He heard the screech of chair legs on tiles and the clomping of the man’s boots as he rounded the table. “Uh-oh.”
Thorne grabbed his cane from where he’d propped it against the table, just as he was pulled out of his seat by his shirt collar.
“Now, let’s be gentleme—”
A crunching pain rattled through his skull, snapping his head back. He fell onto the floor, his cheekbone throbbing and the taste of iron on his tongue. Testing that his jaw worked, he pressed a hand against his face, knowing the punch would leave one heck of a mark. “That,” he muttered through his muddled thoughts, “was not politically correct.”
A man roared, followed by more chairs screeching and furniture falling and something like dishes shattering and people yelling and then there was a mess of limbs crawling and tumbling as a full-scale brawl broke out in the bar.
Thorne curled up on himself, holding his cane above his head as a pathetic shield against the chaos, trying to make himself as small a target as he could. A wayward knee connected with his hip. A falling chair battered his forearms.
Two hands snaked beneath his armpits, hauling him backward. Thorne kicked at the floor, allowing himself to be pulled out of the cluster of elbows and knees.
“You all right?” said a man.
Thorne used his cane to level himself onto his feet and shoved his back against a wall, glad for its support and protection. “Yeah, thanks. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a guy who goes berserk when he gets caught cheating. If you’re going to do it, you have to be ready to take the fallout like a man.”
“Good policy. But I think he was more upset over you insulting his woman.”
Thorne cringed and wiped some blood from his mouth. He was glad that at least all of his teeth felt secure. “Don’t tell me she’s not an escort-droid. I could have sworn…”
“Oh, she’s definitely an escort. Cute one too. It’s just a lot of men don’t like admitting that their arm accessory is bought and programmed.”
Readjusting the bandanna, Thorne shook his head. “Again. If you’re going to do it, own it like a man. Not to be rude, but do I know you?”
“Jamal, from the caravan.”
“Jamal. Right. Thanks for the rescue.”
“My pleasure. You probably want to get some ice on that eye. Come on, let’s get out of this mess before anyone else takes a dislike to you.”
Thirty-Two
“Oooooooww,” Thorne moaned, placing a cooling pack against his throbbing cheekbone. “Why did he have to hit so hard?”
“You’re lucky he didn’t break your nose or knock out any teeth,” said Jamal. Thorne could hear him shuffling around, followed by glasses clinking together.
“That’s true. I am rather attached to my nose.”
“There’s a chair behind you.”
Thorne tested the floor with his cane until it struck something hard, and eased himself onto the chair. He leaned the cane against the side and adjusted the pack on his cheekbone.
“Here.”
He held out his free hand and was glad when a cold, condensation-slicked glass was put into it. He sniffed first. The drink smelled faintly of lemons. Taking a sip, he found that it was cold and frothy, tart and delicious. The absence of sudden warmth suggested there was no alcohol.
“Tamr hindi,” said Jamal. “Tamarind juice. My favorite thing in the trading cities.”
“Thank you.” Thorne took a bigger gulp, his cheeks puckering from the sourness.
“Have you always been such a gambler?” Jamal asked.
“I guess you could say I enjoy a challenge. No survival skills? Let’s honeymoon in the desert. Can’t see? Let’s go play some cards. I would have won too, if that guy hadn’t gotten so touchy.”
He thought he heard a chuckle, but then Jamal slurped at his drink.
“Were you there the whole time? Watching that escort-droid bleed me dry and not saying anything?”
“If a blind man wants to lose his head in a suicide card game, why should I stop him?”
Thorne relaxed against the back of the chair. “I guess I can respect that.”
“I am curious why you didn’t bring your girl with you. I’d have thought she’d be a valuable asset.”
“I thought she could use the rest.” Thorne adjusted the cooling pack on his face. “Plus, I don’t think she’s ever played Royals before, and there are all those tricky rules to explain…”
“And she probably wouldn’t have been pleased about you wanting an escort-droid?”
Thorne guffawed. “Oh, no, no, I didn’t want the escort for me. I thought she’d make a nice gift.” A silence followed and he was sure he could picture the skepticism on Jamal’s face, despite having no idea what Jamal looked like. “She was for this android … spaceship … friend of mine. It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” Jamal clinked their glasses together. “I get it, though. You get your hands on an escort-droid, all the while keeping everyone’s attention away from the true prize upstairs. You do seem like the protective sort.”
Thorne’s instincts hummed at something in Jamal’s tone. “Well. I am a lucky man.”
“Yes, you are. A girl like that doesn’t fall out of the sky every day.”
Thorne kept his smile for a heartbeat, then downed the rest of the drink. His nose crinkled. “Speaking of Mrs. Smith, I should get back to her. Promised to bring up some food and then got carried away … you know how it is.”
“I wouldn’t be in any hurry,” said Jamal. “I saw her with Jina a couple hours ago. I think the ladies were going out for some refreshments.”
The grin froze on Thorne’s face, and now he knew for sure something wasn’t right. Cress, leave the hotel without telling him? Not likely.
But why would Jamal lie about something like that?
“Ah. Good,” he said, hiding his uncertainty. He set the empty glass down on the floor, tucking it beneath the chair so he wouldn’t trip on it later. “Cress could use some … girly … time. Did they happen to say where they were going?”
“No, but there are plenty of eateries on this street. Why? Afraid she might run off without you?”
Thorne snorted, but it sounded forced even to him. “Naw. This’ll be good for her. Making friends … Eating stuff.”
“Exploring all that Earth has to offer?”
His expression must have been hilarious, because Jamal’s laugh was loud and abrupt.
“I knew you wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. “Kwende thought you didn’t know she was Lunar, but I figured you would. You strike me as the type of man who has a keen sense of value. Especially when I saw you bargaining for that escort downstairs. Even blind, you do seem to have impeccable taste in female companionship.”
