The Summer Queen (8 page)

“You insult my manhood, runt.” The Ondinean with the knife
jabbed it at Kedalion’s face, this time speaking the local tongue, not Trade. “Leave
now, and keep your own—or stay, and lose it.”

Kedalion backed up a step as more knives began to appear below
the table edge, hidden from most eyes, but not from his. He knew enough about
young toughs like these to realize that if he pushed it they’d kill him; but
even if he backed off now there was no guarantee they’d let the matter drop.
His hands tightened over his empty belt, and he said numbly, “Neither of those
choices is acceptable,” answering in their own language. He wondered how in
seven hells he had managed to get into such a stupid position so quickly. The
wine must have been stronger than he thought.

“Kedalion, please go,” Shalfaz said softly. “I will stay
here.” She moved closer to the man who still held her arm, her body settling
against him.

“Slut!” He slapped her. “You don’t tell a man what to do. I
choose, not you!” He shoved her away. She crashed, jingling, into the
offworlder who had been leaning against the bar behind them, watching with
casual amusement. The bottle the man had been holding fell and smashed,
spraying them with liquor and bits of broken ceramic.

Kedalion dodged back awkwardly as the local youth aimed a
kick at him. And then his vision seemed to strobe as the man Shalfaz had
eollided with suddenly exploded past her.

Before Kedalion could quite believe it was happening, the
man with the knife was no longer a man with a knife—he was a man howling on the
floor, and the offworlder’s foot was on his neck. “Yuu want a fight—?” The,
curved, jewel-handled blade was in the stranger’s fist, and he was grinning at
the fury still forming on the faces of the other men around the table. He
flashed the knife at them. “Come and get it,” he said.

Kedalion backed up another step. “He must be mad,” Shalfaz
whispered. Kedalion, who had caught a flashing look into the man’s eyes, didn’t
answer. Slowly he began to edge away, taking Shalfaz and the boy with him.

“Dopper shit,” one of the Ondmeans said, “there are six of
us, and one of you. Do you want to kiss the sole of my boot and beg our
forgiveness? Or do you really want your guts cut out of you with that blade?”

Kedalion glanced back, hesitating as he saw the offworlder’s
smile grow thin and tight. “Sure.” the offworlder said, twisting the knife so
that it caught the light. “Gut me. I’d enjoy that; that sounds good. Or maybe
use it to peel my skin off a centimeter at a time .... But you still have to
get this away from me first.” He leaned on the edge of their table, waving the
blade at them, invading their space with fatal nonchalance. “Well—?”

Their stares broke and fell away from the hunger in his
eyes. They looked at each other, their bodies unconsciously shrinking back from
him. “The Foreteller has shown us that it is unworthy to kill the insane,”
another man muttered. The blades did not go back into sheaths, but the men
began to get up slowly from the table.

The offworlder snorted and stepped back, looking down at the
man still sprawled on the floor. “You kiss my boot, you shit.” The bottom of
his foot brushed the man’s lips in a not-quite-gentle caress. He shoved the man’s
dagger into his own belt. “Then think twice about being an asshole in such a
crowded room.”

The Ondinean scrambled to his feet, spitting and wiping his
mouth, and joined his friends. “You will die for this!” His voice shook. The
others put restraining hands on him, because they were surrounded now by the
club’s security. Ravien himself stood beside the offworlder, putting a
cautionary hand on his shoulder. The stranger shrugged it off. But he only
murmured, “Yes. Sooner or later ...” looking back at them. “Sooner or later we
all get what we deserve.”

Kedalion joined Shalfaz and the boy at a table as far from
the scene of the fight as possible, stopping only to collect his bottle from
the bar. As he went he saw the club’s security herding the Ondineans toward the
door. He noticed with some surprise that Ravien escorted the offworlder
solicitously back to the bar instead of having him thrown out with the rest.
Well, the man had lost a bottle. Or maybe Ravien didn’t want his private
entrance marked by a litter of corpses.

The offworlder shot Kedalion a curious glance as he passed.
Kedalion touched his forehead in a brief, wary acknowledgment, and the stranger
gave him a surprisingly cheerful smile. Kedalion looked away from it, and went
on to the table. He poured drinks for himself and the two Ondineans; noticed
the boy’s stare as he handed a drink to Shalfaz. “You ever see that one before?”
Kedalion asked her, gesturing over his shoulder at the stranger.

