Breach of Contract, Part I

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Getting to the seal would be almost impossible. The burly Yarakheen guards knew their business. The portal they monitored was the only way into the urban estate; the stone perimeter wall was fully twice her height. Its top bristled with countless tiny sharpened stakes, some of them glistening with fresh, slippery fish grease. The trading complex was a virtual fortress. This close to the Great Way the avenues that bordered her quarry's home were all well-lit with oil lamps. Even if she could get over the barrier without impaling herself, an unlikely proposition, Makri couldn't possibly scale the wall without being discovered.

During the day, the troops of double-bent bearers lumering in and out of the estate were throuhgly searched by guards and house inspectors. There was no way past the outer sentries. There were surely a tensome more guards inside, making certain the bearers didn't quietly disappear into the bowels of the complex. And once inside the compound, who knows what would happen if she were caught.

It had been a mistake to accept the commission. If the wage hadn't been so unbelievably outrageous, she'd never have agreed.

She reconsidered her options. She could just take the advance they'd given her, a fortune unto itself, and skip off to some outland island, beyond the reach of the League. But they'd eventually find her and get their money back. Usurious interest included. She could really run-- perhaps buy a ship outright, or even a shipping route or two for that matter-- but she dismissed the thought. What little professional honour the public courts had left her compelled her to finish the job. Anyway, she wasn't much of a sailor.

So she'd have to get past those infernal guards.

Twice.

Sneaking in just might be accomplished, if she was very lucky. Several ideas were already taking shape in her mind. One of them had to work. Getting out to spend her fortune would be the real trick.

Disguised as a nightstroller, she sat on the opposite side of the narrow street studying the estate. Sparrow Street, the address of all respectable and fabulously wealthy merchant clans, was deserted at this hour but for freelance moonlighters, awaiting invitations from off-duty house staff. And there were precious few even of them selling their services on a sweltering Earthday night.

Most of them would be at the Liming. That's where all of Terin was except for the ultra-rich, who had no taste for the crude company of unwashed rabble. Makri sighed. That's where she'd be if she had any spare coin. Which, despite having fully half a fortune, she still couldn't scrape up. Her luck.

She could see light blinking from the windows of the low, elegant two-storey structure behind the wall. Fat old Gern Pag was probably in his treasury, counting his receipts. She had no idea what merchant Clans did behind their walls, plotting and scheming and concocting plans to trick rivals out of lucrative trade routes. She wouldn't know what to do with that kind of money. She smiled for an instant, a dream or two flitting across her mind's eye. She could make a few suggestions on how to dispose of some of that cash.

The Pag had the worst repuation in Terin. Sooner or later their enemies were found floating in Muck. Often worse. Some were never heard from again. Rumour had it the Pag's cats were very well fed. When a clan's eldest son sits on the Tilarium, it need have no fear of Judges or their Inquisitors. The Pags were untouchable.

Which was, perhaps, why she was being paid such an obscene fee. But if she was to take this kind of risk, she wanted to be able to get quick passage out of Terin, with more than enough left over to set herself up in a sleepy, naive Outland town. She didn't even want to speculate as to why someone wanted the seal. Presumably it was to falsify documents and embarass-- or perhaps even ruin-- the Pag. Someone with a Clan seal could circulate fake receipts, and collect favours never given. No; whoever paid her fee could probably do that anyway, with that much wealth. Much more likely, it was blackmail, for some obscure and lofty purpose. Ultimately it wasn't her concern, so long as she was paid. And could spend the money.

After half an hour, Makri reasoned she'd learned everything that could be expected about the estate from the outside. She decided to join the monthly festivities. It had been sixty very long days since the last Liming, and she was itching for release. She'd find someone to lend her a copper or two between here and the Square.

The streets were busier than usual closer to the Square. Normally quiet with its odd, early-closing eccentric shops, the short distance of Mogle's Street was almost impassable. The festival was probably in full chaotic splendour by now. Maybe she could find someone to buy her something to eat. She knew a few of the merchants, one or two rather intimately, and they'd probably be well-disposed to drop a bit of dinner her way. She might even be able to find a few of her friends, if they weren't in someone's bed already.

The crowd jostled her from side to side. Moving through it was virtually impossible. Near the middle of the street, the Nightstroller's feather cap she'd borrowed fell off. She bent down to retrieve it, and when she looked up, she was staring into Haran's face.

He was dressed in his most severe soldier's robe, the blazing white worm-silk fabric freshly washed. His brown, muscled chest was bare in the formal uniform. He was breathing heavily. He'd forced his way across the plaza to catch her. And anyone with any sense made way for Haran.

