Conventions of War (23 page)

“Start at the top and work your way down,” Sula advised. “Sooner or later you'll reach equilibrium.”

The smile still played about his lips. “You're quite the provocateur, aren't you?” he said.

“It's fifty for primary ID. Two hundred for the special pass to the High City.”

He looked up at her in surprise. “
Two
hundred?”

“Most people won't need it. But the ones who'll need it will really need it.”

His lips gave a sardonic twist. “Who would want to go to the High City now?”

“People who want to work for Naxids. Or steal from Naxids. Or kill Naxids.” She smiled. “Actually, that last category gets the cards free.”

He turned his head to hide a grin. “You're a pistol, aren't you?”

Sula said nothing. Casimir stood for a moment in thought, then suddenly threw himself into his chair in a whoof of deflating cushions and surprised hydraulics, then he put his feet on the desk, one gleaming boot crossed over the other.

“Can I see you again?” he said.

“To do what? Talk business? We can talk business
now
.”

“Business, certainly,” he said with an nod. “But I was thinking we could mainly entertain ourselves.”

“Do you still think I'm a provocateur?”

He grinned and shook his head. “The police under the Naxids don't have to bother with evidence anymore. Provocateurs are looking for work like everyone else.”

“Yes,” Sula said.

He blinked. “Yes what?”

“Yes. You can see me.”

His grin broadened. He had even teeth, brilliantly white. Sula thought his dentist was to be congratulated.

“I'll give you my comm code. Set your display to receive.”

They activated their sleeve displays, and Sula broadcast her electronic address. It was one she'd created strictly for this meeting, along with another of what were proving to be a dizzying series of false identities.

“See you then.” She walked toward the door, then stopped. “By the way,” she said. “I'm also in the delivery business. If you need something moved from one place to another, let me know.” She permitted herself a smile. “We have very good documents,” she said. “We can move things wherever you need them.”

She left then, before glee got the better of her.

Outside, in the facing light, she spotted Macnamara loitering across the street and raised a hand to scratch her neck, the signal that all had gone well.

Even so, she used evasion procedures to make certain she wasn't followed home.

Casimir called after midnight. Sula groped her way from her bed to where she'd hung her blouse and told the sleeve to answer.

The chameleon fabric showed him with a slapdash grin pasted to his face. There was blaring music in the background and the sound of laughter.

“Hey Gredel!” he said. “Come have some fun!”

Sula swiped sleep from her eyes. “I'm asleep. Call me tomorrow.”

“Wake up! It's still early!”

“I work for a living! Call me tomorrow!”

As she told the sleeve to end her transmission and made her way back to the bed, she reflected that she'd done a good job setting the hook.

S
ula had some morning deliveries on the High City and thought she might as well collect some club gossip from PJ while she was on the acropolis. Having some idea of his indolent habits, she waited till the sun was high in Zanshaa's viridian sky before she called him on a public terminal. Since she trusted his intentions but not his intelligence, she'd made certain that he had no way to contact her, nothing he could betray to the enemy—he would have to wait for
her
to initiate contact.

“Yes?” he mumbled as he answered. His eyes were blurry, his thinning hair awry—either she'd awakened him or he was just out of bed.

“Hi, PJ!” she called brightly. “How's the lad this morning?”

Recognizing her voice, his eyes came into sudden bright focus as he stared at her image on the comm display. “Oh!” he said. “Oh! Things are, ah, excellent. Just excellent.”

If he'd said
first-rate
instead of
excellent,
that would have meant the Naxids had nabbed him and she should ignore everything he said, particularly any attempt to set up a meeting.

“I say,” PJ said, “Lady—I mean, miss—there's someone I need you to meet. Right away.”

“Half an hour from now?”

“Yes! Yes!” He made a strange, thoughtful face, pulling at his jaw. “If you'll come by the palace, we'll go to his…place of business.”

“Be cautious about, ah…”
About my being the secret government.

“Of course.” He gave a wink. “No problem there. He doesn't even know we're coming.”

Oh dear, Sula thought as she broke the connection. PJ had contracted an enthusiasm.

She hoped he wasn't planning on blowing anything up without her advice.

Team 491 delivered its last cargo of cigars and vacuum-packed coffee beans, collected some inconsequential information from club workers, then drove to the Ngeni Palace, where PJ had already opened the service drive gate. He waited before the massive root systems of the ancient banyan tree that overshadowed his cottage, standing with his usual languid ease in the shade while he smoked a cigarette.

“Miss Ardelion! Mr. Starling!” He greeted Spence and Macnamara with great energy, then turned to Sula. “Lady, ah, Miss Lucy.”

“What's up?” Sula asked.

He brightened. “Wait till you see what Sidney's got in his shop! You'll jump for joy!”