She nodded, still looking as unnerved as he felt. “He comes
in often to watch the shows. He never visits anyone’s room, male or female. He
is usually very quiet, and sits by himself.”

Kedalion took a deep breath, shaking himself out, and looked
at the boy again. “So,” he said, somewhat inadequately. “Shalfaz says you’re
looking for a way to get offworld.” The boy nodded, self-consciousness
struggling with hope on his face. “I can’t imagine why.” Kedalion glanced
toward the door and back, his mouth twitching sardonically. “Why?”

The boy also looked toward the spot where the locals had
made their forced exit. He made a disgusted face of his own in response.

Kedalion studied him, as unobtrusively as possible. The boy
was small and slight compared to the men who’d just left, even though he still
towered over Kedalion. Maybe he was tired of being bullied. “What kind of work
are you looking for?”

The boy hesitated, and then said, “Anything,” meeting Kedalion’s
stare. Kedalion half smiled, thinking that at least the kid didn’t ask for “honest
work.” He probably knew how much of that he’d find in a place like this.

“What skills do you have’.’”

The boy hesitated again, his face furrowing. “I’m flexible,”
he said.

“Physically or mentally?”

“Both.” A spark of pride showed in the boy’s changeable
eyes.

Kedalion laughed out loud this time. “That’s unique,” he
said. “And probably an asset.” The boy was wearing the long, curved ritual
knife all the local men wore, although his was plain and cheap-looking, like
his clothes. He also carried a less common state-of-the-art stun weapon, partly
concealed by the folds of his jacket. “You ever kill anybody?” Kedalion asked,
wondering suddenly if that was why he was in a hurry to leave. But he remembered
how the boy had hesitated, confronting the men who had accosted Shalfaz—not a
coward, but not a hothead, either.

The boy jerked slightly, as if he had been insulted. Most of
the young Ondinean males Kedalion had met fought knife duels as often as they
smoked a pot of water weed together. Those blades weren’t for show; they could
cut a man open like a redfruit. If it wasn’t for modern medical technology,
Ondinee would be depopulated inside of a couple of generations. “I don’t want
to kill people,” the boy said. “But I would kill someone if I had to.”

There was none of the glazed bravado Kedalion expected in
the indigo eyes, but somehow he knew that the boy meant what he said.

“Have you killed people?” the boy asked bluntly.

“I don’t want to kill people either.” Kedalion shrugged. “I’m
just a runner.”

The boy’s glance searched out Kedalion’s legs, hidden under
the table edge.

“Not that kind of runner. As you can see, I’m not equipped
for the odds.” For a second a smile hovered on the boy’s lips. “Just say I’m a
trader. I transport goods from world to world. I travel a lot. I run an honest
business. But I can’t say the same for most of my customers. My mother, rest
her soul, would say I keep bad company. What’s your name?”

“Ananke.” the boy said, looking down. It meant Necessity. He
glanced at Shalfaz, and back at Kedalion again. “I would like to work for you.”

“Do you have any tech training?” Kedalion asked, skeptical.
The boy didn’t look old enough to have had much work experience.

“Some.” Ananke nodded earnestly. “I’ve been studying with
the university whenever I can pay for an outlet.”

He had ambition, at least. Kedalion sipped his drink, noncommittal.
“How do you support yourself?”

“I’m a street performer,” the boy murmured. “A juggler and
an acrobat.”

Kedalion reached into the maze of pockets inside his long,
loose coat, pulled out the huskball he had carried with him like a kind of
talisman ever since he was a boy. He tossed it at Ananke with no warning.
Ananke caught it easily, flipped it into the air, over his shoulder; made it
disappear and reappear between his hands. Kedalion grinned, and caught it,
barely, as the boy suddenly threw it back to him. “Okay,” he said. “You work my
next run with me, we’ll see how it goes. At least it’ll earn you passage to somewhere
else. I’ll pay you ten percent of the profit when we get there. You can make a
start with that.”

The boy grinned too, nodding. “I have all my things here. I’ll
get them—”

“Relax.” Kedalion put up a hand. “I’ve still got to find us
a cargo. And besides, I just got here; I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
He glanced at Shalfaz. She smiled, and his bones melted. “Just be here when I
want to leave.”