The bright blue insignia of Clan Martin was pinned to his shoulder. Had it been that long since she'd last spoken to him? He'd found a new sponsor so soon?

"Makri, it is you, I didn't believe it," he said, taking her hand. "I'd heard you'd fallen on hard times , but...", glancing involuntarily at her feather cap, "...you know..." He pauses for a long moment, trying valiantly to conceal a note of pity, utterly failing, "you could have come to me. I could have lent you smoney, until you found more jobs -- "

Makri had almost forgotten her disguise. She yanked off the cap. "No," she said, shaking her head, "It's not like that. I just borrowed this. I'm not that desperate. Besides, if that's what I wanted to do, I wouldn't have to freelance. I could join one of the best Houses in the city, as I'm sure you'll vouch." She smiled mischievously. "What're you doing in uniform? I'd have thought you'd be liming by now."

Haran straightened, putting his hand to his dagger, striking an official pose, for all the world like the statues around the Auditorio. "No, I'm working. I got a full contract. The Martin pay well, in gold, and there's less chance I'll be killed by some lowlife, 'cause they only deal in outland goods. But I 've got to put up with the Gern's weird rules."

"Rules?"

"Yes, lots of 'em, and they're specific. No... liming. At least, not during the week, and not publicly. So I can't go to the Festival. That's why the contract's so good. No-one else'll take it."

"Are those rules legal?"

"We get paid well, we don't complain."

She laughed tersely, the flush of her own worries returning. She fingered the soft, fine silk of his Clan sash with its expensive blue dye. "Nice. You must be living pretty well, now", she said, and pinched his waist just below his short tunic. "And I see it's already going to your belly."

He pushed her hand away and stepped back. "No really, Makri, I can't be seen fraternizing, especially with you dressed like that. If we're going to talk let's go somewhere less open."

Makri imitated his serious expression for a moment, mocking, and then gave him a jesting sneer. She pointed at the more-or-less empty Ringman's Park. The two of them made their way to the base of a huge palm tree and sat away from the road. Haran's eyes darted nervously around the park until he was satisfied no-one had taken notice of them.

Makri took a moment to examine his face. He looked like the Haran she'd known for most of her life, even if he seemed a little tired. He was still one of the most handsome men she knew. Certainly, he was one of Terin's best soldiers. He'd worked hard all his life to get a contract with one of the big clans. But despite his early middle age, a life of living on the edge showed. Already, there were traces of lines.

He held her hand. "So," he said, "I heard you got into some trouble two months ago with the Barenjer. Breach of contract, or something. You went to court."

Makri laughed, a tinkling sound to Haran's ears. She started to scrape away the nightstroller's makeup. Sweat and humidity left the black band around her eyes smeared down her tawny brown face. "No," she said, wiping her hands on the undergrowth, "They wanted to 'amend' the contract after we signed it, and when I didn't go along, they fixed it so the original conditions were impossible to fulfill. The Adjudicator threw it out, but the fiasco blackballed me. I was getting pretty desperate. But I got a good job a couple days ago."

Haran glanced up the street, making sure no one had seen them yet. "I've heard a bit. Tell me about the deal. You can, right?"

Makri shrugged. "Well, I can't say much..."

"Not even to me?"

"...Except that they paid me in ylirium."

She paused for effect.

"In advance."

The ylirium they'd given her could buy a dozen berths at the Port or a very sizable estate in Upper Town or one of the Valleys. It was far more money than either of them could have expected to see in their entire lifetimes, put together. She couldn't really imagine what she could buy with it.

Makri reached up and pushed Haran's gaping jaw shut.

"Close your mouth, you're drawing flies."

"Ylirium? In advance?" Haran choked. "Makri, that isn't a contract, it's suicide! What do they want you to do, case the Zeare's Estate?"

She frowned. "No, nothing like that. I'm not insane. No-one could break into the Zeare's estate. Not even a sorcerer. You'd have to be completely stupid. I knew someone who tried, and he ended up in the Zeare's damned zoo. No agent even dreams of it. Except in nightmares. No, don't worry, it's, um, just...

"Just?"

"...Just one of the Great Clans."

Haran's face twisted in shock, his eyes wide. "By the Charter!, woman, you should put that cap back on and stroll the Dinges, you'd be safer there than accepting poisoned money. It's a plot you're in, and there'll be blood before the end of it. Their schemes kill the likes of you and me. Who hired you?"

