'Maybe more than that.'
Renatta glanced curiously at the Minstrel Boy. 'What do you mean?'
'Aliens.'
'Aliens?'
'There are stories that on the upper floors and in the towersthere are aliens, trapped in this Damaged World by the unset of the nothings.'
Renatta grimaced. 'I find that kind of creepy.'
The Minstrel Boy sighed. 'I find that kind of sad, the idea of these strange beings stuck here, never able to go home. Of course, it's only a story and Diamenti always denies it, but it is a fact that nobody's ever allowed on the upper floors.'
They had been in the Great Hall only a matter of minutes when the Minstrel Boy was asked if he would sell his veetar. The offer came from a small balding man in a silk suit. He had the smooth assurance of someone who thought he knew the price of everything.
The Minstrel Boy looked at him in complete disbelief. 'I'd rather sell my mother.'
After the man in the silk suit moved on, Renatta grinned at the Minstrel Boy.' Somehow I can't picture you with a mother.'
'Everyone has a mother.'
'Why didn't you sell the thing? You never play it.'
'Things change.'
'Does that mean that you're going to start playing again?'
'It means that things change.'
A swarthy individual in a black toga trimmed with gold, who looked like a slaver from the Margins, buttonholed the Minstrel Boy and wanted to know if he would sell him Renatta.
The Minstrel Boy smiled. 'She isn't mine to sell. She's not my property.'
'Damn right I'm not his property.'
The slaver spread his hands. 'A thousand pardons, beautiful lady, but you looked so. .' His eyes ran up and down her body, and he licked his lips.
Renatta regarded him with amusement. 'I looked so what? Available? Good enough to eat?'
The slaver bowed low. 'I meant no offense. Indeed, if you would consider allowing me to have a template made of you so I could create a replica, I would pay very well.'
Renatta de Luxe put her hand on a tilted hip, flaunting herself at the slaver. 'I don't see how that could do any harm. How much would you give me?'
The Minstrel Boy scowled and quickly shook his head. 'No. Don't do it.' His voice was hard, almost angry.
Renatta looked at him in surprise. 'Why the hell not?'
'Think about it. Once he's got your template, he can make as many copies of you as he likes. They'd be just like you, with your memories and your feelings. They'd know what you know and think like you think. He could sell them; he could do anything he liked with them. You want that to happen to people just like you?'
Renatta slowly shook her head. 'No, I guess not.'
The slaver scowled and moved off.
Renatta looked sourly at the Minstrel Boy. 'You're getting real ethical about how I establish my financial base.'
'I just believe that you should never let yourself be templated. Once a template exists, anything can happen to it. It can go anywhere. I hate the whole idea.'
He looked around before moving on.
'I guess we ought to try and get ourselves organized.'
He said it as much for his own benefit as for Renatta's. He was a little overwhelmed by the constant bustle of the Great Hall. After spending so long soul-dreaming in the Caverns, it took a little effort to adjust to a place that was so full of energy and transactional action. The babble was all around him, and he had to relearn quickly the trick of putting a certain distance between himself and the noise. Concentrating on the task at hand helped.
'We need a room before we do anything else. I think I'll change one of my coins into the local scrip so we have a bit of money to play with.'
He stopped at a change booth, secretively slid one of the antique coins from the concealed pocket on his belt, and exchanged it for a stack of duty paper bills. Diamenti was ultratraditionalist regarding his monetary system. After that the Minstrel Boy filed a deal option on the submarine with one of Diamenti's buying agents and picked up a larger stack of currency that represented a twenty percent deposit. The deal would be finalized and the Minstrel Boy would be able to collect the balance of his cash after the report from the official valuer, an independent functionary whose word was absolute in all major sales to the house.
Renatta watched with interest as the Minstrel Boy stuffed the bills into one of his pockets. 'So do we get a room now?'
The Minstrel Boy looked around. 'I think I could use a drink before we go any farther.'
'Suits me.'
They started toward the nearest bar. Before they reached it, however, the Minstrel Boy suddenly stopped in his tracks. 'Uh oh.'
'What?'
'I think I just saw a guy I know.'
'Which one?'
'He's by the bar, and he's got his back to us. He's the tall guy, the one in the short gray hussar's jacket and the plumed hat.'
'I see him. is this going to be a problem?'
The Minstrel Boy pushed his hands through his hair. 'I really don't know. The last time I ran into him, it turned into a seven-day drunk, and I can't exactly remember the terms on which we parted company.'
'So what do you want to do?'
'I'm not too sure.'
At that moment it ceased to matter what the Minstrel Boy wanted to do. The man in the plumed hat turned, spotted him — and glared. For the first time Renatta saw the exotic matching pistols that were stuck through his belt. An old scar ran down the left side of his hard tanned face. It was not a face too strong on either patience or tolerance.
'I see you, Minstrel Boy,' the man said.
'I see you too, Reave Mekonta.'
Renatta took a step back. The two men stood staring at each other, faces impassive. The Minstrel Boy's right hand was hanging loosely at his side. Renatta knew that he had his big silver pistol, which he had gone to much trouble to conceal, stuck down the back of his leather pants. Others were also moving out of the path between the two men. She did not want to think about what was going to happen next.
The Minstrel Boy also did not want to think about what was going to happen next. Ramilles Diamenti, as an unswerving market libertarian, did not think it was any of the management's business to relieve patrons of their weapons. He did, however, reserve the right to maintain certain standards of order. Accordingly, in addition to the armed keepers on the floor, there were sharpshooters positioned up in the rafters, ready to drop anyone who pulled a piece. The Minstrel Boy was aware that the shooter's eyes, if not their gun sights, were certainly riveted on his back by now.
Reave took a step forward. His face was impossible to read. The Minstrel Boy did the same. Sweat was running from his armpits. A crowd of spectators were watching them from a safe distance. The keepers were starting to close in, Reave took another step. The Minstrel Boy knew that he could not stand toe to toe with a man of Reave's height and weight and slug it out. He wished he still had his knives — he did not want to have to use the gun. He decided that the best thing to do was to let Reave make the first move. Then he would dive for the floor and try to come up shooting.
Reave took another step, closing the gap between them. The Minstrel Boy tensed. Suddenly Reave Mekonta's face cracked, and he let out a loud guffaw. The Minstrel Boy also started laughing, letting the tension flood out of him. Renatta shook her head as the two men fell into each other's arms. After a lot of hugging and backslapping
