Sharon Lee - Steve Miller - The Tomorrow Log

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CHAPTER ONE
His name was Gem and he was a thief.
With stealth and in utter silence, he slipped down the darkened hallway to the door he sought.
Gently, he brought the specially etched glove from his shirt and laid it, palm-flat, against the lockplate.
The door sighed gustily as it opened, and Gem crouched, ears straining to catch the slightest hint
of unrest from the household slumbering about him.
Silence in all parts of the house. The telltale on his wrist showed no surge of energy, as from the
triggering of a remote alarm. The room itself was dark, slightly cool and smelling of must. Gem slid the
infraglasses down over his eyes and stepped inside.
His information from here forward was nerve-wrackingly vague, so he went slowly, alert to the
possibility of pressure-sensitive tiles, sending the tiny electronic spiders ahead of him, step by cautious
step, until he was at the case itself, and never an alarm had been raised.
A less wary man, or a thief yet short of mastering the craft, might have grinned his triumph here,
and laid his hands upon the case. Gem hunkered down before it, adjusted the lenses to maximize detail
and began a painstaking study of the frame and the shatterproof crystal, while the little spiders perched
on his shoulders and clung to his hair.
Close scrutiny revealed no trip-wires or alarm-grids; readout from his wrist was
uncompromisingly flat. Gem frowned and sat back on his heels, mindful of the passing of time; mindful,
too, of the value of the object within the case, which none but a moonling would allow to sit, all
unguarded, except for the laughable outside intruder-net.
Mordra El Theman was no moonling, despite that Gem was even now well within her house, with
neither her invitation nor her permission. He stared at the case and that which was within the case, felt the
skittering of spider claws at his nape and frustration in his heart.
The case was not booby trapped, unless the trap was so sophisticated that the very advanced
equipment he carried on his person detected no hint.
Gem stood up and lifted the lid, carefully locked it in the raised position and was still, barely
breathing, ears strained to the ultimate, eyes on the telltale.
All was quiet in the house; the readout showed not even the tiniest spike of energy that might be a
cry of warning to the police.
He bent his attention to the object of his desire, minutely, and found no webs of light or wire
indicating that it was itself a trap. He sent a spider to perch on the rosette rim. It glided down the gilded,
arching side to the floor of the case and discovered no pressure-plate there.
The same spider clambered back up to the lip of the urn and slipped down inside, suspended by
a line of synthetic silk. Its tiny half-chip brain sent impressions to the telltale, which refined them for the
man's understanding.
There was something within the urn, but not yet the alarm he had begun to hope for.
Instead, his instruments showed something organic; unalive; uncontagious. Gem called the spider
home, barely noticing as it climbed across his hand and took a firm grip on his sleeve. No alarms. None.
Unbelievable.
Unbelieving, Gem extended a plas-gloved hand and curled his fingers around the urn's neck.
Revulsion erupted within him; revulsion and a fear so consummate that his heartbeat spiked,
sweat beading his face, sheathing his body; his bladder threatened to fail and he shook so hard that three
of the spiders fell from their perches to the floor and scrambled to ascend his trousers.
Terror built, firing his imagination so that he heard the whole household roar awake and come
running toward this room; and heard sirens in the front court; felt the irons already on his wrist-
"Ah!"
Barely a sound at all, loud in his fevered ears, he bit his lip to keep another from escaping, jerked
his hand away from the urn, brought the lid clumsily down and went across the room in a stumbling
shamble. Instinct alone closed the door; sheer animal wiliness got him silently down the long, darkened
hall and to the window he had breached; the stem discipline that made him a master craftsman closed that
window and erased all signs of his entry.
He reached the street, heart still stuttering, shivering as the sweat dried and the dawn breezes
found him; and he walked for a long time, rubbing the hand that had touched the thing down his thigh,
over and over, as if the palm were burned.
CHAPTER TWO
Two days later, he was at Iliam's, admiring the view and a certain aquamarine necklace, when a
man stepped to his side and lightly touched his sleeve.
"Gem ser Edreth?"
He turned slowly, for the voice was not familiar, nor, once faced, was the man: Tallish, stocky,
middleaged and genteel; exactly the sort of person one expected to find at Iliam's Curiosity Shop of an
afternoon.
