Agent of Change Read online

  "There's nothing you can do to hurry the process a little? I mean—twenty Standards..." The bell rang in the front of the shop, announcing the arrival of another customer. Two customers, she saw around the curve of the silent turtle's shell, both well-dressed and cultured.

  "Excuse me," she murmured to Edger and moved a bit down-counter. "Yes, sir? Is there something in particular you'd like to see?"

  The older of the two smiled and flipped a hand. "Nothing particular. A birthday gift for my daughter. I'd like to look around, if you'd care to finish with those gentles."

  She smiled and nodded. "Please take all the time you need. And if I can be of any assistance . . . ." The phrase drifted off as she walked back to Edger and Selector.

  "You must understand that it's not possible for a—a human—to wait twenty Standards for the filling of an order. Are you certain," she asked Edger very earnestly, "that there is nothing you can do to speed the process up?"

  Edger moved his massive head from side-to-side in the gesture that he understood to mean negation. "I regret not. Were we to attempt such a thing—as has been done in the past, when knives were encouraged at a lightning pace—perhaps three Standards from thought to blade..." He sighed a huge sigh. "Such knives are flawed. They do not withstand the rigors we of Middle River Clan demand of our blades.

  "That one before you—it will not shatter, no matter the provocation. Excluding, I should say, massive trauma, such as one would expect in the wreck of a land vehicle or collision of asteroid and starship. A flawed blade will shatter and be only dust upon the second strike against ordinary stone. We cannot, as craftpersons proud of our work, encourage a blade ahead of its time, knowing that it will perform as poorly as that."

  He motioned, and Selector stepped forward to return the sample to its sheath of soft vegetable hide.

  "Well," the manager said, putting her bravest face on it. "I'm sorry. I would've loved to have had some of your knives in the shop." She dredged up a smile. "Thank you for your time."

  Edger inclined his head. "Our time has been well given. My thanks for the gift of your own." He and Selector turned—carefully, in this place crammed with fragile things—and started for the door.

  "Your pardon, Gentles," the elder of the two well-dressed men said. Edger paused. Behind him, Selector paused also, there being no place to go with his brother blocking the aisle.

  The man made a slight bow, as would a resident prince upon greeting another traveling through his country. "My name is Justin Hostro. I could not help overhearing your conversation just now. Much that you have said interests me, and I believe I see a way in which we both may prosper. I would be very happy, were you to have time to walk with me to my place of business, so that we may discuss the matter more fully."

  Edger was pleased. Forsooth, a human of beautifully polished manner and splendid turn of phrase. Further, one who wished to learn more fully of the knives of Middle River. He inclined his head.

  "My brother and I are happy to learn your name and would be pleased to discuss our craft with you. Let us, as you say, walk to your place of business and speak."

  Justin Hostro bowed once more. "I am delighted by your willingness. If I might beg the favor of an instant, while I complete the purchase of a gift for my only daughter?"

  "It is well," Edger replied. "My kinsman and I shall await you and yours without."

  If their new acquaintance tarried longer than the requested instant, it was not by so significant a time that either Edger or Selector noted the delay. Justin Hostro and his companion rejoined them quickly, the companion bearing a large and ornately wrapped box.

  "Ah!" Edger exclaimed. "What delicacy you show in your choice! What supremacy of color—the so-bold yellow, how subtly tamed by the soberness of the black ribands! It is my belief that your daughter will be well pleased with such a gift."

  The man carrying the object of this acclaim stopped dead, blinking at his leader. But Justin Hostro merely laid his hand upon Edger's forearm and turned him gently down the street, murmuring, "Now, it does my heart good to hear you say so, for I see you have a discerning eye. I had had qualms, I will admit it. Perhaps the yellow was too bold? The black too severe? But that it draws such praise from you—I am content."

  Shaking his head, Mr. Hostro's companion fell in with Selector, and thus they each followed their leader down the street.

  * * *

  CMS WAS AT .90, CPS at .82. Val Con adjusted the stops on the 'chora as his fingers found an intriguing weave of sound, and the numbers in his head faded away.

