I Dare (16 page)

So thinking, he pulled out the Book and read off Al's premium—fifty, cash, and nothing in goods. Al pulled the bills outta his drawer and paid without comment.

Jim made the tick-mark in the Book, folded it and the pencil and the money away, turned—and turned back.

"So, what's his name?" he asked.

Al shrugged for the third time on the visit, trying for deadpan, but Jim thought he saw the man smile.

"The big guy calls him 'boss'," he said.

The bright-lit showroom was empty when Jim swaggered in through the open door a couple minutes later. He had just enough time to figure out that the big rug hanging on the back wall showed a bunch of naked people, doing things to each other that Jim felt pretty confident even Audrey's Specials hadn't mastered, when it was pushed aside, revealing a doorway, and the pretty man, entering the main room with a slight smile on his face.

"Good-morning, sir!" he said, and his voice was soft, like Al'd said it was, but clear, for all of that, and not at all jerky. "Doubtless you have come to take advantage of our grand opening sale."

Jim stared at him hard, and hooked his hand in his belt near the gun. The man glanced at the gun, but didn't seem exactly bothered, which a man who was naked—that is, who wasn't carrying—really oughta been. Up close, his blue jacket showed a nubbiness that Jim vaguely associated with silk, having seen a silk pillow upstairs at Audrey's, once. The shirt beneath was white enough to hurt a man's eyes, and he was wearing a blue stone in one ear—it matched the color of his jacket.

"In what way may I serve you?" he asked, and there was something funny about the way he talked. Not that he was hard to understand, or anything like that, but there was smooth kind of feel to the way he said the words, like he'd carefully polished each one and taken all the burrs and sharp edges off.

Jim frowned and did his best to harden his glare.

"It's Insurance Day," he said. "You owe Boss Moran for the month."

The man inclined his head, gravely courteous. "Thank you, but I have my own insurance." He moved a hand that glittered from the big ring on his second finger, showing Jim the cluster-fuck rug. "I see that you have some admiration for this specimen, here. Now, this is a very interesting carpet, of a type not normally found beyond the world of its weaving."

Following him to the back wall, Jim stared up at the frolicking people. "Why not?" he asked.

"Ah, because they are done as penance, you see. The weaving of the carpet is imposed by temple upon adjudged sinners, who are required to weave in an open square, where all may see them and know their shame. After the carpet is completed—and a value affixed to it by the temple—the penitent is required to purchase it and display it in the public room of their home for the rest of their life. So, you see how rare it is to come across one of these. Look!" He lifted the edge of the rug, and turned it over to display the underside.

"See these knots? One hundred twenty to the inch! Truly, sir, this is a carpet that will give you many years of enjoyment." He flipped the edge right-side-up and ran his fingertips over the projecting backside of an amazingly curvaceous lady.

"Feel this nap. Imagine walking barefoot on this carpet."

Jim extended a hand—and jerked it back, pulling his glare on, big-time.

"I ain't here to buy no rugs. This is Insurance Day. You're on Boss Moran's turf and you owe on the month."

"No, no, please," the little man said, rubbing his fingertips over the lady's bottom once more before looking up at Jim. "Put yourself at ease on that account, sir. My insurance is entirely adequate." He moved a hand, drawing Jim's eye to the corner of the room. Jim looked—and blinked.

He thought he knew every pro gun in the surrounding three territories, but she wasn't nobody he'd ever seen before. Not all that much taller than the guy, she was slim, except for some really interesting curves, her skin dusky and soft-looking. She wore a dark vest, dark shirt and dark trousers. A pistol with silver-chased grips showed in the holster on her belt—and she stared at him outta black eyes as cold and as pitiless as a dead winter night.

It took some effort to look away from those eyes and back to the guy, but Jim managed it.

"Boss Moran don't let nobody else sell Insurance on his turf."

The man inclined his head. "I understand. There is no difficulty. This lady is in my employ."

What that had to do with the way business was done, Jim couldn't have said. He was beginning to think maybe the little guy was a couple snowflakes short of a blizzard. Not that it mattered. Insurance was Insurance, and it had to be paid, every first of the month. That was how business was done under Boss Moran, no exceptions, no problems, no short-pays, and no excuses. Unless somebody had an ambition to be made a public example of.

