The Third Lynx (18 page)

And this time I
did
manage to keep my face from giving anything away. So the Modhri thought it was Larry Hardin’s troubleshooter Bruce McMicking who had thrown the sunburst grenade, and not the rogue Belldic commando
Korak
Fayr. A reasonable mistake for him to have made, and one that might prove to be useful.

“Do not play innocent,” Gargantua admonished me. “I saw him throw that grenade.”

“Actually, all you saw was a street drifter fumbling with something,” I corrected him. “You never saw the actual grenade.”

Gargantua snorted. “This is a foolish lie,” he said. “I know you had no such device with you.”

“Do you?” I countered, raising my eyebrows.

For a long minute he remained silent, his face turned to me as if he was trying to stare straight through his bandages into my mind.

Because I was right. All he actually knew was that he’d had me under surveillance since before we’d left the Quadrail, and that I hadn’t had a chance to pick up any military hardware along the way.

And of course, he knew that no one was permitted to carry such things aboard a Quadrail.

But he also knew that I was in league with the Spiders… and allies of the Spiders might operate under entirely different rules.

“I know what I saw,” he said at last. “But even with the Human McMicking’s aid, it will not be possible for you to locate the other Humans.” His face hardened. “I would presume you won’t wish the Ghonsilya authorities to call you in to identify the Human Auslander’s body.”

He was bluffing, of course. We both knew that. He couldn’t afford to damage the only levers he had to use against me.

But even so I still felt a tingle of dread ripple through me at the thought of what he might do to Penny.

And we also both knew that I couldn’t and wouldn’t let anything happen to her. “There won’t be any need for that,” I said between dry lips. “There’s an art auction scheduled here for tomorrow evening. Bring Morse and Ms. Auslander with you.”

He leaned the cane a little toward me, as if trying to read my face. “You have the Lynx?”

“I will by then,” I promised. “A straight trade: the Humans for the Lynx.”

“I accept,” he said. “But be warned. If you don’t have the Lynx, things will not go well for your friends.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “There’s just one more thing, then. Since I can’t have you following me—”

He never even had time to react as I pulled out my gun and shot him.

He slumped limply over the back of the bench, his cane thudding to the softfloor, as the snoozer’s drug hit his bloodstream and knocked him cold. Mindful of what Fayr had once told me about a Modhran colony’s resistance to such drugs, I fired again, then put a third snoozer into him just to be on the safe side. Slipping the gun back beneath my poncho, keeping an eye on the archways leading off into other sections of the museum, I gave his clothing a quick search.

I’d had some faint hope that the Modhri might have been careless enough to let Gargantua head off to our meeting with a hotel key or other significant clue on his person. But no such luck. Nothing in his pockets gave any indication of where he might have Penny and Morse hidden.

Keeping an eye on him over my shoulder, I returned to the other gallery. Fayr and Bayta had moved to the edge of the archway in my absence, no doubt the better to eavesdrop on the conversation. I gave them a thumbs-up, a finger across the lips for continued silence, and gestured toward the exit.

Five minutes later, we were back out in the rain, making our way across the museum grounds. I’d half expected the Modhri to have stationed his other Halkan soldier out here as backup, just in case I pulled something on Gargantua. But there was no sign of anyone hanging around, and neither Fayr’s sensors or the ones in my gimmicked reader indicated any evidence of electronic surveillance focused on us.

It retrospect, I decided I wasn’t really surprised the other Halka wasn’t here. Locking up a trained ESS agent like Morse somewhere was tricky enough without having to trust him to stay that way on his own. The Modhri had apparently decided keeping tabs on me was less important than making sure he held on to his bargaining chips.

Especially since the only way out of the Ghonsilya system was through the Quadrail station. If I double-crossed him and ran, he knew where I’d eventually have to turn up.

We were out of sight of the museum building itself before Fayr spoke again.
“Do
you know where the Lynx is?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But now that we’re here, I don’t think we’ll have any trouble laying our hands on it.”

“And you genuinely intend to trade it to the Modhri for your friends?”

“We’ll see what we can do,” I hedged. “But before we can cross that bridge we need to find Daniel Stafford. You said you know a place where these artist types hang out?”

