Dragon in Exile - eARC (16 page)

He took the glass offered him with a nod, and waited while the Road Boss sat down, and tasted his wine, all polite—an’ that’s all it was, was polite; he’d seen both glasses come outta the same bottle. Still, it was…easeful to see the kid knew how to behave like a ’bleaker, at least as far as regl’ar hospitality went.

The boy’d just taken a tiny sip, and Smealy could see the point in that, with the glasses so small and the pourin’ so light. Must be a tight-pocket week, he thought. That could work in his favor.

He took a tiny sip, just like the kid done, and was glad he had. The stuff was
sour
, not sweet at all, an’
warm
, too.

The kid settled into other chair, and put his glass on the rickety table. Relieved, Smealy did the same, then leaned forward a little, so he could look direct into those cat-green eyes.

“You’re a busy man, like you said, so I’ll come direct to the point,” he said. He paused then, in case the kid wanted to say something, but he only nodded, like he was wantin’ Smealy to go on.

“Now, I’m the chairman of the Citizen’s Heavy Loads Committee, which is just like it says in the name—a buncha citizens concerned about the movin’ of heavy loads up and down the Port Road. Especially, we’re innerested in the new rules an’ fines an’ all the Council o’ Bosses is puttin’ in for oversize loads, or weights too heavy. There ain’t one need for all them penalties, or for havin’ Roadmen out in all weather, riskin’ frostbite and poomonya so they can stop trucks that maybe sorta look like they’re too wide or too heavy, makin’ the driver miss his schedule and causin’ all that unnecessary unhappiness.”

He paused, and this time the Road Boss did have something to say.

“You paint a black picture,” he murmured.

“That’s right, that’s right—it’s black as night, the way the Bosses wanna see the thing done. These rules and fines—that might be how it’s done out there on Liad, but it ain’t ever how it’s been done here on Surebleak.”

He had the boy’s attention; those bright eyes never left his face.

Smealy smiled.

“Now, see, here on Surebleak we know that everybody all up and down the ladder deserves a piece of the action. Fella like you, to take a f’rinstance, little brother and sub-Boss, there ain’t anything in this rule-and-fine system the Big Bosses made that takes care of you. All that money just goes into their pockets, and I’m here to tell you that ain’t how it’s been done on Surebleak.”

“And how has it,” the Road Boss asked, “been done on Surebleak?”

“Well, I’m getting to that. Here on Surebleak, everybody gets a piece, see? The Boss gets his insurance money, an’ the streeters dicker ’mong themselves for the best price on this, that, or anything else. It’s our system and it’s been working real good for us.

“But you, this new system leaves you outta the loop. You got all the work of enforcing the laws, and collectin’ the fines, but you don’t get nothing for your trouble.”

“It seems a sad case.”

“It does, don’t it? But, see, all’s got to happen to set everything right is for you—you being Road Boss—is for you to sell exceptions. So, say, I wanna move my big lorry down-Road to the Port, an’ you bet it’s gonna be overweight, ’cause why should I make two, three trips when one’ll do it?”

“Why, indeed?” the Road Boss murmured.

Smealy nodded, pleased to see the boy was keeping up.

“Just makes sense that a man wants to be paid for his work. So, me, I got a lorry to move, quick as I can, no trouble, no delays. I come to you, and I say, ‘Boss—’” Smealy was particularly pleased with that
Boss
;
that
was settin’ the hook proper for Little Brother.

“I’d say, ‘Boss, I’m gonna be moving a big load down from Sherton’s turf all the way to the Port Bazaar. It’ll be movin’ two nights from today, just at Middle Night, ’cause it’s big and it’s heavy and it moves slow and I don’t wanna hold up daytime bidness. Figure it’s about fifteen hunnert pounds over limit.”

“Whereupon,” the Road Boss said, “I fine you.”

“No, you don’t fine me!” Smealy said sharply. “What’s the use of finin’ me? You sell me an exception, like I said, for, say, half the fine. I pay you good cash, your crew don’t gotta be walkin’ up and down the Road, lookin’ for somebody to fine, on account you know there’s just gonna be me and my big old lorry, and I already paid the exception up front, see?” He leaned over the table and tapped it with his finger.

