Ties Of Blood And Silver Part 3

But my mind wasn't really on the game. There was something strange about Carlos' manner, as though in offering me a deal for stealing the brooch instead of ; beating the agreement out of me, some measure of ; power had been transferred from him to me.

"p.a.w.n to queen four," he said. "Relax a little, David. Just think of it as a typical bit of slash-and-run, with an added diversion-you've got to take out his guards. It may be a bit trickier than usual, but not much."

"p.a.w.n takes p.a.w.n." My serf crossed to the square holding Carlos' p.a.w.n, reached out for Carlos' p.a.w.n's throat, then throttled it to death, tossing the body aside. The captured p.a.w.n vanished. "That's easy for you to say. You're not the one whose head is going on the block."

"Knight takes p.a.w.n." His knight lunged forward and across, drew its sword, and lopping off my p.a.w.n's head. "Perhaps... but take my word for it-anyone can be taken."

"Knight to king bishop three. And that's nonsense." My king's knight leaped out, waving its sword threateningly at One-Hand's king's p.a.w.n. "Amos van Ingstrand wouldn't have been able to reach the top of the Protective Society if he'd been easy to distract."

The Protective Society was the closest thing Lower and Middle Cities had to a government. Or ever would have: Elwere didn't want the buzhes and lowers getting organized. Van Ingstrand would be backed by Elwerie money, if any real threat rose to challenge his power.Which was unlikely, in and of itself.

"Knight to queen bishop three." Carlos' knight moved out, defending his p.a.w.n. "You're confusing the strategic with the tactical. Anyone can pursue a goal over a number of years-that's easy. But d.a.m.n few can't be deflected from following a goal for a number of seconds. Amos van Ingstrand isn't one of those few."

"Sure. Knight to bishop three."

"It's true-bishop to king two." Carlos always liked to castle early.

"p.a.w.n to king knight three." So did I, come to think of it.

"Bishop to king three." His hand reached out and caressed my knee.

I shoved it away. "Keep your hand to yourself, Carlos. Bishop to knight two."

"Castle." His blocky rook shuffled over two squares to its left, extending a hand to the king, which moved across the rook's square, huddling protectively close.

"Knight to king knight five." Carlos was better at handling complexities than I was; whenever I played against him, I liked to make a lot of even trades, simplifying the game, as quickly as I could. This way, when Carlos took my queen's knight-attacking my queen-I'd be able to work out a quick exchange of queens.

But he didn't take that knight; he took the other one. "Bishop takes knight," Carlos said. His king's bishop slid out, and with a wave of the hand, sent my king's knight sinking h.e.l.lward, down through the board. He smiled. "As I was saying, anyone can be distracted. Including you, David. Your move."

He acted as though he'd just done something clever. It didn't look that way. "Bishop takes bishop," I said with a shrug. "I don't see-"

"Knight takes knight." Carlos smiled. "Count it out. No matter how you play, you'll end up a piece down." He sat back and folded his skinny arms across his chest. "Now, if you play Amos van Ingstrand as well as I just played you, you'll lift his brooch just fine."

I stared at the board. One-Hand was right: I'd been suckered again. No matter how I chose to work the series of exchanges, he would end up a piece ahead.

"All you have to do is keep it simple and elegant," he said. "Don't try to be too clever; just do it by the numbers. Keep your disguise on your face and in your head; plan out your routes. Wait for the right opportunity, then create a distraction, then move in, do it, and get away. Got it?"

I nodded. "Got it."

As part of my varied education, One-Hand had made me read hundreds of books, some of them on cubes, some off tape-until the projector broke; readers are cheap, projectors are both expensive and bulky; makes them tough to lift-and a few, precious, honest-to-Elwere silcopaper books. His intention was to simulate an Elwerie's education, to make me able to pa.s.s.

That would be important, later on, he explained-Elwere can be just as dangerous a place as Lower City.There were some side effects to Carlos' requiring me to read; for one, I fell in love with reading for its own sake.

One book that stuck with me was Richard Milfrench's On Safari. Milfrench took his trips through the Earthside jungles seriously, walking across the plains like one of the tigers he hunted.

That hit close to home; lifting was something like that. When I was making a run, I was a hunter on the prowl, looking for prey. Never mind that the prey usually outweighed me, almost always could outfight me-that added to the fear, but it also added to the thrill.

But this was different.

Normally, my objective was to find a vulnerable merchant or offworlder, or maybe a fieldhand in the city after payday; I'd run a routine, make the hit, and get away. Anyone would do, as long as he or she had something worth lifting. The Lower City markets, the area around the port, and the foot of Joy Street were my hunting grounds; any edible prey would serve.

