Soothsayer (2 page)

"They were very nice pieces. But those beads that look like pearls—absolutely worthless."

"You'll find some pretty little girl to give them to, once we get back to the Frontier,” said the Mouse.

"I shall certainly try my utmost,” agreed Merlin. “But that in no way alters the fact that they won't bring a credit on the black market."

She sipped her beer thoughtfully. “We don't want credits anyway, not the way the Democracy's going these days. If I were you, I'd sell this stuff for Stalin ruples and Maria Theresa dollars."

"Then we're going to have to wait a few weeks. As long as we're within the Democracy, people are going to want to pay us with credits."

"Then you'd better charge more, because credits don't spend very well out where we're heading."

"I don't tell you how to steal them; don't you tell me how to unload them."

The Mouse stared at him for a moment as he practiced making the jewels appear and disappear beneath a colorful silken scarf, then went back to concentrating on her beer. It had been a long week, and she was tired, and her left knee was throbbing from where she'd banged it against a turret two nights ago. In fact, her whole body hurt from the chores she kept giving it. It really was time for a vacation, and as she sought out her bed and drifted off to sleep, she found herself hoping that they could make a big enough killing on Westerly so that she could afford to take a few months off.

Westerly, decided the Mouse, was like most alien worlds. At first glance it seemed to make perfect sense; it was only when you looked more closely that it seemed less and less reasonable.

"Well, what do you think?” asked Merlin as he drove the show wagon down the main street of Westerly's human enclave.

"I don't like it,” replied the Mouse.

"What's the problem?"

"Look at the way the streets all twist and turn back into themselves,” she said. “There are some skyscrapers with no windows or doors at all, and some little one-story buildings that are all glass and have fifteen doors. I don't know if I can figure it out in ten minutes."

"Just stick to the human buildings,” said Merlin. “We don't want any alien objects anyway."

"It's not that simple,” she said. “Which ones
are
the human buildings? If I pick the wrong one, I could get lost inside of it for an hour or more. I have a horrible feeling that every corridor ends in a blank wall, and that every staircase forms a continuous loop."

"You're overreacting,” said Merlin.

"I don't think so,” she said, “and it's
my
opinion that counts.” She paused. “Your information was wrong. This planet never saw twenty thousand men at one time. I'd be surprised if they've got a thousand in residence."

"Let's compromise, then,” said Merlin, bringing the wagon to a halt.

"How?"

He jerked his head at a large steel-and-glass building just across the street. “The Royal Arms Hotel,” he said. “Human-owned, human-run. We've got all day to study it. Let's go in, have lunch, and walk around a bit. If you're comfortable with it by nightfall, it's the only place you'll have to hit."

She nodded her agreement. “Fair enough,” she said.

"I'll join you as soon as I can find a place to leave the wagon."

While she was waiting for him, she walked entirely around the hotel, and located what would be her means of ingress later that night: a ventilation shaft attached to a basement laundry. There was a grate covering it, and room enough to park the wagon right over it. She had already entered the lobby when Merlin caught up with her.

"Well?” he said. “Learn anything?"

"Two things,” she replied. “First, I know how I'm getting in."

"Good."

"And second,” she continued, indicating a Robelian and a trio of Lodinites, “they've got more than just men staying here."

"They'll have their own floors,” replied Merlin with a shrug. “It just means we have to be selective."

"What about the locks?"

"They should be standard, keyed into the house computer so they can change combinations on a moment's notice.” He paused. “If you forget half of what I've already taught you, it might take you 30 seconds to crack one of them."

"You don't mind if we check them out
before
tonight?"

He shrugged. “Whatever you wish."

"Has it occurred to you that
you
could probably loot fifty guest rooms between now and dinnertime?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “We've been through all that before. The only reason we've never been arrested is because we do our looting
only
during the time we have an alibi."