“This is true,” Thorne murmured, trying to recapture this conversation. Sense of value? Impeccable taste? What was he talking about?
“So tell me how you came across her. It was a Lunar satellite, I’ve got that much, but how did you get tangled up with her to begin with? Did you find her still in space, or down here in the desert? Must have been in space, I guess. There was that podship in the wreckage.”
“Um. It’s kind of a long story.”
“No matter. Not like I’m going to be up in space any time soon. But then to crash. That couldn’t have been part of your original plan.” Ice cubes crackled. “Tell me this, did you plan on bringing her to Africa the whole time, or are there more lucrative markets elsewhere in the Union?”
“Um. I thought … Africa…” Thorne scratched his jaw. “You said they’ve been gone for a couple hours?”
“Give or take.” Chair legs squeaked across the floor. “So you must have known she was a shell when you found her? Couldn’t find me trading in their kind otherwise, don’t care how much they’re worth.”
Thorne spread his free hand out on his knee and pressed his sudden panic into it. So they knew about the crashed satellite, and they knew Cress was a shell, and they seemed to be under the impression there was a market for that. And that Thorne wanted to, what? Sell her? Trade her as stolen goods? Was there some strange black-market demand for shells that he wasn’t aware of?
“Honestly, Lunars terrify me too,” he said, trying to hide his ignorance. “But not Cress. She’s harmless.”
“Harmless, and not terrible to look at, either. So short, though.” There were footsteps—Jamal walking to the other side of the room, something being poured. “Another drink?”
Thorne eased his tense knuckles off his own leg. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Glass on wood.
“So do you know where you’re taking her yet? Or are you still shopping around for a good price? I figured you were probably taking her to that old doctor in Farafrah, but I have to tell you, I think Jina’s interested. Could save you a lot of trouble.”
Thorne smothered his discomfort and tried to imagine they weren’t talking about Cress at all. They were business associates, discussing merchandise. He just had to figure out what Jamal knew that he clearly didn’t.
He slipped his finger beneath the blindfold, stretching the fabric away from his eyes. It was becoming too tight, and his cheek was throbbing more painfully than ever. “Interesting proposition,” he said slowly. “But why deal with a middleman when I can go straight to the end buyer?”
“Convenience. We’ll take her off your hands and you can be off on the next treasure hunt. Plus, we know this market better than anyone. We’ll make sure she ends up in a nice place—if you care about that sort of thing.” He paused. “What were you hoping to get for her, anyway?”
Merchandise. Business transactions. He attempted nonchalance, but his skin was crawling and he found it difficult to set aside the memory of Cress’s hand in his.
“Make me an offer,” he said.
There was a long hesitation. “I can’t speak for Jina.”
“Then why are we having this conversation? Sounds to me like you’re wasting my time.” Thorne reached for his cane.
“She did give me a number,” said Jamal. Thorne paused, and after a long silence, Jamal continued, “But I’m not qualified to finalize anything.”
“We could at least find out if we’re all playing the same game.”
More slurping, followed by a long sigh.
“We could offer you 20,000 for her.”
This time, the shock was impossible to hide. Thorne felt like Jamal had just kicked him in the chest. “20,000 univs?”
A sharp laugh rang off the walls. “Too low? You’ll have to discuss it with Jina. But if you don’t mind me asking, what were you hoping to get for her?”
Thorne snapped his mouth shut. If their starting offer was 20,000 univs, what did they think she was really worth? He felt like a fool. What was this—Lunar trafficking? Some sort of weird fetishism?
She was a girl. A living girl, smart and sweet and awkward and unusual, and she was worth far more than they could ever realize.
“Don’t be shy, Mr. Smith. You must have had some number in mind.”
His thoughts started to clear, and it occurred to him that in many ways, he was just like these people. A businessman out to make a quick profit, who had been lucky enough to stumble onto a naïve, overly trusting Lunar shell.
Except, he had a bad habit of just taking the things that he wanted.
He dug his fingernails into his thighs. If she was worth that much, why wouldn’t they simply take her?
Panic swept through him, like a lightning bolt arcing through every limb. This wasn’t a negotiation—this was a distraction. He’d been right before. Jamal was wasting his time. Intentionally.
Thorne dropped the cooling pack and launched himself out of the chair, grabbing the cane. He was at the door in two strides, his hand fumbling for the knob, yanking open the door.
“Cress!” he yelled, trying to remember how many doors they’d passed to get to Jamal’s room. He was turned around, unable to remember which side of the hall his and Cress’s room had been on to begin with. “CRESS!” He stormed down the hall, pounding aimlessly on the walls and doors he passed.
“Can I help you, Master?”
He spun toward the female voice, his optimism thinking for a second that it was her, but no. The sound was too airy and fake, and Cress called him Captain.
Who would call him Master?
“Who’s that?”
“My previous master called me Darling,” said the voice. “I’m your new escort-droid. The house rules gave my former master a choice of returning your earnings to you, or accepting your offered trade. He chose the trade, which means that I am now your personal property. You seem stressed. Would you like me to sing a relaxing song while I rub your shoulders?”
Realizing that he was gripping his cane like a weapon, Thorne shook his head. “Room eight. Where is it?”
He heard a couple doors open down the hallway.
“Cress?”
“What’s all the noise about?” said a man.
Someone else started talking in that language Thorne didn’t recognize.
“Here’s room eight,” said the escort. “Shall I knock?”
“Yes!” He followed the sound of her knocking and tested the knob. Locked. He cursed. “CRESS!”
“Can we keep it down out here?”
“I’m afraid I’m programmed to avoid destruction of property, so I am unable to break down this door for you, Master. Shall I go to the front desk and retrieve a key?”