But now, I was hunting big game. And not just any big game: the biggest. I had to locate Amos van Ingstrand while he was out of his house, then I had to find a time when I could create an opportunity, and then take it.

Imagine Milfrench prowling the jungles, looking for a specific lion, having to pa.s.s up plump springboks, wildebeests-even other lions. If he knew where the lion's lair was, he would wait there, hoping to shoot it when it came out. If it came out, if it didn't surprise him first, if...

Make it worse. a.s.sume that instead of shooting the lion with his rifle, his goal was to sneak up on the lion and touch its tail, without the lion's ever knowing.

Now, you've got the idea. He'd spend most of his time setting up, watching and waiting, preparing for the opportunity, and only a few seconds in tweaking the lion's tail.

It took me forty days to set the lift up, and five seconds to do it. And though I didn't know it at the time, those five seconds changed everything.

I've always wondered, if I knew then what would happen because I lifted that brooch, would I have done it? Could I have done it?

I really don't know, not even now. I didn't really care; I couldn't care.

Not then.

I worked my way through the crowd around the baker's stall, heading over toward the jeweler's stall, running down my mental checklist.

One: decide on the mark. I could have skipped that step; but any craft is a matter of attention to details-I was after the brooch pinned to the van Ingstrand's robes, over his heart.

Target, check.

The fat man was already distracted, haggling with the schrift jeweler over the cost of some bauble or other. Always liked jewelry, Van did. But a more thorough distraction would be handy; I thumbed thepseudoflesh-wrapped concussior that I held in the hollow of my left hand. Maybe it was a waste of expensive pseudoflesh, but it did keep the black cube almost invisible.

Two: decide on primary escape route. After I made the lift, I'd work around behind Van and his guards, then disappear in the rush. Simple escape routines are always the best; a close-to-perfect lift is the one where the mark doesn't know it happened until much later. A perfect lift is where the mark never knows, but I've never run into an opportunity for one of those, although Carlos claimed that he had, on more than one occasion.

Primary route, check.

Three: decide on secondary escape route. Again, it could have been argued that there was no real need for this one; if either Van or any one of his three ma.s.sive guards spotted me, running would only delay the inevitable.

Then again, a thief lives by delaying the inevitable. I shrugged; I could slide under the jeweler's table, then crawl on my belly behind the stall, and make my getaway, shedding my tunic, peeling off the pseudoflesh, and stripping down to my breechclout. Add a bit of dirt, and I wouldn't look at all as I now did.

Secondary route, check.

Four: check the disguise. The physical parts of the disguise were already set, by the time I left home.

My face was well shaved and my hair was freshly cut. Makeup under my eyes hid the dark hollows; the cut of my tunic and a scant ounce of pseudoflesh under my chin made me look just a tad overweight.

I looked for all the worlds like a half-rich buzh's son, out for some shopping.

But the mental parts of the disguise are just as important as the physical ones. If I'd dressed the part but didn't act the part, I'd look like a lower in costume; a buzh doesn't walk like the rest of us lowers; more pride, a bit more anxiety-those with less to worry about worry more-and a lot less fear.

So I straightened out of my natural quarter-crouch, threw my shoulders back, and shifted my weight to my heels as I walked closer, staring at the pieces arrayed under the plexi sheath in front of the ma.s.sive schrift.

Disguise, check.

The staring was supposed to be part of the disguise, but it quickly became more when my eyes caught the pitcher, sitting in a wallmount above and behind the schrift.

That's all it was: a silver pitcher, a third of a meter tall. All of one piece, smoothly curved from its solid base to its narrow lip.

Something came over me; my breath caught in my chest.

The pitcher was so beautiful that I could have cried. Seamless and wonderful, its highly burnished surface caught and caressed the daylight. My hands started to reach out for it, as though it was right in front of me, not separated by two meters.

My eyes misting over, I forced my hands back down to my sides.

The schrift turned away from van Ingstrand to stare at me, its glowing purple eyes boring in. There was no hint of threat in that motion, as though it knew that I could never touch the pitcher for fear my fingers might mar its perfect surface. I wouldn't have done that, not for anything."It iss my chrost.i.th, young human," the schrift said, its voice a ba.s.so rumble. "My... master-work-so-far.

It is not for sale."

Nodding, I tore my eyes away. I was supposed to be stealing Van's brooch, not fawning over silver. I couldn't understand it; how could that pitcher affect me this way?