“That money goes right into your pocket, where it’ll do you some good. And, word gets ’round, see, if you want something fixed about the Road, or to slide past the rules, you go to the
Road Boss
, not to Conrad.” He nodded, and leaned back in his chair. “Build you up some consequence, so you ain’t always sitting in the shade of Big Brother’s lamp. You got
consequence
back where you come from—I know you do, ’cept you call it—” He frowned, shaking his head in frustration at not having the word to tongue. “What
do
you call it?”

“Possibly, you mean
melant’i
,” the Road Boss said. He was sitting back in his chair, booted ankle on the opposite knee. He shook his head.

“It is an…interesting proposition, Mr. Smealy, and I thank you for your concern regarding my…consequence. However, family dynamics aside, I must remind you that I am under contract to the Bosses of Surebleak, to maintain the Port Road, to hold it open, and to enforce those rules regarding the Road that the Bosses set in place.”

It was said so serious that for half-a-second Smealy thought the kid meant it. Then he realized that nobody could be that wet behind the ears, and that the Road Boss was havin’ a joke.

He grinned, to show he got it, and offered a piece of streeter smarts.

“Contracts’re made to be broken.”

The Road Boss sat up sudden and straight in his chair, both feet on the floor, hands braced against the arms.

Smealy stared, almost thinking that the kid was going to jump up and try to clock him—but no. He relaxed; he smiled; he shook his head.

“Mr. Smealy, never say that to a Liaden.”

“Well, but—”

The kid raised a hand, and Smealy stopped talking.

“Thank you. Now, allow me to tell you something that will make it very much easier for you to deal, going forward.
Contracts are made to be broken
is an extremely dangerous position to take with a Liaden. With
any
Liaden. Understand that I have…traveled to many worlds and am counted something of an expert on…odd customs. I am, in fact, an
atypical Liaden
—and your statement…shocked me. Had I been less-traveled, I might possibly have shot you on the instant, as a danger to society.”

Smealy blinked, opened his mouth—and shut it again, as the Boss shook his head.

“Liadens consider contracts to be one of the binding forces of the universe. Liadens write contracts to impose order, and while they will do their utmost to insure that the terms favor them and their interests, once the terms are fixed, they are
inalterable
. To cheat on a contract is to cheat on the universe; no good can come of either.

“To sign a contract with the
intention
of breaking it…that is either the action of a sociopath, or a man who is far more courageous than I am.”

The Road Boss stood then, suddenly seeming tall. Smealy stood, too, but somehow the Boss didn’t get short again.

“Mr. Smealy,” the Boss said; “I advise you to obey the rules and laws that the Council of Bosses set down. And now I bid you good-day. Please, if you have other business that you wish to bring to the Road Boss, do so at our office at the Port. You will not be permitted on these grounds again.”

“But—” Smealy began. The Boss ignored him.

“Jeeves,” he said, apparently talking to the air. “Mr. Smealy’s business is concluded.”

From the hall came the determined rumble of wheels. The door popped open and the remote was there.

“Follow me, please, Mr. Smealy.”

There wasn’t, Smealy thought, no use arguing with a pissed-off Boss. That was another piece of streeter smarts. Wasn’t much to do, really, ’cept nod at the man, to show respect, and follow the remote down the hall.

The front door closed hard behind him, and Smealy stood there in the open air for…a little while before he opened the hoopie’s door, climbed in, and started ’er up.

Chapter Sixteen

Surebleak Port

Two young men, much of an age, but unalike in almost everything else, save a facility with the Sticks, and a good head for numbers, walked down-Port toward the Emerald Casino.

They made a pretty picture—one tall, fair and lissome; the other supple, dark and golden-skinned. The fair lad wore a blue jacket that matched his eyes. The dark one wore leather, and had a bag slung over one shoulder.

“So you’ll be back in two Surebleak weeks?” the fair one asked, ending what had been a rather long pause between them.

His companion gave him an approving nod.

