I Dare by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page B

acknowledging his receipt of her oath.

    "Service accepted," he said, and turned to his pilot. "Mr. McFarland, we are enroute."

    The big man nodded and touched the butt of the gun thrust through his belt. "Yessir. I see that we are."

Day 287
Standard Year 1392
Departing Teriste

    THERE WAS A Juntavas safe-house somewhere on Teriste; Natesa had wished to take him there. Which offer he of course refused, insisting that they—or at least he—return to Fortune's Reward .

    "I will not leave my ship untended when there are enemies to hand," he said, reasonably. At least, he thought he was speaking reasonably, survival dictating that one ought to speak reasonably—in fact, with all courtesy—to a Juntavas assassin.

    She considered him for a moment in silence, black eyes unreadable in her darkened face. She bowed then, honor to the delm, and Pat Rin felt a frisson run his spine, which she certainly saw—and it would not do to show weakness before such a one, when he must display only strength and absolute certainty—when he must be ruthless in the pursuit of his Balance . . .

    "After all," Natesa murmured, "Korval is ships." She looked to Cheever, who nodded.

    And so they three had returned to Fortune's Reward , though in an order dictated by Cheever McFarland, who took to himself the task of ascertaining that enemies had neither subverted the ship-codes nor awaited them within the shadows of neighboring vessels. When the all-clear came, Pat Rin went forward, Natesa slightly behind and to his left, and thus they entered his ship.

    Cheever was already at the board, chatting with the tower as if the entire universe had not been altered in its course over the last hour—but, of course, for Cheever, the universe maintained. The two of them had been beset by cut-throats, whom they had dispatched with speed and efficiency. They had thereby gained a rather . . . irregular . . . ally, but Cheever seemed to hold the Juntavas in neither awe nor loathing, regarding them simply as another fact of life. And life went on.

    So it did.

    Standing in the center of the piloting chamber, Pat Rin took a careful breath, and turned toward the waiting assassin. His oathsworn.

    "I was unfortunately naive prior to raising this port," he said, speaking in the mode between equals. "I seek now to correct an error."

    She inclined her head. "Master, I am at your service."

    "Then you will tell me if it is possible—or when it will be possible—to alter the name, ID, and port of origin for this vessel."

    She pursed her lips, considering; indicated the busy pilot with a subtle move of her head. "Pilot McFarland already files an amended flight. He is wise in this, I think. We have this evening discommoded a player of whom I am insufficiently knowledgeable. Ignorance being an active threat to survival, it is wisdom to retire to a less volatile location.

    "So. If you will allow me, there is a station within this sector where the modifications you mention may be made, easily and professionally."

    "And the price?" he asked, which was only prudent, when buying from the Juntavas.

    Natesa's dark eyes gleamed with amusement. "I have jurisdiction there. The legitimate expenses of a Judge on assignment are charged on account."

    "I see." He had taken her service, he reminded himself—necessity. And if, through her, he had also taken service from the Juntavas entire?

    Necessity.

    He took a breath, deep and calming, and looked down at his hands. Bright and bogus on the second finger of his left hand—the finger on which Korval-pernard'i had worn the true Ring, and, gods willing, wore it still—his newest adornment quite cast his usual jewels into the shade, as if they were mere paste, instead of . . .

    Instead of cash. Pat Rin shook himself, recalling that his earnings on the evening were slight, and all accounts closed to him. He looked up, to find Natesa watching him closely.

    "Something else," he said, showing her his right hand,