  Shrouded in the music, he did not hear the scant sound she made entering the room, nor did body-sense warn him of her nearness. The thud of disk to padded 'chora top was unexpectedly loud.

  Trained reflexes stilled his startled reaction as his eyes snapped first to her face, then to the disk, and back to her face.

  "Hello, Miri."

  "What is it?" she demanded, voice harsh, finger pointing.

  He dropped his eyes obediently and considered the bright design, hands folded in his lap as he sought the proper words, the correct inflection. It is heritage, he thought. It is home.

  "It is a House Badge." He lifted his eyes again to hers, keeping his voice gentle and smooth. "The sign indicates Clan Erob, which is a House that chooses to seat itself elsewhere than upon Liad. They are respected Traders." He moved his shoulders. "It is what I know."

  "There's writing on the back of it," Miri told him, her voice less harsh, but still carrying that edge he mistrusted.

  He picked up the disk, flipped it in long fingers, and sighed.

  "It is a genealogy. The last entry is incomplete. it reads: 'Miri Tiazan, born in the year named Amrasam.'" He let the badge fall gently back to the padding and looked up at her. "That would be approximately sixty-five Standards ago."

  "Tayzin," she muttered, giving the name a Terran inflection. "Katalina Tayzin—my mother. Miri Tayzin—grandmother, I guess. Mom might've named me for my grandmother—she never said. Just that her mother'd died in 1358, back during the Fevers, when the fatcats..." She let her voice drift off, shaking her head.

  "Didn't tell me a lot of stuff, looks like. When I told her I'd joined up with Liz's Merc unit, she gave me that thing there. Told me it'd belonged to her mother, and she'd be happy knowin' it was off Surebleak—and me, too." Her eyes sharpened suddenly.

  "You knew," she said, and it was surety, not accusation.

  He nodded. "I knew as well as I could, for whatever difference it might make. I was surprised to find that you did not know, and that you thought yourself so Terran." He offered her a smile. "Look at you. Everyone knows Liadens are short, small compared with other humans; that the heartbeat is a fraction off, the blood count a trifle different . . . ."

  She shrugged, and the smile she returned him was real. "Mutated within acceptable limits. Says so in my papers."

  "Exactly my point," he murmured. "Because it makes no real difference. No reasonable difference. I have it that we are all the same seed: Terran, Liaden, Yxtrang."

  "Yxtrang, too?" She was onto the other point before he could nod. "You have that officially?"

  He ran a finger over the smooth enamel work of Erob's badge. "My father did. He had access to the best of the genetics data, and to—other—information. In fact, he gave the information to the Terran Party."

  "He what?" She was staring at him. "The Terran Party? What'd they do, laugh at him?"

  He moved his shoulders against the sudden tension. "They tried to assassinate him."

  Air hissed between her teeth, not quite a whistle. "They would, you know. Especially if they thought it was true. But you said—they tried."

  He glanced down, took up the disk, and turned it over in his hands. "They tried ... He was walking with my mother—his lifemate, you understand, not a contract-wife. She saw the man pull the gun—and she stepped in front, pushing my father aside." He turned the badge over and over in his hands, light running liquid over the many color
s. "She was hit instead. They'd used a fragging pellet. She had no chance at all."

  "So," she said after a long moment, "you do have a vendetta against Terrans."

  His brows twitched together in a frown. "No, I don't." He flipped the badge lightly to the padding. "What good would a vendetta against Terrans do? Because one man with a gun did as he was ordered? Perhaps—probably—he thought he was protecting his family, his Clan, his planet, all of them, from some horrible destiny. I would think that the death of one man would be a cheap price to end such a threat, then and there."

  He flexed his arms and leaned back. "A vendetta? Anne Davis, who took me as her own, raised me as her own—she was Terran, though my uncle, her lifemate, was Liaden." He glanced up, half-smiling. "You and I could be partners were you full Terran; there is nothing between our people that makes us natural enemies. No. No vendetta."

  He picked up Erob's badge and offered it to her.

