The Tomorrow Log and Dragon Tide Read online

  THE TOMORROW LOG &

  DRAGON TIDE

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved by the authors. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, without the written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  The Tomorrow Log copyright© 2003 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Dragon Tide Copyright © 2007 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Authors' website: http://www.korval.com

  Shield of Korval design by Angela Gradillas.

  Published by SRM Publisher, Ltd.

  PO Box 179

  Unity, ME 04988

  Editing by Steve Miller

  Copyediting by Elektra Hammond

  ISBN10: 1-8920-6587-8

  ISBN13: 978-1-8920-6587-2

  http://www.srmpublisher.com

  First Baen Ebook edition: May 2009

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  THE TOMORROW LOG

  Chapter One

  His name was Gem and he was a thief.

  With stealth and in utter silence, he slipped down the darkened hallway to the door he sought. Gently, he brought the specially etched glove from his shirt and laid it, palm-flat, against the lockplate.

  The door sighed gustily as it opened, and Gem crouched, ears straining to catch the slightest hint of unrest from the household slumbering about him.

  Silence in all parts of the house. The telltale on his wrist showed no surge of energy, as from the triggering of a remote alarm. The room itself was dark, slightly cool and smelling of must. Gem slid the infraglasses down over his eyes and stepped inside.

  His information from here forward was nerve-wrackingly vague, so he went slowly, alert to the possibility of pressure-sensitive tiles, sending the tiny electronic spiders ahead of him, step by cautious step, until he was at the case itself, and never an alarm had been raised.

  A less wary man, or a thief yet short of mastering the craft, might have grinned his triumph here, and laid his hands upon the case. Gem hunkered down before it, adjusted the lenses to maximize detail and began a painstaking study of the frame and the shatterproof crystal, while the little spiders perched on his shoulders and clung to his hair.

  Close scrutiny revealed no trip-wires or alarm-grids; readout from his wrist was uncompromisingly flat. Gem frowned and sat back on his heels, mindful of the passing of time; mindful, too, of the value of the object within the case, which none but a moonling would allow to sit, all unguarded, except for the laughable outside intruder-net.

  Mordra El Theman was no moonling, despite that Gem was even now well within her house, with neither her invitation nor her permission. He stared at the case and that which was within the case, felt the skittering of spider claws at his nape and frustration in his heart.

  The case was not booby trapped, unless the trap was so sophisticated that the very advanced equipment he carried on his person detected no hint.

  Gem stood up and lifted the lid, carefully locked it in the raised position and was still, barely breathing, ears strained to the ultimate, eyes on the telltale.

  All was quiet in the house; the readout showed not even the tiniest spike of energy that might be a cry of warning to the police.

  He bent his attention to the object of his desire, minutely, and found no webs of light or wire indicating that it was itself a trap. He sent a spider to perch on the rosette rim. It glided down the gilded, arching side to the floor of the case and discovered no pressure-plate there.

  The same spider clambered back up to the lip of the urn and slipped down inside, suspended by a line of synthetic silk. Its tiny half-chip brain sent impressions to the telltale, which refined them for the man's understanding.

  There was something within the urn, but not yet the alarm he had begun to hope for. Instead, his instruments showed something organic; unalive; uncontagious. Gem called the spider home, barely noticing as it climbed across his hand and took a firm grip on his sleeve.

  No alarms. None. Unbelievable.

  Unbelieving, Gem extended a plas-gloved hand and curled his fingers around the urn's neck.

  Revulsion erupted within him; revulsion and a fear so consummate that his heartbeat spiked, sweat beading his face, sheathing his body; his bladder threatened to fail and he shook so hard that three of the spiders fell from their perches to the floor and scrambled to ascend his trousers.

  Terror built, firing his imagination so that he heard the whole household roar awake and come running toward this room; and heard sirens in the front court; felt the irons already on his wrist—

  "Ah!"