She made no reply, but kept looking surreptitiously into corners, down corridors, behind room dividers. From what she could tell—and she couldn't be certain until she examined some of the rooms—it appeared that most or all of the human guests used the airlifts to the right of the registration desk, which put them on levels Four through Nine. Levels Two and Three were reached by gently-ascending ramps to the left of the registration desk, and seemed to be of interest only to Canphorites, Lodinites, and Robelians.

"Well, at least they're all oxygen breathers,” she muttered. “I hate it when they change environments.” She turned to Merlin. “Have you spotted the service lifts yet?"

He frowned. “There don't seem to be any."

"There must be. They'd never let the maids go up in the same airlift as the paying customers.” She paused. “Maybe you'd better go tell the management that we're here to put on a show for their customers tonight, before they think that we're casing the premises."

"And what will you be doing while I'm explaining away our presence?” asked Merlin.

"Casing the premises,” she replied with a smile.

Merlin approached the front desk, and the Mouse took an elevator to the seventh level, made sure that the locks were a type she could pick, tried to take the lift down to the basement to inspect the laundry, found that it stopped at the lobby, and finally rejoined the magician just as he was emerging from the day manager's office.

"All set?” she asked.

"They won't give us any problems, and it'll justify our hanging around the hotel for the rest of the afternoon."

"Good. Let's start by having some lunch."

He agreed, and a moment later they entered the main-floor restaurant. Only two other tables were occupied, and Merlin nodded toward the farthest one.

"See that alien over there?” he whispered, indicating the lone being at the table.

"The humanoid with the bad complexion?” she asked.

Merlin nodded. “The one who's dressed all in silver. Steer clear of him."

"Why?"

"Wait'll he reaches for something and you'll see."

As if on cue, the alien signaled for a waiter, and she could see that he had once possessed four arms, but that one had been amputated.

"What kind of race does he belong to?” she asked.

"I don't know—but unless I miss my guess, that's Three-Fisted Ollie."

"Never heard of him."

"Just keep out of his way."

"Outlaw?"

"Bounty hunter. They say he's killed more than thirty men, and that he never takes contracts on his own race.” The magician paused thoughtfully. “I wish I knew why he was on Westerly; he usually operates on the Inner Frontier."

"Unless he's hunting for us."

"Come on,” said Merlin. “There's not a warrant out on us anywhere in the Democracy."

"That you know of,” she said.

"That anyone knows of,” he replied confidently. “Anyway, if you run into him tonight, just apologize and get the hell out of his way quick."

The Mouse nodded and punched her order into the small menu computer. A moment later Merlin prodded her with his toe.

"What now?” she asked.

"Don't look turn around or pretend to notice him—but do you see who just joined the alien?"

She turned her head.

"I said don't look directly!” hissed Merlin.

"All right,” said the Mouse, staring directly into Merlin's eyes. “It's a big bearded human with a small arsenal hanging down from his belt. I assume you know
him
, too?"

"It's Cemetery Smith."

"Another bounty hunter?"

Merlin shook his head. “A hired killer. One of the best."

"So why are an alien bounty hunter and a professional assassin sitting fifty feet away from us?” asked the Mouse.

"I don't know,” said the magician nervously. “They should both be on the Frontier, and they sure as hell shouldn't be talking to each other."

"Are they after us?” asked the Mouse calmly, even as she searched for exits and mentally calculated her chances of reaching them.

"No. These guys don't fool around. If they wanted us, we'd already be dead."

"What do you want to do about tonight?” she asked. “We can give the hotel a pass, and just take off."

"Let me think about it,” said Merlin. He lowered his head and stared at his interlocked fingers for a long moment, then looked up. “No, there's no reason to cancel out. They're not after us, and we don't represent any competition to them. We're thieves, they're killers."

The Mouse shrugged. “Makes no difference to me."

"I wonder who they're after?” mused Merlin, as the human got to his feet, said something to the alien, and walked out into the hotel lobby. “Whoever it is, he must be damned good if it takes the two of them together to hunt him down."

