Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [32]
“So where does that leave us?”
“Nowhere we want to be.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any other leads?” asked Riker.
There was a knock on the door.
Lyneea frowned, half at the interruption, half at his implication that she was somehow remiss in doing her job. “Come in,” she said.
The door opened.
Riker wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see. A chambermaid, perhaps, or someone else from the hotel staff.
He had not expected the figure that stood hunched in the doorway, wrapped in long brown robes complete with a veil of the same color. It was an ascetic—one of the beggars who flooded Besidia at carnival time preaching an end to materialism and the ways of the madraggi.
Ironically, it was the madraggi who maintained places for the ascetics to sleep and eat for the duration of the carnival. And that was more than a gesture of tolerance; it was a nod to tradition. The ascetics had been protesting the principles of the madraggi for so long that the carnival wouldn’t have been the same without them.
But they normally carried on their begging in the street, not door-to-door. Riker approached the robed figure, delved into his pocket for a chit, and held it out.
The robed one held up a slender hand. “No.” Her voice was muffled, but the eyes that peered over the veil looked into his with an unflinching audacity.
Strange, he told himself. Ascetics never looked directly at offworlders.
“I need only to talk. To you, William Riker.”
That caught him off guard. “To me?” he repeated.
“Yes,” said the robed one.
By then Lyneea had joined him at the threshold. “Excuse me, sister,” she said. “Who are you? And how do you know this human’s name?”
The ascetic averted her eyes. “I speak only to Riker,” she insisted. “No one else.”
Lyneea looked at him. He shrugged. “I’m just popular, I guess.”
His partner stifled a curse. “Popular indeed.”
“Perhaps I should go,” said the robed one.
“No,” said Lyneea. Her voice took on a softer tone: “Stay, sister. I’ll go. At least, for a little while.”
Riker didn’t protest. Whatever this ascetic had to say, he wanted to hear it. If she knew his name, there was a good chance she knew about his mission as well. If so, he had to know where the security leak was before the whole business became common knowledge.
Lyneea, of course, had the same concerns. And if that meant swallowing her pride a little, it was a small price to pay.
But she wouldn’t stray too far from the room. Will was certain of that. This robed one had already proved herself to be more than she seemed. Who knew what other surprises she might have up her sleeve?
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” said Lyneea, slipping on her cloak. She addressed the ascetic: “Time enough?”
The robed one nodded. She stood back as Lyneea made her exit, slipping Riker one last warning glance.
As his partner strode down the hallway, bound for the lift, Riker turned to the ascetic. “Come in,” he said.
She nodded, made her way into the room. He closed the door behind her.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Something to eat? To drink?”
“No,” she said. “Thank you.” She sat on the couch. Riker took the chair he’d been sitting on and pulled it away from the fire. Straddling it, he leaned on the backrest.
“You said you needed to talk,” he opened. “I’m listening.”
For a small space in time there was only the crackling of the logs in the fire. Her eyes seemed to hold him. Then to see right through him. Finally she spoke again.
“You’ve grown a beard,” said the robed one.
Her voice was still muffled by the thick brown veil. But something about it was familiar. Very familiar.
“And you,” he told his guest, “have taken to wearing an ascetic’s robes.” He felt a grin coming on. “What’s the matter? Have the colors of Madraga Criathis become tedious for its second official?”
She removed the veil and pulled back her brown