  "I think," he said slowly as she took the disk from his hand, "that there is little purpose to thinking things like 'the Liadens,' 'the Clutch,' 'the humans,' or even 'the Yxtrang.' I think the best way to think—and talk—is in particulars: 'Val Con,' 'Miri,' 'Edger.' If you need to think bigger because some things take more people, it might be wise to think 'Erob,' 'Korval,' 'Middle River'—a group small enough that you can still name the individuals; a group small enough that you can, in time, know the individuals, the parts of the Clan. Where is the threat in 'Handler,' 'Edger,' 'Terrence'?"

  She stood holding the Clan sign loosely, puzzlement shadowing her gray eyes.

  "You didn't learn that in spy school," she told him flatly.

  He looked down and began to stroke the keys of the 'chora.

  "No," he said, very softly. "I don't think I did."

  She clicked open her pouch and dropped the Erob-link within, her eyes on the top of his head as he sat bent over the keyboard once more.

  "So how come you're a spy and not a Scout?"

  The Loop flared and he was up, hands flat on the keyboard, primed to stop the deadly danger of her; he saw disbelief flash across her face even as her body dropped into a crouch, ready to take his attack, a trained opponent, growing deadlier by the instant—

  "Miri." His voice cracked and he swallowed air; he raised a hand to push the hair from his forehead and exercised will to banish the Loop from consciousness . . . . "Miri, please. I would—like—to tell you the truth. It is my intention to tell you the truth."

  He saw her make the effort, saw the fighting tension drain out of shoulders and legs as she straightened and grinned shakily.

  "But I shouldn't push my luck, right?"

  "Something very like," he agreed, pushing the hair on his forehead up again. It fell back immediately.

  "You really do need a haircut."

  The adrenal rush had left him drained, a little shaky, but curiously at ease. He flashed a quick grin. "I find that suggestion hard to take seriously from someone whose own hair falls well below her waist."

  "I like it long."

  "And you a soldier!"

  "Yeah, but, you see, my commander told me never to cut it. Just following orders!"

  He laughed and found within himself an urge to talk, to explain—to justify.

  "Orders can be difficult, can they not?" he said, sitting down again before the 'chora. "I came to this world because there was a man who was a great danger to many, many people of different sizes and shapes. A man who thought anyone whose heartbeat and blood failed to match his own was a geek—worthless—and who killed and tortured the hopeless.

  "I was ordered here, but having seen the man act, I believe that I did what was proper. The reason I was ordered here, I think, is that a vendetta claim would have been sufficient to stop an investigation of my further motives, had something gone awry." He paused, then went on more slowly.

  "After all, spy or Scout, I am a volunteer, am I not? I have already agreed to go first, to make the universe safe. A Scout or a spy—it is the same thing. I am an agent of change in either case. Expendable—too useful a tool not to use.

  "Sometimes," he continued softly, "tools are programmed to protect themselves. This 'chora, for example, can be moved about within the hyatt with no difficulty. Yet, if we attempted to move it off the grounds, it would start howling, or perhaps it would simply not function all." He looked at her carefully. "The 'chora may not even know what it will do when the boundary is crossed—some circuits are beyond its access. Tools are like that, sometimes."

  Miri nodded warily. "But people—" she began and chopped off her words as the door cycled to admit Handler and Sheather.

  "It has been arranged," Handler told them, "that we shall all six dine in the so-called Grotto located belowstairs in this establishment. There is said to be music, which our elder brother will find pleasing, and there is also dancing, which we thought might be pleasing to our human friends. And," he said, voice dropping to what Miri thought must be intended as a whisper, "the form of the Grotto may be pleasing to all of us, since it is a likeness of a cavern system found elsewhere on this planet. We have bespoken the table for eight of the clock, and we hope that there will be sufficient time before the celebration for you to refresh yourselves, adorn yourselves, and be ready. We would not wish the event to begin with unseemly haste."

  The humans exchanged a glance, and Val Con bowed.

  "We thank you for your thoughtfulness. Six hours is more than adequate for our preparations. We shall be ready in the fullness of time."

  "That is very well, then," Handler said. "If you will excuse us, we shall take our leave so that we may make analyses and also prepare for the evening. It does bode to be a time of some discussion."

