Hidden Fires, page 8
What was I doing in 2288?
Although Darame had fairly good recall of every job she had ever worked, dates were always hazy... and keeping records was dangerous. Setting the cat down on the other side of the bench, Darame moved to her clothes dresser. The top drawer slid silently from the wall at her gesture. Reaching underneath it, her fingers touched a pressure-sensitive latch and paused for the print to be read. A momentary twitching sensation, and then a teardrop-shaped slice of reddish quartz dropped into her hand, the tarnished silver chain falling between digits to form a loop. The drawer closed before Darame had time to coil the links.
Returning to her seat, Darame carefully positioned her thumbs on the quartz teardrop, supporting the back with index and second fingers. Even her meager body heat could eventually infuse the mineral — after a while, the pendant warmed to her touch. Stray thoughts began to filter into her mind... the pentimento was responding, giving her back her past.
It was a very expensive toy, a pentimento... and much more than a pretty trinket. A former free-trader had discovered this particular type of quartz, and had also discovered its strange properties. But now was not the time to think about that — not unless she wanted the pendant to record her musings. As soon as the date in her thoughts was perceived, the chip of quartz would begin its backward search, peeling away its own layers of memory like the skin of an onion.
A permanent form of memory, with an immense appetite for data... but a pentimento was aptly named. Although read like a film ring, it was capable of input only — once an incident was recorded, it could never be changed.
Finally, the proper date was reached. Had she had so many jobs since then? Two different scams that year, both of them on Caesarea. She had fled the planet following the second — Memory rose up within her, and she nearly lost her grip on the pendant. That job... that year. What could possibly interest Garth Kristinsson in that job?
Last month, 2288... Darame had been working with two other free-traders, at a job that went hopelessly wrong before it came about right. Reviewing what she had recorded concerning those days, Darame found she had forgotten a great deal. Surely Hank had killed Kurt? That was not what she had recorded... in fact, she had actually quoted Hank — He’s dead; I don’t know why. We’ll leave his cut of the gold at Traders.
Darame released the slice of quartz, letting the chain glide through her fingers. A hundred years was a long time... and she had tried to forget that job. It was a difficult thing to forget — Hank had contributed to her education almost as much as Halsey. Lessons threaded every scam they had ever worked together. Still, it had been her last job with Hank; her first job to be betrayed by a partner. Had Kurt actually stolen the gold? Had Hank killed him? Or had someone else shadowed them, twisted their scam.... Had Hank meant that Kurt was dead, but that Hank knew nothing of the details? Could Kurt have died without active intervention on someone else’s part?
I left Caesarea too quickly. Yet Hank had split the gold three ways. That was important — free-trader law said that if a partner totally betrayed the company, all rules became void, and the traitor’s cut of the profits was forfeit. Hank had left Kurt’s account his share of the profits.
“You should have told me what you knew or suspected, Hank,” Darame murmured aloud. She glanced over at the RAM... yes, Garth’s parents had died at the same time she was packing to flee Caesarea. Did I see something? Touching the pentimento once again, she meticulously examined the year, this time checking both Caesarean jobs.
Darame always recorded situations in detail, in case casual introductions or gossip might prove valuable later. This time there was nothing; nothing that seemed to matter... unless there was an actual connection to one of the jobs.
Hank Edmonton, Kurt Eriksson, Tina Lockheart, Douglass Doyle, Natane, and Donhassen... was one of them connected with Garth in some way?
“How?” she asked the Somali cat sitting next to her. Nyani responded by yawning at her preferred person and stretching across Darame’s lap. “As if you could know, lover,” Darame murmured to the animal, rubbing her ribs and stomach. Delicately she traced the rim of the pentimento, grateful again for an old friend’s advice. How does one keep records that no one else suspects exist? What a marvelous device, worth every scrap of gold she had paid for it. Attractive, yet not valuable enough to attract a pinch thief’s eye... it needed a touch of polish. I have been so busy with big things, little things have been pushed aside.