"You have the advantage of me, sir," he murmured, smiling courteously and slipping his sleeve
away from the other's fingers.
The man bowed slightly. "I have come from Saxony Belaconto," he said softly. "She greatly
desires a favor from your honor."
"I am, of course, overwhelmed by the lady's condescension, but I am not in the habit of doing
favors." "Ms. Belaconto," said the genteel individual smoothly, "repays her favors-generously."
"I would not have thought otherwise," Gem answered; "and I am desolate to disappoint her. If it
were anything but a life-rule, sir, laid down to me by Edreth himself ... Convey my very heartfelt regret to
your lady, and my certainty that she will easily find another able to oblige her
The man's face showed that which might not be considered quite genteel; then he was bowing, as
others came to admire the aquamarine necklace.
"Good-day, sir," he said tightly.
"Good-day," said Gem, and moved off to look at the other displays.
He did steal the aquamarine set. Later, he wondered if it had been an omen.
The second contact was less auspicious: two burly individuals, conspicuously armed, waiting in
the dimness of Third Noon, blocking the narrow courtway to his house.
"Gem ser Edreth," snapped the burlier of the two. He bowed, trying not to measure his slightness
against their bulk; or to weigh his skill with the sorl-knife against their probable accuracy with the jutting
rapid-fires.
"Gentles."
"Ms. Belaconto sent us. You know why." The slimmer of the pair held a truncheon, which she
slapped rhythmically against her palm. Gem stared at her with what coldness he could muster and the
bully hesitated; glared.
"I was told," he said to the spokesman, "that Ms. Belaconto desired a favor. I have already
explained that I could not oblige her. Henron houses several members of my profession-and Zelta is not
that far to send, if no one on-world meets the lady's requirements."
"Ms. Belaconto wants you," the one with the truncheon said, and grinned. "She said to hurt you,
if you weren't-obliging."
"Oh, nonsense," he snapped. "What possible good would it do to beat me? If I agreed to
accommodate your mistress at the end of it, I'd hardly be in shape to fulfill my guarantee. And if I still
refused-even if you killed me!-she would be faced with the same problem. I cannot believe the Vornet is
as inefficient as that!"
The truncheon-holder blinked and turned to her partner, who sighed. "That's right. But we could
hurt you without hurting you, if you take my meaning."
Gem shook his head, mentally working the moves; measuring how far they stood from the door
to his house; measuring how far he might be able to run.
"If you're going to beat me," he said irritably, "then get on with it; but I assure you my answer will
be no different at the end than it is now: My sincere apologies to your mistress, but I simply cannot oblige
her." She was very fast: he sensed, rather than saw the truncheon snapping toward his head and spun
in the move Edreth had drilled him in until he danced it in his sleep.
The stick whizzed by and the sorl-blade was out in the same instant, slicing back along the line of
attack; drawing blood on his assailant's upper arm-the merest pinprick, but she grunted surprise.
The stick sang again and he twisted, danced under it and sideways, his arm snaking up and over
her shoulder, until the blade rested, gently, against her throat.
"Drop it!"
She did, noisily; and her partner raised empty hands. Gem considered his position, blade
absolutely steady, just nicking the skin.
It did not do to wantonly kill the servants of the Vornet; and this pair were doing nothing more
than their duty to their leader. He looked at the man; saw the rapid-fire still in its holster; saw the empty
hands and nonthreatening stance.
"You'll carry my word to Ms. Belaconto?"
The other nodded. "The message is that Gem ser Edreth declines to perform a service for
Saxony Belaconto. Forcefully."
"That is," Gem agreed, "the message." He stepped back and slid the sorl-knife away. The man
turned to go; the woman bent to retrieve her truncheon.
"Leave it!" he snapped; and she looked at him in surprise before glancing at her mate. "Leave it,"
the man said and she did, the two of them fading down the narrow courtway and out into the main street.
When he was sure they were gone, Gem picked the truncheon up and hurled it with all his
strength to the roof across the cowl.
