider,
rocking back on her heel. "There's a back door. After you."

Keeping his back to the wall, he slithered
past her, then followed as she sped through the main dining room,
down a short hallway and into the kitchen. She raised a hand to a
woman in a tall, white hat, and opened the door in the far wall. In
keeping with a co-pilot's duty, she stepped through first, then
waved him after.

"OK. Down this alley about two blocks,
there's a beer joint. Tom and Gina hang out there on their
downshifts. We'll pick 'em up and all go back to the hall
together."

It was prudent plan, Tom and his partner
being no strangers to street brawls, if even half of their stories
were to be believed. Ren Zel inclined his head. "Very well."

"Great. This way."

They had gone perhaps a block in the
direction of the tavern, when Ren Zel heard a noise behind them. A
glance over his shoulder showed him the wolf pack just entering the
alley by the rear door to the restaurant.

Suzan swore. Ren Zel saw the gleam of metal
among the pack as they moved into a ragged run nothing like the
smooth flow of pilot motion. Though it would serve. And when they
were caught, the wolf pack would not care whether they killed one
or two.

He already had one death on his hands.

"Go on," he said to Suzan. "I will speak with
them."

She snorted, "Pilot, I thought you knew I
wasn't as big a fool as I look. Those boys don't want talk--they
want blood." She reached down and grabbed his arm.

"Run!"

Perforce, he ran, stretching to match her
pace, willing the bad leg not to betray him. Behind, he heard their
pursuers, chanting--"Dead man! Pilot slayer! Dead man!"--and found
time to be grateful, that Suzan did not speak Liaden.

"Here," she gasped and pulled him with her to
the right. One massive shoulder hit the plastic door, which sprang
open, and they were eight running paces into a dark and not
overcrowded room before Suzan let him go, shouting, "Vandals right
behind us! Call the Watch!"

Several of the patrons of the room simply
dropped the long sticks they had been holding and bolted for the
front door, for which Ren Zel blamed them not in the least. Left on
his own, he spun, fire lancing the bad leg, which held, thank the
gods, and looked about him for a weapon.

There were several small balls on the green
covered table just beside him. Before he had properly thought, he
had snatched the nearest up. The ball was dense for something so
small, but that was no matter. His hands moved in the familiar
pattern, the thing was spinning and then airborne as the first of
the wolf pack charged into the room.

The ball caught the fellow solidly in the
nose. He went down with a grunt, not quite tripping the man
immediately behind him. That one, quick enough, if not pilot-fast,
leapt his comrade and landed on the balls of his feet, a chain
dangling from his hand.

He saw Ren Zel and smiled. "Dead man. But
still alive to pain, eh?" The chain flashed as the man jumped
forward. Ren Zel ducked, heard metal scream over his head, grabbed
one of the fallen long sticks and came up fast, whirling, stick
held horizontal between his two hands.

The chain whipped again. Ren Zel threw the
stick into the attack. The chain wrapped 'round the gleaming wood
twice, and Ren Zel spun, trying to pull the weapon from his
adversary's grip.

With a laugh, the wolf jumped forward,
grabbed the stick and twisted. Ren Zel hung on, then lost his grip,
danced back a step, and then another as the man raised the weapon
in both hands and swung it, whistling, down.

Once again, action preceded thought. Ren Zel
dove, rolling under the green covered table, heard chain and stick
hit the floor behind him, and came up on the far side of the table
just in time to see Suzan place a well-considered bar stool into
the back of his opponent's head.

Elsewhere in the room, the remaining three of
the pack were engaged with those of the patrons who had not run.
Suzan waded back into the melee, swinging her bar stool with
abandon. Thinking that he might yet have use for a weapon, Ren Zel,
went 'round the table to retrieve the long stick. The thing was
shattered, the pieces still wrapped in chain. That he let lie,
judging he was more likely to harm himself than any adversary,
should he try to wield such an unfamiliar weapon. He straightened,
ears pricked. Yes--from the open front door came the sound of a
siren, growing rapidly louder. The Port Proctors would soon arrive,
Ren Zel thought, with a sinking sense of relief. All would be--

Across the room, the pack leader dropped his
man with a flickering knife thrust. He spun, seeking new blood, saw
Suzan's unprotected back--

"Ware!" Ren Zel screamed, but the word was in
Liaden; she would not know...

