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  SKYBLAZE

  Adventures in the Liaden Universe®

  Number Seventeen

  Sharon Lee and Steve Miller

  Pinbeam Books

  http://www.pinbeambooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are fiction or are used fictitiously.

  SKYBLAZE

  Copyright © 2011 by Sharon Lee and Steve Miller. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author. Please remember that distributing an author's work without permission or payment is theft; and that the authors whose works sell best are those most likely to let us publish more of their works.

  First published in 2011 by SRM, Publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-935224-12-9 Kindle

  ISBN 978-1-935224-13-6 Nook

  ISBN 978-1-935224-14-3 PDF

  Published April 2011 by

  Pinbeam Books

  PO Box 707

  Waterville ME 04903

  email [email protected]

  Cover art copyright © 2011

  SKYBLAZE

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  Skyblaze

  Solcintra, Liad

  It was perhaps a nonsense phrase, but around fares and administrivia Vertu dea'San Clan Wylan, who was in fact Wylan Herself, delm of her small clan, allowed it to amuse for most of the early shift, finding the ease with which it shifted between Terran and Trade, with at least some meaning attached to it, an instructive counterpoint to the utter inability to phrase it properly in any of the modes Liaden provided.

  Somebody ought to do something.

  It was the ''ought'' of course, providing the information that melant'i required an action without indicating in which direction it flowed, nor from which necessity, nor from which source, the ''somebody'' being a particular problem for the Liaden sensibility.

  The phrase had become common recently, the port being unusually beset by Terran travelers left behind or inconvenienced by this or that ship, change of schedule or sudden re-routing -- and had today intensified with the sudden advent of a large vessel full of boisterous mercs with only the most modest of language resources among them.

  Not that they -- tourists and travelers and mercs every one -- weren't good for business, especially at the hours when they were the only business, but they tended to want something to be done about signs in Trade or Terran where clearly they were on a Liaden port and should expect Liaden custom to prevail.

  It was, Vertu acknowledged to herself, true that the two places most likely to be accessible to non-Liaden speakers were the elegances of High Port, and the depths within the shadow of the Tower -- Low Port, where small businesses, some barely above begging shops, trembled to bring in every last coin, not disdaining Terran bits or other Terran custom.

  This insight came to her as she finished a bowl of noodles and cheese with the last sip of wake-up tea from the corner shop that supplied her meals whenever she had the shift -- the insight that she too, did not disdain Terran bits.

  For that lack of disdain she supposed she would forever be among the last and least to receive invitations or acknowledgment from the Council, but there -- she was Wylan, and would remain so for some time, and in that she was secure. She did her best to keep the clan, and if it had meant that over the relumma she'd opted to add respectable Terran and Trade lettering to her vehicles, and to choose the larger rather than the most elegant, and if Most Serene Travel Experience became Wylan's Port Taxi in translation, so be it. That the High Houses disdained her survival was not her concern. That they expected her to bow to them out of other than necessity was absurd.

  Well, perhaps she ought to bow, just for practice.

  With that thought she bowed vaguely in direction of Korval's distant Tree, it being the closest point she could see that was not of the port and thus not of the Council, and turned on the comm-retrieval, in case there was commerce.

  *

  The pecking order at the taxi line was nearly immutable, with latecomers -- meaning those firms or clans with three generations or less experience -- sitting on the second line for manual wave-ins, while those older, the ''holding clans'' who had permanent transport licenses with no expiration date, shared the first line in an intricate dance Vertu could call, but whose logic was born of something other than service to the traveling public.

  Clan Wylan ought, perhaps, not be be among those called latecomers, being not recent to the trade, but to the location, but there -- that was an old battle, lost some generations back when a racing park gave way to manufacturing in a slyly executed move by an Olanek -- and the Balance for it would come from someone else, for her need upon retrieving the Ring from the insensate hand of her predecessor had been to preserve the clan, which to this point she had done.

  The current Wylan license would grow to a holding license in only another twelve Standards; Vertu's personal goal was to take that first drive for the clan and retire, her duty done, with daughter to take up the Ring. But for now, within her clan, port duty went first to the one who'd had least of it within the last twelve-day and she'd been the lucky one for some time, finding on-call work from the Scout back office, from the Binjali repair shop, from people traveling anywhere but to or from the port's pick-up line.

  For that stretch of good fortune, she today had the on-port line while her daughter Fereda did the outer routes and her no-longer halfling son Chim Dal still likely partied his night off with friends who might well make him late tomorrow morning. Ah, to have such energy -- and such friends! -- as he did.

  Dutifully, Vertu pulled her taxi into the secondary line, watching the first line's ballet as they accepted or neglected fares. A quiet shift, she was perhaps seventh in line as she waited, allowing the car's music system to wake up the day. Soon she was sixth, and then fifth, and fourth . . . fourth behind three drivers sitting for the morning meal as they waited.