  The humans bowed their thanks and acknowledgements, Miri attempting to copy Val Con's fluid style and finding it much harder than it looked. The Clutch adjourned to their own quarters.

  Miri sighed. "Well, I don't know how much adornment I'll be doing, though the refreshment part don't sound too bad. Maybe I can order a fancy new shirt out of the valet." She was talking to herself, not expecting an answer; Val Con's reply made her jump.

  "You can't go like that, you know," he told her seriously. "Not into the most exclusive resort on the planet."

  "Yeah, well, I can't go in any of the clothes the valet's peddling, either! Have you looked at the prices on those things? I could mount an invasion of Terra for the price of a pair of shoes. I'm here to pick up my money, remember? It's gotten so I gotta water my kynak so I can have a second drink. I sure can't go into debt to finance something I'll wear once in my life!"

  Val Con tipped his head, brows bent together in puzzlement. "You would be very conspicuous in what you are wearing now," he said simply. "And Edger has said that the expense of the trip is his, since he counts a debt owed me, and because he had not thought to come to Econsey to research the local need for knives. Even if he wished not to extend his cognizance to you, I might pay—"

  "No." She frowned stormily. "That ain't the way I do things. I can just stay in my room, beg off that it's a holy day or something."

  "Now that would be an insult, after Handler went to the trouble and thought of arranging a place where we can all eat and enjoy." He paused, seemingly studying the air.

  "It would be best not to wear a gun." As he spoke, he opened his pouch and brought out a slender polished stick, something like a Drumetian math-stick.

  "Perhaps you could wear your hair to accommodate this." With a flick of the wrist, the stick separated, becoming the handle of a thin, deadly-looking blade, smoothly sharp along the curved edge, wickedly serrated along the other.

  Another wrist-flick and the slender dirk was merely a polished stick: knife to ornament. He reversed it and held it out.

  Miri hesitated. "I ain't a knife expert—just about know how to use a survival blade."

  "If anyone gets close enough to grab you," he said, all reason, "pull it out, flip it open, stick it in, and run. It is not likely you will be pursued." He
extended it further. "Simplicity itself, and a precaution only."

  She looked from the knife to his face; when she finally accepted the thing, she took it gingerly, as if she much preferred not to.

  "I," she announced, "am being bullied."

  "Undoubtedly."

  "Lazenia spandok," she said, rudely.

  His eyebrows shot up. "You speak Liaden?"

  "Well enough to swear and pidgin my way through a battle plan. And if ever anybody was a managing bastard, you are. In spades." She turned toward her room, experimentally flipping the hidden blade out and in.

  Behind her, he murmured something in Liaden. She whirled, glad the blade was closed.

  "That ain't funny, spacer!" The Trade words crackled with outrage. "I ain't a young lady and I don't need you to tell me to clean up my talk!"

  "Forgive me." He bowed contrition and dared a question. "Where are you going?"

  "To refresh and adorn myself. I've only got about five hours or so, after I decide what shoes to wear."

  And she was gone, leaving him to wonder at the sudden bite of bereavement and at the impulse that had led him to address her in the intimate mode, reserved for kin. Or for lovers.

  Chapter Seven

  THE DOOR CLOSED with a sigh that echoed her own, and she spun, flipping the stickknife onto the desk.

  Nasty little toy, she thought, wrinkling her nose as her hand dropped to the grip of the gun on her leg. Just as deadly, surely, but somehow—cleaner? More straightforward? Less personal, maybe?

  She shifted slightly, then caught sight of herself in the bed mirror and stuck her tongue out.

  Miri Robertson, Girl Philosopher, she thought wryly.

  Ilania frrogudon . . . . The echo of Tough Guy's murmuring voice contradicted her and she froze, biting her lower lip.

  Liaden was an old language, far, far older than the motley collection of dialects that passed for a Terran language, and divided into two forms: High and Low. High Liaden was used for dealing with most outsiders, such as coworkers, strangers, nodding acquaintances, and shopkeepers. Kin were addressed in Low Liaden—long-time friends, children ... But never a person considered expendable.