He stubbed out his cigarette, led them back down the drive, coding shut the gate behind them, then on a roughly diagonal course across the High City. PJ was practically skipping in his excitement. The streets were half empty, and vehicles full of military constables were parked at some of the intersections. As their dark Naxid eyes swept over her, Sula looked away, exceptionally conscious of the pistol tucked into her waistband under her jacket. Then she thought she shouldn't have looked away, she was acting suspiciously. But then she thought no, probably
no one
looks at them. Everyone was suspicious equally.

She walked past the Naxids and they made no move to stop her.

The sound of the
aejai
seemed to echo from half the shops in the city. There wasn't a hint of a breeze to cool the burning day, and they were all glossy with sweat by the time they arrived at their destination, a narrow shop in a pedestrian lane lined with other specialty shops, offering antiques or quality meats, tailored uniforms or Daimong delicacies, or…

SIDNEY'S SUPERIOR FIREARMS
,
said the sign. And across the door was a banner:
CLOSED BY ORDER OF LORD UMMIR, MINISTER OF POLICE
.

Sula felt an electric hum in her nerves. Brilliant, she thought.

She would try to remember to give PJ something very nice on his birthday.

“I found out at the club that Sidney was closing,” PJ said as he took them down an alley behind the building. “I stopped by yesterday to chat with Sidney and reconnoiter, and since then I've been waiting for you.”

PJ stopped by a door of greenish metal and banged on it. Sula stood for a moment in the hot silence and gazed at the fragrant corpse of a kanamid, probably killed by a cat, that lay between two gray resin waste bins with its six limbs pointing crookedly to the sky.

The metal door rolled open with a subdued electric hum. She shaded her sun-dazzled eyes to see the man standing in shadow on the far side of the door: he was white-haired and thin and had a goatee with a waxed, curled mustache, much like those worn by petty officers of the Fleet. Sula tasted a smoky scent that drifted from the open door.

“My lord,” the man said. His voice was grainy. “These are your friends?”

“Yes, Mr. Sidney.” PJ's tone was a little smug. “This is Miss Lucy, Miss Ardelion, and Mr. Starling.”

The man's eyes, pupils broad as the barrels of a shotgun, scanned Sula and her companions. “Come in then,” he said, and stood back.

The back of the shop was a marvelously compact workroom, computer-guided lathes, tools gleaming in their racks, magnifiers and manipulators on shelves, racks of exotic, cured woods and ivories, gun barrels gleaming on shelves. Sula's heart warmed to the meticulous orderliness of it all.

The heavy scent of hashish, however, made her less certain, as did the curl of smoke from a gleaming metal pipe that Sidney picked up from one of the workbenches as he passed.

“Let me take you up front,” he said. They passed through a door into the shop's narrow front. Weapons gleamed softly in the racks on the walls, in polished wood cabinets. Sidney stopped before a coal-black metal carrying case that held a long-barreled hunting weapon. He picked it up, held it in the air. The barrel was a damascened concoction of contrasting metals beautifully wrought together, silver and black chasing each other down its length like serpents. The stock was a deep red wood polished and inlaid with a floral pattern in ebony. There was a magnifying scope with a deep amber display that would prove easy on the eye at night, and iron sights for the classically inclined.

“I built this for Lord Richard Li,” he said, speaking around the pipe clenched between his teeth.

Sula gave a start at the name. Lord Richard had been her captain, killed bringing his
Dauntless
into action at Magaria. He had been engaged to Terza Chen, the woman—no, the
conniving bitch
—who had married Martinez.

She fought her way back through the curtain of memory that had draped across her mind. “The Naxids have shut you down?” she asked.

Not the brightest thing she could have said, admittedly, but at least she'd gotten the words out.

“I'm surprised it's taken them this long,” Sidney said. “I suppose they've had other things to think about, being a new government. I wouldn't know.” He replaced the rifle in its case and took a meditative sip on his pipe. “I could apply to reopen the business if I agreed to sell exclusively to Naxids, but I don't want to think about those bastards using one of my guns to kill hostages, and all the weapons configured for other species are still unsellable no matter what I do.”

He locked the rifle case and turned around. His eyes were hard. “The thing is, I can't sell these weapons. But there's nothing in the new regulations about my
giving
them away.”

Sula stared at Sidney in stunned surprise. A self-conscious look crossed his face, and he took his pipe from his mouth. “I've been remiss,” he said. “Would any of you care for a smoke?”

“Umm,” PJ began, on the verge of accepting, but Sula answered for them all.

“Not right now, thanks,” she said. She looked at Sidney. “You're going to
give
us all these guns?”

He gave her a hard look. “If you'll make
good use
of them.”

Sula's mouth went dry. “That's …very generous.”