CHAPTER THREE
Events quieted. Gem went about his several businesses, though he kept a wary eye out, and on
the evening of the third day he allowed himself to believe that the Vornet had relinquished its interest in
him. Nor, indeed, did the next disturbance in his life come from that quarter.
He was at Kayje's Concourse, having a light nuncheon and watching the play, when Phred
approached and bowed.
"Master Gem, there is one here who asks to share your table."
He frowned, because here, of course, was the Vornet again, when he had dared to think them
safely settled.
"The young person in scarlet, sir," Phred murmured, under the guise of refreshing Gem's wine.
He turned his head slightly to look and found his glance captured across the room by a pair of
enormous black eyes, sparkling bright in the dimness of the club; he broke the contact and picked up his
glass. "Send her away."
"Yes, sir. Your pardon, sir."
Gem returned his attention to the action at the Spyro, sipping now and then, but abruptly without
taste for his nuncheon. Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Phred speak to the young person in scarlet,
saw her begin to protest; saw the discreet intercession of the bouncer. Confronted with both headman
and bully, she hesitated and finally left, shoulders defiantly straight in the bright cloth.
Gem joined the crowd in the center of the Concourse; wagered a bit on the Wheel; had another
glass of wine and bought a deck at the Knave's table. In due time he collected his winnings and turned his
steps toward home.
He had barely stepped away from the brightly lit pedstrip and onto the DownRamp when he felt
her fall in beside him; heard a young, firm voice:
"Anjemalti Kristefyon."
He neither quickened his pace nor slowed it; nor did he glance aside or give any sign that he had
heard. "I am Corbinye Faztherot," she continued, hurriedly, matching him, stride for stride. "I know that
this is not done seemly, but the need is great, and I ask that you forgive the informality forced upon me.
My rooms are nearby, if you would but step aside..."
Still, he did not alter his pace; her voice might have been the whisper of river wind against his
ears for all the heed he gave it.
"We are kin!" she cried, shockingly loud in the stillness of the 'Ramp. "Of the same Ship and
Captain! You must hear me-the courtesy, at least, of a reply-" Her hand was on his arm and at last he
did stop and spun to face her in the dimness; saw with noontime clarity the space-tanned face; the huge
light-sensitive eyes; the short pale hair and the long, lithe grace of her; felt the strength in her fingers and
ripped his arm away.
"I do not know you," he said coldly, "and I do not know your kinsman. I am Gem ser Edreth and
I have no kin, and none to order me, now that my master is dead. You should mind your manners and not
be snatching the arms of strangers in the dark, young miss, or you'll find yourself hurt-or wronged and in
the Blue House."
"You are Anjemalti Kristefyon," her voice was low; exultant in its surety; "child of Captain
Maijella Kristefyon of the Ship Gardenspot. You carry the genes of the Crew; you are the
Captain-to-Be, who is now the Captain-in-Truth. The Ship is in danger and you are foretold in the
Tomorrow Log-"
"And you," he snarled, "are mad! Good-night, moonling, and may the gods conspire to allow you
live through the night!"
He spun away then, and ran to the base of the 'Ramp; going from there through all the backways
home, trying with all his skill to lose her. When he finally did reach Jilvon Court, he hovered long at the
entrance-way, straining ears and dark-seeing eyes.
At last, convinced that she was no longer with him, he entered his house, went straight to the bar,
and poured himself a brandy.
CHAPTER FOUR
His name was Anjemalti Kristefyon; he was nine years old, his mother was dead, and his Uncle
Indemion hated him.
There were blows, and hard words about faulty genes, for his mother had mated with no man of
the Crew, but with a Grounder, and had exulted in the spindly, half-blind boy that union produced, to her
brother's cold disgust.
The blows were hard to take, but the words were harder, especially when they dealt with his
mother, so that he cried aloud and felt acid in his own heart. And the acid grew until the day he drew his
boy's blade and launched himself at the man, surprising both by drawing blood, by the strength and
determination of the attack.
The beating that time was very bad.
Not long after, his uncle took him to Prongdil. They walked a dismal port-fair to a stinking
tavern, his uncle's hand brutal about his arm. The place grew quiet as they entered, then erupted noisily as
they marched toward the back of the room.
"Hey, Olbi, look at this! A father and son act!"