Fayr was silent for a few more steps. Maybe he wasn’t sure anymore whether to trust me or not. “There’s a place a short distance away on the other side of the museum grounds,” he said at last. “It’s called Artists’ Paradise.”

I turned to glance down a side street as we passed, the movement tilting my hood just enough to send a rivulet of rain into my eyes. “Sounds interesting,” I said, brushing away the water with the back of my hand. “Lead the way.”

We continued walking directly away from the museum for a couple more blocks, then changed direction and made a wide circle around the whole museum area.

I also discovered I’d been wrong earlier about the neighborhood buttoning up for the night. Now that the dinner hour was over, the streets and sidewalks were starting to fill up again as the locals ventured out into the rain and their evening activities. The increasing number of pedestrians made it harder to be sure we weren’t being followed, but at the same time it offered more cover if we needed to make a break for it.

The neighborhoods themselves also began to change again, this time definitely not for the better. Whereas on the other side of the museum the homes had ranged from lower-middle-class pleasant to full-blown high-class snooty, the real estate on this side seemed to be sliding rapidly toward the opposite end of the scale.

“Not what I’d consider your typical paradise-type area,” I commented as we walked past a row of houses that were little more than closely packed shacks. “Who named this place, the same real estate fogger who tagged a frozen wasteland as Greenland?”

“This is not the Paradise,” Fayr said. He pointed two blocks ahead, to a large structure looming over the smaller homes around it.
“That
is the Paradise.”

I eyed it. Even from this distance, I could see that the building included a few hints of the same architectural style as the art museum.

But where that place had been carefully and lovingly maintained, this one had been allowed to go straight to the dogs. “I don’t see a lot of improvement,” I told Fayr.

“It looks like a theater,” Bayta said.

“It’s an amphitheater, actually, with a central, open-air performance area,” Fayr said. “The reference listing states that after it fell into disuse and disrepair poor street artists moved in. They turned the dressing rooms and equipment shops into their homes and studios.”

I nodded. It was the same move-in-and-squat technique the down-and-out had been doing for centuries, probably everywhere in the galaxy. “The authorities couldn’t get rid of them?”

“On the contrary,” Fayr said. “Over the past decades the authorities have created an aura of local attraction around the Paradise and its residents. Many artists, particularly offworlders, have journeyed to Ghonsilya specifically to spend time here.”

“They want to
live
there?” Bayta asked.

“I’m certain they’re surprised at what they find,” Fayr said grimly. “But by the time they learn the truth, many aren’t able to leave.”

“I don’t understand,” Bayta said.

“It’s a matter of economics,” I said. The Chahwyn who’d raised her, I suspected, had passed over many of the more sordid facts of modern life. “Artists come to Ghonsilya, lured by the Tra’ho reputation as art lovers and maybe stories and out-of-date photos of the Artists’ Paradise.”

“The first part is true, certainly,” Fayr murmured.

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “The Tra’ho’seej are certainly eager to buy up their art—that hotel lobby was loaded to the gills with the stuff.”

“Then I don’t understand the problem,” Bayta said.

“The problem is that the Tra’ho’seej probably don’t pay very much,” I told her. “If they keep the prices low—and there are any number of ways to do that—then the artists end up stuck. They have to keep cranking out artwork to survive, but are never quite able to scrape together enough money to pull up stakes and go somewhere else.”

“I’ve heard that some of the poorest trade their art directly for food at the local restaurants and markets,” Fayr said.

“Where again the buyer gets to set the exchange rate,” I said. “When love turns to obsession.”

Bayta gave me an odd look. “What?”

“Art-loving becoming art-obsession,” I clarified.

“Oh,” Bayta said, the odd look not going away. “I thought you were talking about… never mind. But surely not all their work is traded by barter.”

“The more expensive pieces are sold directly to customers,” Fayr said. “In fact, many of the transactions take place right here in the Paradise.” He looked around at the lower-class Tra’ho’seej milling around. “Though only during the daylight hours.”

“We can’t afford to wait,” I told him. “With all those Tra’ho walkers lying in bed watching their ceilings spin around, the local Modhri mind segment is as weak and inattentive as it’s likely to get. We need to find Stafford tonight.”

“You believe he’s in the Paradise?” Fayr asked.