I started to look at it again, but caught myself. Never mind whether it should or not; the fact was it did affect me, did make me feel... happy, and joyous, and inadequate, all at the same time. Best not to even look at it, even think about it.

There was, after all, work to do. And this was as good an opportunity as I was likely to get. Less than two meters away, Amos van Ingstrand was reaching across the table for a proffered purse, his huge flipper of a hand extended.

To his right and behind him, his two blocky bodyguards stood, their eyes on the crowd, their left hands at their truncheons, their right hands concealed in the folds of their cloaks, probably resting on illegal powerguns.

Five: distract, and go.

I turned as though to leave, dropping my left hand below the surface of the schrift's table, and dug my thumb into the pseudoflesh, triggering the concussior's fuse. I thumb-flicked it above and beyond van Ingstrand's bulk, then smoothly continued my turn before closing my eyes tightly, opening my mouth to protect my eardrums against the pressure wave.

Whump!

Brighter than the sun, louder than the roar of shattering timbers, the concussior went off. My ears rang.

As one, the crowd screamed its fury and fear. A concussior's explosion usually meant that the Elweries were out in force, seeking to avenge some slight or wrong.

The light died quickly; I moved silently amid the whimpering, milling, dazzled throng until I reached van Ingstrand's side.

He stared blindly at me, his mouth working soundlessly, his hands clawing at the air. I snapped my blade into my hand, reached up and cut a ragged circle in his robes, catching and stowing the brooch as it dropped.

As I let the stampeding crowd carry me away, the schrift caught my eye. It stood behind its booth, ignoring the shouting as it stared directly at me.

Wait. I didn't hear that; it wasn't a word. Just a feeling.

Six: escape. I ignored the feeling, and ran. If I had my way, I'd never leave the safety of the warrens again. Ever.

Of course, I knew I wouldn't have my way.

CHAPTER THREE:.

"Cleverness Should Be Rewarded.

"I spent the next twenty days studying, sleeping... and fearing, of course. I thought I'd gotten used to that.

I was wrong.

"David!" Marie hissed. "I hear something."

Sprawled on the carpet, I lifted my head from the reader, then closed my eyes to listen carefully, the pounding of my heart obscuring the sounds from the tunnel.

The sounds were probably Carlos coming home, but it was always best to be safe. I picked up the control box, flicked it to manual, and punched for the test sequence. A light flashed green; if the noise from the tunnel was an intruder trying to get in, I could set off the charges in the rubble with one push of a b.u.t.ton. Getting out of the apparent cul-de-sac wouldn't be a problem: long ago, Carlos had excavated an escape tunnel for just that purpose.

It wasn't much of a tunnel, but it didn't have to be. It was for emergencies, not for normal use. Our "back door" was just a half-meter-high burrow through our back wall, coming out twenty meters above the bottom of one of the mine's vertical shafts. We could climb down the rope we kept there and make our get-away. A thief should always have an escape route.

"Do you hear me in there?" Carlos called, from the other side of the rubble pile. "It's me."

"Fine." I kept my thumb on the b.u.t.ton, and thought about pushing it anyway. Not for the first time, either.

But Carlos was the closest thing to a father that I'd ever had. I pulled my thumb off the b.u.t.ton.

"You're still the talk of Lower City, little David." Carlos smiled as he clambered down the pile of rubble, lowering his rucksack to the carpet. "Doesn't matter; they still don't know who you are. Rumor is that some buzh boy lifted it; the buzhes are getting very nervous when the Protective Society makes its rounds."

"No hint that it might not have been a buzh?"

He shrugged. "Not that I've heard. n.o.body seems to think that a lower would have the nerve."

"That's good," I said, as sincerely as I've ever said anything. I tossed him the control box.

He caught it, thumbed it back to pa.s.sive, then armed the pressure detectors, ran through the test sequence, and set it down next to where I lay sprawled on the carpet, one pillow behind my head, the other raising my feet.

"How's the studying coming?" he asked.

"The same." I turned the reader off and pushed it off my lap, letting it fall to the carpet, then closed my eyes and rubbed at my aching temples. "Is all this nonsense really necessary?"

"Good question." He chuckled thinly. "And I've got a good question for you: do you really want to get a sword through your belly when you work Elwere?"

"No."

"Then study."

I sighed. If there is anything duller than that Earthie sociologist's discussion of the finer points of Elwerieprotocols and manners, I hope I never run into it. Maybe it wasn't totally Dr. Esquela's fault; with all their work done for them by machines, lowers, and buzhes, I guess the Elweries don't have anything better to do than play their endless games, the occasional wound or death providing a bit of diversion and spice.