Fortune's Light - Michael Jan Friedman [49]
Lyneea pulled gently but insistently at Riker’s sleeve. “Let’s go,” she said, not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
Under different circumstances, Riker might have played the situation for the obvious humor in it. Hell, he might not have been able to resist.
But they were here to find Teller’s killer. He wasn’t able to forget that, nor did he want to.
“All right,” he told her. “I don’t have any desire to linger here either.”
“Then don’t,” she said, continuing to tug. “The last thing we need is to draw undue attention to ourselves.”
“I’m walking, see? I’m walking.”
“So you are.” Finally she let go of him, after they were well past the spice merchant and his remarks. A moment later they negotiated a bend in the lane and the man was gone altogether.
“Touchy,” he said, “aren’t we?”
She snorted, keeping her eyes straight ahead. “I prefer to call it impatient.”
“It couldn’t be that you were a little embarrassed, could it?”
Lyneea turned and scowled at him.
“I guess not,” he said. “Sorry I even mentioned it.”
Abruptly she grabbed his sleeve again. “Look,” she told him.
He followed her gesture to a booth about halfway down the lane on the right. The merchant within was tall, heavyset—an unusual trait among the Imprimans—and thickly bearded—no less unusual.
Behind him, on a wooden frame, all manner of ancient weapons were displayed: long spiked maces, a javelin with a nest of deadly hooks surrounding a cruel point, swords with blades so curved they looked like blood-thirsty question marks. On the table before him were knives—thirty, maybe forty of them, some still in their original sheaths.
Riker grimaced. “Nice stuff. I guess that’s our antique weapons dealer?”
Lyneea nodded.
The merchant was haggling with a couple of middle-class types over a rather plain-looking sword. Madraga employees, in town for the carnival? Or retainers, like Lyneea? If so, their jobs were probably a good deal simpler than hers was right now.
The merchant turned the sword over in his hands, no doubt pointing out how finely it was balanced. His customers shrugged and made disparaging gestures. The merchant held the weapon up to his oil lamp, which limned the blade’s edge with a soft, rosy light. His customers shrugged again and passed remarks to each other, shaking their heads.
And so on.
Of course, Riker and Lyneea had to wait for this charade to end before they could move in. They didn’t want to start asking questions in front of people who might be another madraga’s retainers. Particularly if they were retainers for Rhurig—and of course, unless they wore their madraga’s color, one never knew.
At last the middle-class pair decided to move on—without buying the sword. The merchant cast them a long, disapproving look before he turned and restored the piece to its place on the frame behind him.
“Time for some new customers,” said Lyneea. “Let me do the talking.”
He looked at her. “Don’t I always?”
They had just started for the booth when Riker noticed that they weren’t the only ones. And the other group was closer.
“Wait,” he told Lyneea, putting a hand on her shoulder.
She must have seen them, too, because she didn’t balk, either at the warning or at the hand. She just stood there.
“Riker,” she said.
“What?”
“Do you see what I see?”
He took a closer look at the figures in front of the weapons dealer’s booth. And all at once he realized what Lyneea was talking about.
“The emblem,” he said.
“The emblem,” she confirmed. “I can’t tell for sure with his hood pulled up, but I’ll be quite surprised if that isn’t Kobar.”
Riker studied the man Lyneea had pointed to, the third official of Madraga Rhurig. He was taller than his two companions, rangier. And there was something about his bearing—an arrogance? An attitude of superiority?
This was the man who had murdered Teller Conlon. This was the maggot who’d killed his friend.
Suddenly, he wanted very much to return the favor.
Calm down, Riker. You’re not some chest-beating savage. You’re the first officer of the USS Enterprise.