  Barely a sound at all, loud in his fevered ears, he bit his lip to keep another from escaping, jerked his hand away from the urn, brought the lid clumsily down and went across the room in a stumbling shamble. Instinct alone closed the door; sheer animal wiliness got him silently down the long, darkened hall and to the window he had breached; the stern discipline that made him a master craftsman closed that window and erased all signs of his entry.

  He reached the street, heart still stuttering, shivering as the sweat dried and the dawn breezes found him; and he walked for a long time, rubbing the hand that had touched the thing down his thigh, over and over, as if the palm were burned.

  Chapter Two

  Two days later, he was at Iliam's, admiring the view and a certain aquamarine necklace, when a man stepped to his side and lightly touched his sleeve.

  "Gem ser Edreth?"

  He turned slowly, for the voice was not familiar, nor, once faced, was the man: Tallish, stocky, middleaged and genteel; exactly the sort of person one expected to find at Iliam's Curiosity Shop of an afternoon.

  "You have the advantage of me, sir," he murmured, smiling courteously and slipping his sleeve away from the other's fingers.

  The man bowed slightly. "I have come from Saxony Belaconto," he said softly. "She greatly desires a favor from your honor."

  "I am, of course, overwhelmed by the lady's condescension, but I am not in the habit of doing favors."

  "Ms. Belaconto," said the genteel individual smoothly, "repays her favors—generously."

  "I would not have thought otherwise," Gem answered; "and I am desolate to disappoint her. If it were anything but a life-rule, sir, laid down to me by Edreth himself . . . Convey my very heartfelt regret to your lady, and my certainty that she will easily find another able to oblige her."

  The man's face showed that which might not be considered quite genteel; then he was bowing, as others came to admire the aquamarine necklace.

  "Good-day, sir," he said tightly.

  "Good-day," said Gem, and moved off to look at the other displays.

  He did steal the aquamarine set. Later, he wondered if it had been an omen.

  The second contact was less auspicious: two burly individuals, conspicuously armed, waiting in the dimness of Third Noon, blocking the narrow courtway to his house.

  "Gem ser Edreth," snapped the burlier of the two. He bowed, trying not to measure his slightness against their bulk; or to weigh his skill with the sorl-knife against their probable accuracy with the jutting rapid-fires.

  "Gentles."

  "Ms. Belaconto sent us. You know why." The slimmer of the pair held a truncheon, which she slapped rhythmically against her palm. Gem stared at her with what coldness he could muster and the bully hesitated; glared.
>
  "I was told," he said to the spokesman, "that Ms. Belaconto desired a favor. I have already explained that I could not oblige her. Henron houses several members of my profession—and Zelta is not that far to send, if no one on-world meets the lady's requirements."

  "Ms. Belaconto wants you," the one with the truncheon said, and grinned. "She said to hurt you, if you weren't—obliging."

  "Oh, nonsense," he snapped. "What possible good would it do to beat me? If I agreed to accommodate your mistress at the end of it, I'd hardly be in shape to fulfill my guarantee. And if I still refused—even if you killed me!—she would be faced with the same problem. I cannot believe the Vornet is as inefficient as that!"

  The truncheon-holder blinked and turned to her partner, who sighed. "That's right. But we could hurt you without hurting you, if you take my meaning."

  Gem shook his head, mentally working the moves; measuring how far they stood from the door to his house; measuring how far he might be able to run.

  "If you're going to beat me," he said irritably, "then get on with it; but I assure you my answer will be no different at the end than it is now: My sincere apologies to your mistress, but I simply cannot oblige her."

  She was very fast: he sensed, rather than saw the truncheon snapping toward his head and spun in the move Edreth had drilled him in until he danced it in his sleep.

  The stick whizzed by and the sorl-blade was out in the same instant, slicing back along the line of attack; drawing blood on his assailant's upper arm—the merest pinprick, but she grunted surprise.

