Charlaine Harris: Must Love Hellhounds

The hall itself didn’t look important. It was a just a large room, one wall of which was decorated with some indifferent paintings. This was called the Wall of Shame; the art hung there depicted employees of the Collective who had screwed up in some notable way. (The Britlingen instruction model was heavily weighted toward learning by the mistakes of one’s predecessors.) Aside from the paintings and some benches, there was only a table with a few chairs, a large lightsource, and some writing instruments.

Trovis was leaning back in one of the wooden chairs, his feet propped on the table. This was inappropriate behavior for the Hall of Contracts, for these contracts were the lifeblood of the Collective. Signing each contract was an important moment. Not only was this the main source of income for the Collective, but each contract might bring about the death of the Britlingens charged with fulfilling it.

“His promotion’s gone to his head,” Clovache muttered. “He wouldn’t have dared behave so a halfyear ago.”

The child scampered off once he’d gotten his tip, and Batanya and Clovache advanced to the table. One of the senior commanders, Flechette, entered from a side door, and since she had a staff in her hands, she used it to sweep Trovis’s legs to the side, neatly knocking him out of his chair.

“Respect for the room,” she said harshly, as Trovis scrambled to right himself. The two bodyguards kept their faces absolutely blank, which took a lot of effort. Flechette paid no attention to the lower-ranked Trovis’s shock and anger, but threw herself into one of the chairs. Despite Flechette’s apparent age-she looked at least sixty, which few Britlingens attained-she moved like a much younger woman. “You’ve summoned us,” Flechette said. “What have you, Sergeant?”

Trovis collected himself. If he’d had a weapon, perhaps he would have drawn on his superior, but he’d come to the hall unarmed-an unusual circumstance for a Britlingen, even as poor a Britlingen as Trovis. “This customer has come in person,” he said, biting off his words. He gestured toward a man standing at the rear of the hall, apparently examining one of the paintings-the one of Johanson the Fool, Batanya noted. She was trying to avoid meeting Trovis’s eyes.

“What happened to this fellow?” asked a light voice, and the stranger turned to look at them inquiringly. He was a couple of inches taller than Batanya, who was of medium height for a woman. The stranger was lightly built, and fair, and wearing clothes that signaled he was from the city-state of Pardua, which lay about two hours’ drive from Spauling. Batanya had visited there on business several times. In Pardua, poor vision was corrected by brilliantly colored and decorated goggles, and the stranger wore a striking pair: a shrieking blue, spotted with artificial purple stones. They made him look remarkably silly.

Since no one else spoke, Batanya said, “Johanson the Fool walked his client into an ambush. When it was over, he and his client were as full of darts as a pincushion has pins.”

“I don’t know what a pincushion is, but I take your meaning,” the stranger said. He cast another look at the grisly picture. “I am here to hire two Britlingens as bodyguards. I don’t want to end up like Johanson’s client.” He shuddered elaborately.

“Very well,” said Flechette. “You understand, clients don’t actually show up at the Collective very often. Usually the contract is negotiated on the witchweb.”

“Is that right? I’m sorry I broke with proper procedure.” The blond dandy minced over to the table. “I happened to be in Spauling and thought I’d come directly to the source. See what I was getting, in other words.”

“You would be getting Clovache and her senior, Batanya,” Trovis said, smiling broadly. “After he described the job, Commander Flechette, I knew they would be perfect.”

“Why?” Flechette said. She had little use for Trovis, and she’d never hidden her opinion. After Batanya and Trovis had both been out of commission following a previous set-to, Flechette had begun watching the man like a hawk.

“They protected their last client under circumstances that no one foresaw,” Trovis said, his voice silky. “Who could not be impressed by their performance? I am sure they can handle this.”

Flechette eyed Trovis before turning her attention to the client. “What is your goal, stranger? And your name, incidentally.”

“I’m so sorry! My name is Crick. And I need to retrieve something of mine that I lost in a rather dangerous place.”

Bodyguards go into tense situations all the time (especially ones of Batanya and Clovache’s caliber), so it wasn’t the word “dangerous” that bothered Batanya: it was the bullshit detector shrilling in her brain. She looked at Clovache, who nodded grimly. Crick was not telling all the truth, certainly; and he was not the silly, rather effeminate Parduan he portrayed himself to be. The oblivious Trovis wouldn’t have spotted the excellent muscle tone in the slender body. The bodyguards had. But clients lied all the time, didn’t they? Batanya shrugged: what could you do? Clovache nodded again: nothing.

Trovis and Flechette went over the basic contract with the Parduan. It covered the price of transference by witchweb to the site the client chose. It covered the directive of the mission-to get Crick and his property back in one piece. It contained the standard insurance clause, so the treatment of any injuries the bodyguards sustained would be paid for by the client.

Batanya and Clovache paid attention, because that was part of the deal. All bodyguards had to be aware of what they’d agreed to do, and what they hadn’t. Though the two had stood in the Hall of Contracts dozens of times and listened to exactly the same discussion, this preparation was as much part of the work as getting their weapons ready. No deniability on this job.

At last the prolonged contract session was over. Since Crick was a first-time customer of the Britlingen Collective, it had taken a bit longer than usual. Batanya noticed that Crick had asked some very shrewd questions.

“Will you sign?” Flechette asked formally, when Crick declared himself satisfied.

Crick picked up the pen and signed the contract.

“The client has agreed. Will you sign, senior?” Flechette asked Batanya. She sighed, but she picked up the pen and scribbled her name.

“You, junior?” Clovache followed suit.

“Now what?” Crick asked brightly.

“We withdraw, you give your bodyguards your place of destination, and they fetch the appropriate gear. They meet you here, then you go to the witchwing through that door. The witches and the mechs take over the transportation.” Trovis was bored now, and showing it. He hadn’t found an excuse to provoke anyone into a fight, the client had the money and had paid the asking price, and furthermore Trovis had arranged to rid himself of his most irritating subordinates for at least a few days-possibly permanently. There was nothing more to be wrung from the situation. He took the earliest opportunity to slip out of the room, if a rather solid man six feet tall can “slip” anywhere.

“Where’s he slinking off to?” Clovache muttered.

“Some quiet spot where he can think of some other way to make me miserable,” Batanya answered, and then was sorry she’d spoken. She hoped Flechette hadn’t heard. Going over the head of one’s superior officer to complain to a higher rank was not admired among the members of the Britlingen Collective.

But Flechette seemed intent on observing the courtesies required by her position as commander: she wished the client a successful journey, clapped Clovache on the shoulder and shook Batanya’s hand, and advised them to eat before they left… her standard farewell. Then she drew herself up, gave the Britlingen salute, and said, “What is the law?”