Fortune's Light Part 4

"No way," said Riker. "Not unless they've lowered the entry standards considerably."

"Well, then, a reasonable facsimile thereof I mean, if these aren't angels, I'll eat my communicator."

"Which is back on the s.h.i.+p, thanks to the high-tech ban. Try again."

Teller shrugged. "You get the idea."

Riker nodded. "Don't forget, though-these are the daughters of the people we're trying to impress. Let's not offend anyone, shall we?"

His friend looked hurt-but he wasn't very good at it. The twinkle in his blue eyes gave him away.

"Will, old sod, if I'm not the picture of propriety, who is?"

Riker never got a chance to answer that, because Norayan answered it for him. It was as if she'd appeared from out of nowhere, tempting in the dusky blue of Criathis.

"I'd sooner trust an isak with a newborn muzza," she said, "than turn you loose in a place like this." She took Teller's arm. "How did you get them to let you in? Either of you? Obviously they haven't heard about your exploits as I have."

Teller blushed. "Come on," he said. "That was just a line of malarkey. We were trying to impress you back then."

"And now?" asked Norayan.

"Now you're on to us. You know how harmless we are."

Riker grinned sheepishly in support of his friend's claim.

Norayan shook her head, smiling too. "Whatever will I do with you?"

Teller tilted his head in the direction of the bar. "You could introduce us to those young ladies."

"Which?" asked Norayan. "The ones in yellow?"

Teller looked at her ruefully.

"Oh," she said. "That's right-sorry. I forgot you were ... what did you call it? Color-blind?"

Riker nodded. "A small flaw in an otherwise perfect human being."

Teller laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You said it, not me. Now, are we going to get acquainted with those lovelies or what?"

"You go ahead," said Riker. "I want to talk with Norayan."

Teller eyed them with mock suspicion. "Something going on that I don't know about?"

"Impossible. You know everything."

His friend sighed. "Well," said Teller, "if I can't get any moral support, I'll have to handle this mission on my own."

And smoothing his uniform, he headed toward the ladies in yellow.

"He's one of a kind," Norayan said affectionately.

Riker grunted.

She turned to him. "Now, do you really want to talk? Or do you plan to whisk me away to someplace romantic?"

"Perhaps later. Right now I want to know if you've heard anything."

"From my father? About the trade agreement?" She shook her head. "You would probably hear before I would. I'm just a madraga-dzin's daughter-for now. n.o.body tells me anything." She paused. "Why? Have matters taken a turn for the worse?"

He used his eyes to point across the room at a large Impriman dressed in the black of Madraga Rhurig. The man was loud and arrogant, but he was holding a group of green-robed Ekarians in thrall.

Norayan followed his gaze. "Kelnae?"

Riker nodded. "Looks as if Rhurig's first official is gaining a following in Ekariah. Rumor has it he won them over today. Convinced them that the Federation isn't interested in the industries they control."

"But the Federation is interested," said Norayan. "Ekariah owns a bunch of dolacite mines."

"I know that. You know that. But Kelnae has told them that the Federation has other sources of dolacite-cheaper sources-and that the Ekarians can't compete. Judging by that crowd, I'd say they bought it."

"Spiteful old man. Just because his madraga doesn't have anything to interest offworld traders-"

"Doesn't mean he should deprive other madraggi of the opportunity. I agree. But that, apparently, is just what he has in mind. And Kelnae can be persuasive, especially when he goes into his 'Imprima for Imprimans' speech." He bit his lip. "In the end, it may not be a choice between us and the Ferengi. There may be no offworld trading at all."

Norayan shook her head. "I wouldn't worry about Kelnae if I were you. Madraggi like Rhurig are in the minority. Almost everybody makes a profit from offworld trading, and profit is their main concern. They may remain with the Ferengi, but there will be a trade agreement with someone."

Riker looked at her.

"Sorry to have to put it that way," she said. "Did you have any luck with Larrak?"

"I don't know. Terrin could do better with the Federation, but it could also do worse. And he's got a pretty sweet deal right now. Why should he take a chance?"

Norayan smiled. "You don't understand us, Will. Not as your friend Teller does. We're a greedy bunch. If there's a possibility of ama.s.sing greater wealth, we'll always take a chance."

She entwined her arm in his. "Come on. Wipe that flown off your face and get me a drink. Then we can watch Teller make a fool of himself with those girls from Alionis."

Riker chuckled as he let her guide him to the bar.

"Riker? I asked you a question."

Will looked at Lyneea. "I think Teller would have avoided this place like the worst variety of plague."

She accepted the a.s.sessment with equanimity. "Nonetheless, this is a known meeting place for smugglers. In fact, my information-which you dispute-is that Conlon himself used to come here when he had something to sell." She tilted her head to indicate the crowd. "You'd be surprised at how many of these seemingly innocent workers are actually agents of offplanet interests-one of the hazards of opening your world to galactic trade, I suppose."

Riker ignored the bait. It was becoming plainer and plainer that Lyneea wasn't Imprima's biggest xenophile.

"So no matter what Teller's involvement is, someone here may know where to find him. And if we come up empty regarding him, we may still dig up some information about Fortune's Light."

"That's the hope, yes. And remember," she added, as they made their way to the bar, "let me do the talking."

"The floor," he a.s.sured her, "is all yours."

Satisfied, she slung herself into a short-backed stool. Riker took the one beside it, eliciting a shrill creak as he sat down. Imprimans tended to be long and wiry, and the stool obviously wasn't built to accommodate someone of his bulk, even though there were plenty of non-Imprimans in the crowd.