  The stick sang again and he twisted, danced under it and sideways, his arm snaking up and over her shoulder, until the blade rested, gently, against her throat.

  "Drop it!"

  She did, noisily; and her partner raised empty hands. Gem considered his position, blade absolutely steady, just nicking the skin.

  It did not do to wantonly kill the servants of the Vornet; and this pair were doing nothing more than their duty to their leader. He looked at the man; saw the rapid-fire still in its holster; saw the empty hands and nonthreatening stance.

  "You'll carry my word to Ms. Belaconto?"

  The other nodded. "The message is that Gem ser Edreth declines to perform a service for Saxony Belaconto. Forcefully."

  "That is," Gem agreed, "the message." He stepped back and slid the sorl-knife away. The man turned to go; the woman bent to retrieve her truncheon.

  "Leave it!" he snapped; and she looked at him in surprise before glancing at her mate.

  "Leave it," the man said and she did, the two of them fading down the narrow courtway and out into the main street.

  When he was sure they were gone, Gem picked the truncheon up and hurled it with all his strength to the roof across the court.

  Chapter Three

  Events quieted. Gem went about his several businesses, though he kept a wary eye out, and on the evening of the third day he allowed himself to believe that the Vornet had relinquished its interest in him. Nor, indeed, did the next disturbance in his life come from that quarter.

  He was at Kayje's Concourse, having a light nuncheon and watching the play, when Phred approached and bowed.

  "Master Gem, there is one here who asks to share your table."

  He frowned, because here, of course, was the Vornet again, when he had dared to think them safely settled.

  "The young person in scarlet, sir;" Phred murmured, under the guise of refreshing Gem's wine.

  He turned his head slightly to look and found his glance captured across the room by a pair of enormous black eyes, sparkling bright in the dimness of the club; he broke the contact and picked up his glass.

  "Send her away."

  "Yes, sir. Your pardon, sir."

  Gem returned his attention to the action at the Spyro, sipping now and then, but abruptly without taste for his nuncheon. Out of the corner of an eye, he saw Phred speak to the young person in scarlet, saw her begin to protest; saw the discreet intercession of the bouncer. Confronted with both headman and bully, she hesitated and finally left, shoulders defiantly straight in the bright cloth.

  Gem joined the crowd in the center of the Concourse; wagered a bit on the Wheel; had another glass of wine and bought a deck at the Knave's table. In due time he collected his winnings and turned his steps toward home.

  He had barely stepped away from the brightly lit pedstrip and onto the DownRamp when he felt her fall in beside him; heard a young, firm voice:

  "Anjemalti Kristefyon."

  He neither quickened his pace nor slowed it; nor did he glance aside or give any sign that he had heard.

  "I am Corbinye Faztherot," she continued, hurriedly, matching him, stride for stride. "I know that this is not done seemly, but the need is great, and I ask that you forgive the informality forced upon me. My rooms are nearby, if you would but step aside. . .."

  Still, he did not alter his pace; her voice might have been the whisper of river wind against his ears for all the heed he gave it.

  "We are kin!" she cried, shockingly loud in the stillness of the 'Ramp. "Of the same Ship and Captain! You must hear me—the courtesy, at least, of a reply—" Her hand was on his arm and at last he did stop and spun to face her in the dimness; saw with noontime clarity the space-tanned face; the huge light-sensitive eyes; the short pale hair and the long, lithe grace of her; felt the strength in her fingers and ripped his arm away.

  "I do not know you," he said coldly, "and I do not know your kinsman. I am Gem ser Edreth and I have no kin, and none to order me, now that my master is dead. You should mind your manners and not be snatching the arms of strangers in the dark, young miss, or you'll find yourself hurt—or wronged and in the Blue House."

  "You are Anjemalti Kristefyon," her voice was low; exultant in its surety; "child of Captain Marjella Kristefyon of the Ship Gardenspot. You carry the genes of the Crew; you are the Captain-to-Be, who is now the Captain-in-Truth. The Ship is in danger and you are foretold in the Tomorrow Log—"

  "And you," he snarled, "are mad! Good-night, moonling, and may the gods conspire to allow you live through the night!"