  That, of course, was one of her advantages -- she did not eat nor game while on wait, nor drink, smoke, or chat for more than a moment or two with other drivers -- and so she was not in the wrong to move forward when the manager of line one waved frantically at line two, despite the shiny row of on-duty line ones, all disdaining the next fare.

  And so, there must be a reason.

  She blinked as she pulled to the front, for the ''next fare'' was not one but two uniformed mercenary Terrans and their luggage. Clearly too large for many of the top-end cabs even without their hand-carry, with it they would have needed a moving service, or indeed, a multi-cab like the very one she drove.

  The Terrans nodded to her, and the darker one held out a Unicredit card as she slowed to a stop.

  She popped the doors, intending to assist, but they hustled into the cab without aid, depositing their luggage between them, the dark one still holding the card out.

  ''We need to visit this address,'' he said in what might be flawless Trade, but who knew, after all, Trade being a language without a home. He pulled out a folded sheet of hard copy which he held for her to see, adding, ''We may be some time at the location.''

  She bowed a
slight acknowledgment, pointing out, ''Traveler, time and distance are what I charge for, and so we are Balanced.''

  She accepted the proffered card and waved it at the reader, which happily beeped and accepted the charge, for one Howler Higdon, if she read the transliterations correctly.

  ''Soonest is better!'' the larger of the two said.

  ''Yes,'' she agreed, ''soonest is always better.''

  *

  Unusual to say, the address was one she'd never delivered to before -- in fact, she barely recognized the sub-quadrant, much less the crossroads, and was pleased to find the vehicle map knew more than she did. The quadrant was hardly one visited frequently by anyone, especially not sudden Terrans but she accelerated away from the line at a heady pace, wondering what they might want to see in the overgrown semi-wild sections of Solcintra's abandoned old lands.

  The in-cab camera showed the Terrans at peace with themselves, watching the trip with interest but unconcern, quiet. She'd anticipated perhaps a visit to a brothel, or a gambling hall, or even a shopping extravaganza -- not any of them out of the way destinations for Terrans, in her experience. This was perhaps even beyond the last unusual request she'd had -- a Terran starpilot demanding a direct ride to Korval's holdings -- but there, she'd learned from that trip to take the money, drive. . .and let the traveler take care of the details.

  Routed through minimum traffic once away from the spaceport exit, the cab quickly passed through the usual areas of tourist interest -- the largest buildings, the gaudy town-house estates of the most overreaching High and Mid-Houses, the quaint rows of elegant shops where the rich shopped, the fastidiously landscaped inner and mid-parks, the --

  The Terrans spoke low among themselves, and if the language was any she'd ever been schooled in it was not recognized by her ear at this level, at this cadence.

  ''Your pardon, driver.''

  She glanced to the screen, found his eyes waiting.

  ''Does the Serene Taxi Agency employ other vehicles? Might you be able to summon more if need be? Of this size or larger?''

  She blinked, which he must have seen -- he had enough Liaden to see the true-name, and hence to read her own on the driver-slot. Not, perhaps, a common Terran, here . . . .''

  ''I have several cars in my service,'' she admitted, ''though availability depends upon prior routings and arrangements. Have you an immediate request -- does your friend need another destination?''

  That made the dark man smile and the larger man chuckle.

  ''No, driver,'' the larger one said. ''It is that, if we find our destination as we envision it, we may wish to invite others to an event.'' He paused, glancing with some meaning she did not grasp to his companion, who suppressed a smile as he continued, ''The word for such an event is picnic in Terran, or call it a lunch-fest, perhaps, in Trade.''

  She had Terran, to an extent, and this word picnic had come to her along with others of use to her trade and security -- rob, take, orgy, bash . . . . The destination they had chosen seemed an . . . odd . . . place for a picnic.

  ''Ah,'' she said, to indicate that she had heard, but not wishing to add more. She watched the city wind down to the true old houses and abandoned shells of things long left to the elements as Greater Solcintra had grown. Some of the area actually belonged to this or that clan, other parts had been early communal areas built shortly after Landfall and ostensibly under the benevolent oversight of the Council of Clans. They called much of this area a park, but as so many things the Council did it was a convenient sop to appearances rather than a reality to be enjoyed by the average Solcintran.

  Here, when they arrived, was a sharp corner leading into a sudden ridge top. There was a short cross-street; perhaps buildings had adorned each end at some distant moment in history. After that came a turnabout overlooking hills falling away so sharply that at least one of them might be called a cliff, hills that fell in green profusion to wild streams and scattered rock below. It was in its way even more unregulated than the wilderness around Korval's valley, and a little disquieting, for it showed dissolution rather than desolation. The edge of the turnabout nearest the cliff lacked a buffer or curb, and there were marks there as if someone used the spot to push unwanted items into the ravine.