Any case, the situation was outta Jim's hands. He'd tried—even the boss would have to admit that—and done as much good as anybody could, trying to reason with a nut-case. It was up to the boss to decide what to do with the little guy now.

Jim frowned regally down at him. "I'll be reporting to Boss Moran right after I leave here," he said. "You got a present or something you wanna send along?"

A good present—say, something along the lines of that amazing rug on the back wall—might actually help keep the boss' temper down to a non-life-threatening level. Which you'd think even a nut-case could figure out.

Not this one, though. He wriggled his shoulders under his pretty blue jacket and murmured.

"Alas, I have nothing that would be . . . appropriate, I think."

Jim shook his head.

"OK," he said, ominously. "If that's how you wanna play it, it ain't no skin off my butt."

It struck him that this was a pretty good exit line, so he did, stamping hard on the little rug in the doorway. Once on the sidewalk, he turned right, toward the boss' place, rather than going down to Tobi's for lunch, like he'd planned.

Somehow, he wasn't real hungry.

From behind him came a sound remarkably like a hiss. Pat Rin turned and looked at Natesa, both eyebrows up in inquiry.

She shook her head, black eyes snapping.

"There was no need to provoke him."

"No? But, as I understand it, our whole mission here is one of provocation, with violence as the pay-off."

That Natesa knew this, he had no doubt. They had planned as best as they were able, choosing the victim and the turf with care. For Pat Rin to succeed—for his Balance to succeed—he must establish himself as a power—a "fatcat"—and the territory he annexed must be on the Port Road.

There were two paths by which one might arrive at the pinnacle of fatcat. One might, for instance, perform a service for an existing boss which required territory and status to balance it. This was a potentially bloodless path, but time-consuming.

Natesa herself had argued, persuasively, for the quicker way—elevation by assassination. This was the traditional path, and one of the primary sources of Surebleak's multitude of ills. Cheever McFarland had offered it as his opinion that the sooner Pat Rin established himself, the quicker the real job could get done, which had also been persuasive—and so Pat Rin had allowed himself to be persuaded.

Now, however, the Juntava appeared to be having second thoughts. Pat Rin spread his hands, averting his gaze from the false glitter on his left hand.

"We will shortly have callers, if all goes according to plan," he said, softly. "We have provoked, wisely or no, following the plan—wisely or no. If you have found a flaw in my intentions, now is the time to speak."

For a moment, Natesa stood silent, her eyes on his face. Then, she bowed in the mode of student to master.

"I would ask that you not expose yourself," she said, slipping into High Liaden. "Master, it is not needful. There are Mr. McFarland and myself to receive and . . . entertain . . . these callers."

"Ah, I see. My oathsworn are expendable, but I am not."

Again, she bowed. "Master, it is so."

"I disagree," he returned, his tone rather more acidic than the mode allowed. He sighed, and moved his hand, soothingly.

"Come," he said, going back into Terran, "let us not argue. The trap has been set, and we as much as Boss Moran are caught in its unfolding."

She appeared to consider this, sleek head slightly to one side, then shrugged .

"As you say." Light as a dancer, she glided out of her corner, using her chin to point at the rug hanging on the back wall.

"Is the manufacture of this carpet truly as you described it to the boss' hand?" She asked.

"Of course," Pat Rin said, walking toward it with her. "Surely, you don't think I would misinform a customer regarding the value of his potential purchase."

"But . . . " her brows pulled together. "How did it come to be at Bazaar?"

"I suspect that someone who did not like warmth retired from the kitchen," he murmured, extending his hand to sample the pleasant nap again. "I paid a cantra for this carpet. Were we selling out of Solcintra—and with certification from a merchant more experienced than myself . . . There are customers of—that I know, who would offer twenty cantra, sight unseen—not because of its subject matter, but because of its rarity." He moved his shoulders, considering what he had thus far seen of Surebleak. "Here, we will be fortunate to recover our cantra."

