Michael Flynn - Up Jim River

“Friend,” says Praisegod, placing himself discretely between the money and curious eyes, “far be it from me to lecture the sons of this world on prudence, but don’t flash a wad like that in here.”

The scarred man presses a wad upon him.

“I almost hate to accept these,” Praisegod says of the Bills. “Your tab was your immortality. It bid fair to outlive you. If I close it out…Well,” he continues after a bleak glance from his customer, “what happened to that harper you left with? Some of our patrons have asked after her.”

“She has gone home to spend time with her mother.”

“Has she now? Will you go visit her there?”

“She asked me to. Her mother was less certain.”

The scarred man sits in the niche and drinks. He misses his inner voices. He knows that Inner Child is watching the door, is watching the barroom, is watching each of the other patrons. He knows the Pedant is mulling over lessons learned on this most recent scramble. But their voices are no longer those of strangers. They speak with his own voice, for they are now fully him as well as fully themselves.

Don’t worry, Donovan. We’re still here when you need us .

The scarred man smiles a little at that, and takes another drink.

I hear ye claimed to be my husband, Donovan buigh , Bridget ban had said on the way back to Gatmander.

It was one of those shipboard romances , he had answered. You may have forgotten .

I remember it too well, Donovan buigh. And I remember the aftermath .

Donovan had nodded toward Méarana, who had been playing her harp for the crew. You could have treated her better, despite all that .

Are ye the doting father now? I don’t recall seeing ye much around Clanthompson Hall .

She doesn’t recall seeing you there much, either .

It had been a long, silent transit back to Gatmander after that and, for Méarana, a bewildering one. She kept trying to build a bridge between them, to fulfill some fantasy that she had long entertained. But there is no bridge to span an ocean.

Greystroke and Little Hugh had been waiting on Gatmander, and Bridget ban and her daughter had passage back to High Tara.

Sorry, Donovan , Greystroke had lied, but there’s no more room in my ship . He had approved Donovan’s Kennel chit for passage back to Jehovah and for a generous consultation fee for protecting the harper. But he had sensed that there might still be a possibility for him and had moved quickly to seize it.

Don’t feel too badly, Fudir , Little Hugh had told him. You can’t lose what you never had .

Perhaps not, the scarred man tells his uisce. But in a peculiar sense, he had had it for a time, in the mind of Lucia Thompson, and that had been enough to make it real, for a dream strong enough may leak from one mind to another.

The sun has dimmed and the windows in the front of the Bar have darkened. The shutters have been closed against the creeping night. Into the bar steps Bikhram. There is no particular moment when one may say, “He has come,” but there is a moment when one realizes, “He is here.” It is the sort of skill that serves well a man whose profession is to enter places and to leave with sundry of its contents.

He represents the Committee of Seven, and sits himself at the table, positioning himself so that he, too, does not show his back to the room. A glass of masaala paal appears before him, spiced with clove and saffron. Bikhram tastes it and sprinkles some badaam powder into it from an envelope he carries in his blouse.

The scarred man watches him and, after a time, passes him a red envelope. “These are seeds,” he says, “of the True Coriander, found only on the Wild World of Enjrun, and brought there by the Terrans of the Treasure Fleet itself. Perhaps they will germinate in the soil of the Corner; perhaps they will not.”

“You are a man of many humors, Fudir. Wild Worlds! The Treasure Fleet! Perhaps your grandmother’s ancient recipe, passed on in secret?”

“Mock if you wish, Bikhram. It is not much of a such, but it is the coriander. Why not a fairy-tale origin for a fairy-tale spice?”

“Harimanan saw you earlier today. He said you sat down as if you had never left. But you have not yet come into the Corner.”

“Everything that happens in the city is seen and heard in the Corner. I have only to wait and the Corner will come to me. What word do the Seven send?”

“Six of the Seven, at least. Denzel is in the wind. The Proctors wish to speak to him, but he does not wish to speak to them.”

“He is a man of few words.”

“One of those words concerns a shipment arriving in three days from Valency. Hizzoner, who governs wisely the Terran Corner of Valency, has noted several containers of drifting jewels, the sort from which moistened fingers may pull sweet music, are to be loaded and transshipped through Jehovah to Die Bold.”

“Die Bold,” says the scarred man.

“Yes, and Hizzoner says that among so many cartons, one or two may hardly be missed. Perhaps drizzle jewels, which precipitate in our own Arrat Mountains, cheap as glass here in the Tarako Sarai, but dearer on Die Bold and Friesing’s World, may insinuate themselves in their place.”

“Hardly to the loss of the Die Bolders,” says the scarred man, “but much to the gain of the Corner. What is required?”

“Not so much of a such. The jewels must walk with the gods, a few trifling documents must alter their appearance. A few records, hard and soft, must quiet the uneasiness that would otherwise disturb the peace of mind of others.”

“It is something to think on,” the scarred man tells him.

He thinks on it after Bikhram has gone. He is a man of some wealth now. The gratitude of the Kennel has been considerable, and once the parking stone jewelry becomes a regular item, the consortium on Dancing Vrouw will make him wealthier still.

He had stopped on High Tara on his way back, where he had tried to see Bridget ban, but had succeeded only in seeing Zorba de la Susa .

The Old Hound told him that Bridget ban and Méarana had already left for Dangchao Waypoint. But he had gifted him with a considerable fee, plus a bounty for the death of the one called Billy Chins. Donovan had accepted the fee, but for reasons he himself did not entirely understand, had declined the bounty. Zorba had told him that, the mission being accomplished, he no longer held his life as collateral against its failure. By then, it no longer seemed to matter to Donovan .

“You have but one more task in front of you,” the aged man had said; but he would not say what it was. “If you need instruction on it, it is not the task for you.” He had added only that failure this time would be its own punishment .

In three days, the Terrans of the Corner would highjack several containers of fabulous drifting jewels from Valency and substitute drizzle jewels from Jehovah, altering the invoices to suit. It was the sort of scramble that had once occupied his time. But he now sees very little point in it. It is not his newfound wealth that has changed him, although he does foresee a future highjacking in which he might divert the income from his parking stone imports from his own pocket into…his own pocket. There is an irony to that prospect that pleases him. If one is to steal, it is best to steal from those who deserve it.

On his left, seated at his table, sits a young girl in a chiton. She says nothing, but looks at him with head cocked and manages to shrug without moving a muscle.

In the end, the scarred man sighs and rises from his seat. Praisegod watches him go with sad bassett eyes.