Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [28]
A retainer was waiting in the foyer to show them out. He opened the door for them; they turned up the collars on their Impriman tunics, which weren’t nearly warm enough to stave off the frigid weather.
The gate was about twenty paces away. There was a retainer there, too.
“I took a chance,” Teller went on. “I showed Larrak I trusted his training of the isak—that I trusted him. And that should show him the extent of our commitment, how much we want this trade agreement, and that we’re operating on the level.”
Riker shook his head. “I would never have thought of all that. And even if I had, I don’t think I’d have had the nerve to pull it off.”
“Sure you would,” his friend assured him. “Thought of it and done it. Or maybe you’d have found something even better.”
“I doubt it.”
The retainer at the gate swung it aside at their approach. As they made their exit, Riker had a funny feeling. Turning, he saw Larrak out of the corner of his eye. The first official was standing at the front door, watching them go.
“Don’t look now, but our host is seeing us off.”
“Guess it worked, then. Though that’s no guarantee that he will vote us in. He’s still risking an awful lot if he breaks his ties with the Ferengi—and the promise of greater profits with the Federation could just be pie in the sky.”
“On the other hand, he seems to have no great love for Rhurig. And Kelnae would just hate it if Larrak sided with the Federation.”
“Good point,” said Teller.
An ascetic was sitting just outside the gate. A female, Riker thought, though the shapeless brown robes didn’t give him too many clues.
Before he knew it, Teller had dug into his tunic and produced a chit. He went over to the ascetic and held it out. A moment later a slender hand emerged and accepted the offering.
Riker looked back. Larrak was still watching them.
They began walking again, away from the estate of Madraga Terrin and back toward more familiar precincts.
“Another gesture?” asked Riker.
“Huh?”
“That bit of charity. To impress Larrak?”
His friend grinned as he began to understand. “Hell, no. A reflex.” He paused. “But if it impressed Larrak, so much the better.”
“Daydreaming again, Riker?”
“Thinking.”
“About what? Your friend?”
Riker looked at her as they approached the doors of the Golden Muzza. “As a matter of fact, yes. Is it that obvious?”
She shrugged, opening one of the doors. “After you,” she said.
He went inside, and she came after him.
All the way here, Riker had been at odds with himself, alternately hurrying and dragging his feet. He wanted to hear what Bosch had to say—but at the same time, he dreaded it.
Because if what the Pandrilite had told them was true, it opened up some pretty dismal possibilities. First, that Teller had been involved, in some way, with the theft of Fortune’s Light. Second, that Riker had perhaps not known his friend as well as he thought.
And Reggidor Bosch would tip the scales one way or the other. Either he would confirm the fact that Teller was a smuggler or he would reinforce Riker’s belief in the man.
The desk clerk was of mixed blood—part Impriman, part Tetracite, part something else as well. It was an uncomplimentary combination.
And they soon found out that, at least in this case, it was possible to judge a book by its cover.
“Maybe he lives here and maybe he doesn’t,” the clerk told them in a whiny, high-pitched voice. “Who wants to know?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Lyneea. She reached inside her tunic and plunked down a half-dozen variously colored chits on the counter—chits from various madraggi so, as in the tavern, no one would link them with Criathis in particular.
The clerk looked down at the chits, a little surprised. Apparently they didn’t get too many big tippers at the Golden Muzza. Gathering up the pieces of plastic, he put them away below the counter.
“He’s in three-oh-three. Two flights up. But …” He paused, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “What do you want with him?”
Lyneea produced two more chits.
The desk clerk grunted. “Have a nice