Ruler of Naught (50 page)

Lokri looked over at where the Eya’a were intently examining
a plumbing fixture. Their multi-faceted eyes swung toward him, and one of the
round blue mouths opened.

Lokri pushed himself away from the wall and they left. A
knot of people waited, oddly subdued, at the door—and as soon as the Eya’a had
glided past, they rushed inside the facility and the door hissed shut.

Lokri moved into the crowded corridor with its ever-present
flashing signs and booming music, then stopped when his boswell tingled the
inside of his wrist and a flash of red light bloomed behind his eyes. “Vi’ya,”
he said. “Trouble.”

“Does it have a locator?”

Lokri thrust back his sleeve with shaking fingers. “Yes.
I’ll—”

The light winked out, and stayed dead.

“Emergency over?” Brandon asked.

Lokri shook his head slightly, then winced. “She should have
flashed the green.” He frowned. “But... I know where she is... I think.”

“Let’s go,” Brandon said.

“To the rescue?” Lokri laughed again, leaning against a wall
to catch his breath. “Life... is a farce,” he gasped. “What about them?”

One of the Eya’a emitted a high, keening noise, and then
without warning both of them disappeared in the crowd.

Lokri hit his boswell, spoke, then looked up. “Marim’s on
her way,” Lokri said. “And so is Jaim.”

“Then let us endeavor,” Brandon said grandly, and Lokri
laughed.

They ran to a lift, and while they waited Lokri bent, his
hands on his knees, sucking in slow breaths of air. “A great time for a fight,”
he muttered.

They jammed into the crowded lift, emerging into the merchants’
corridor. The front door to the last shop was closed, and no guards stood
there.

“That’s Snurkel’s,” Lokri said. “Shut door means trouble.”

“Force the door?” Brandon said.

“No—it’ll be wired for that. Back way.”

“Tell me this,” Brandon said as they ran through another
shop, ignored a protesting clerk, and skidded into a narrow service alley. “Do
you always know a back way?”

Lokri choked on a laugh. “Always.”

They ran up the corridor and found the last door shut. A
small console gleamed at the side. Lokri grimaced, dug in a pocket, and pulled
out his neurojac. Lokri glanced around, then jammed it up against the console
and triggered it, igniting a shower of sparks. He cursed and dropped the
weapon, wringing his hand. The door clicked and swung ajar as an alarm
screeched.

“Another reason they don’t like neurojacs on Rifthaven—they’re
hell on electronics,” said Lokri as he pushed the door open.

They rushed in, veering in the direction of a hoarse, angry
scream, and burst into a room to find Vi’ya backed into a corner near shelves
and shelves of art objects. A small man was gripped tightly against her, a thin
trickle of blood at his neck. Two guards stood poised at either side of the
room, looking for an opening.

Just as Brandon and Lokri arrived, a side door slid open and
four burly men in coveralls appeared, truncheons in their hands.

“Nice timing,” Vi’ya greeted them. “Clear the way back to
the office—”

That was the last chance any of them had for talking.

o0o

“Lys!” Nistan yelped. “Look at this!”

Lyska-si had been monitoring another long series of coded
messages. She dropped the flimsies printing out and ducked over to Nistan’s
console.

“What’s going on?”

Nistan looked down at his boz’l with a distracted air, then
said, “Korb says he got audio before visual. The woman—captains a ship called
Telvarna
—came
in trying to sell some stuff, and the old blungesniffer was hinting around that
it came from Arthelion—”

Lyska-si gasped. “You think this
Telvarna
is really the
Maiden’s Dream
?”

“Or jacked it. I don’t know,” Nistan muttered, tapping his
boswell. “Korb only told me Snurkel was hinting around, trying to find out about
the Arkad, and that the captain claimed to have killed him.”

Lyska-Si whistled softly. “I think we better watch.”

Nistan nodded in agreement. “Let’s find out if the old
stench-wad reveals something else he’s not sharing.”

Lyska-si scanned eagerly. They both laughed in astonishment
when the console revealed Snurkel being held hostage against several of his
hired flash by a tall woman with long, swinging black hair. Two men, both tall
and lean, and both masked, came to her aid—obviously her crew.

Lyska-si settled back to watch the show, hoping that Snurkel
would feel the truncheon that a hired Draco swung at one man’s head. The
crewman ducked, his foot lashing out, catching the Draco in the crotch.

