Joan Vinge - The Summer Queen

The boy jerked slightly, as if he had been insulted. Most of the young Ondinean males Kedalion had met fought knife duels as often as they smoked a pot of water weed together. Those blades weren’t for show; they could cut a man open like a redfruit. If it wasn’t for modern medical technology, Ondinee would be depopulated inside of a couple of generations. “I don’t want to kill people,” the boy said. “But I would kill someone if I had to.”

There was none of the glazed bravado Kedalion expected in the indigo eyes, but somehow he knew that the boy meant what he said.

“Have you killed people?” the boy asked bluntly.

“I don’t want to kill people either.” Kedalion shrugged. “I’m just a runner.”

The boy’s glance searched out Kedalion’s legs, hidden under the table edge.

“Not that kind of runner. As you can see, I’m not equipped for the odds.” For a second a smile hovered on the boy’s lips. “Just say I’m a trader. I transport goods from world to world. I travel a lot. I run an honest business. But I can’t say the same for most of my customers. My mother, rest her soul, would say I keep bad company. What’s your name?”

“Ananke.” the boy said, looking down. It meant Necessity. He glanced at Shalfaz, and back at Kedalion again. “I would like to work for you.”

“Do you have any tech training?” Kedalion asked, skeptical. The boy didn’t look old enough to have had much work experience.

“Some.” Ananke nodded earnestly. “I’ve been studying with the university whenever I can pay for an outlet.”

He had ambition, at least. Kedalion sipped his drink, noncommittal. “How do you support yourself?”

“I’m a street performer,” the boy murmured. “A juggler and an acrobat.”

Kedalion reached into the maze of pockets inside his long, loose coat, pulled out the huskball he had carried with him like a kind of talisman ever since he was a boy. He tossed it at Ananke with no warning. Ananke caught it easily, flipped it into the air, over his shoulder; made it disappear and reappear between his hands. Kedalion grinned, and caught it, barely, as the boy suddenly threw it back to him. “Okay,” he said. “You work my next run with me, we’ll see how it goes. At least it’ll earn you passage to somewhere else. I’ll pay you ten percent of the profit when we get there. You can make a start with that.”

The boy grinned too, nodding. “I have all my things here. I’ll get them—”

“Relax.” Kedalion put up a hand. “I’ve still got to find us a cargo. And besides, I just got here; I won’t be going anywhere for a while.” He glanced at Shalfaz. She smiled, and his bones melted. “Just be here when I want to leave.”

Ananke nodded again, looking at them with an expression that was knowing and somehow full of pain all at once. Kedalion remembered what Shalfaz had said about the boy, and wondered. Ananke began to get up from his chair.

“With my compliments,” a soft, slightly husky voice said, behind Kedalion’s back. “And my apologies.”

Ananke looked up, sat down again, surprise filling his face. Shalfaz shrank back in her seat, her hands fluttering.

Kedalion turned in his own seat, to find the offworlder who had challenged the Ondineans standing behind him. The man grinned disarmingly, taking in the tableau of mixed emotions as if he were used to it. He probably was, Kedalion thought. He was tall, but slender; Kedalion’s memory of the fight seemed to hold someone a lot larger, more massive. But there was no mistaking those eyes—bluer than his own, probing him with the intensity of laser light when they met his. The offworlder looked away first, as if he was aware of the effect his gaze had on strangers.

He set something down on the tabletop between the three of them—another bottle. Kedalion stared at it in disbelief. The bottle was an exotic, stylized flower form, layers of silver petals tipped with gold. Pure silver, pure gold… . Kedalion reached toward it, touched it, incredulous. Only one thing came in a bottle like that; they called it the water of life. It was the most expensive liquor available anywhere in the Hegemony, named for the far rarer drug that came from Tiamat, a drug which kept the absurdly rich young at unbelievable expense. The real thing was no longer available at any price, now that Tiamat’s Gate was closed for the next century. Kedalion had never expected to taste this imitation of it any sooner than he tasted the real thing.

“Apologies—?” he remembered to say, finally; he tore his eyes from the silver-gilt bottle to look up at the stranger again. “I should be sending you a bottle.” He shrugged, realizing that his own smile was on crooked as he looked into that face again.

The stranger grunted. “Ravien tells me I should have let you settle your own quarrel,” he murmured. “I made an ass of myself tonight. I’m not in a very good mood.” The gallows grin came back; “But then. I guess I never am.” his fingers drummed against his thigh. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to forgive,” Kedalion said, thinking that if the stranger hadn’t intervened, even the genuine water of life wouldn’t have been enough to revive him. “Believe me.” He looked at the silver bottle again, still not quite believing his eyes. He picked it up, almost afraid to touch it, and held it out to the stranger.

“Keep it,” the stranger said. “I insist.”

Kedalion looked into his eyes, and didn’t argue. He pulled the bottle toward him, his hands proving its reality again, and unset the seal with his thumb. Sudden fragrance filled his head like perfume, made his mouth water, filled his eyes with tears of pure pleasure. “Ye gods,” he murmured, “I had no idea…” He passed the bottle around the table, letting the others touch it with awed hands, breathe in its essence; watching their faces.

Kedalion realized that the stranger was still standing beside him, taking it all in, with something that was almost fascination in his own eyes. “Join us—’?” Kedalion asked, not particularly wanting to. but feeling that he could hardly do anything else, under the circumstances. The service unit under the smooth onyx-colored table obliged him, spitting out an extra cup.

“Not my poison,” the stranger murmured. He shook his head, unkempt fingers of brown hair brushing his shoulders. Kedalion started to breathe again as the man began to turn away; but the man shrugged abruptly, and turned back. He pulled out a seat and sat down. “I’m Reede,” he said.

Kedalion made introductions, trying not to look like a man sitting next to an armed bomb. He poured water of life for himself and the two Ondineans, somehow managing not to spill a drop, even though his hands weren’t steady.

He stole another glance at Reede, wondering how the other man had come by something like this bottle, and why he was willing to give it up so casually. It was a rich man’s gesture, but Reede didn’t look like a rich man. He wore nondescript black breeches and heavy dockhand’s boots, a sleeveless jerkin dangling bits of jewelry and flash—souvenirs. Not an unusual outfit for a young hireling of some drug king. Reede’s bare arms were covered with tattoos, telling his life history in the Hegemony’s underworld to anyone who wanted to look close enough. There was nothing unusual about that, either; the only thing odd about the tattoos was that there were none on his hands.

Probably he was another smuggler, looking for work, and this bottle was a flamboyant way of advertising his services. Just what they needed; competition. But Kedalion intended to enjoy Reede’s generosity anyway. Even though Kedalion didn’t advertise, his reputation for reliability was usually enough to get him all the work he could handle. “You a runner?” he asked Reede.