She ignored him. When she was sure there was no-one coming up the street, Makri unfolded the sarong she carried in a waist-pouch and changed clothing. Haran glanced away, uncomfortable with her casualness. There was no-one else nearby to take notice.

Admittedly, time had passed, but they'd spent far too many nights together for either of them to feign modesty now. He shouldn't have been embarassed. She was still young, and even other women admired her figure, but surely of all people Haran... but then she remembered his contract. She giggled. The sacrifices people make.

"Remember the Twinday night when I turned 20? My Ascension Day? You didn't hide your eyes then, Haran."

He grimaced. "Please, don't remind me. Not now. Just get dressed, quick. I told you, if I'm caught with you, I'll be dismissed without pay. Besides...." He stopped in mid-sentence, not needing to finish the thought.

Makri tied her sarong and piled the rest of her clothing next to her. "I know, I know. I don't want to talk about it... but it's been so long. We could go somewhere, perhaps..."

Makri took Haran's hand, and their fingers interlocked. This was the Liming, after all, and she didn't want to spend it alone. And there was none more ideal to spend it with.

Haran studied his sandals. "No, I don't think so, Makri. It's too tempting. Even if I didn't have this contract, come morning you'd just slip away again."

With that, a long silence settled. Makri took his hand, studied it, traced the well-worn lines in his palm, and rested her head against his arm. They sat still, wordless, for a few moments. A wall of artificial formality threw itself up between them, built of the bricks of long memory and unbreachable distance.

Haran fidgeted, obviously distressed, bit it was he who spoke first. "Tell me what's going on, Makri. Who you working for?"

Makri sighed. "I can't. It's somewhat, you know, delicate. I'm hired now, they've paid me, and I can't talk. Besides, it's pretty big."

"I'll bet. It's bigger than you for sure. I know you. You can't lie to me. Why can't you tell me who you're working for?"

"I don't know who they are", she finally admitted, somewhat ashamed. It was deeply unprofessional to accept an anonymous contract. "A man came looking for me two days ago. He had a bar of ylirium. I had it checked. It's real. I get another one when the job's done. But I can't spend a bar of ylirium here without people noticing, and you can't break something like that without having everyone take notice."

"By the Zeare's Guard", Haran said, shaking his head, cradling his temples. He'd never imagined so much money. He narrowed his eyes and took the freeagent's face in his hands. He forced her to look up at him.

"You're skipping when this is done, aren't you?"

It wasn't a question.

"I've been an agent for eight years, Haran. What do I have to show for it? Nothing. Look at you. You sold yourself for longer than me and where'd it get you? Paying homage to some fat old Gern, guarding someone else's fortune. I don't want to live in lower town for the rest of my life..."

"...Which will be short", he said, cutting her off.

A frustrated silence settled over them again.

The sticky, suffocating weight of the summer night pressed against her skin. The distant sound of music from the Square, where Terin's teeming populace was liming, became an irresistible pounding in her ears.

She hadn't thought Haran could still have an effect on her. She couldn't bear to have him so close. Without giving him time to react, she pulled Haran's face to hers and kissed him. Their lips met in a hungry embrace, their tongues twined greedily. Her fingers curled through his short hair, exploring the familiar lines of his scalp. He grew dizzy, put one arm out to steady himself; returned her embrace, lost himself for a desperate moment. He groaned, and with a quick push forced her away. Neither moved for moist, humid moment, and then he took her hands in his.

They stood up, each of them trembling. Under her breath Makri mumbled, "If you can spare a few hours, come with me to a place I know. It's quiet. No-one'll ask any questions, or care about your uniform. Or notice. Well be alone." A tingling grew in her loins, spread outward, travelling through her limbs in waves. Her lips almost ached to touch of his. Blood rushed to her face. He stood perfectly still, eyes shut tight against the dark night.

"It's been a long time", she said as she pressed herself close.

He drew a long breath. "Too long", he murmured, voice unsure.

Makri could feel his pulse, quick and hard under the smooth skin of his wrist. She knew him well, even if it had been almost a year since they'd last been together. She could feel his resolve straining against his inner will. He locked eyes with hers, searching for something in her bright amber orbs. She could feel it, deep inside her, she knew it called out to him, too...

But she turned away at the last moment. His mouth twisted into a frown and she felt his anger rising suddenly.

"No, Makri, I'll have nothing to do with it. Find someone else to spend your last days with. If you come to your senses, you know where to find me." He squeezed her hand one last time and marched off solemnly in the direction of the Annex.

More disappointed than she would have thought possible, Makri waited a long while before gathering her clothing and walking the rest of the distance to the Square, eyes unfocused and downcast.