103

Christopher Stasheff

The brooch she was wearing ostensibly served no purpose other than decoration; but he was willing to bet it was a recording device. She said, “I am Alleuene. You carry no identification.”

“I left it aboard ship,” Magnus told her. “I did not wish to chance losing it.”

She smiled as though she did not believe him, then let the smile soften into a lazy, sensuous sultriness as she looked him over more closely. When she lifted her gaze back to his eyes, the sultriness had become an invitation, though not a burning one.

It came to Magnus, with a surge of outrage, that the woman knew exactly what she was doing, knew each intonation and lilt and shade of expression and what its effect would be on him, and was turning them on and off as though they were the keys of an organ—but it wasn’t an organ she was playing, it was him.

The anger was good—it annealed the seal around his heart, strengthened his guard against her. “I am not aware of having met you previously, mademoiselle—to my regret.”

The laziness focused with amusement. “You haven’t. I’m only an interested bystander—or I was last night. I saw you fight Orange at the Shot and Bottle, and I was impressed with your style.”

Style? Magnus had been deliberately trying for clumsiness, to make the fight last! “I was scarcely at my best.”

“So I noticed. I joined the crowd that followed you from bar to bar. The drinks only affected your tem-104

A WIZAKD IN ABSENTIA

per, not your reflexes. Your style improved with the quality of your antagonists.”

“My antagonists improved?”

“Oh, yes.” Allouene smiled, moistening her lips and shifting in her chair. “Word spread along the street, you see, and all the toughs with reputations came out to try you. They had to wait in line, I’m afraid, and they finally grew impatient and all piled in at once at the end.”

“I don’t really remember much of it,” Magnus confessed.

“Of course not; the last bartender handed you a loaded drink to get you out of his place. I watched it all closely, though.”

Magnus tried to hide his disgust. “You must be quite the aficionado of martial arts.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m a representative for a secret agency—quite legitimate, I assure you—and your display, and the emotions that seemed to accompany it, made me think you might be just what my employers are looking for.”

Magnus stared, amazed.

“If you are interested in joining us,” Allouene said,

“we’ll take care of any damages you owe, and whisk you out of this jail and off to one of our training centers.” Her tone dropped to load the offer with double meaning: “Are you interested?”

His hormones thrilled, but so did the wariness of alarm. Magnus held himself immobile and asked,

“What is the name of your agency?”

“The Society for the Conversion of Etraterrestrial Nascent Totalitarianisms,” she answered.