Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [91]
The pinched and harried Felician paymaster was speaking; "—must have Major Daum's manifest first, and physically check each item for damage in transit."
The Felician cruiser captain nodded wearily. "See my chief engineer, and draft as much help as you need. But make it quick." The captain turned a bloodshot and irritated eye on Gamad, trailing obsequiously. "Haven't you found that manifest yet? Or Daum's personal papers?"
"I'm afraid he may have had them on him when he was hit, sir."
The captain growled, and turned to Miles. "So, you're this mad galactic mutant I've been hearing about."
Miles drew himself up. "I am not a mutant! Captain." He drawled the last word out in his father's most sarcastic style, then took hold of his temper. The Felician clearly hadn't slept much the last few days. "I believe you have some business to conduct."
"Yes, mercenaries must have their pay, I suppose," sighed the captain.
"And physically check each item for damage in transit," Miles prodded with a pointed nod at the boxes.
"Take care of him, Paymaster," the captain ordered, and wheeled out. "All right, Gamad, show me this grand strategy of yours . . ."
Baz's eyes smoked. "Excuse me, my lord, but I think I'd better join them."
"I'll go with you," offered Mayhew. He clicked his teeth together gently, as if nibbling for a jugular.
"Go ahead." Miles turned to the paymaster, who sighed and shoved a data cartridge into the tabletop viewer.
"Now—Mr. Naismith? Is that correct? May I see your copy of the contract, please."
Miles frowned uneasily. "Major Daum and I had a verbal agreement. Forty thousand Betan dollars upon safe delivery of his cargo to Felice. This refinery is Felician territory, now."
The paymaster stared, astonished. "A verbal agreement? A verbal agreement is no contract!"
Miles sat up. "A verbal agreement is the most binding of contracts! Your soul is in your breath, and therefore in your voice. Once pledged it must be redeemed."
"Mysticism has no place—"
"It is not mysticism! It's a recognized legal theory!" On Barrayar, Miles realized.
"That's the first I've heard of it."
"Major Daum understood it perfectly well."
"Major Daum was in Intelligence. He specialized in galactics. I'm just Accounting Office—"
"You refuse to redeem your dead comrade's word? But you are real Service, no mercenary—"
The paymaster shook his head. "I have no idea what you're babbling about. But if the cargo is right, you'll be paid. This isn't Jackson's Whole."
Miles relaxed slightly. "Very well." The paymaster was no Vor, nor anything like one. Counting his payment in front of him was not likely to be taken as a mortal insult. "Let's see it."
The paymaster nodded to his assistant, who uncoded the locks. Miles held his breath in happy anticipation of more money than he'd seen in one pile in his life. The lids swung up to reveal stacks and stacks of tightly bundled, particolored pieces of paper. There was a long, long pause.
Miles slid off his leg-swinging perch on the conference table and picked out a bundle. Each contained perhaps a hundred identical, brightly engraved compositions of pictures, numbers, and letters in a strange cursive alphabet. The paper was slick, almost sleazy. He held one piece up to the light.
"What is it?" he asked at last.
The paymaster raised his eyebrows. "Paper currency. It's used commonly for money on most planets—"
"I know that! What currency is it?"
"Felician millifenigs."
"Millifenigs." It sounded faintly like a swear word. "What's it worth in real money? Betan dollars, or, say, Barrayaran Imperial marks."
"Who uses Barrayaran marks?" the paymaster's assistant muttered in puzzlement.
The paymaster cleared his throat. "As of the annual listing, millifenigs were