Nistan hooted with laughter—he obviously didn’t like Draco
any more than Lyska-Si did. The other crewman, a rakish fellow dressed all in
black, had his wristknife out, and lunged at one of the others, who backed away
hastily, knocking into a crystal 3-D chess set on a stand.

“Nooo!” Snurkel screamed. “Stop them! Kill them! Don’t touch
the merchandise!”

Lyska-si stuffed her wrist into her mouth to keep from laughing.
I always believed you’d pay.

One of the guards tossed Snurkel his weapon, and the woman
thrust the shop owner violently away. By the time Snurkel had brought his
shaking hands up to take aim, she was crouched behind a display case full of
porcelain. She rammed the butt of her knife through the back of the case and
grabbed objects. She began potting them at Snurkel, who shrieked on a high note
of escalating rage as each one smashed, but he did not dare to move away from
his cover.

The first man, a slim fellow dressed very plainly and
wearing a dark blue nick-mask, was beset by two fighters who knew what they
were doing. But so did he; she watched with growing appreciation the grace and
surety of his moves as he ducked another blow, feinting toward one so that the
second one lunged, missed, and nearly hit the first. The second one bumped
against a wooden case, which creaked warningly.

Snurkel screamed imprecations at the guards as well as commands,
which distracted them. The guard still armed with a poison gun looked on
helplessly, unable to find an opening. Finally he holstered the gun and pulled
out a long knife, moving in on the fight.

The man in black took the opportunity to toss his boot knife
hilt-first to the other, who caught it, flashing a smile before he dodged a
concerted attack by his two assailants. His head turned. Lyska-si could tell by
the angle that he was checking on the woman, who checked him in the same
moment. She made a carry-on signal. He laughed and gestured, no more than a
turn of his wrist, but the intent—humor and deference—was clear to Lyska-si. “That’s
a nick,” she said. “High strut, too.”

Nistan watched as the man grabbed a long candlestick and
whopped one man across the back of his neck.

“Nah,” Nistan said. “Other one might be—he’s dressed for it.”

Lyska-si looked from one man to the other, but her eyes were
drawn back to the one in the plain clothes. It wasn’t his looks, it was the way
he moved that caught at her interest.
Like a dance, and he’s laughing. It
is
a dance
.

His blow with the candlestick was not enough to do more than
stagger the man, but it deflected him long enough for Blue-mask to leap over a
counter to a better defensive position. Here, he had an array of fantastic
mosaic vases to grab and fling at the men, which he did, quoting some kind of
poetry at each throw. The hired flash backed hastily away from the barrage,
their faces turning in growing annoyance from him to their shouting employer.

The captain popped up and clipped one behind the ear. He
fell heavily against the creaking case, which toppled with slow and dignified
inevitability. The musical sounds of tiny smashings came from inside, then it
hit the floor with a crash.

The man in black whooped, thrusting a huge statue over onto
one fellow, who did not duck in time. The statue crashed into a million
shards—and over it a female guard leapt, grappling Black-shirt to the floor.

The captain rounded a corner, but Snurkel moved at the same
time, closer to the office door. “Keep him away!” the captain shouted.

Blue-mask obligingly lobbed a huge vase at the little merchant,
who scuttled away, then tried convulsively to catch the vase. It smashed,
flinging shards over him. Snurkel screamed in rage, and Lyska-Si clapped her
hands.

Black-shirt and his attacker rolled over, rose halfway, then
lurched into a side alcove. The sounds of tinkling and clangs came from there,
punctuated by Snurkel gibbering threats in a constant babble.

One of the guards pulled free the sword at his side, lunging
at the captain. She ducked, and the man cocked his arm for another lunge—in
time to take a full hit on his gaudy helmet from Blue-mask’s candlestick. The
bonging sound seemed to shake him; then Blue-mask saw a rapier lying in a
smashed case, grabbed it up, and he and the guard began an energetic sword
battle, right there in the middle of a sea of smashed crockery.

“Woo, look at him fight—
just
like a vid.”

“Scan Snurkel,” Nistan muttered.

The merchant was watching the fight with narrowed eyes,
distracted only when the woman edged around, then dived through the office
door.