  He spun away then, and ran to the base of the 'Ramp; going from there through all the backways home, trying with all his skill to lose her. When he finally did reach Jilvon Court, he hovered long at the entrance-way, straining ears and dark-seeing eyes.

  At last, convinced that she was no longer with him, he entered his house, went straight to the bar, and poured himself a brandy.

  Chapter Four

  His name was Anjemalti Kristefyon; he was nine years old, his mother was dead, and his Uncle Indemion hated him.

  There were blows, and hard words about faulty genes, for his mother had mated with no man of the Crew, but with a Grounder, and had exulted in the spindly, half-blind boy that union produced, to her brother's cold disgust.

  The blows were hard to take, but the words were harder, especially when they dealt with his mother, so that he cried aloud and felt acid in his own heart. And the acid grew until the day he drew his boy's blade and launched himself at the man, surprising both by drawing blood, by the strength and determination of the attack.

  The beating that time was very bad.

  Not long after, his uncle took him to Prongdil. They walked a dismal port-fair to a stinking tavern, his uncle's hand brutal about his arm. The place grew quiet as they entered, then erupted noisily as they marched toward the back of the room.

  "Hey, Olbi, look at this! A father and son act!"

  "A half-wheel for the little one, don't he look fresh!"

  "Fresh! Unplucked, I'll warrant—a whole wheel for the virgin!"

  "As if you'd know what to do with him! Beautiful mouth, eh?"

  This last drew a bit of laughter and he felt his face heat, though he barely knew why. His uncle pulled on him roughly then, and he stopped.

  The person behind the table stared at him, then shifted her gaze upward, eyebrows lifting.

  "He's a bit undergrown, for twelve."<
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  "His father was thus, mistress; and the child favors him."

  "I see." She raised her glass and drank, placed it carefully aside, and beckoned with a broad-fingered hand. "Come here, boy."

  His uncle pushed him and let go. Anjemalti hesitated, reluctant to go to the woman, willing almost to run through that noisy mob. . ..

  "Ah-ha!" The woman laughed, extended a long arm and drew him close. "He thinks he may not like me—and he knows he doesn't like you." The hand on his arm was neither cruel nor kind; the fingers that tipped his face toward the meager light and stroked his cheeks and hair flesh, warm and efficient.

  "What's your name, boy?"

  "His name is Anjemalti," his uncle said hurriedly, and the woman glared at him.

  "Can he speak for himself, or are you peddling damaged goods, as well as underaged?"

  "He can speak, mistress." His uncle's voice was almost subdued.

  "Good." She brought her gaze back to him, ran judgmental fingers down his throat, casually unsealed the first several fastenings of his shirt. "What's your name?"

  "Anjemalti Kristefyon," he said, and jerked his head irritably. "Stop that."

  "A touch of spirit, is it? Now, Anjemalti, who is the man who brought you here?" She continued to unseal his shirt, slipped her hand against his flesh and probed, laughing when he flinched away.

  "My Uncle Indemion."

  "Is he?" She touched a bruise and frowned slightly; began to close his shirt. "Do you know that your uncle has brought you here to sell, Anjemalti? He beats you, I see, so maybe it's just as well. My clients are quite genteel—most of them—and would hardly think of beating so well-favored a boy. Though I'm not sure you'd do in a bordello, Anjemalti—no, I'm certain of it—too much spirit. How old are you?"

  "Nine years, Standard."

  "Ah, yes, underaged . . ." She glanced over his head. "I'll give three full rounds of gold. My final price."

  "Three rounds, mistress? But he's worth far more than that! Undergrown he is, yet you admit he is not ill-favored. Surely so well-traveled a lady as yourself knows of a person or two with more—sophisticated—inclinations. . .."