collected?"
Parradan Smith nodded. He made a groping gesture toward his instrument case. Smith pulled it close for him. He pressed a key into Smith's hand.
"Open."
Smith worked the complicated locks and opened it, and caught his breath. Nested in shaped packing was a jeweled cup of exquisite workmanship, clearly very old.
"Heirloom. All he had to pay with. My lord wants it bad. You deliver--" Parradan Smith looked up into Smith's eyes. "And tell him. Pay well. Lord Kashban Beatbrass. Villa in Salesh. Find him."
A shadow shifted across the outside of the tent and moved away. Parradan Smith followed it with his eyes and smiled bitterly.
"He stopped listening," he said.
"Look, you aren't wounded that badly," said Smith, feeling he ought to say something encouraging. "I'm sure we can get you to Salesh."
Parradan Smith looked back at him.
"Turn me," he ordered.
"What?" said Smith, but he obeyed, lifting and half-turning the wounded man. He caught his breath; there was a red swelling on his back like an insect bite but immense, beginning to blister, and in its center a dark speck.
"See?" said Parradan Smith, breathing very hard. "Poisoned."
Smith said something profane. He drew his knife and scraped gently, and the black thing came out of the wound. He turned Parradan Smith on his back again and held up the object on his knife blade, squinting at it. It looked like the tip of a thorn, perhaps a quarter of an inch long.
"This is like those darts we took out of the glider," he said.
"In my back," said Parradan Smith. Smith groaned.
"Somebody in the party shot you," he said. "Maybe by accident?"
Parradan Smith looked impatient and drew a deep breath as though he was about to explain something too obvious to Smith; but he never drew another breath after that and lay staring at Smith with blank eyes.
Smith sighed. He closed and locked the case. Flowering Reed approached him as he came out of the tent, and he told him, "He's dead."
"He might have lived if you'd listened to me," said the Yendri angrily.
"I don't think so," said Smith, and walked away to put the case in a safe place.
A while later he approached Lord Ermenwyr, who was puffing out rifts of purple weedsmoke as he watched the keymen digging the grave pit.
"We need to talk, my lord," he said.
"My master needs to rest," said Balnshik, appearing beside him as from thin air.
"I need to talk to him more than he needs to rest," said Smith stubbornly. Lord Ermenwyr waved a placatory hand.
"Certainly we'll talk, and Nursie can stand by with a long knife in case things take an unpleasant turn," he said. "Though I think we've seen the last of this particular band of cutthroats."
"Let's hope so, my lord," said Smith, drawing him aside. Balnshik followed closely, tossing her hair back in an insolent kind of way. Her shirt had been torn in the fight, giving him a peep at breasts like pale melons, and it was with difficulty that he drew his attention back to her young master. "You fought very well, if I may say so."
"You may," said Lord Ermenwyr smugly. "But then, I've had lots of experience fighting for my life. Usually against doctors. Today was a welcome change."
"Your health seems to have improved."
"I'm no longer rusticating in that damned dust bowl, am I?" Lord Ermenwyr blew a smoke ring. "Bandits or no, the Greenlands does offer fresh air."
"What were you doing in Troon?" inquired Smith. Balnshik stretched extravagantly, causing one nipple to flash like a dark star through the rent in her shirt. Smith turned his face away and concentrated on Lord Ermenwyr, who replied, "Why, I was about my father's business. Representing his interests, if you must know, with Old Troon Mills and the other barley barons. Doing a damned good job, too, before the Lung Rot set in."
"Do you gamble, my lord?"
"Hell, no." Lord Ermenwyr scowled. "A pastime for morons, unless you've got an undetectable way of cheating. I don't need the money, and I certainly don't need the thrill
Parradan Smith nodded. He made a groping gesture toward his instrument case. Smith pulled it close for him. He pressed a key into Smith's hand.
"Open."
Smith worked the complicated locks and opened it, and caught his breath. Nested in shaped packing was a jeweled cup of exquisite workmanship, clearly very old.
"Heirloom. All he had to pay with. My lord wants it bad. You deliver--" Parradan Smith looked up into Smith's eyes. "And tell him. Pay well. Lord Kashban Beatbrass. Villa in Salesh. Find him."
A shadow shifted across the outside of the tent and moved away. Parradan Smith followed it with his eyes and smiled bitterly.
"He stopped listening," he said.
"Look, you aren't wounded that badly," said Smith, feeling he ought to say something encouraging. "I'm sure we can get you to Salesh."
Parradan Smith looked back at him.
"Turn me," he ordered.
"What?" said Smith, but he obeyed, lifting and half-turning the wounded man. He caught his breath; there was a red swelling on his back like an insect bite but immense, beginning to blister, and in its center a dark speck.
"See?" said Parradan Smith, breathing very hard. "Poisoned."
Smith said something profane. He drew his knife and scraped gently, and the black thing came out of the wound. He turned Parradan Smith on his back again and held up the object on his knife blade, squinting at it. It looked like the tip of a thorn, perhaps a quarter of an inch long.
"This is like those darts we took out of the glider," he said.
"In my back," said Parradan Smith. Smith groaned.
"Somebody in the party shot you," he said. "Maybe by accident?"
Parradan Smith looked impatient and drew a deep breath as though he was about to explain something too obvious to Smith; but he never drew another breath after that and lay staring at Smith with blank eyes.
Smith sighed. He closed and locked the case. Flowering Reed approached him as he came out of the tent, and he told him, "He's dead."
"He might have lived if you'd listened to me," said the Yendri angrily.
"I don't think so," said Smith, and walked away to put the case in a safe place.
A while later he approached Lord Ermenwyr, who was puffing out rifts of purple weedsmoke as he watched the keymen digging the grave pit.
"We need to talk, my lord," he said.
"My master needs to rest," said Balnshik, appearing beside him as from thin air.
"I need to talk to him more than he needs to rest," said Smith stubbornly. Lord Ermenwyr waved a placatory hand.
"Certainly we'll talk, and Nursie can stand by with a long knife in case things take an unpleasant turn," he said. "Though I think we've seen the last of this particular band of cutthroats."
"Let's hope so, my lord," said Smith, drawing him aside. Balnshik followed closely, tossing her hair back in an insolent kind of way. Her shirt had been torn in the fight, giving him a peep at breasts like pale melons, and it was with difficulty that he drew his attention back to her young master. "You fought very well, if I may say so."
"You may," said Lord Ermenwyr smugly. "But then, I've had lots of experience fighting for my life. Usually against doctors. Today was a welcome change."
"Your health seems to have improved."
"I'm no longer rusticating in that damned dust bowl, am I?" Lord Ermenwyr blew a smoke ring. "Bandits or no, the Greenlands does offer fresh air."
"What were you doing in Troon?" inquired Smith. Balnshik stretched extravagantly, causing one nipple to flash like a dark star through the rent in her shirt. Smith turned his face away and concentrated on Lord Ermenwyr, who replied, "Why, I was about my father's business. Representing his interests, if you must know, with Old Troon Mills and the other barley barons. Doing a damned good job, too, before the Lung Rot set in."
"Do you gamble, my lord?"
"Hell, no." Lord Ermenwyr scowled. "A pastime for morons, unless you've got an undetectable way of cheating. I don't need the money, and I certainly don't need the thrill
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