  Vertu stopped on the side of the pavement with a curb, car and timer running, finding the address matched perfectly the one the dark Terran had given her. She looked into the camera then, finding her passengers looking elsewhere.

  ''Here we find your address. Shall you depart from me here, where there are neither people nor businesses, lost in the the backwoods of Solcintra?''

  She trusted that Trade might somewhat hide her amusement, for surely she'd had worse fares. Still, as a destination it . . . .

  The larger Terran said in a Trade undertone clearly meant for his companion rather than her, ''This could do it.''

  She glanced up, meeting the dark man's gaze in the camera, amusement flickering about his lips and eyes.

  ''If you might hold for us a short while, driver. We must take a few readings . . . .''

  She bowed toward the camera, turned as if to show them the functioning of the doors, which, the cab being still, were able to be opened by either of them.

  ''You are my fare, and so I will await you, as the cab is empowered to charge you for time as well as travel.''

  ''Yes, that is so.'' He smiled into the camera, and the pair moved quickly, opening the doors and exiting, pulling their luggage with them.

  She watched as they walked to the paved edge, speaking too quietly now for her to overhear, gesturing in directions that indicated the sweep of the streams below, and of hills on the farther side.

  A piece of luggage was snatched up, zipped quickly from its sheathing -- and there stood on Terran-tall tripod, an object from another piece of luggage mounted to it -- and another. The dark man stood back from it, staring into a hand-held, free hand moving as if he counted seconds.

  The larger man moved to the cliff edge, staring into the distance, hands to face as if he shielded his eyes from glare, or held some small object to peer through.

  ''There!''

  The larger man pointed, and made some kind of hand-signal, and both of them were at the tripod, hefting it just over the rim to the hillside, sliding down the dirt there, urgently doing things she couldn't quite see, until half of the tripod was out of sight, and half held its head above the paved plateau.

  The larger man lurched up the side of the hill to the pavement, taking business-like strides past her and the taxi to the cross-street where he turned, surveying the view like a tourist, and then with purpose. He stooped, staring toward the tripod and his friend with a solemn expression.

  ''And so?'' he called out.

  The smaller man replied across the distance, clearly saying:

  ''We're synched. Port comm, ship comm, Higdon Central. Enough to start on, I'd say.''

  ''Got your recall on?''

  ''Can activate at will.''

  ''You know the drill, then. You'll probably see me before you hear from me.''

  A wave and the Terran near the tripod moved down the slope, disappearing from view. The large man strode back to the cab, opened the door smoothly and slid in, carefully engaging the lock.

  ''Thank you for waiting,'' he said as he adjusted his lanky form to fit the seat. ''Please start driving,'' he said carelessly, hand perhaps pointing toward the greater city.

  Vertu bowed, put the car in motion. There were not all that many routes from here, after all . . .

  She glanced into the camera, let the car straighten into the main road.

  He watched, his face nearly Liaden in neutrality.

  ''I'd like to return to the spaceport area, but not to the point you picked us up. I'll show you where as we get near, if I may. Also, I'd like to discuss hiring this vehicle for the next Standard Day, and another fifteen vehicles like it, if they may be had. I am able to pay cantra, in advance, at triple day rate, if you prefer.''

  Return
ing her attention to the road, she bowed vaguely toward the camera.

  ''This discussion, we shall have it,'' she allowed in careful Trade, ''when we have a stop on the road.''

  *

  Wylan let the car's taxi-channel chatter to itself as she turned off the direct route. The noodle shop made an excellent stop on the road, and the location was agreeable to the Terran. He, nameless, had been quite patient with her short quick inquiries over timing and locations once she'd admitted she'd be dealing with -- she used the Trade term allies -- to fill in the cars her own agency could not provide. That most of those would not be directly under her command she'd not let on, but there, the details need not concern him.

  Into the camera, she began --

  ''Your need must be great, oh traveler, and you have many friends. I must, you understand, be sure of my necessities before committing so many of my resources . . .''

  Also into the camera, the Terran: ''May I speak in confidence with you, and ask, if you find my offer not to your liking, that you permit me to make the offer to others --''

  She bowed lightly in her seat, also raising her left hand with a slight shoo-away sign.

  ''If my melant'i finds your offer unfortunate, I will tell you so, carry you to a destination, and be done with it. I cannot be responsible for the melant'i of others, says the Code, nor should I wish to!''

  ''I appreciate your understanding,'' he said, ''and your honesty.'' He paused, reaching about his person as if in search of something, finally arriving at a bent card -- yes, very much a card such as she herself might convey upon meeting new acquaintances of worth.

  ''It seems that I am come with a less than presentable card, and ask you to forgive my haste. Let me share this, if I may, as is --''

  She opened the port and took the flimsy, which was a very high quality paper indeed.

  The card was two-sided -- one side printed in Trade, the other in Terran. Simple typography conveyed extremely chilling information.