How long she drifted Darame did not know, but the sound of the bells startled her. Three bells — prime. The star was rising....
Warmth crept up her spine, but Darame did not jump. Leaning back into him, Darame lifted her chin and gave Sheel a soft smile.
“You are up early,” she told him.
“You were up very early,” Sheel responded, warm fingers tracing the line of her throat. “Catching up on your reading?”
Darame did not miss the tone of voice. Reaching to disconnect her tap into the infonet, she said: “Just being cautious.”
His hand seized hers. “Is that from The Crowned Tiger?” At her nod, he continued: “How did you call it up?”
“I pressed ‘read,’ and then requested information on Garth Kristinsson,” was her response. Seeing the eyebrow shoot up, Darame added: “There is another way to do it?”
If he had pressed the point, she would have elaborated. But old habits died hard; Darame still rarely volunteered information, even to the people she loved most. What they did not know could not hurt them.
“Can I coax you to the breakfast table?” Sheel finally said.
“I suspect you could coax me anywhere.”
AMURA-BY-THE-SEA
TIERCE
Tumbling clouds and brilliant starshine struggled to control the skies; for Garth it was an appropriate backdrop. Confusion above and below, this morning, and he was trapped somewhere in-between. It was hard to admit that an old friend might have been right, but Garth was beginning to wonder... maybe he should have acquired some training as a free-trader. True, his quest might have been in vain if he had waited — Edmonton was already dead, and Silver no longer had the stretch of Cold Sleep — but now that he was here, what was the next step? Riding around on these rails was getting him nowhere; he had started looking for signs of a free-trader haunt before the second bell, and the third had just rung.
Preliminary dips into the visitor information during the dark hours before dawn had revealed an ancient, complex culture. Contacts were needed — to get more data on Silver, to provide allies should he decide against her — yet he was already stymied. The simple history provided in an overview of the clans indicated that Silver had managed to bewitch one of the wealthiest and most powerful people on the planet.
Just thinking about it made him angry. His parents had died in their pursuit of wealth and security, while this woman practically had stumbled into a vault at Traders, with title to the contents....
A voice intruded into his dark thoughts. “I thought this was your first visit to Nuala.”
“It is,” Garth replied, his gaze on the crowd. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you are obviously looking for someone,” Lucy said, shoving a long copper curl out of her eyes and leaning across him to look out the window. “If you want to talk to someone you met last night, I imagine I can find them for you.”
“Faster than this rail car?” Garth pressed his lips together; surely his impatience showed.
If it did, Lucy did not refer to it. “Tram,” she corrected. “Possibly... but if we knew which tram we should be on, it would go faster.” Glancing around the crowded passenger car, she added: “We might be able to see more from the top.”
“No, I need to see faces,” Garth told her, looking back out the window once again. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea... or maybe he should have gone without Lucy. But it didn’t seem right to take a woman back to your room, and then not invite her to breakfast.
It had surprised him when she agreed to accompany him to breakfast; had surprised him even more when she called someone to bring her street clothing. Her current attire was a long-sleeved work shirt of pale blue and white stripes, with close-fitting pale blue pants woven of the same plant fiber. A simple belt of braided hemp and white thongs finished off her outfit. It seemed appropriate for the heat, if a bit rustic. For all you know, it may be the height of fashion, Garth told himself. It was hard to guess how much family connections meant here... and if they meant money.
Early prowling through his Random Access Module had given Garth more than basic clan information about Nuala. The colony was over two thousand years Terran in age, the result of a scientific expedition that was abruptly abandoned during the final years of the first republic. Nuala’s excessive radiation caused genetic mutation, which had led to the sinis, the hot Nualans, that Lucy and her cousins avoided. It also caused local life forms to change; one irradiated organism was capable of reducing the hull of a spaceship to rust in less than thirty-six days, the length of a Nualan month. These two massive problems had nearly destroyed the original colony. It had taken the group over a thousand years to figure out how to protect their metals... how to escape their planet.
