Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [16]
“That’s what I thought. He’ll be here later.”
Lyneea nodded. “Any idea how much later?”
The bartender seemed to pull back a little at that. Had she pushed too hard? Riker wondered.
“No idea,” said the man. With a nod of his head, he indicated the small crowd at the back of the tavern. “Why don’t you partake of the entertainment? It’ll help pass the time.”
And with that slow, small smile reemerging, the bartender glided over to take care of another pair of customers.
Riker peered at Lyneea from under his cowl. “Good? Bad?”
“Somewhere in between,” she told him. “We’re to face a test.”
“Oh? What kind of test?”
“You’ll see in a moment.” Lifting her mug, she quaffed the remainder of her drink, then looked expectantly at Riker. “Well?” she said, a little louder now. “Don’t you like korsch anymore?”
On the one hand, the comment was directed toward anyone who might have been listening—a likely reaction on Lyneea’s part to his lack of eagerness in consuming his drink. Human or not, a working-class Joe in Besidia would have been expected to have developed a taste for korsch—and in fairly large quantities. It came with the territory.
On the other hand, Lyneea’s comment was a gibe at his offworldliness and, by extension, at the absurdity of asking an outsider to do an Impriman’s job.
No question—he was out of his element here. But then, their search for his friend had only just begun.
Again resisting a return comment, Riker picked up his mug and drained it. This time, expecting the maelstrom, he was able to tolerate it a little better.
In fact, he slid out of his seat before his partner did, albeit on legs that were not quite steady. “After you,” he said, gesturing to the group in the back.
She glanced at him—perhaps with a touch more respect, it was hard to tell—and led the way. Riker followed.
About halfway to their destination, she slowed down, allowing him to catch up. He gathered that this was a better time for an explanation, away from the bartender as well as the barflies. Away, also, from the greatest concentration of tables.
“So?” he said.
Lyneea spoke in a low voice so that only he could hear—and even then, only barely. “The bartender has never seen us in here before, and he knows we’re asking questions that could get someone in trouble. So he has opted not to take sole responsibility for giving us the answers; he wants to run us past his board of review.” And by looking straight ahead, she showed Riker what constituted the board of review: the knot of patrons in the back of the room.
As before, their voices rose, cutting through the overall din, and subsided after a moment or two. Riker could tell now that they were gathered around something, but he couldn’t tell what.
As he and Lyneea approached, he got a better idea.
There was a pit in the back of the tavern, cut somewhat haphazardly into the floor. Inside it, leaping and snarling, was a black and sinewy isak.
Unlike the big ones Riker had seen used as watchdogs and zoo exhibits, this isak was barely an adult. But still, it must have stood a good three feet high at its powerful shoulder, and it sported a collection of teeth already too prodigious to fit easily into its cruel, blunted snout.
What’s more, the isak was spitting mad, its blood lust fanned to a frenzy, and for good reason. An Impriman had been lowered into the pit and was being passed around its perimeter, from one pair of hands to the next, his heels dangling just inches above the swiping paws of the enraged beast.
Will took Lyneea’s arm, and she looked up at him. “This,” he asked, “is what we’re supposed to take part in? This is our test?”
She nodded. “We’ll put our lives in the hands of these people. If none of them have a reason to distrust us—and they should have no such reason—we will come through unscathed. However, if one of them believes that we are dangerous or that we are something other than what we seem …” She regarded Riker meaningfully. “Someone’s hands may slip. It will be officially considered an accident.”
He looked at the pit and the isak, then back at Lyneea. “How