Deadeye looked lecherously and rather hopelessly at the two rat-girls. “Well, then I must go myself.”
Gobbo yawned artistically. “Methinks the whoreson fancies a bit of time away from the front.”
“The swasher can take himself away from my front,” said Pitti-Sing, trailing her tail along Gobbo’s shoulders.
“‘Tis not an ill-thought-of idea, mind,” said Ariel, consideringly.
Gobbo grinned toothily. “Ha. Ariel, I had not seen you flee a fight. Can it be that you’ve abandoned me to go with this swaggering knave? You saucy jade!”
Ariel chuckled. “Pitti-Sing, you’re in for a grave disappointment with this swasher. He’s all blow and no poignard. I’d like to stay and watch. But I might be able to buy some chocolate back there,” she said, longingly. “The vatbrats sometimes have some. Give, Gobbo. The money you found in that top pocket.”
“‘S mine!”
“You got his hip flask, Gobbo,” she said, closing on him with a bound. “You wouldn’t want to fight with me then, would you?”
“Hello. Methinks ’tis a threesome,” said a new haughty voice. “I wouldn’t hesitate to report this, unless I was insulted with a very considerable bribe.”
Ariel turned. A party of wary-looking rats peered around the sandbagged corner. “‘Twould appear that rumors of your demise have been greatly exaggerated, Ariel,” said the owner of the haughty voice, and an elevated snout, as he stepped jauntily out of cover.
“Pooh-Bah! Hasn’t anyone killed you yet, you cozening rogue?” demanded Ariel, grinning.
The rat shook his head. “No. Alack. But I am sure for suitable fee it can be arranged.” He looked at the dead lieutenant. “Methinks you’d better tuck his pockets back in,” he said professionally. He gestured behind him with a stubby thumb. “They’ll be here in few minutes. They don’t make a fuss about us looting vatbrats, but it’s the guardhouse and death for snaffling the wares of Shareholders. Didst get much?”
The gleam of silver on the crisp white cloths, and the twinkle of crystal in the candlelight: This was George Bernard Shaw City’s finest restaurant, the Chez Henri-Pierre. The crystal glasses were from old Earth. Rumor had it that Henri-Pierre had killed an indentured Vat-scullion who had broken one. The astronomical distance the beautiful, fragile things had travelled was only matched by the prices of the food and the fine wines. The prices, of course, were not listed on the menu. If you had to ask you couldn’t afford it. But Conrad had worked out by now that the price was related to the length of the dish’s French name.
It was also inversely proportional to the size of the portion. By the exquisite—but minuscule—arrangement on Candice’s plate, it was going to cost Conrad the equivalent of an ordinary worker’s annual salary. Well, no matter. Conrad was a Shareholder, even if his father wasn’t old money. It wasn’t as if he was some indentured Vat. And he’d be off to join the army soon. It wasn’t going to be easy to break it to her. He hoped that the ring in his pocket would offset the news.
Candice looked perfect in this setting, almost like some milk-white porcelain Meissen statuette, poised and with not a hair out of place. He cleared his throat uneasily. How should he do this?
“Uh. Candy.” As soon as he’d said it he knew it was a mistake. She hated to be called that. Van Klomp always did it, at the top of his voice. She didn’t like Bobby Van Klomp. She’d done her level best to see that Conrad kept away from the big Dutchman. It was a difficult situation. He and Bobby had come down on one ‘chute together. Had resultantly spent six weeks next to each other, in the hospital, in traction. He owed an old friend loyalty. But Van Klomp had gone too far when he’d suggested that Candice might be seeing someone else.
“Um. I’ve got to tell you something.” He felt for the ring box in his pocket.
She looked down at her plate. Conrad noticed that she’d not eaten much of the complex stack of ginger-scented scallops and tiger prawns. “I’ve got something to tell you too, Conrad.” She fiddled with something on her right hand. It was, Conrad noticed for the first time, a band of gold. On her third finger. She turned it around. It was a diamond solitaire. Tombstone size. A lot bigger than the stone in the ring in his own pocket. “I’m engaged to be married.”