I Dare by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A

held out. Clean-silk. It came to him, then, that his face might not be . . . perfectly . . . clean. He plucked the cloth up and used it thoroughly, then dropped it, too, into the shadows.

    "Is that Nova's ring?"

    He looked up at the big pilot, then turned and plucked the thing off the table. Two perfect emeralds. Fools. And, yet . . .

    "Mr. McFarland, I fear we're in a scrape." He held up the counterfeit. "This is not Korval's Ring, though those—" he swept his hand at the dead without looking at them—"claimed that it was. They also claimed that all of my kin are—are dead." His voice was not doing so well, after all. He swallowed and forced himself to go on.

    "They named names, Mr. McFarland. And—we are neither of us children. Or fools. We both know that a man who tells one lie does not necessarily tell two."

    Cheever's face in the dim light might have been hewn from wood.

    Pat Rin inclined his head. "Just so. Balance is owing." He slid the bogus Ring onto his left hand—onto the second finger of his left hand—and held it up to catch the sullen light.

    There was a brief silence before Cheever nodded his big head. "Gotcha. Now, let's get outta here before their buddies wonder what all the noise was about."

    At the door to the alleyway, Cheever held up his hand. Pat Rin obediently slipped into the shadows at the edge of the doorway, gun ready, as the big Terran moved silently out into the dark.

    Shivering in his thin silk shirt, Pat Rin counted to twelve, to twenty-four—to thirty-six, and the alley gave up neither sound nor light nor Cheever McFarland. Forty-eight, and Pat Rin began to consider the likelihood of alternate exits and how they might be guarded. Fifty-seven—and gravel scraped in the alleyway, as if purposefully scuffed beneath the heel of a boot.

    A heartbeat later, Cheever McFarland himself materialized, showing empty palms.

    "We're clear, sir. The guards are accounted for."

    Soundlessly and quickly. Pat Rin slipped his gun away. "Your work?"

    Cheever grinned and lowered his hand. "I ain't that good." He jerked his head to the right. "Your girlfriend did us a favor."

    Girlfriend? There was the very slightest of motions in the shadows at the right. Pat Rin turned, and Natesa the Assassin allowed him to see her, bowing profoundly in her dull black leathers.

    Behind her Pat Rin caught glimpse of a face, a body in the weeds—the man who had accosted him at the casino . . .

    "Master. I hear there was a disagreement inside. Perhaps we may assist you."

    She straightened, showing him a face expertly darkened, in which her eyes shone like ebony waters.

    "I understand that you have already assisted me," he replied, and bowed in acknowledgment of the debt. "Have you taken any harm from it?"

    Amusement, rich and subtle, was conveyed in the curve of one leather-clad arm. "No harm in the least. They were unwatchful and arrogant."

    He moved a hand, describing the building behind him. "There are two dead persons in the room at the end of that hallway. It would be best if they were not found."

    "Housekeeping will deal with it," she said calmly, and bowed once more. "Again, I offer transport and whatever you might require." She straightened, eyes gleaming. "Master, there was no need for you to be in that room at all."

    "There was every need," Pat Rin corrected, and raised his hand. What light there was skidded off the bright enamel work, and Korval's ancient sigil flared like a star in the alley. The assassin drew a breath, pulled the most obvious weapon from its holster and offered it to him across her two palms.

    "Service, Korval. I would stand at your back."

    Pat Rin closed his eyes. Cantra's own words, from the very Diaries of Korval, burned bright against the inside of his eyelids: In an ally, considerations of house, clan, planet, race are insignificant beside two prime questions, which are: 1. Can he shoot? 2. Will he aim at your enemy?

    Pat Rin opened his eyes and bowed,