"A half-wheel for the little one, don't he look fresh!"
"Fresh! Unplucked, I'll warrant-a whole wheel for the virgin!"
"As if you'd know what to do with him! Beautiful mouth, eh?"
This last drew a bit of laughter and he felt his face heat, though he barely knew why. His uncle
pulled on him roughly then, and he stopped.
The person behind the table stared at him, then shifted her gaze upward, eyebrows lifting. "He's a
bit undergrown, for twelve."
"His father was thus, mistress; and the child favors him."
"I see." She raised her glass and drank, placed it carefully aside, and beckoned with a
broad-fingered hand. "Come here, boy."
His uncle pushed him and let go. Anjemalti hesitated, reluctant to go to the woman, willing almost
to run through that noisy mob....
"Ah-ha!" The woman laughed, extended a long arm and drew him close. "He thinks he may not
like me-and he knows he doesn't like you." The hand on his arm was neither cruel nor kind; the fingers
that tipped his face toward the meager light and stroked his cheeks and hair flesh, warm and efficient.
"What's your name, boy?"
"His name is Anjemalti," his uncle said hurriedly, and the woman glared at him.
"Can he speak for himself, or are you peddling damaged goods, as well as underaged?"
"He can speak, mistress." His uncle's voice was almost subdued.
"Good." She brought her gaze back to him, ran judgmental fingers down his throat, casually
unsealed the first several fastenings of his shirt. "What's your name?"
"Anjemalti Kristefyon," he said, and jerked his head irritably. "Stop that."
"A touch of spirit, is it? Now, Anjemalti, who is the man who brought you here?" She continued
to unseal his shirt, slipped her hand against his flesh and probed, laughing when he flinched away.
"My Uncle Indemion."
"Is he?" She touched a bruise and frowned slightly; began to close his shirt. "Do you know that
your uncle has brought you here to sell, Anjemalti? He beats you, I see, so maybe its just as well. My
clients are quite genteel-most of them-and would hardly think of beating so well-favored a boy. Though
I'm not sure you'd do in a bordello, Anjemalti-no, I'm certain of it-too much spirit. How old are you?"
"Nine years, Standard."
"All, yes, underaged ..." She glanced over his head. "I'll give three full rounds of gold. My final
price." "Three rounds, mistress? But he's worth far more than that! Undergrown he is, yet you admit he
is not ill-favored. Surely so well-traveled a lady as yourself knows of a person or two with
more-sophisticated-inclinations...."
"I do not dicker," she said flatly. "My price is three rounds, which you take or you leave. I advise
you to take it, myself, or cut the lad's throat and accept the loss."
Hesitation. "I accept the price of three full rounds of gold. Be warned, though, mistress-he has a
brooding and murderous nature. Beating is what he understands best; I suggest your clients be made
aware of it, that they do not endanger themselves by failing to keep him pliant."
The woman was standing, one hand still encircling Anjemalti's arm. With the other, she fished in
her pouch, extracted three yellow coins, and tossed them, negligently.
"Fee paid," she said tonelessly, as Indemion snatched the money out of the air. She stepped
away from the table, pulling Anjemalti with her, and brought him safely through the quiet bar and out into
the port.
* * *
He woke, sweat-soaked; abandoned his bed and dragged on old, soft trousers and a faded shirt,
not bothering with the lights until he was in his workshop. Here, he must have light, for he could not see
well enough in the dark to do the intricate electronic tinkering.
He shook his head irritably as he sat at the bench. Edreth had found his 'assistant's' dark-seeing
nothing short of wonderful, while Indemion Kristefyon had seen proof of inferiority in his nephew's
shortened range of vision. And now this fanatic girl, crying out for anyone to hear that, blind as he was,
the Tomorrow Log held his name.
"The Tomorrow Log!" He picked the wounded spider up; sat staring at it with unseeing eyes.
The Tomorrow Log was a tale for children; a supposed prophecy, passed down from the First Captain.
Even if it existed, the name of a sold-off and despised half-breed would hardly appear, attached with any
honor. "My name is Gem ser Edreth," he told the spider tautly. It was not so bad a name, nor had
Edreth been so bad a master, merely wishing, as he had, to pass on his skills and understandings to a
worthy successor. For the universe is wide and full of strange custom, so that even the profession of thief
is on some worlds honorable. Always supposing, of course, that one worked for oneself, as Edreth had
done, and took care to avoid entanglements-and the doing of favors.