Ananke nodded again, looking at them with an expression that
was knowing and somehow full of pain all at once. Kedalion remembered what
Shalfaz had said about the boy, and wondered. Ananke began to get up from his
chair.

“With my compliments,” a soft, slightly husky voice said, behind
Kedalion’s back. “And my apologies.”

Ananke looked up, sat down again, surprise filling his face.
Shalfaz shrank back in her seat, her hands fluttering.

Kedalion turned in his own seat, to find the offworlder who
had challenged the Ondineans standing behind him. The man grinned disarmingly,
taking in the tableau of mixed emotions as if he were used to it. He probably
was, Kedalion thought. He was tall, but slender; Kedalion’s memory of the fight
seemed to hold someone a lot larger, more massive. But there was no mistaking
those eyes—bluer than his own, probing him with the intensity of laser light
when they met his. The offworlder looked away first, as if he was aware of the
effect his gaze had on strangers.

He set something down on the tabletop between the three of
them—another bottle. Kedalion stared at it in disbelief. The bottle was an
exotic, stylized flower form, layers of silver petals tipped with gold. Pure
silver, pure gold .... Kedalion reached toward it, touched it, incredulous.
Only one thing came in a bottle like that; they called it the water of life. It
was the most expensive liquor available anywhere in the Hegemony, named for the
far rarer drug that came from Tiamat, a drug which kept the absurdly rich young
at unbelievable expense. The real thing was no longer available at any price,
now that Tiamat’s Gate was closed for the next century. Kedalion had never
expected to taste this imitation of it any sooner than he tasted the real
thing.

“Apologies—?” he remembered to say, finally; he tore his
eyes from the silver-gilt bottle to look up at the stranger again. “I should be
sending you a bottle.” He shrugged, realizing that his own smile was on crooked
as he looked into that face again.

The stranger grunted. “Ravien tells me I should have let you
settle your own quarrel,” he murmured. “I made an ass of myself tonight. I’m
not in a very good mood The gallows grin came back; But then. I guess I never am
.. his fingers drummed against his thigh. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Kedalion said, thinking that if the
stranger hadn’t intervened, even the genuine water of life wouldn’t have been
enough to revive him. “Believe me.” He looked at the silver bottle again, still
not quite believing his eyes. He picked it up. almost afraid to touch it, and
held it out to the stranger.

“Keep it,” the stranger said. “I insist.”

Kedalion looked into his eyes, and didn’t argue. He pulled
the bottle toward him, his hands proving its reality again, and unset the seal
with his thumb. Sudden fragrance filled his head like perfume, made his mouth
water, filled his eyes with tears of pure pleasure. “Ye gods,” he murmured, “I
had no idea ....” He passed the bottle around the table, letting the others
touch it with awed hands, breathe in its essence; watching their faces.

Kedalion realized that the stranger was still standing
beside him, taking it all in, with something that was almost fascination in his
own eyes. “Join us—’?” Kedalion asked, not particularly wanting to. but feeling
that he could hardly do anything else, under the circumstances. The service
unit under the smooth onyx-colored table obliged him, spitting out an extra
cup.

“Not my poison,” the stranger murmured. He shook his head,
unkempt fingers of brown hair brushing his shoulders. Kedalion started to
breathe again as the man began to turn away; but the man shrugged abruptly, and
turned back. He pulled out a seat and sat down. “I’m Reede,” he said.

Kedalion made introductions, trying not to look like a man
sitting next to an armed bomb. He poured water of life for himself and the two
Ondineans, somehow managing not to spill a drop, even though his hands weren’t
steady.

He stole another glance at Reede, wondering how the other
man had come by something like this bottle, and why he was willing to give it
up so casually. It was a rich man’s gesture, but Reede didn’t look like a rich
man. He wore nondescript black breeches and heavy dockhand’s boots, a
sleeveless jerkin dangling bits of jewelry and flash—souvenirs. Not an unusual
outfit for a young hireling of some drug king. Reede’s bare arms were covered
with tattoos, telling his life history in the Hegemony’s underworld to anyone
who wanted to look close enough. There was nothing unusual about that, either;
the only thing odd about the tattoos was that there were none on his hands.