The Price of the Stars: Book One of Mageworlds by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald Page A
Authors: Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald
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and trousers, and feeling even more like a target in spite of the blaster. Oh, well … here we go .
The front room of the Painted Lily had a dance floor, a bar, and too many little round tables, all competing for the available space. A small band—brass, woodwind, keyboard, and electronic drums—played a tune that had first been hot the year she’d left Galcen for good.
She hooked her left thumb into her belt, and let her right hand hang casually just below the grip of the holstered blaster. Maybe she had only used the damned thing once in her life, but nobody here knew that. She lifted her chin a little, and gave the room a slow, tight-lipped scan. One or two of the Lily’s patrons had looked up, half-curious, as she and the Professor entered; when her glance hit them, they look hastily away.
It’s got to be the eye patch , she thought. At her left hand, the Professor gave a faint chuckle; Beka wondered if that was what he’d meant by “admirably sinister.”
The Professor, who carried no visible weapons, wasn’t making anybody nervous—but his waistcoat of black moire spidersilk, and his neckcloth and ruffles of white lace, earned him the personal attention of the Painted Lily’s manager.
“And what would the gentlesir’s pleasure be tonight?”
The Professor smiled. “Just a quiet hand or two of cards—ronnen, tammani, whatever’s going on.”
“You’ll want Morven, in that case,” said the manager, with an answering smile. “Double tammani’s the game tonight.”
“Excellent,” said the Professor. “Lead on, good sir. Come, Tarnekep.”
Beka followed the manager and the Professor across the Lily’s crowded floor, dodging waiters, dancers, and little tables. A narrow hallway lit by amber glow-globes in wrought-metal brackets led to the back room where Morven the gambler ran his games. The manager pressed his thumb on an ID plate set into the wall, and bowed the Professor in as the door slid open.
Beka entered unheralded at the Professor’s right shoulder. As the door slid shut, she paused, taking in the harsh yellow light that replaced the outside’s cozy dimness, the gaudy-colored tammani cards falling onto the green baize tablecloth, the gamblers too intent on their game to look up at the latest arrival—and Ignaceu LeSoit.
Oh, damn, we’ve had it, Beka thought in despair. Her old shipmate leaned against the far wall, looking like nothing so much as an out-of-work spacer too broke to play—except for the heavy government-surplus blaster, twin to her own. Which it damn well ought to be, since we picked them up in the same curio shop at Suivi Point when I was the new kid on the Sidh and Ignac’ was showing me the town.
She dropped her hand to the blaster grip and braced herself for defiance, reminding herself that it wasn’t in her blood, either side, to go down without a fight. But to her amazement no recognition showed in LeSoit’s eyes—only a quick, appraising glance that took in her appearance and categorized her all at the same time.
He nodded to her once, as one professional to another. She nodded once in return before moving to lean against the opposite wall with a casual air only just now borrowed from its original owner. You always did say I learned fast, Ignac’. Let’s hope it’s true .
The Professor slid into the seat to the right of the grey-eyed man shuffling the cards. “Deal me in, Morven.”
The gambler looked up. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, and began dealing out a new round.
“As well you should have been,” said the Professor, watching the cards falling facedown onto the green cloth. He gathered up his hand and continued. “I would have stopped by to collect earlier, but I had some business out of town. Now—would you be so good as to pass me four of the ten-thousand-credit chips, two of the one-thousands, and the rest in tens and hundreds mixed?”
Morven hesitated. “I don’t have that kind of money right in front of me. When I
The front room of the Painted Lily had a dance floor, a bar, and too many little round tables, all competing for the available space. A small band—brass, woodwind, keyboard, and electronic drums—played a tune that had first been hot the year she’d left Galcen for good.
She hooked her left thumb into her belt, and let her right hand hang casually just below the grip of the holstered blaster. Maybe she had only used the damned thing once in her life, but nobody here knew that. She lifted her chin a little, and gave the room a slow, tight-lipped scan. One or two of the Lily’s patrons had looked up, half-curious, as she and the Professor entered; when her glance hit them, they look hastily away.
It’s got to be the eye patch , she thought. At her left hand, the Professor gave a faint chuckle; Beka wondered if that was what he’d meant by “admirably sinister.”
The Professor, who carried no visible weapons, wasn’t making anybody nervous—but his waistcoat of black moire spidersilk, and his neckcloth and ruffles of white lace, earned him the personal attention of the Painted Lily’s manager.
“And what would the gentlesir’s pleasure be tonight?”
The Professor smiled. “Just a quiet hand or two of cards—ronnen, tammani, whatever’s going on.”
“You’ll want Morven, in that case,” said the manager, with an answering smile. “Double tammani’s the game tonight.”
“Excellent,” said the Professor. “Lead on, good sir. Come, Tarnekep.”
Beka followed the manager and the Professor across the Lily’s crowded floor, dodging waiters, dancers, and little tables. A narrow hallway lit by amber glow-globes in wrought-metal brackets led to the back room where Morven the gambler ran his games. The manager pressed his thumb on an ID plate set into the wall, and bowed the Professor in as the door slid open.
Beka entered unheralded at the Professor’s right shoulder. As the door slid shut, she paused, taking in the harsh yellow light that replaced the outside’s cozy dimness, the gaudy-colored tammani cards falling onto the green baize tablecloth, the gamblers too intent on their game to look up at the latest arrival—and Ignaceu LeSoit.
Oh, damn, we’ve had it, Beka thought in despair. Her old shipmate leaned against the far wall, looking like nothing so much as an out-of-work spacer too broke to play—except for the heavy government-surplus blaster, twin to her own. Which it damn well ought to be, since we picked them up in the same curio shop at Suivi Point when I was the new kid on the Sidh and Ignac’ was showing me the town.
She dropped her hand to the blaster grip and braced herself for defiance, reminding herself that it wasn’t in her blood, either side, to go down without a fight. But to her amazement no recognition showed in LeSoit’s eyes—only a quick, appraising glance that took in her appearance and categorized her all at the same time.
He nodded to her once, as one professional to another. She nodded once in return before moving to lean against the opposite wall with a casual air only just now borrowed from its original owner. You always did say I learned fast, Ignac’. Let’s hope it’s true .
The Professor slid into the seat to the right of the grey-eyed man shuffling the cards. “Deal me in, Morven.”
The gambler looked up. “I’ve been expecting you,” he said, and began dealing out a new round.
“As well you should have been,” said the Professor, watching the cards falling facedown onto the green cloth. He gathered up his hand and continued. “I would have stopped by to collect earlier, but I had some business out of town. Now—would you be so good as to pass me four of the ten-thousand-credit chips, two of the one-thousands, and the rest in tens and hundreds mixed?”
Morven hesitated. “I don’t have that kind of money right in front of me. When I
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