Especially the doing of favors. And most especially favors for the like of the Vornet.
Gem opened the tiny mechanical thing carefully, probing inside with a power-pik barely thicker
than a cat-whisker. Edreth had professed wonder at Gem's patience for such tasks, as well, but
encouraged him to pursue the interest, saying that even the most successful of thieves might some time
require a more mundane trade.
It occurred to Gem, in that far, objective bit of his mind not at this moment concerned with the
ailments of mechanical spiders, that Henron had become a less-than-satisfactory base of late. The
attentions of the Vornet alone would make departure prudent. Add the crazed Ship-girl-what was her
name? Corbinye?-to the equation and prudence argued for even precipitous withdrawal. After all, Lady
Ro, of which he owned a third, was in port; and Dart was due within a three-day.
Still, it went against one's pride to turn his back on mere difficulties. Corbinye, he had dispatched
already. The Vornet was rather more problematic, but it would not do to become known as one who
had run from them.
"Anjemalti Kristefyon is sold, dead and gone," he told the spider, resealing the cover and setting
it on its many legs; "and Gem ser Edreth does not run from his enemies."
He touched the control pad on his wrist and the tiny insectoid obeyed the impulse, dancing as he
directed.
CHAPTER FIVE
She was waiting, wedged into a niche in the ornamental wall opposite his door, still and patient as
any of the other statues.
Gem swore under his breath and strode straight across the court, with the intention of snatching
her out of her shadow and administering a very sound shaking.
But, before he had gone four steps, she stepped out of the niche and raised her right hand,
shoulder-high and open. "Good-day, Anjemalti."
"Gods scorn you for a fool!" He stopped just out of reach, in case the desire to shake her
became overmastering; took a deep breath and exhaled it.
"How did you find this place?" he asked, quieter.
She looked at him out of astonished black eyes. "I am of the Crew. It was not difficult to trail
you." "Then it will not be difficult to find your way back. I have told you that I am not the one you seek;
and I have told you to let me be. I demand that you cease this harassment and that you remove yourself
from my attention." He leaned forward; snapped the last of it with all the power of command Edreth had
taught him: "Leave me now!"
Consternation showed in the lean face; and confusion. She shifted in her shadow-pool, eyes
narrowed slightly against the glare of First Noon, and gnawed her lip, but she neither left nor effaced
herself, to Gem's dismay. Instead, she took a step toward him, and made as if to lay a hand upon his
sleeve, though she did not quite touch him.
"Anjemalti," she said, in tones of gentle reason; "kinsman. I cannot know all your whys and
wherefores, who have been away from us for so long. But it is foolish to deny your true name to me. I am
of the Crew, in line for First, serving as Worldwalker, and Seeker for the Ship. I found the first trace of
your uncle's mutiny; followed Sall Than Kermin to the ends of her route and persuaded her to say who
had bought you."
She drew herself up. "A year and more I followed Edreth ser Janna, only to a find a dead man at
the end of it, and that his apprentice was as skilled in disappearance as the master had been."
A pause, during which he returned her stare, stone-faced. "So," she said softly, "I know you,
Anjemalti; and I know that I have found you. Whatever your schemes and business among Grounders,
they are nothing, for your Ship needs you and you are called home."
"Damn your ship!" he cried and saw her flinch in horror, hand lifting to ward away the words.
"Damn your ship and damn your crew," Gem elaborated, pressing his advantage. "You know
nothing of me, of my business, of my necessities, or my life. You have found Gem ser Edreth, who
repudiates you and yours and forbids you to come near him! Come to me again and regret it...." He
glared at her. "Do you believe that I mean what I say?"
"Yes, Anjemalti, I believe that." Still she stood there, staring at him out of enormous eyes.
"Then leave me!"