He'd half expected to see Ferengi here as well. But of course there weren't any. The madraggi had long ago decided that if they had an agreement with the Federation, they didn't want Ferengi around to undermine it. The same had been true for Federation personnel during the years the Ferengi held exclusive trade rights.

What's more, this rule was backed up by some pretty severe penalties, not only for offworlders in violation but for any madraga found to be involved as well. Occasionally there were exceptions, but the last one had been made five years ago, and he and Teller had been the beneficiaries of it.

The bartender came over when he saw them sitting there. His eyes sought out Riker's beneath the hood. "What can I get you?" he asked.

Riker looked at Lyneea.

"Korsch," she said crisply. "Two."

The bartender moved down the bar, found a ruby-colored bottle and poured. The liquid caught a light from somewhere and reveled in it.

Clunk. And again, clunk, as the second of two ceramic mugs met the bar in front of them. The bartender raised his eyebrows, a reminder that the drinks weren't free.

Riker reached into his tunic and took out a couple of the plastic chits that served as money on Imprima. They were yellow, and stamped with the crest of Madraga Alionis, half a world away; there was no point in giving away their a.s.sociation with Criathis by paying with Criathan money.

Without a word the Impriman swept up the chits and placed them in an open stoneware trough suspended from the wall in back of him. In the places Riker had visited during his first sojourn on this planet, the troughs had been elaborately decorated, sometimes rendered in the shape of a fanciful bird or beast. Here it was simply a trough, and not a very clean one at that.

Lyneea picked up her korsch and tossed her head back, downing half the mug's contents at a swallow. The human flinched inwardly at the quant.i.ty of warm red liquid in his own mug, sniffed at the pungent scent of it.

He had never been very fond of the stuff, even in delicate little snifters. To him it tasted like vinegar straight up.

Oh, well, he told himself. When in Rome ...

The korsch was just as strong as he remembered. Taken half a mug at a shot, it was comparable to a small landslide.

Eyes smarting, throat closing so that he could barely breathe, Riker replaced the mug on the bar. His head swam dangerously, but he weathered the storm until his senses reestablished themselves.

Whew. Synthehol, it was not.

His ears having relented in their ringing, the human was able to detect the beginnings of a conversation that Lyneea had apparently managed to strike up with the bartender.

"Too bad," she said.

"What is?" asked the one behind the bar. "We were looking for a friend, but I don't see him." "You were supposed to meet him here?"

Lyneea shook her head. "Not exactly. He didn't know we were coming. But I'm sure he'd have been glad to see US."

The cries in the back of the room rose in a sudden crescendo and died just as quickly. The bartender glanced in that direction, and a slow smile took charge of his mouth.

"Why's that?" he asked absently.

Lyneea shrugged-a small, economical gesture. "Business," she said.

That seemed to get the bartender's attention again. His eyes-as green as Lyneea's-were now riveted to her, though his sideways-leaning stance remained casual.

"This friend," he said. "How well do you know him?"

Another shrug-a little broader. "Not well at all, actually."

The bartender regarded her. "Know his name?" "Teller Conlon."

"That's what I thought. He'll be here later."

Lyneea nodded. "Any idea how much later?"

The bartender seemed to pull back a little at that. Had she pushed too hard? Riker wondered.

"No idea," said the man. With a nod of his head, he indicated the small crowd at the back of the tavern. "Why don't you partake of the entertainment? It'll help pa.s.s the time."

And with that slow, small smile reemerging, the bartender glided over to take care of another pair of customers.

Riker peered at Lyneea from under his cowl. "Good? Bad?"

"Somewhere in between," she told him. "We're to face a test."

"Oh? What kind of test?"

"You'll see in a moment." Lifting her mug, she quaffed the remainder of her drink, then looked expectantly at Riker. "Well?" she said, a little louder now. "Don't you like korsch anymore?"

On the one hand, the comment was directed toward anyone who might have been listening-a likely reaction on Lyneea's part to his lack of eagerness in consuming his drink. Human or not, a working-cla.s.s Joe in Besidia would have been expected to have developed a taste for korsch-and in fairly large quant.i.ties. It came with the territory.

On the other hand, Lyneea's comment was a gibe at his offworldliness and, by extension, at the absurdity of asking an outsider to do an Impriman's job.

No question-he was out of his element here. But then, their search for his friend had only just begun.

Again resisting a return comment, Riker picked up his mug and drained it. This time, expecting the maelstrom, he was able to tolerate it a little better.

In fact, he slid out of his seat before his partner did, albeit on legs that were not quite steady. "After you," he said, gesturing to the group in the back.

She glanced at him-perhaps with a touch more respect, it was hard to tell-and led the way. Riker followed.

About halfway to their destination, she slowed down, allowing him to catch up. He gathered that this was a better time for an explanation, away from the bartender as well as the barflies. Away, also, from the greatest concentration of tables.

"So?" he said.

Lyneea spoke in a low voice so that only he could hear-and even then, only barely. "The bartender has never seen us in here before, and he knows we're asking questions that could get someone in trouble. So he has opted not to take sole responsibility for giving us the answers; he wants to run us past his board of review." And by looking straight ahead, she showed Riker what const.i.tuted the board of review: the knot of patrons in the back of the room.

As before, their voices rose, cutting through the overall din, and subsided after a moment or two. Riker could tell now that they were gathered around something, but he couldn't tell what.

As he and Lyneea approached, he got a better idea.

There was a pit in the back of the tavern, cut somewhat haphazardly into the floor. Inside it, leaping and snarling, was a black and sinewy isak.

Unlike the big ones Riker had seen used as watchdogs and zoo exhibits, this isak was barely an adult. But still, it must have stood a good three feet high at its powerful shoulder, and it sported a collection of teeth already too prodigious to fit easily into its cruel, blunted snout.