“If he’s not, he should be,” I told him. “If you want to find art, go where the artists are. If you
really
want to find art, live where the artists live.”

Fayr lifted his head to look at the top of the dilapidated building. “There’s a great deal of area here for three people to search,” he commented. “We’d best get started.”

“Right,” I said. “He’s my species. Let me do the talking.”

The Paradise main entrance was a large archway of the same style as the ones we’d seen in the art museum. Leading inward from the archway was an entrance runnel lined by closed doors and a number of shabbily dressed Tra’ho’seej. Most of the loiterers were sitting around talking, inhaling aromatic censer smoke, or moodily watching everyone else. The tunnel also had a double row of light fixtures set about head height, but only one light in six or seven was actually lit. “I can see why the buyers only come during the day,” I murmured.

I’d barely finished the comment when a group of five Tra’ho youths leaning against the tunnel fifteen meters ahead detached themselves from their section of wall and sauntered their way into a loose line across our path.

“Compton?” Fayr asked.

“It’s okay,” I told him as I studied the youths. All had long knives displayed prominently at their sides, but I didn’t see any of the telltale clothing bulges or strains that would indicate heavier weaponry. Focusing on the tallest of the five, I nodded a greeting. “Evening, young honoreds,” I called. “Is this the Artists’ Paradise we’ve heard so much about?”

[The Paradise is closed to business,] the Tra’ho said brusquely in Seejlis.

“All the artists have gone to sleep, have they?” I asked. “Nestled all snug in their beds, with visions of sugarplums and all that?”

[The Paradise is closed,] he repeated, dropping his hand warningly to his knife hilt. [Come back with the sunlight.]

“Sorry, but we can’t do that,” I said, watching his friends out of the corner of my eye as I continued forward. The whole group seemed a little confused by my strange inability to take the hint.

Which implied this was probably not just some random group of toughs looking for someone to rob. If they were, they’d be moving in for the kill instead of trying to wave us off. Guards, then, hired by the artists to protect them after dark?

If so, we might be able to work that to our advantage. “I’m afraid we’re running a tight schedule and have to be gone by morning,” I continued. I was about three steps away from the leader now, and his hand had wrapped around his knife hilt in preparation for a quick draw. “I’m told there’s a Human here who’s looking for the sort of thing we’re selling.”

His ears twitched with surprise. Apparently dealers didn’t come around at night, either. [What is it you sell?]

“An item one of the artists very much wants,” I said.
“And
is willing to pay a great deal of money for.”

That one got an ear twitch from all five of them. A Paradise artist with spare cash was probably something of a rarity.

For a gang of lower-class toughs, it would be an extremely intriguing rarity. [What Human could that possibly be?] the leader asked. He was clearly trying to be casual about it, but there was enough body language going on to light up a small city. [There are no such Humans here.]

“There’s at least one,” I said.

[Perhaps if you gave us a name?] he suggested.

“His name’s Stafford,” I said, trying to watch all five of them at once. No reaction. “He may be going under the name Daniel, or Dan, or Danny. Or possibly Künstler.”

Still no reaction. [There is no one with any of these names,] the leader said, sounding a bit disappointed.

“Or maybe he simply calls himself Artist,” I suggested.

The leader still didn’t react. But out of the corner of my eye I saw a distinct ripple of recognition run through one of his buddies.

Bingo.

Maybe the leader didn’t think I’d caught the mark. [All here call themselves Artists,] he scoffed.

“We still want to look for him,” I said. “We can pass peaceably, or otherwise.”

The leader snorted. [Search all you like,] he invited, stepping aside and motioning the rest of the group to do likewise. [You won’t find the Human you describe.]

“We’ll see,” I said. “By the way, I don’t suppose any of the food vendors in here are still open?”

[Some sellers of sculpted foods will be preparing their wares for tomorrow,] the Tra’ho who’d reacted to the name Artist spoke up. [One of them may be willing to sell to you.)

“Thank you,” I said, watching for a last-minute sneak attack as I stepped past them. But they were apparently genuinely willing to let us pass.

Small wonder. They knew this place; we didn’t. They figured they would be able to get to Stafford and his cash sticks long before we did. Especially if we stopped for supper first.