Sidney shrugged. “They're worthless now. I can't return them to the manufacturers—the makers have been forbidden to do business too. I'll have to break my lease; I can't afford to keep this place and I can't afford to store the weapons. I could sit here waiting for the government to confiscate them, but why?” He shrugged again. “I'd rather see them put to use.” He began to say something, then shook his head and clamped the pipe between his teeth again. “Not that I want to know what you're going to use them for, of course.” He turned again and laid a hand on the metal case beside him on the counter. “There are only a few pieces I can't let go—the true custom work. If any of them were found after a…misadventure, the trail would lead straight to me.”

He stepped back a pace and swept a hand along the glass of the counter, indicating a row of gleaming pistols, each adapted to the Lai-own hand. “All sporting weapons, of course,” he said. “Of limited use for military purposes. But in the right hands…”

He sipped on his pipe, and exhaled a dense cloud of smoke. Sula made the mistake of inhaling, and burst out coughing.

“Sorry,” Sidney said politely.

After the coughing ceased, Sula made an effort to collect her thoughts from the mist that swirled through her head. She knew she was going to need fresh air very soon.

“Mr. Sidney,” she managed, “do I understand that you
design guns
?”

“That's right,” Sidney said. He puffed another cloud of smoke, and Sula took a step back.

“Perhaps you can help me,” she said, and had to cough again. Tears dazzled her eyes as she recovered her voice. “I've been looking for a particular kind of firearm.”

Interest glittered in Sidney's eyes. “Yes?”

“Not at all the kind of work you usually do. The opposite, in fact. Something that could be put together without great expense out of components that could be acquired very easily.”

Sidney gave a snort of amusement, then affected to consider the problem. “Computer-operated lathes can do some amazing things, given the right programming.”

“Let's just say that my own lathe-programming skills are limited.”

Sidney smiled. “I seem to have a lot of free time at present. Let me put my mind to it, then, Miss…Lucy, was it?”

“Lucy. Yes.”

“Well,” Sidney said. “If you'll give me a call in a few days, perhaps I'll have something for you.”

 

“F
antastic!” Spence said as they took the first of several truckloads of firearms from Sidney's place, on their way to store them in PJ's basement. “I can't believe he's giving us all this stuff! And the ammunition too!”

“He's quite brave, isn't he?” PJ asked. His smile was sillier than usual after an hour of hauling crates through Sidney's smoke cloud.

“He's not brave,” Sula said. “He's suicidal.”

The silly smile faded from PJ's face. “My lady?” he said. “I mean, my Lucy. I mean—” His mouth opened fishlike for words but failed to find any.

“Do you think the manufacturers haven't kept a record of the serial numbers of all these weapons?” Sula asked. “Not to mention the ballistics tests they're required to do before the weapons even leave the factory? The first time we use one of these, they'll track it to Sidney and tear his ribs out trying to find out who he gave them to. And that would lead to
you,
PJ.”

PJ turned pale. “Oh,” he said.

“Maybe Sidney hopes he'll take a few Naxids with him when he goes. Maybe he doesn't care about himself
or
about you. Or maybe he thinks he'll be able to hide. But until we know what he means to do, we're going to store these guns in your basement and never use them, not unless we know Sidney is safe.” She contemplated the road and the overcareful driving undertaken by Macnamara, who was no less affected by hashish fumes than anyone else.

“Besides,” Sula said, “I've got other plans for our Mr. Sidney, and they'd be spoiled by his committing suicide.”

 

B
y the end of the day, she'd talked Sidney into reopening his gun shop exclusive to a Naxid clientele. “Only the elite can afford your guns anyway,” she told him. The tax of one hundred zeniths on every firearm sale—half a year's wages for the ordinary person—raised them entirely out of the range of the ordinary consumer. “When you deliver the guns to their new owners, you'll get through their security.”

Sidney gave a grim smile. “You see me as an assassin?” he asked.

“No,” Sula said. “We have
other
people for that.”
She hoped.
“Instead I need you to take careful notes on access, on what guards are stationed where. On any routines that might be useful.”

“I can do that,” Sidney said. “How do I contact you?”

Sula hesitated. She had declined to give PJ a way of communicating with her on the grounds that he might accidentally give himself—or her—away. For her to give Sidney such a means while PJ was present might offend PJ. And while she didn't much care if PJ's feelings were hurt, she didn't want him made despondent or careless.

“We'll have to let you know about that later,” she said. “In the meantime, we'll have to contact you.”

For the present, she gave him the simple communications code she'd given PJ, to use the phrase “first-rate” if he were ever compromised by the Naxids. He nodded with what appeared to be sage comprehension, though considering how much hashish he'd smoked over the course of the day, Sula wondered that he could stand upright, let alone understand instructions.

She supposed she'd find out.

Now, returning to the communal apartment, she checked Gredel's comm unit and discovered that Casimir had logged three calls asking her out for the night. She took a long, delicious bath in lilac-scented water while considering an answer, then turned off the camera that would transmit her image before she picked up the hand comm to call him back.