The Dragon Variation Read online

  THE DRAGON VARIATION

  Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed

  in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents

  is purely coincidental.

  Local Custom copyright © 2000 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller, Scout's Progress copyright © 2000 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller, Conflict of Honors copyright © 1988 by Steve Miller & Sharon Lee

  Liaden Universe® is a registered trademark

  A Baen Book

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4391-3369-9

  Cover art by Alan Pollack

  First Baen printing, June 2010

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lee, Sharon, 1952-

  The dragon variation / by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4391-3369-9 (trade pbk.)

  1. Science fiction, American. I. Miller, Steve, 1950 July 31- II. Lee, Sharon, 1952- Local custom. III. Lee, Sharon, 1952- Scout's progress. IV. Lee, Sharon, 1952- Conflict of honors. V. Title.

  PS3562.E3629D73 2010

  813'.54—dc22

  2010011766

  Printed in the United States of America

  Baen Books by

  Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  THE LIADEN UNIVERSE®

  Fledgling

  Saltation

  Ghost Ship (forthcoming)

  Mouse and Dragon (forthcoming)

  The Dragon Variation (omnibus)

  THE FEY DUOLOGY

  Duainfey

  Longeye

  HERE, THERE BE DRAGONS . . .

  Not, granted, the sort of Dragons you're probably thinking of—scaled treasure-hoarders of legend, or leather-winged devourers of Thread.

  Not exactly, anyway.

  Our Dragons are human. Oh, they fly—they're pilots, mostly—and they hoard treasure in the form of spaceships. They're charismatic and dangerous; good friends and bad, bad enemies.

  The Dragons we're talking about are the members of Clan Korval, and "here" is the planet Liad.

  Why Dragons? you ask.

  Good question.

  In Liaden culture, each clan has a sigil—a hallmark, if you will—which is part and parcel of the clan's identity. Each delm—head of clan—wears a ring bearing the Clan's mark, and is formally addressed by the clan's name. Korval's clan mark is an image of a dragon, wings half-furled, hovering protectively over a well-leafed tree. To Liadens, applying liberal social wit, members of Clan Korval become Dragons; its delm, Korval Him-or-Herself.

  Liad . . .

  Liaden society, you understand, is very formal, and is generally codified in a multi-volume work known as the Liaden Code of Proper Conduct. Being Dragons, Korval has . . . limited use for such stringent social confines. They are not dishonorable, generally, nor are their manners anything but nice.

  But they do tend to consider the Code more on the order of guidelines, rather than law.

  So, Dragons.

  This omnibus is titled The Dragon Variation. A "variation" in chess is a new angle built on an established and well-studied line of attack. Variations are often the purview of a Romantic—the sort of chess player who sacrifices order for elegance; and plays from their heart. Such a line of play is not for the timid, since it depends upon flying in the face of custom—and on risking one's heart.

  We need to stop here and explain ourselves a little.

  One of the great joys that the Liaden Universe® holds for us, its authors, is its very size. Make no doubt about it, the universe is big.

  How big, you might ask.

  Big enough for love, to paraphrase Mr. Heinlein. Big enough for war, and for reconciliation. Big enough for multiple entrances and storylines that range from thrillers, to battle tales, to quiet love stories. Big enough for all of that—and big enough for fun.

  We've mentioned fun before, in the prologue to another book. We're mentioning it again, now, because, to us, fun is serious.

  When we were just getting started in the collaboration biz, we made a promise to each other. We promised that we would keep on writing as long as it was fun. That was in 1984, so you can see that we're easily amused. We also believe that readers have more fun with stories that are written by authors who are enjoying themselves. And, yes, we do think you're are smart enough to tell. And big-hearted enough to care.

  Regarding world-building choices, we agreed straight off that—while the Liaden Universe® would be exciting and strange, with wars to fight, aliens to decipher, and wrongs to right—people would fall in love. That doesn't sound like so much of an artistic decision nowadays, but back in the early-to-mid 80s, it was something of a radical notion in science fiction.

  Mind you, the idea of mixing romance into a genre plot wasn't original with us. Dorothy Sayers used romance to excellent effect in the exemplary Peter Wimsey mysteries, to which Sharon introduced Steve. Steve returned the favor by introducing Sharon to Georgette Heyer. Romance, after all, is part of being human—of being people.

  And so it is with the Liaden Universe®; because the other thing we agreed on is that stories are about people.

  That said, the three novels in this omnibus are, yes, romances. Local Custom and Scout's Progress are essentially Regency Romances set on an alien world—Space Regencies, if you will, and our bow to Georgette Heyer, acknowledging all that she taught us, as writers and as readers.

  Conflict of Honors is our tribute to Peter Wimsey, who did what duty demanded, and was never afraid to cry.

  The Dragon Variation also lays the groundwork of Liaden culture and the larger trading universe of which it is a part. Taken together, these three novels are an on-ramp to the Liaden Universe®, taking you in slowly, before . . . just before . . . the trouble begins.