Snurkel jumped up and ran after, in time to meet a kick from
Blue-mask’s boot. He slipped in the broken porcelain and fell, rolling.

Blue-mask backed away, fighting to hold his position. Snurkel
began crawling along the perimeter of the room, and then Blue-mask yelled, “‘Ware,
Vi’ya!”

The captain glanced up, then ducked behind the desk as
pellets from two weapons crossed where her head had been. The sounds of drawers
opening and slamming came clearly from the office.

Snurkel reached the doorway and viciously jabbed at something
on a little console hidden in the wall next to him.

Vi’ya straightened up as if she’d been shot, her hands going
to her head. Lyska-si was aware of the high, thin whine of a mindblur.

The merchant took aim—and Blue-mask dropped his sword,
flinging his candlestick through the doorway. Whap! It hit the merchant across
the back of his head, and his weapon spun away.

A guard dropped on blue-mask from behind, and they went
rolling through the wreckage. Blue-mask struggled desperately, trying to free
his arms, as the man’s hand clawed down his face. The man jerked, then fell.

Blue-mask rolled to his feet, yanking the mask free. He
shook his head, and Snurkel pointed, his mouth open.

“Arkad,” the man squeaked, and lunged at his desk.

Lyska-si gasped.

She had seen that face before, but only on vids. “The Arkad...
is here,” she breathed.

“No chance,” Nistan said, but he stared.

There he was, the third son of the legendary Panarch, right
here on Rifthaven, smashing up Giffus Snurkel’s shop. An overwhelming sense of
justice having been done made her almost giddy.

“It
is
the Arkad,” Lyska-si breathed.

Nistan jerked, tapped his boz’l. When he looked up at
Lyska-si, his eyes were huge. “Snurkel’s blocking everyone else, but he’s got a
special relay, and Korb says he wants a squad of enforcers. Not saying why.
What do we do?”

Lyska-si thought rapidly. She remembered cheering when the
news first came out that the Panarchists had fallen. But since then the news
was of atrocities and wholesale killings enough to turn the stomach of the
lowest Shiidra-loving deviant.

A reward big enough to buy an octant for grabbing that
man, and
Snurkel
to claim it?

“Can we jam it for a time?”

Nistan wordlessly tapped his boswell, and a moment later
said, “Korb did it, though it’ll last maybe a minute. At this rate we’ll never
pay him off.”

“So we’ll owe him big,” Lyska-si said decidedly. “I don’t
care about the reward or anything—if we tried to claim it Eusabian would
probably just have us killed. Snurkel deserves to lose.”

Nistan nodded, a grim set to his jaw as he tapped. “Korb
said, no owe. He hates Snurkel, too. So we’re agreed, we’re gonna give the
Arkad a chance to get clear, him ‘n’ his pack. Then it’s up to them.”

Lyska-si’s boz’l tingled in the pattern that meant her
mother. She thought quickly. She couldn’t tell her about the Arkad—she wouldn’t
understand. But Lyska-si could tell her about Snurkel and the other seconds’
possible inside information from Arthelion. If she made it sound urgent enough,
the resulting uproar might give the Arkad and the others the edge they needed.

She subvocalized rapidly, grinning as her mother’s outrage
made it clear her impromptu plan would succeed. Then she tapped off the boswell
and turned back to watch the rest of the fight.

Marim arrived just ahead of Jaim, staring in amazement at
the smashed front door of Snurkel’s shop. Inside was a riot of bobbing heads.
Vi’ya, Lokri, and the Arkad were vastly outnumbered—but then Snurkel didn’t
have Jaim, who launched himself straight into the action.

Glancing back to make certain no one was flanking them,
Marim saw a crowd gathering. Always a bad sign. Stepping in the lee of a carved
pillar, she loosed her stenchgun in three directions, and watched in
satisfaction as the corridor outside the shop cleared fast, people kicking and clawing
to get away from the terrific stench and the projectile vomiting of those too
close to escape. As the air currents spread the gas, an edge of the smell
caught at the back of her throat and she plunged back inside the shop.

Vi’ya dived through a door from the other side moments
before a cross-hatching of lethal rays in the doorway activated. She came back
with a stack of AU scrip in her hand, which she shoved at Lokri. Then her scary
black gaze caught Marim. “Montrose. Get Ivard,
whitecode
,” Vi’ya
ordered.