Genetic mutation was still a problem. Eighty percent of the population was sterile — accordingly, children were highly prized, and fertility was a major issue with all Nualans. The laws were quite specific about pregnancy — it was the business of the woman and her family, although the father was usually identified for genetic records. At least we’re good for something.
All this thought was not going to put Lucy off — eventually, she’d find out what she wanted to know. So how to tell her.... “I’m looking for anyone else who might have known my parents,” Garth said simply.
Lucy rolled her eyes, her perfect chest heaving with her sigh. “All the spies and pirates eat over by the wharf! Let us disembark at the next stop.” Seizing his wrist, she pulled him to his feet.
“Spies and pirates?” Garth said, staring at her.
“Shuhh! Would ‘thieves’ have been a better choice of words?” As the tram slowed, the doors folded open before them.
“Free-traders are not thieves,” Garth told her tartly. Then: “What makes you think I will find who I’m looking for... by the wharf?”
“Did you not say your mother and The Atarae were friends?” Lucy asked, glancing up at him as she led him down a cobbled alley.
“When they were younger.” Garth eyed her a moment. Salt and fish odor threatened to distract him, but he kept his concentration on Lucy.
Lucy grinned guilelessly at him. “‘Free-trader,’ that is the word. What few that are in Amura usually eat at Limpin’ Lobster.”
“The Atarae was a free-trader?” Garth felt his nerves tightening. This was an unexpected turn of events. Motion to one side of them caught his eye; was that the same man he had noticed on the tram?
“So you said.” Lucy twinkled at him for a few moments, her eyelids creasing in her amusement, and then said: “So rumor goes... it is said she was what people here call a wheedling wizard, someone skilled enough to cheat a cardsharp at his own game. Of course I know not —” Lucy paused, waiting for a tram to go by. “I have met her but a few times; Rex is invited to Synod functions, you see, and so our presence is also requested.”
“Huh.” That had been embarrassing, finding out that her cousin was the Rex mentioned in the world overview as the ruler of Dielaan. Perhaps they were all third or fourth cousins, but any connection to a royal line a thousand years old was pretty impressive. A quick glance in a shop window told him the man was now behind them, but still in sight.
It is all show at my end, she had told him with a chuckle. No chance for me to get my hands on any power! I must settle for being ornamental.
“Limpin’ Lobster has a very good breakfast,” Lucy promised, drawing him back to the moment. “If I have been reading things into the situation, you can explain to me who your parents really were, and we will look after we eat.” Rounding a wooden building, she led him onto a boardwalk. “Is it not wonderful?” Lucy dropped his wrist and waved her arms expansively.
Garth was too overwhelmed to speak. Before them was the western sea, and it was even more impressive by day. Salt and spray mingled on a southwest wind, seasoned with the promise of rain. Brilliant starshine played games with towering thunderheads, rays of light winking in and out of cloud banks. Overhead strange birds spiraled, screaming unintelligibly at winged companions and landbound creatures alike. Tree branches whipped in a gust, but they were trees unlike any Garth had ever seen, gnarled and barely showing green.
“I hope the Lobster has food you can eat,” Lucy continued slowly. “I had not thought of that....”
“I grew up far from the coast,” Garth said finally, turning reluctantly from the water to face Lucy. “Most of Caesarea’s lakes are man-made; we had nothing like this. It’s so blue!”
“Not as blue as further out,” she replied, taking hold of his cuff and tugging him along. “More turquoise green, here, and a softer shade at that. Sand churns within it by the beach. A bit further it becomes a very dark blue-green, and then at the points almost blackish, just for a moment... then the water is the color of the sky.” Pointing off to their left, Lucy cut across his path and pulled him down a row of small, stone buildings. “At home the Miraculous Sea is much darker in color, a deep turquoise blue... but some say the sky is also a deeper hue.” Reaching an open door, Lucy dragged him inside. “Finally! I am so hungry!”