  Over the next several months, Baen will be releasing three more Liaden Universe® reprint omnibi: The Agent Gambit (including Agent of Change and Carpe Diem); Korval's Game (including Plan B and I Dare) and The Crystal Variation (including Crystal Soldier, Crystal Dragon, and Balance of Trade). The novels run the gamut from Space Regencies to Space Opera. All are character-driven; all were fun to write and, we hope, fun to read.

  In addition to the reprints, Baen has-or-will-be publishing three more Liaden Universe® novels: Fledgling, and Saltation, the story of Theo Waitley; and Mouse and Dragon, the sequel to Scout's Progress, which appears in this omnibus.

  If this is your first encounter with a Liaden Universe® book—welcome. If you're an old friend, stopping by for a revisit—we're very glad to see you.

  Thank you.

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Waterville, Maine

  November 2009

  LOCAL CUSTOM

  Chapter One

  Each person shall provide his clan of origin with a child of his blood, who will be raised by the clan and belong to the clan, despite whatever may later occur to place the parent beyond the clan's authority. And this shall be Law for every person of every clan.

  —From the Charter of the Council of Clans

  Made in the Sixth Year After Planetfall,

  City of Solcintra, Liad

  "NO?" HIS MOTHER echoed, light blue eyes opening wide.

  Er Thom yos'Galan bowed hastily: Subordinate Person to Head of Line, seeking to recoup his error.

  "Mother," he began, with all propriety, "I ask grace . . ."

  She cut him off with a wave of her hand
. "Let us return to 'no.' It has the charm of brevity."

  Er Thom took a careful breath, keeping his face smooth, his breath even, his demeanor attentive. Everything that was proper in a son who had always been dutiful.

  After a moment, his mother sighed, walked carefully past him and sat wearily in her special chair. She frowned up at him, eyes intent.

  "Is it your desire, my son, to deny the clan your genes?"

  "No," said Er Thom again, and bit his lip.

  "Good. Good." Petrella, Thodelm yos'Galan, drummed her fingers lightly against the chair's wooden arm, and continued to gaze at him with that look of puzzled intensity.

  "Yet," she said, "you have consistently refused every possible contract-alliance the head of your line has brought to your attention for the past three years. Permit me to wonder why."

  Er Thom bowed slightly, granting permission to wonder, belatedly recognizing it as a response less conciliatory than it might be, given the gravity of circumstances. He glanced at his mother from beneath his lashes as he straightened, wondering if he would now receive tuition on manners.

  But Petrella was entirely concentrated upon this other thing and allowed the small irony to pass uncriticized.

  "You are," she said, "captain of your own vessel, master trader, pilot—a well-established melant'i. You are of good lineage, your manner is for the greater part, pleasing, you have reached your majority and capably taken up the governing of the various businesses which passed to you upon your thirty-fifth name day. It is time and past time for you to provide the clan with your child."

  "Yes," murmured Er Thom, because there was nothing else to say. She told him no more than the Law: Every person must provide the clan with a child to become his heir and to eventually take his place within the clan.

  His mother sighed again, concern in her eyes. "It is not so great a thing, my child," she offered with unlooked-for gentleness. "We have all done so."

  When he remained speechless, she leaned forward, hand extended. "My son, I do not wish to burden you. Necessity exists, but necessity need not be oppressive. Is there one your heart has placed above others? Only tell me her name and her clan, negotiations will be initiated . . ." Slowly she sank back into the chair, hand falling to her knee. "Er Thom?"

  "Mother," he murmured miserably, eyes swimming as he bowed. "I ask grace . . ."

  * * *

  GRACE, AFTER ALL, had not been forthcoming. He had scarcely expected it, with him tongue-tangled and kittenish as a halfling. His mother had no time to waste upon baseless sentiment, not with her illness so hard upon her. She had granted grace to one child already—and those genes lost to Clan Korval forever by reason of her leniency.

  So there was to be no grace given Petrella's second child and the hope of Line yos'Galan. Er Thom wondered at himself, that he had dared even ask it.

  Wondering still, he turned down the short hallway that led to his rooms and lay his hand against the lockplate. Late afternoon sun bathed the room beyond in thick yellow light, washing over the clutter of invoices and lading slips on his work table, the islands of computer screen, comm board and keypad. The message waiting light was a steady blue glow over the screen.

  Er Thom sighed. That would be the file on his wife-to-be, transferred to him from his mother's station. Duty dictated that he open it at once and familiarize himself with the contents, that he might give formal acquiescence to his thodelm at Prime Meal this evening.

  He went quietly across the hand-loomed imported rug, thoughts carefully on the minutiae he would need to attend to, so he might stay on Liad for the duration of his marriage, as custom, if not Law, demanded. Another master trader would have to be found for Dutiful Passage, though Kayzin Ne'Zame, his first mate, would do very well as captain. The upcoming trip would require re-routing and certain of their regular customers notified personally . . . He pushed the window wide, letting the mild afternoon breeze into the room.

  Behind him, papers rustled like a startled rookery. Er Thom leaned out the window, hands gripping the sill, eyes slightly narrowed as he looked across the valley at the towering Tree.

