Laldasa (13 page)

The streets were already filling with the sorts of people who frequented the Nahar. Miners, dock workers, and bargemen—even darumen, down from their wooded slopes. They, too, outfitted themselves in Kasi, buying whatever it was darumen bought to fell their trees. Ana decided she'd have to do some research in that area if she was going to make her cover story work.

She knew a little of the commercially used trees on Avasa—a bit about the use of their wood. Manzan trees were the most populous varieties in the temperate zones. Technically they were tall enough for board lumber, but their spindle trunks were dense and knotted and hard enough to dull a Nandin saw. Hakwood were short, thick, gnarled things unsuitable for the lumber trade, but used much for craft work and sculpture. Only the rangy varieties of conifers that gave the Kedar region its name were harvested in any amount. The Environmental Covenants assured that hey were used carefully and just as carefully replanted.

Ana stared at the darumen as they wended their way through the miners and beggars and waremongers. They were different—from their rugged clothing to the way they carried themselves. There was an arrogant tilt to the head, a length of stride that demanded more ground than the poor Nahar streets had to give, a sensual quality that was comfortingly earthy, as if they had grown up out of the roots of their trees. They didn't fit in here any more than she did. Oddly, they reminded her of Jaya Sarojin—or rather, she corrected herself, the Jaya Sarojin of her Raratok channara.

She stopped watching the darumen, realizing suddenly that they were staring back at the cherry-haired girl in the out-of-place coach. Her fingers drummed on the padded arm of her seat. Kenadas drove slowly through the jostle and the coach seemed to creep.

Ana caught her fingers in mid-beat with a stifled sigh of frustration. She closed her eyes and concentrated her senses outside the coach, listening to the rhythm of foreign words falling from a score of foreign tongues, the distant clip-clip of the horse's hooves, and an occasional bell clap from the airtruck behind them, which could only proceed as fast as her coach would allow.

By the time they reached the Korba Industries warehouse, Ana was apparently calm, serene, and quiet of heart. Only she could tell how much nervous energy vibrated in her breast.

Kena drew the coach up in a sandy lot and held her door while she alighted.

“Rani Sadira,” he said most respectfully, “are you certain you must come here?”

“Yes, Kena, I'm certain.” Her eyes scanned the park with unintentional wariness. There were people who would call the Kedar wild or hostile, but the wildest reaches of the Highlands had nothing on this place—hemmed in with walls, teeming with people who looked at each other as if they were cataloguing the contents of purses and pockets.

She caught Kenadas following her gaze with worried eyes and grinned at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Remind me to tell you about the time I fought a red chandi cat singlehandedly.”

After a moment of uncertainty, Kenadas grinned in return. “He must have made a fine coat, Rani.”

“'Ana,'” she said, and crossed the park toward the blocky gray building with a consciously breezy stride.

The small sales room of the Korba warehouse was nearly empty, but Ana's presence caused a stir among the few customers. The young man behind the gray plastic counter looked her over in a way that was at once flattery and insult, and eagerly offered his service. Unfortunately, he knew nothing about her order and had to call the floor manager.

“I was here yesterday,” Ana told him. “I'm sure you remember me.”

The man nodded, eyeing the silver and flame saroj imprinted between her brows. “Ay, we don' get much like you down in Na'arzun, Rani. Never done business with a ‘ooman, m'self.”

Ana ignored the remark. “Are the bits in?”

“Wayl, some is an' some in't. See, it's those big ‘uns—the Number Twenties. Had a run on ‘em about two week ago. Fact'ry han't sent me more'n enough to fix my reg'lars. An' you i'nt a reg'lar.” His eyes strayed back to the saroj, then slid down to assess what he could see of her over the counter.

She met his gaze, pulling his eyes back up to her face. “I realize that, but you said they'd be in today.”

“Maybe they will. Check back.”

The younger clerk had been trying to get his boss's attention. “Dabu-sama, we have some Number Twenties ... on the dock.”

“Ay, them's for the Mitra-Karka Combine. Ordered last week. They're reg'lars.”

“I could go somewhere else, I suppose,” Ana said.

“Could.”

No, she couldn't. Korba was one of the few independent warehouses in Kasi that didn't fly the KNC banner from its rusty ridge-pole. More to the point, it was the only one her father had deemed safe. If she went to one of the myriad well-stocked Kasi-Nawahr houses, they'd be bound to ask for id and she had none. The chain around her neck held only charms. There was no where else to go, and she suspected Dabu-sama knew it.

“I'll check back later,” she said.

Out on the sidewalk, she stood for a moment, trying to keep her temper from boiling over.

“Rani?”

Ana glanced up to find the two-coach right in front of her, a concerned Kenadas frowning down at her from the box. She grinned ruefully. “No luck. I've got to come back later. He says they don't have the whole order.”

“Home then?” Kena asked hopefully.

She nodded.

Kena was off his box in a second, relief all over his craggy face. He helped her into the coach and hopped back up, clucking the team into a fast walk. It was stop and go again, even though Kenadas took a route he thought would be less populated with pedestrians. Ana gazed moodily out the window, watching the traffic on the walkways.

As they neared Kasi Spaceport, she began to see people who reminded her of herself two days ago—carrying sofpaks and walking with their feet not quite touching the ground. Their heads swiveled every which way as they tried to take in their new surroundings. Their clothes also marked them as being from out of town or outprovince or off-continent or off-world.

Ana smiled, wondering if she'd really looked that awestruck at the sight of the lush greenery and pale, glistening, buildings soaring like giant hand-carved ornaments from ground to cloud.

The smile froze on her face at the sight of a lone, stationary figure scanning the passersby with seeming disinterest. This time, there was no mistaking him. This time, he looked like a thief. He turned and began to move down the street.