Fayr and Bayta passed through the line, too, and we continued down the tunnel. “’Artist’?” Fayr asked.

“The English translation of the German word Künstler,” I told him. “Could be that’s what got the late Mr. Künstler interested in art collecting in the first place.”

A few meters ahead, the tunnel opened up into a curved corridor, probably a ring paralleling the amphitheater’s central performance area. As we turned to the right into the curve, I glanced casually over my shoulder, just in time to see the last of the five toughs disappear through one of the tunnel’s left-hand doors.

“They’re hoping they can reach Stafford before we do,” Fayr warned.

“That’s the idea,” I said, “They’re going to play native guides for us.”

“There will be an entire roundrun of rooms and corridors in a place like this,” Fayr countered. “If we let them out of our sight, we’ll almost certainly lose them.”

“Stafford won’t be in any of the rooms,” I assured him. “The nicer quarters will have been grabbed up by the older residents years ago. Newcomers like Stafford will be stuck in the central area out in the elements.”

“Unless he’s visiting someone,” Bayta said quietly. “Or has persuaded a new friend to let him move in.”

I stared at her, my stomach knotting. Somehow, neither of those possibilities had even occurred to me.

For a moment my tongue was frozen. Fortunately, Fayr interpreted my silence correctly. “No fears,” he said, and headed back down the tunnel at a brisk trot.

Bayta was still staring at me, and I didn’t much like the expression on her face. “Don’t look at me like that,” I reproved her. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” she countered. “You don’t seem to be thinking clearly lately.”

“Let me guess,” I growled. “Penny. Right?”

The last time I’d brought up Penny’s name it had sparked an instant and decidedly unpleasant reaction. This time, Bayta didn’t even twitch. “Not necessarily,” she said, her voice tight but under control. “But since you bring her up, yes, I’m concerned at how you’ve been behaving. How both of you have been behaving, actually.”

“You don’t think a woman like her could possibly want anything to do with someone like me?” I demanded.

“She’s not in your class, Frank,” Bayta said. “If there’s really something there…” Her throat worked. “Danger and tension can bring people together. I know that. People who otherwise might not ever even look at each other—”

“Is there a reason we’re having this conversation right now?” I cut her off. “Because if not, we need to get out there and find Stafford.”

“That
is
the reason,” Bayta said. “I’m wondering if you really want to find Mr. Stafford. Or at least, whether you want to find him alive.”

Once, years ago, a criminal kingpin I’d just nailed had offered me a bribe to let him go. This felt exactly the same way. “If you really believe that, you don’t know me at all,” I said stiffly. “Come on. We have a job to do.”

Turning my back on her, I continued down the curved corridor, walking as fast as I could without breaking into a jog. I didn’t know if Bayta was having any trouble keeping up with me. For the moment, I didn’t care.

The area we’d come to was somewhat better lit than the tunnel had been, and certainly better populated. Small booths lined the walls, most with the appearance of art dealerships, most of them deserted and closed. As the toughs had suggested, a few of the booths with food and drink products still had people working them. The less artsy types, the ones selling flatcake, soups, and Tra’hok vegetable twists, were doing a fairly brisk business.

The general atmosphere of the place was more or less as expected. Most of the beings wandering through the gloom had a generally disheveled appearance, with ratty hair, feathers, or fur and old or at least rumpled clothing. Many had cobbled together outfits and adornments that were bizarre blends of their particular culture’s class indicators. There were Juriani with the unpolished scales of commoners, yet wearing the tiered—though badly faded—clothing of midlevel royalty; Cimmaheem with their yarnlike hair braided, upper-class style, but only on one side; and Pirks who had preen-glossed feathers but wore no status headdresses. Either they were trying to hang on to the status they’d once had, or else were hoping an odd look would make them stand out of the crowd when the paying customers came around

“One of the artsy booths still had a lone Nemut on duty. He was polishing some jewelry, his gaze drifting across the collection of colorful characters as he worked, his truncated-cone mouth orifice making little silent motions as if he was humming to himself. His rainbow-slashed eyes passed across us, paused, and came back again.

Someone who could distinguish between Human faces well enough to recognize we didn’t belong there. That would be a good place to start. Changing direction, I headed toward his booth.