They ate in silence, and then, as twilight approached, the Mouse began passing out holographic flyers announcing the magic show that would shortly be performed on the street outside the hotel.

By sundown, when Merlin began producing bouquets and birds and rabbits with professional elan, they had attracted a crowd of about sixty, all but a handful of them humans. Merlin continued to bedazzle the crowd, the Mouse performed her two or three simple illusions to a smattering of applause, and then Merlin put her into the box and began securing the locks, even as she rolled out the false back. By the time he had maneuvered it into the water tank, she was beneath the surface of the street, crawling through the ventilation shaft into the laundry. There were two women on duty, and it took her a minute longer than she had anticipated to reach the enclosed fire stairs. She raced up the stairs to the fourth level, then emerged and began checking for unlocked doors. She found one, quickly looted the room of its few valuable items, and then broke into another room. This one provided even less booty, and she soon emerged into the corridor. According to her watch, she had time for perhaps two more rooms if she was fast enough, one more if she had to hunt for its treasures.

Then, suddenly, she heard a door open, and she shot into the stairwell. There was no reason to wait for the resident to traverse the corridor and reach the airlift, when all she had to do was climb another floor and loot two rooms on the fifth level—but some instinct warned her not to climb any higher. Perhaps it was the press of time, perhaps it was the possibility of running into Cemetary Smith, but whatever the reason, she found herself waiting for the fourth level corridor to become empty rather than ascending to the fifth.

"Goddamn it!” bellowed a voice, and she peeked into the fourth level corridor.

Evidently whoever had opened the door had managed to lock himself out of his room, because now he was cursing at the top of his lungs and pounding on his door. Other doors cracked open as curious residents sought the reason for the disturbance, and the Mouse pulled her head back into the stairwell, convinced that the fourth level wouldn't be safe for her until long after she had to return to the magic show.

She took two steps up the stairwell, then heard still more noise on the fifth level, as the sounds of cursing and pounding rose through the building, and she immediately reversed her course, racing down to the second level, well below the noise.

She stepped cautiously into the corridor, which was a bit wider than the human section, and began checking the doors. The first two were locked, the third had a hideous growling sound emanating from behind it. It was as she approached the fourth door that she heard a sound that had no business being in the alien section of the hotel: the sobbing of a human child.

It took her less than twenty seconds to pick the lock and leap into the darkness of the room before the door could slide shut behind her. She pulled out a tiny flashlight and began inspecting the premises. There was an oddly-shaped couch and chair that no human could ever sit in, a table on which were placed six bronze artifacts that were absolutely meaningless to her, and another table with the remains of an alien meal on it.

Then her light caught a slight movement in the corner of the room. She immediately turned and focused it, and found herself staring at a small blonde girl manacled to the heavy wooden leg of an immense chair.

"Help me!” pleaded the girl.

"Are you alone?” whispered the Mouse.

The girl nodded.

The mouse crossed the room and set to work on the girl's manacles.

"What's your name?” asked the Mouse.

"Penelope,” sniffed the girl.

"Penelope what?"

"Just Penelope."

The manacles came apart and dropped to the floor, and the Mouse stood up and took her first good look at the girl.

Penelope's blonde hair seemed to have been haphazardly cut with a knife rather than a shears, and it obviously hadn't been washed in weeks, or perhaps months. There was a large bruise on her left cheek, not terribly miscolored, obviously on the mend. She was thin, not wiry and hard like the Mouse, but almost malnourished. She was dressed in what had once been a white play outfit that was now grimy and shredded from being worn for weeks on end. Her feet were bare, and both her heels were raw.

"Don't turn the light on,” said Penelope. “He'll be back soon."

"What race does he belong to?"

Penelope shrugged. “I don't know."

The Mouse pulled a dagger out of her left boot. “If he comes back before we leave, I'll have a little surprise for him, that's for sure."

Penelope shook her head adamantly. “You can't kill him. Please, can't we leave?"