He stood for a moment, the Juntava—his oathsworn—at his side, considering the thing that had come to him, over the weeks of their association, weighing his necessity against the likelihood of erring against custom. He had performed this exercise more than once, over the last few days, and had learned that his necessity was greater than his natural wariness of Juntavas custom.

So.

"I am doubtless lacking in courtesy," he said, very gently, "but I wonder if you will tell me your name."

Beside him, he felt her shift, and quickly turned to face her, schooling himself so that he neither stepped back nor went for his weapon, but only faced her, and met her eyes, equal to equal.

Her face was composed, her eyes bottomless.

"You know my name, Master," she said, matching his gentle tone.

"I believe I know your gun name," he replied, wondering at the strength of his need to know this thing. "I ask that you honor me with your personal name."

There was a brief silence; the composure of her face unbroken, then, a quiet, "Why?"

He inclined his head. "I hold your oath, which means that I have certain obligations toward you. As I am certain you know. The path we embark upon is chancy. Should there be need, I would wish to . . . properly inform your kin."

"Why, as to that," she said, lightly—too lightly. "You need merely inform the Juntavas that Sector Judge Natesa, called The Assassin, has ended her career under conditions described hereunder." She extended a hand, as he had done, and stroked the nap of the Sinner's Carpet. "To file such a report is to fulfill your obligation as oath-holder, completely and with honor."

So he was rebuffed, Pat Rin thought, as he might have known he would be—and very gently answered in his impertinence, too.

"Very well." He bowed slightly, to show that the subject was closed. "Will you join me in a cup of tea before our visitors arrive?"

Boss Moran counted the take while he listened to Jim's report. He put the bills down when Jim got to the sudden new store and the streeter who had his own Insurance, and sat staring at him, his face starting to take on that purple tinge that meant somebody, somewhere, was gonna get hurt.

"Who's the Insurance?" he asked; Jim shook his head.

"Don't know her. Pro, though." He frowned, trying to remember what the little guy'd said.

"Told the streeter he couldn't buy nobody else's Insurance, but he said everything was warm, 'cause she worked for him." Jim remembered something else. "Hardware guy says the rug-man's 'hand calls him 'boss'."

"Yeah?" The boss' face was the shade it had been when he'd up and shot his former second-hand, his eyes all glittery and narrow. Just about the time Jim started to have some serious concerns about the length of his own lifetime, the boss slammed both hands down flat on the table and shouted for Tony.

Jim relaxed. Tony was head of the publicity committee.

The pretty little man—and his pretty little store—was about to become a public example.

FIVE OF THEM walked across the red-yellow-and-blue rug and into the brightly lit store, Jim and Tony first, then the boss, then Veena and Lew. Barth and Gwince took up position outside, showing serious weaponry.

The store was empty, just like it had been earlier in the day. The boss looked around, walked over to the rug hanging on the right-hand wall, picked up a corner, and let it drop.

"Rugs," he said, and shook his head. "How much is he sellin' these things for?"

Jim bit his lip, suddenly aware that not having asked the little man this question demonstrated a lack of initiative on his part. He was about to blurt out a number—four hundred cash seemed expensive enough—but the smooth, rounded voice of the streeter who owned the joint cut him off.

"That particular carpet is a little worn toward the center, as I am sure you have noticed," he murmured, walking forward with his empty hands in plain sight. "However, such wearing must not be thought a defect, rather, it is a badge of authenticity. We do, of course, have its papers on file. So, this carpet," he extended a hand and stroked his palm across the material, like he was gentling a restless dog. "This carpet, I am able to sell to you for one thousand cash."

"One thou—" Boss Moran stared at the little guy, who stared right back, cool as a water-ice despite the presence of five armed people any one of who was bigger, heavier and meaner than he was.

"You know who I am?" the boss asked. The guy moved his shoulders in that snaky shrug of his.

"Alas. However, I feel certain that you are about to tell me."

"Damn straight." The boss used his extended fingers to hit him, hard, in the shoulder. "I'm Moran. I'm the boss from Blair clear on over to Carney. You set up on my streets, you follow my rules. Got that?"