"The Tomorrow Log," Corbinye said then, as if all of his ranting had been mere pleasantry,
"names the child of a Captain and a Grounder as the Captain who will bring the Ship out of the greatest
danger we have faced since the Exodus itself. The danger is not just to Gardenspot, but to all the Ships
and all the Crews. You are the one named to save us-"
"The Tomorrow Log is a tale for children-and for halfwits. It has nothing to do with me. Go!"
She stamped her foot, voice rising to a shout. "I have not sought you, world to world, year to
year, to take 'nay' from an ill-tempered brat as my final orders!"
"A fine respect," Gem drawled, "to show for the Captain Hero." He snapped forward, put his
face close to hers and spoke deliberately. "I am not yours. Go away."
So saying, he left her there, and she let him go, which upon reflection, did not make him entirely
easy. He turned the matter over as he went from errand to errand, and made a note to speak to Dart's
Captain Skot, when that ship came to port.
CHAPTER SIX
The research had gone slowly: he'd uncovered the breath of a possibility, nothing more, and
Shilban in such a vile mood it was worth Gem's entire fortune, and the Vornet's as well, to disturb the
scholar today.
Standing on the rotting verandah, he stared out over the city, rubbing the palm of his right hand
down his thigh and frowning. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would have the answer to the riddle of what
protected Mordra El Theman's treasure so well. The day after, at the very latest, he would have an
antidote-and damn Shilban's moods! Three days hence, the vase would be his and on its way off-world.
Gem nodded, discovered his hand still rubbing against his leg, and balled it into a fist. Third Noon
was long past, and darkness was settling comfortably over the city below. He abruptly decided against
going home. He would need to come back to Shilban's Library early tomorrow morning in any wise; it
was senseless to add a trip from across the city and Down to the day's labors.
He crossed the verandah gingerly, sprang over the disintegrating steps and descended the slope
toward the 'Ramp that would bear him down to UpTown.
* * *
Dinner covers removed by the efficient Phred, Gem leaned back in his chair and sipped an
excellent brandy, languidly watching the ebb and flow of people within the Concourse. There were a
good many tourists among the players; if he still picked pockets he would have done quite well this
evening. Not that Edreth had sanctioned the picking of pockets as more than an exercise in versatility.
He-and his apprentice-were of the elite, who stole art objects and valuables far beyond mere money or
day-jewels.
Theirs was the glory and the greater gain, Edreth had said often enough; and, which he did not
say, theirs was the greatest risk. A mere pickpocket might be fined, or lose a year of consciousness in the
Blue House, while his body did service. A master thief, unlikely as it was that such would be
apprehended, would lose his fortune, his name and quite likely his life, for Henron, at least, did not
believe in rehabilitation of the persona, not with the demand for bodies so high. And so profitable.
Watching the players, he did not see them until they were upon him: an expensively dressed
woman flanked by two men who wore vests, so the guns would not offend. But the guns were there,
nonetheless; as apparent as Phred and the Concourse bouncer were absent.
Gem set his drink aside, rose and bowed as they came to his table, deeply and with profound
respect. He straightened in time to see the surprise in the woman's eyes; smiled and showed her his
empty hands in the age-old gesture of welcome.
"My lady. I am amazed and honored to see you."
Surprise had faded; the aquamarine eyes held speculation. "But you made sure that you would,"
she said, and her voice matched her person-lovely and expensive and very, very dangerous. "See me."
He made a show of astonishment. "I? How could I make sure of such a thing?"
"By ignoring my messages and confounding my messengers." She lifted a hand glittering with
jewels; motioned. "May I sit?"
"If it pleases you," Gem said, though it far from pleased him. He watched as her gun-sworn
pulled the chair out for her; and sat at the same instant she did, as an equal chieftain would, and affected
not to see that the second gunman had raised his hand to his vest.
"May I offer you brandy, my lady?" he inquired courteously. "Wine?"
She lifted a finger and the man's hand dropped; smiled coolly at Gem. "Brandy would be
pleasant. Thank you."
He raised his own hand and Phred was magically at his side, whisking away the half-empty snifter
and replacing it with two, generously filled.
"You do not answer my charge, Master ser Edreth," said Saxony Belaconto, laying her
bejeweled hands flat upon the table and fixing him with those alluring eyes.