Ren Zel jumped.

The knife flashed and he was between it and
his co-pilot, one shoulder, covered in tough space-leather, taking
the edge and turning it. Ren Zel spun with the force of the blow,
deliberately using it as he came back around--

And the bad leg failed him.

Down he went, the wolf leader atop, and it
was a muddle of shouts and blows and kicks before the quick shine
of the knife, snaking past the leather this time, slicing cloth and
flesh. Ren Zel lashed out, trying to escape the pain. The knife bit
deeper, twisting. He screamed--and was gone.

* * *

"MASTER PILOT, I regret," Casiaport
Guildmaster was all but stuttering in distress. "Notification
should have been sent. I swear to you that I will learn why it was
not. However, the fact remains that no hearing has been scheduled.
The case was adjudicated by three first class pilots, fault has
been fixed and the matter is closed."

Shan lifted his eyebrows, feeling the woman's
guilt like sandpaper against his skin, and she rushed on,
babbling.

"Guild rule is plain, as the Master Pilot
surely knows. Three first class pilots may judge, in the absence of
a Master--and may overturn, in the case of a disputed
judgement."

"Guild rule is plain," Shan agreed, in the
mode of Master to Junior, which was higher than he usually spoke
with another pilot. "Though it is considered good form to allow the
Master Pilot in question to know that his judgement has been
disputed."

"Since I am here in any wise," he continued,
"I will see the file."

The Guildmaster gasped; covered the lapse
with a bow.

"At once, Master Pilot. If you will step down
to the private parlor, the file will be brought."

Shan inclined his head. "Bring also Pilot
dea'Judan, if he is on-Port."

"Pilot dea'Judan?" the Guildmaster repeated,
blankly.

"Pilot Ren Zel dea'Judan Clan Obrelt," Shan
explained, wondering how such a one had risen to the rank of
Guildmaster of even so backward a port as Casia. "Surely you recall
the name?"

"I--Indeed I do." She drew a deep breath and
seemed to recruit her resources, bowing with solemn precision. "I
regret. Ren Zel dea'Judan Clan Obrelt is dead."

Shan stared. "And yet I ran the license
number through the port's own database just before departing my
ship and found it listed as valid and active."

The Guildmaster said nothing.

"I see," Shan said, after several silent
moments had elapsed. "I will review the case file now,
Guildmaster." He turned and walked down the hall to the private
parlor.

The file, brought moments later by a
pale-faced duty clerk, was thin enough, and Shan was speedily
master of its contents. True enough, his judgment had been set
aside in favor of the cooler findings of three first class pilots,
all of whom flew out of Casiaport Guildhall. Shan sighed, shaking
his head as his Terran mother had sometimes shaken hers, expressing
not negation so much as ironic disbelief.

There was a computer on the desk. He used his
Master Pilot's card to sign onto the news net and spent a few
minutes tracking down the proper archives, then shook his head
again.

The legal notices told the story plainly:
Obrelt had been cruelly Balanced into banishing their only pilot
and naming him dead. None that kept strict Code would deal with a
man who had no Clan to stand behind his debt and honor...

It was the description of the circumstances
surrounding death, fully witnessed by the Eyes of Council, that
sent him once again into the public ways of Casiaport and finally
to the Gromit Company's shabby Mid Port office.

There, the luck was slightly out, for Pilot
dea'Judan was flying. The man behind the counter, one Christopher
Iritaki, had suggested he return early next morning and had
promised to let the pilot know that an appointment had been set in
his name.

Shan presented himself at Gromit Company
slightly in advance of the appointed hour, to find Mr. Iritaki's
second on duty.

"I'm sure they'll be back any minute, sir,"
Ms. Atwood said, sending a faintly worried look at the clock. "They
just went a couple streets over for a bite and a cup of coffee. Ren
Zel's solid. He wouldn't miss an appointment for anything short of
catastrophe."

"I'm sure you're right," Shan said
soothingly. He smiled at the roster boss and had the satisfaction
of seeing the worry fade from her face.