  Jelaza Kazone was the name of the Tree—Jela's Fulfillment—and it marked the site of Korval's clanhouse, where Er Thom had spent his childhood, constant companion and willing shadow of his cousin and foster-brother, Daav yos'Phelium.

  Er Thom's eyes teared and the Tree broke into an hundred glittering shards of brown and green against a sky gone milky bright. The desire to speak to Daav, to bury his face in his brother's shoulder and cry out against the unfairness of the Law was nearly overmastering.

  Compelling as it was, the desire was hardly fitting of one who kept adult melant'i. Er Thom tightened his grip on the sill, feeling the metal track score his palms, and closed his eyes. He would not go to Daav with this, he told himself sternly. After all, the younger man was facing much the same necessity as Er Thom—and Daav lacked even a parent's guidance, his own mother having died untimely some five Standard Years before.

  Eventually the compulsion passed, leaving him dry-mouthed and with sternness at least awakened, if not full sense of duty.

  Grimly, he pushed away from the window, marched across the room and touched the message-waiting stud.

  The screen flickered and the lady's likeness appeared, his mother being no fool, to waste time fielding dry fact when fair face might easily carry the day.

  And she was, Er Thom thought with detached coolness, very fair. Syntebra el'Kemin, Clan Nexon, was blessed with classic beauty: Slim brows arched over wide opal-blue eyes fringed with lashes long enough to sweep the luscious curve of her cheekbones. Her skin was smooth and flawlessly golden; her nose petite; her mouth red as clemetia buds. She looked at him coyly from the screen, dark hair pulled back and up, seductively displaying tiny, perfect ears.

  Er Thom swallowed against a sudden cold surge of sickness and glanced away, toward the window and the Tree, towering into twilight.

  "It is—not possible," he whispered and ground his teeth, forcing his eyes back.

  Beautiful, serene and utterly Liaden—even as he was utterly Liaden—Syntebra el'Kemin beckoned from the depths of the screen.

  That the rest of her person would be as guilesome as her face, he knew. Knew. He should in all honor seek out his mother and kneel at her feet in gratitude. Nothing in the Law said that the lady must be comely. Indeed, Korval's own law required merely that a contract-spouse be a pilot, and of vigorous Line—all else as the wind might bring it.

  Lower lip caught tight between his teeth, Er Thom stared into the lovely face of his proposed wife, trying to imagine the weight of her hair in his hands, the taste of her small, rosy-gold breasts.

  "No!"

  The chair clattered back and he was moving, pilot-fast, through the adjoining kitchenette to his bedroom. Fingers shaking, he snatched open his jewel-box, spilling rubies, pearls and other dress-gems carelessly aside. His heart clenched for the instant he thought it gone—and then he found it, stuffed into a far corner, half-hidden by a platinum cloak pin.

  A scrap of red silk no longer than his hand, that was all. That, and a length of tarnished, gold-colored ribbon, elaborately knotted into a fraying flower, through which the red silk had been lovingly threaded.

  "It is not possible," he whispered again, and lay his cheek against the tarnished flower, blinking back tears that might stain the silk. He swallowed.

  "I will not wed."

  Fine words, the part of him that was master trader and a'thodelm and heir to the delm jeered. And what of duty to the Clan, not to mention the Law and, easing of one's mother's pain?

  If there is one your heart has set above all others . . . his mother pleaded from memory and Er Thom's fingers clenched convulsively on the scrap of silk. She would never—he dared not—It was against everything: Code, custom, clan—duty.

  He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts. The clan required this thing of him, the clan's dutiful child, in balance for all the clan had thus f
ar given him. It was just. The other—was some strange undutiful madness that should after so many years have passed off. That it remained in this unexpectedly virulent form told a tale of Er Thom yos'Galan's sad lack of discipline. He would put the madness aside once and forever, now. He would burn the silk and the tawdry ribbon, then he would read the file on Syntebra el'Kemin, bathe and dress himself for Prime Meal. He would tell his parent—

  Tears overflowed and he bowed his head, fingers tenderly bracketing the red and gold token.

  Tell his parent what? That for three years, steadfast in his refusal of all prospective spouses he had likewise taken no lover nor even shared a night of bed-pleasure? That new faces and old alike failed to stir him? That his body seemed to exist at some distance from where he himself lived and went about the work that the clan required of him? That food tasted of cobwebs and wine of vinegar and duty alone forced him to eat sufficient to fuel his cold, distant body?

  Tell his mother that, Er Thom thought wretchedly, and she would have him to the Healers, quick as a blink.

  And the Healers would make him forget all that stood in the way of duty.

  He considered forgetfulness—such a little bit of time, really, to be erased from memory, and so very—long—ago.

  The thought sickened him, nearly as much as the face of the woman his mother proposed to make his wife.

  He blinked his eyes and straightened, slipping the rag of silk and the frazzled ribbon into his sleeve-pocket. Carefully, he put his jewelry back into the box and lowered the heavy carved lid.

  In the office, he saved Syntebra el'Kemin's data to his pending file, and left a message for his mother, expressing regret that he would not be with her for Prime.

  Then he quit the room, shrugging into the worn leather jacket that proclaimed him a pilot.