He gazed back, his own hands relaxed and in sight. "What should I answer, lady? Your
messengers approached me twice. In each instance I gave them a message to take back to you. If they
failed of this, then I can only suggest-with all courtesy-that you must look to the quality of your
employees." He dropped his eyes momentarily; brought them back to hers.
"As for confounding your messenger-she was overzealous, to my mind, and required a lesson.
You note that she came back to you intact."
"I did note that, yes." She raised her glass; sipped delicately. "The message I received was that
you refused my commission."
"It was never so harshly phrased as that, my lady."
"But that was the essence of the message," she pursued, watching him closely.
"Yes," Gem agreed, tasting the brandy carefully.
"I would be interested in learning why." She held up a hand, forestalling the explanation. "It was
perhaps not explained to you: I return favors lavishly. You would not be the poorer for assisting me."
"I never doubted it," he told her, and sighed lightly. "My master left me several life-rules, all of
which have served me well; all of which have sound reason and the experience of a long and fruitful life
behind them. One of these rules was to never do favors." He gazed ingeniously into her eyes.
"Lady, I am desolate that I may not assist you. As I suggested to your gun-sworn, there are
several of my profession on Henron; several more on Zelta. There is no reason to expect that they
embrace the same life-rules as I."
"You were mentioned to me as the best," Saxony Belaconto said; "and the task I have in mind
would challenge even the best, I think." She looked at him; he smiled and shook his head. "Two hundred
thousand qua," she said softly, and lifted her glass to drink. The sum was large; fully twice his own liquid
assets, here on Henron. The thought disturbed him, though, of course the Vornet would be able to
command such information from any data bank. What disturbed him more was that she apparently
thought the cash the full extent of his resources.
"A handsome repayment for even a challenging favor. I regret-"
"Four hundred thousand qua."
"Lady," he said, as gently as was possible. "There is no sum of money that can buy my
assistance. I am my own man and no one else commands me. This suits me very well. I have no wish to
offend you or your masters, I merely wish to be left to live my life as I would."
"I see." She raised her glass and drank again. "Passable. Allow me, though, Master ser Edreth, to
send you some from my own cellar."
"My thanks to you, lady, but-no."
She laughed suddenly, as gaily as any girl, and reached across to touch his hand. "By not even so
much as a bottle of brandy! Very well, then, sir."
She rose, and he did, and she beckoned to her bodyguard as he bowed. "Good evening, lady."
"Good evening, Master ser Edreth, and thank you for your hospitality. No doubt we shall speak
again." "I would welcome the opportunity," he lied politely; and she laughed again and left him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The bed shifted slightly and Gem woke, watching through half-closed eyes as the roomgirl pulled
on her robe and finger-combed her hair. She was pleasant enough to look at, and knew her trade, though
he had made rough use of her skill, with unease over the Vornet foremost in his mind.
She finished setting her hair into order and made sure of the robe's fastening, full mouth puckered
in concentration. He had a sudden, unlikely urge to ask her name, to apologize for his inattention last
evening; but she had turned by then, and slipped out the door, so the impulse died and the worries
resumed.
Rolling over onto his back, he stared at the pastel ceiling and tried to impose order on his
thoughts. Only after a problem was logically arranged, Edreth had taught him, could it be fully seen and
solved. Of first concern was the Vornet. That Saxony Belaconto, chief of the Vornet's section leaders,
should herself seek out a mere freelance thief was unprecedented. More in keeping with her office to
simply dispatch a half-dozen gun-sworn and have him brought to her. Instead, she had come to him,
acquiesced to the fiction of equality, and sought to persuade him to serve her. And the fee she offered!
So very generous-and so quickly doubled.
"Stars and ships, what can she want?"
No answer to his whisper from the ceiling. Gem closed his eyes. Whatever she wanted, it was no
concern of his, for he would not be the one to steal it for her.
Yet-that not-so-veiled threat, promising another meeting.
Anxiously, he considered his condition-no kin, that might be used as hostages; no close
associates of any kind, now that Edreth was gone. It was true that the Vornet might freeze his accounts,
but only a small percentage of his money was banked on Henron, and cash was easily replaced. There
was nothing, really, that Saxony Belaconto could use as a lever to move Gem ser Edreth.