“Excellent. Doing the conversions while in flight is no easy thing.”

“I’ve been practicing,” Villy said. “I’ll keep it up, too. By the time you’re back, I’ll be able to do a four-level conversion in my head!”

“Here’s a bold assertion! Will books be all your lovers, until I return to your arms?”

Villy considered him out of suspicious blue eyes.

“
That
sounds like a play-quote,” he said.

“Discovered!”

Quin gave a small, on-the-stride bow of acknowledgment—for which he would have been severely reprimanded had he been observed by his protocol teacher—or, twelve times worse!—his grandmother.

“It is a play-quote, yes. If you like, I will find a tape and we may watch it together.”

“Would I? Like it, I mean.”

That was a serious question, and Quin gave it the consideration it deserved.

“You might well. It is a classic
melant’i
play. I was required to study it, and write papers on it, and view several productions, from the first recorded to the most modern, which is why I have the phrase so apt, you see. But—yes, I think you might find it useful, and interesting, too. Especially the sword-fight.”

“Sword fight?”

“The most diverting thing imaginable! It’s quite harrowing, despite you know it’s all mummery.”

“OK, then, I’m provisionally interested. If I get bored, though, I’ll make you speed through to the sword-fight.”

“Fair enough.”

The Emerald was in sight. They were early this morning, with Skene at their backs, so that they could enjoy breakfast together before Villy’s shift at the Sticks table. Quin was bound for Korval’s Yard,
Galandasti
, and Master Pilot Tess Lucien, who was to sit his second while he added hours to his flight ticket.

“Do you—” Villy began, and stopped, one hand shooting out to grab Quin’s arm.

A man had stepped directly in front of them, his arms held carefully away from his side, his palms turned forward, fingers spread wide. The bow was a quick, clean request to speak.

Behind him, Skene said.

“What’s
he
doing here?”

“An excellent question. Perhaps he will tell us.”

He gestured permission to speak, and Security Officer pen’Erit folded into the deep bow of one receiving a boon from a superior.

“Pilot, I come to you because I am acquainted with no one else on this port. I…I am certain that this situation has overtaken others, but it is…the first time it has come to me.” He took a deep breath.

“In short, sir, I would ask your advice.”

“I can scarcely presume to advise a man so many years my elder,” Quin answered. “If you acquaint me with this situation, I may, indeed, be able to recommend someone on-port who may assist you. But I wonder, sir—did not your ship lift…some weeks ago?”

The man’s mouth hardened.

“Indeed it did, sir; and Trader vin’Tenzing with it. In the hour before lift, after I had been disciplined for failing to ensure the Trader’s good health, I was sent onto the port to procure an item necessary for her comfort.

“I had been directed to a particular vendor, who did not have the item in Port inventory, but who was pleased to send a car to his warehouse, and have one brought to me.

“It was as we were awaiting the return of the truck that he mentioned I was the second that day to inquire about this item, which was not in much demand on port. The first had been a call; and the order dropped after he had explained the necessity of sending to the warehouse.”

He turned his hands up, showing empty palms once more.

“After that, I could not be surprised to find that my ship had lifted early, and without me.”

“That’s an unhappy fella,” Villy murmured. “What’s the story?”

“His ship abandoned him,” Quin said rapidly. “This is Security Officer prithee, who had come to the rug shop with Trader vin’Tenzing several weeks ago.”

“I don’t mean any insult, but that trader sounds to be an ice bitch.”

Quin sputtered a laugh. Officer prithee dropped back a step, eyes narrowed in offense, and Quin waved a hand.

“Forgive me. My companion chooses to be…unimpressed with the trader and her actions. His language is colorful.”

The man’s face relaxed, and he accorded Villy a comradely nod.

“Do you require assistance contacting your clan, sir?” Quin asked. “The portmaster—”

Officer prithee made the sign for
sharp stop
.

“I have contacted my clan. Last night, the answer arrived. My delm does not require me. That I am abandoned and bereft on a—forgive me—a barbarian world she considers to be proper Balance for having placed our House awkwardly with Clan Omterth. My clan has, for generations, clung to Omterth’s coattails, until we are fit for nothing else. To be placed awkwardly with Omterth is paramount to having food snatched from the mouths of our children.”

