Jack Vance - Demon Princes 02 by The Killing Machine

Author:The Killing Machine
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, pdf
Published: 2011-11-27T01:19:38+00:00

EIGHT

Favorite dictum of Raffles, the amateur cracksman:

Money lost, little lost

Honor lost, much lost

Pluck lost, all lost.

The night of a Concourse planet was seldom completely dark. For those worlds appropriately placed in orbit, Blue Companion served as a small intense moon: the night sky of all the worlds sparkled with at least several sister planets.

Krokinole saw Blue Companion only as an evening star – a state of affairs that would persist for yet another hundred years or so, due to the vast circumference of the orbits of all the Concourse planets and the consequent sluggish annual motion; in the case of Krokinole 1642 years.

Krokinole midnight was as dark as any of the Concourse. Patris, still influenced by the old time Whitelock Injunctionary Procedures, had little to offer in the way of nightlife; what small nocturnal revelry there was centered in New Town at the riverside restaurants. Old City was dark and damp from the estuary mist, with Patch Construction a bright island.

Half an hour before midnight, Gersen came quietly along the empty streets. Blue Companion had long departed the sky; street illumination consisted of a dim globe at far intervals, surrounded by a golden halo of mist. The air smelled of damp brick, the estuary docks, the mud flats across the estuary: a subtle moldering reek unique to Patris Old Town. Opposite Patch Construction stood a row of the tall high-gabled buildings, each with a deeply recessed areaway filled with shadow. From one to another of these dark alcoves Gersen slipped, approaching the oblong of light projected from the open doors of Workshop B. He came as close as he thought practical, leaned back against the moldering brick, eased the various clips and straps supporting his weapons and set himself to wait. He wore black, with black skintone, black eye-shells to conceal the gleam of his eyes; standing quiet he was part of the misty night; a sinister shape.

Time passed. Inside the shop, the forward end of the canvas-swathed fort could be seen, and, from time to time, a technician. On one occasion Patch’s burly form appeared in the opening as he stepped out to peer up into the sky.

Gersen checked the time: five minutes to midnight. He fitted a pair of nightglasses to his forehead, slipped them down over his eyes, and instantly the street seemed bright, though with unreal shadows and tones, the chiaroscuro sometimes reversed, sometimes not. The glare from the shop was compensated by a metachrome filter, appearing as a dark blotch. Gersen scanned the sky, but saw nothing.

At a minute before midnight, Patch again stepped out into the street. Two heavy projacs ostentatiously hung in holsters at his waist and at his throat was clasped a microphone undoubtedly tuned to the police emergency band. Gersen grinned: Patch was taking no chances. After a suspicious look around the sky, Patch returned within. A minute passed; a long dismal hoot from the Mermiana monument, the female colossus standing knee deep in the sea, signified midnight. High in the sky appeared the shape of a freight-carrier.

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