A wait gestured for them to sit where they pleased, which Lucy was already doing. She chose the only table left on the waterfront, a tiny folding board which was perched on the wall like a tree burl. Pulling the rectangle down between them, Lucy quickly ran her hand along the short edge. Words appeared upon the table; they were written in what Garth had come to recognize as Nualan.
“That will not do,” she murmured, moving her hand once again. The print vanished. Two quick passes along the edge, and menus printed in Caesarean appeared on the table top, one facing each bench. “Here — anything marked with an asterisk can be prepared for off-worlders... at three times the price!” Lucy winced visibly.
“It’s all right.” Even as the words left his lips, Garth realized they were indiscreet for a public place. “I budgeted for the food — why do you think I’m in such a small hostel?”
Shrugging, Lucy turned her attention to the menu. “I like their omelets, and the baker makes wonderful scones and muffins.”
“What’s an omelet?” This question earned Garth an incredulous look from Lucy. The look was followed by a spirited explanation which included bird eggs and milk cooked flat but not really, with almost anything imaginable tossed into the concoction and cheese placed between when the pan-shaped eggs were folded in half upon themselves. “I think I get the idea,” Garth finally said, cutting off any further attempt to describe the food items. “They have one with shredded crab and jack cheese, I think I’ll try that.”
“And a bread basket,” Lucy insisted.
When an actual wait came to take their order, she insisted on several other things, including fruit juice and hot saffra. Garth had trouble controlling a smile, and of course Lucy noticed. Her eyes widened as her black brows rose slightly, and Garth took the hint.
“How do you stay so skinny when you eat like a long-hauler?”
“Skinny?” she responded, running delicate fingers down her exquisite waistline.
“Slender,” Garth substituted hastily.
“I get a great deal of exercise,” she responded, “and that takes care of it. I also eat well... for example, I do not care for sweets.”
“Lucky you. I love chocolate.” Garth was happy to keep talking about food, if it kept Lucy’s mind off Garth’s reasons for seeking a free-trader haunt. It also kept his own anger and unease under control. Yes, it was the same man from the tram. Did Silver have a tail upon him already?
“Well, chocolate,” Lucy agreed feelingly, and then gave him a sharp glance. “Why do I feel as if I have only half your attention?”
“I have a few things on my mind,” Garth admitted.
Her gaze swept around the room, and lighted upon a corner. “Ah-ha! I told you this was a free-trader restaurant!” This was a whisper; leaning across the table conspiratorially, Lucy continued: “Do you see the thin, bald man over in the corner — the one with the beaming smile? He is called Halsey. He is a trader of some kind, a wealthy one, he has a beautiful estate north of town.” Lucy’s voice dropped another notch in volume. “Rumor has it that he was a famous free-trader in his youth!”
Halsey? He was still on Nuala? Garth flicked a glance at the corner in question. Another piece of luck — it was too soon to tell if it was good or bad. But it was a name, the name of a previously powerful free-trader. Could he be the head of the Nualan net? That was the one thing he had forgotten to ask Lowe — who was running the Nualan free-trader network.
Did Nuala have a head of their net? Rumors had said that the Nualan authorities were very good at identifying potential organizers and deporting or otherwise eliminating them. The only name anyone on Caesarea gave him was “Brant,” a Caesarean who had headed for Nuala twenty years ago Terran. Wheel traders had expected him currently to be at, or near, the top of the pecking order — if he had not already returned to Caesarea Station.
But no one “ran” the net — it was not like the underground, where underlings paid heed (and a tithe) to a superior. Net was more of a communications network than anything else. Finding the head and introducing oneself was part courtesy, part self-defense. Otherwise, there was no way to know if a new scam would blunder into something currently in the works.