Except himself.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Drugs existed; pain existed; and disease.
The Vornet no doubt employed experts in the application of each. Saxony Belaconto had asked;
had condescended to his skill and come herself to reason with him. The next step must be force, for what
she wanted she would have; he had seen that in her eyes.
Breathing a trifle ragged because of the sudden constriction of his chest, he slid out of bed and
went into the shower, clearing his mind; trying to count the moves and figure the timing of the thing. For
he still had need of Shilban and his wonderful Library, which was the reason he had chosen Henron as a
base in the first wise.
The Vornet would allow him a day to reconsider what he had heard last night, he thought, rinsing
soap absently from pale gold hair; and that day he would spend with Shilban, gaining the knowledge
necessary to defeat the demon in El Theman's vase. Tonight, he would slip the vase free, and be waiting
for Captain Skot and Dart tomorrow dawn. The ship would serve as a sanctuary even the Vornet could
not breach. Mayhap he could even show Skot sufficient cause to lift early, though he didn't count on that.
The shower cycled to cold and he gasped, suddenly and surprisingly longing for a sight of Linzer
Skot's sharp-featured, daredevil face.
"Everything by the numbers," he told himself sternly, as the shower turned itself off and the dryer
began to glow. "Retreat may be wise, but you will retreat in good order, one move at a time."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Would he never come home?
Corbinye stirred in the wall-niche, went through the Hemvil sequence to ease her cramped
muscles and wondered for the eighth time whether she should leave her post across from Anjemalti's
house and seek him UpTown.
As seven times before, she decided to stay where she was. It was so late, a mere hour from
Primus Watch, which the Grounders called First Dawn-surely he was even now coming down the outer
walk, and would turn the corner in a moment.
But the moment passed, and a handful of others, and still he did not come.
To pass the time, she began to plan what she might say to him. It was true that he had infuriated
her with his stubbornness and-she allowed herself to know it-terrified her by crying out "Damn the Ship!"
as if he were merely a couthless Grounder. But there was some justice in what he did, if one only gave a
little thought to how matters must look to him. Sold, made into a thief by a Grounder of the same trade,
abandoned, he must think, by Ship and Crew; he enters adulthood, at last his own master-and comes
Corbinye Faztherot, her head so full of the Tomorrow Log and Ship's need that she takes no time to
speak from the heart, kin-to-kin, and tell him how he had been missed, and grieved over, and sought
after. She stumbled here in her thoughts, because it was equally true that she had the barest memory of
him-a fuzzy vision of a playmate half-a-head shorter than she, inexplicably clumsy in the dim halls and
ductways that were the kingdom of children aboard Gardenspot, but very merry for all that, and given to
laughter.It was him laughing that she best remembered, so the lash of his anger now was more keenly felt.
She nodded to herself in the wall-niche and resolved to take care with him this time, and show grace for
his hurts.
She froze, ears catching again the slight scrape of boot heel upon walkstone.
At last! she thought and leaned forward-and froze, trusting that their poor Grounder eyes would
not see her, though her hair must shine like a beacon in the dark, even to them.
For it was not Anjemalti, but a man and a woman-bulky, as Grounders often are, and moving
with a care that screamed of stealth and the intent of deeds best not performed.
They passed, neither glancing aside, and Corbinye ducked into deeper shadow, watching them
down the court.
Straight up to Anjemalti's door they went, as if they had a right to be there. The woman bent,
probing with an instrument so light-gaudy that Corbinye winced in the distance, and strained to see
through the multicolored glare. The man grunted audibly, fiddling with the darker machine he carried-and
Anjemalti's door swung open to admit them.
Corbinye hesitated a heartbeat. Then, silent as a shadow, with all the stealth of Worldwalker and
Seeker, she slipped down the court and followed them inside.
摘要：

CHAPTERONEHisnamewasGemandhewasathief.Withstealthandinuttersilence,heslippeddownthedarkenedhallwaytothedoorhesought.Gently,hebroughtthespeciallyetchedglovefromhisshirtandlaidit,palm-flat,againstthelockplate.Thedoorsighedgustilyasitopened,andGemcrouched,earsstrainingtocatchtheslightesthintofunrestfro...

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