He closed his eyes, shoulders slumping.

“I can wish that my heir will not be required to bear the balance of the delm’s anger, but I fear that is…a father’s fond hope, only.”

“Quin, sweetie, that man wants a cup of coffee,” Villy said. “Bring him in to breakfast with us, and let’s get him sorted out in comfort.”

“Yes,” Quin said, and bowed an invitation to the ex-Security Officer.

“My companion suggests that we go inside and reason together over breakfast. It would gladden me if you would accept his invitation.”

The man hesitated, then bowed to Villy’s honor.

“Thank you,” he said. “My name is Tef Lej pen’Erit Clan—”

He stopped abruptly, harshly, and bowed again.

“My name is Tef Lej pen’Erit.”

“He gives you his name,” Quin told Villy.

“Right.”

He went forward a step, which was his kinesic lessons on display, and produced a credible bow of introduction.

“I’m Villy Butler,” he said. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. pen’Erit.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Skene, honey?”

She sighed.

“I’m Skene Liep,” she said, “Boss Quin’s head ’hand.”

“My companion is named Villy Butler,” Quin translated, so there should be no confusion. “My security gives you her name, also: Skene Liep. Please, let us go inside.”

* * * * *

Breakfast was something of a challenge, as Quin was the only one at the table who spoke both Liaden and Terran.

Tef Lej pen’Erit of course had Trade and several other dialects on his tongue, but that gained them nothing, so Quin translated, in-between snatching bites of his meal.

It quickly became apparent that Mr. pen’Erit was not in good order. He had rented a cubicle at the so-called Spaceman’s Hostel on-port. Based on the eagerness with which he addressed his breakfast, Quin guessed that he had been skipping meals in order to economize.

“Hostel’s spendy,” said Skene. “M’sister has a rooming house in Conrad’s turf—clean room, two meals, an’ half the cost or less. I can take him, after you’re lifted out, Boss.”

This offer was conveyed, it falling to Mr. pen’Erit to point out that he had no Terran and Skene’s sister likely to have as much Liaden as Skene herself.

“She’s took up with a Scout,” Skene said, shaking her head. “So there’s translation in-house.”

This was also conveyed, and while Mr. pen’Erit formulated an answer, Villy produced a question.

“Is that all his clothes? Weatherman says it’s gonna get chilly tonight, an’ if he don’t have a jacket, it could get nasty for him.” He gave Quin a grin. “Bet he gets cold as fast as you.”

He probably got cold faster, Quin thought, fresh off-ship as he was.

“Villy asks if you have a coat. Our weatherman predicts cold weather this evening, with a chance of a summer snowstorm.”

His guest paled.

“Snow?” he repeated.

“No need to translate that,” Villy said. “Tell him, he can have my coat. No sense a man freezing, and I got another one.”

Quin hesitated, then said to Master pen’Erit.

“Villy makes you a gift of his coat. He is concerned for your health.”

Tears rose in hard grey eyes.

“He—why does he care?”

“He is
hetaera
,” Quin said, which was both true, and immediately comprehensible to a Liaden.

pen’Erit looked to Villy and bowed as deeply as he was able, seated.

“I am in his debt,” he said to Quin. “More; I would make amends for my lack of manner. I will bring him a fitting present, soon. Tell him, please.”

“He don’t gotta pay me for the coat,” Villy said, making a shrewd guess at the content of this.

“He does not offer,” Quin said. “He accepts your care, and asks me to tell you that he will bring you a gift befitting your station as a
hetaera
.”

“So, he’s gonna pay for the coat, anyhow? I don’t need his present.”

“Accept it, nonetheless,” Quin advised. “
Hetaera
are…treasures. It is an appreciation of your…art. That you offer your care freely, must be appreciated.”

“Balanced?”

“No,” Quin said slowly. “One cannot Balance art.”

The bell rang then, calling the new shift to the floor.