Frantically, she threw open her window and yelled for Kenadas to stop. She didn't wait for him to comply, but leapt from the moving coach. Glancing up into Kena's startled face, she gestured at the curb. “Pull over and wait for me!”

Her eyes caught the street banners as she sailed past them in pursuit of the thief—Kaveri Cross at Dockrow.

He was moving at a leisurely pace and she drew up to keep him just ahead of her. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly, giving shop windows along the warrow the most casual of glances.

Damn! she thought. He's probably looking for a place to spend my money!

He paused on a street corner at a news stand, crossed his arms over his chest and appeared absorbed in the events on one of the kiosk's several viewscreens. Ana meanwhile, pretended interest in the contents of a leather shop, keeping one eye on the thief.

She was close to screaming in frustration when the viewscreen suddenly lost the man's attention. His head swiveled to follow something out of Ana's line of sight. After a moment of intense study, he glanced back over his shoulder and made a subtle gesture to someone. Then he moved off down the side street. Ana glanced at the street banner and followed.

Now the pace became more purposeful. Anala tried to look ahead to see who the thief was tailing, but without success. There were too many people on the walks. What she did see—or thought she saw—was a second man across the street echoing both the thief's pace and the direction of his gaze. When he turned right, down a narrow side street, his shadow crossed the street and followed.

Trying to look purposeless, Ana padded after, her eyes shifting from the thief to the walk ahead of him. She saw him then—the target of all this skulk and scurry. The young man carried a sofpak and wore clothing that, while obviously of fine quality, set him apart merely by its simplicity. He had skin of deep gold and hair that was nearly the same color—exotic by Mehtaran standards. He appeared to be in his early twenties and was extremely attractive.

The thieves shadowed his every move, matching his pace, turning away when he scanned the street. When he stopped to buy a bag of roasted nuts and a tea ice, they did the same at a booth across the street.

Before he left the booth, the young man engaged the monger in conversation. From the gestures involved, Anala guessed he was asking directions. When the monger shook his head, another man, who had been standing at one corner of the kiosk reading a herald, became involved, adding his own series of gestures to the conversation. Finally, the young man drew a card from his pack and showed it to the others. The monger shook his head again, but the second man nodded, obviously recognizing where the young man wanted to go. He gestured broadly one way, then another. The youth smiled briefly and nodded, then set off, munching his snack.

Ana glanced about, looking for the thieves. They had vanished. Shrugging away unease, she shadowed the young Avasan.

On a brick and tile back street with pleasant but poor whitewashed rows of tall houses, he slowed his pace and began glancing at the card he carried. He seemed confused. He stopped before an ancient rowhouse whose unkempt front garden was separated from the street by an ornate, vinestrangled pike fence. He glanced around uncertainly, as if in search of someone to consult, but the street was empty.

Ana felt the hair rise up on the back of her neck as the young man laid his hand on the gate latch. It lifted with a metallic shriek and he pushed the gate open on rollers that complained loudly of the abuse. Frowning, he entered the garden and mounted the steps to the front door. After a moment more of hesitation and a backward glance, he entered.

Ana knew a moment of dire indecision, an emotion that brought swift annoyance in its wake. She took a deep breath and started into the street, but the sound of running feet made her reverse course.

Two men dressed in dunnish clothing appeared from the mouth of a narrow alley on the opposite side of the way. They loped down the walk and through the gate of the old rowhouse, padding swiftly up the front steps and pausing only to open the door with great care. They slipped into the house, closing the door behind them.

Ana's thoughts tilted grimly; one of the two was the fellow who had given the young man directions in the warrow. This was obviously no spur-of-the-moment robbery they were contemplating. Clearly, it had been well-planned.

Ana saw only three paths before her: she could break in behind the thieves, risking her own life to the bargain; she could go to the Sarngin—also a risk; or she could wait until the thieves left and take their victim to the Saroj. She quickly ruled out the first two paths as untenable, and waited, tightly reining in her desire to act.

She had spent thirty or forty seconds in enforced meditation when the thieves reappeared—four of them, now—and scampered, laughing, down the front steps of the house. Her own attacker was among them, which meant that he had known exactly where his target would end up and had preceded him there.

Ana felt her arm gripped suddenly and tightly.

“Rani!” Kenadas was at her side, his face wearing the map of his recent and anxious journey. “Rani, what are you about? We must leave this place. Now,” he added for emphasis.

But Anala was distracted anew and signaled him just as emphatically to silence. A pair of Sarngin had come around the corner at the top of the street and would pass right by the thieves.

She growled in frustration, unconsciously scraping her marked palm with her fingernails. “I can't even tell them!”

“Tell them what, Rani?”

Ana watched as the Sarngin passed the thieves with a nod and continued down the street. At the open front gate of the rowhouse, the pair turned and entered without so much as pausing to discuss the move.

Ana gaped and Kena, eyes going from the Sarngin to the house to her face, murmured, “Rani Ana, whatever is wrong?”

Adrenaline racing, Ana came to a quick decision. “Stay here,” she told the coachman, and slipped out of the access and across the street. He obeyed for perhaps a second, then matched her stride, putting himself at her shoulder. She could not help but wonder if he was this disobedient to his mahesa.

There were still few people about—some children had come out to play further down the block and a couple strolled hand in hand across the intersection where the thieves had disappeared. Ana adopted a lazy gait and meandered idly up toward the rowhouse. She tried not to react when the Sarngin led their prize from the premises, his hands bound at the wrists with securweb. She feigned curiosity as they drew abreast of her.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning a puzzled gaze on the group.