“That’s me,” Villy said. He stood, took his jacket off its peg and stepped ’round the table to drape it over Mr. pen’Erit’s shoulders.

“You make sure you wear this, now. Otherwise, you’ll be catchin’ your death out there in the wind.”

Mr. pen’Erit almost broke his neck, trying to meet Villy’s eyes and bow at the same time. Villy patted him on the back, bent over Quin and kissed him on the cheek.

“You fly safe, hon. See you soon. ’Bye, Skene. Mr. pen’Erit.”

He left them, and Quin did not miss pen’Erit’s appreciative gaze.

“My time marches as well,” Quin said; “I am scheduled to lift. This is what seems best to me: I will ask Skene to conduct you to my father.” He held up his hand at the other’s start.

“He will not place blame upon you for what you did not do. His network of acquaintances is far wider than mine. Someone of those will able to assist you to your best advantage. Does this answer your necessity?”

Master pen’Erit bowed his head.

“I believe that it must. No Liaden ship will take me, and there is no reason for me to return to Liad. To be clanless on Surebleak…” He looked wry, revealing a sense of humor that despair had hidden until now. “To be clanless on Surebleak is no great thing. To be clanless on Liad…is beyond terrible.”

“So.” Quin inclined his head. “A moment, and I will instruct my security, and then I will take my leave.”

He turned to Skene, got her nod, and slipped out of his chair, bowing to the table.

“My ship wants me,” he said, in Liaden, and, “I am late,” in Terran.

“Safe lift, Pilot,” said Master pen’Erit; and, “Better run,” said Skene.

* * *

Things had been hot during the morning, but the after-lunch session in the Road Boss’ posh office suite in Surebleak Port was downright boring. Miri was seriously thinking about asking Beautiful if he had a deck of cards on him, which she was willing to bet he did. The man had a real love affair goin’ with poker—him and Diglon, too. She figured she was doing the revolving poker game down Meruda’s back room a favor by keeping the both of them mostly employed, and their hours for card playing limited. In the old days, back when she’d been a kid, Meruda would’ve owed her a piece of the action for taking an interest in his success.

Yeah, well. The old days, and the old ways…best if they never came back. To hear the culture experts from the Scouts—and Kareen, too—tell it, though, there might be a few generations before the new ways caught on, entire.

Which was why they needed to have some control over how the new ways grew, and keep a sharp eye out for unintended consequences.

Miri yawned.

Dammit, she couldn’t take a nap. It wasn’t like she didn’t have work to do. There were reports to read, right there on the computer. All she had to do was key—

The front door opened. She glanced at the camera screen, and saw a long, tall citizen step into the waiting room, closing the door firmly behind. Old Surebleak habit, that one. You didn’t want the wind coming behind you and snatching the door wide to let the weather in.

“Good afternoon,” she heard Beautiful say. That had been a triumph, teaching Beautiful to say “good morning,” and “good afternoon,” like he didn’t mean to cut your throat.

“Afternoon,” the visitor answered, pulling off his hat. “Boss in?”

The screen showed an image of a guy past his middle years, a little pudgy with age, but tall-standing; his face scraped clean in celebration of all the balmy summer weather they’d been having, and his hair cut sharp. Might be an ex-Merc. Had that kind of ’tude about him.

“Road Boss Miri Robertson is on duty this afternoon,” Beautiful said, and Miri sighed to herself. Still some work to do there; on the other hand, the streeter hadn’t fainted, so maybe progress was being made.

“May I know your name?” he finished.

“Sure thing. Rebbus Mark, come down from Gilly Street.”

“Please come with me,” Beautiful said.

Miri reached for the computer, typed in
Gilly Street
as two pair of footsteps approached, and had time to learn it was Fran Schomaker’s turf before the door opened and Nelirikk made the announcement.

“Rebbus Mark of Gilly Street is here to see you, ma’am.”

“Thanks,” she said, coming to her feet with a smile, and both hands in sight. “Mr. Mark, c’mon in and have a seat.”

He hesitated, his eyes on the computer.

“Not wantin’ to disturb your work,” he said. “I can come back when you’re nonso busy.”

Miri grinned at him.