Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) Read online

  Necessity’s Child

  A New Liaden Universe™ Novel

  Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  BAEN BOOKS BY SHARON LEE & STEVE MILLER

  THE LIADEN UNIVERSE®

  Fledgling

  Saltation

  Mouse and Dragon

  Ghost Ship

  Dragon Ship

  Necessity’s Child

  The Dragon Variation (omnibus)

  The Agent Gambit (omnibus)

  Korval’s Game (omnibus)

  The Crystal Variation (omnibus)

  THE FEY DUOLOGY

  Duainfey

  Longeye

  BY SHARON LEE

  Carousel Tides

  To purchase these titles in e-book format, please go to www.baen.com

  NECESSITY’S CHILD

  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.

  Copyright ©2013 by Sharon Lee & Steve Miller

  Liaden Universe® is a registered trademark.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  P.O. Box 1403

  Riverdale, NY 10471

  www.baen.com

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-3887-5

  eISBN: 978-1-61824-987-6

  Cover art by David Mattingly

  First Baen printing, February 2013

  Distributed by Simon & Schuster

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Lee, Sharon, 1952–

  Necessity’s child : a new Liaden universe(r) novel / Sharon Lee and Steve Miller.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4516-3887-5 (hc : alk. paper)

  1. Life on other planets—Fiction. 2. Space colonies–Fiction. I. Miller, Steve, 1950 July 31– II. Title.

  PS3562.E3629N43 2013

  813’.54—dc23

  2012043559

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Pages by Joy Freeman (www.pagesbyjoy.com)

  Printed in the United States of America

  CHAPTER ONE

  Inside the duct, it was hot and wet—nothing new there, thought Kezzi, shifting her weight carefully. The metal snapped in complaint, and she made herself be still.

  The space felt smaller than it had last time. Pulka would scoff if she said so, and ask if her shoulders yet touched the walls. They didn’t, but she had several times bumped her head as she’d crawled to the leaking seam, and scraped her elbows against the metal while she was applying the sealant.

  Pulka said it was only her weak heart that made her clumsy. He would tousle her hair as if she were Very Small, and tell her to ask the luthia for a prayer and a potion.

  After the last repair, when Pulka had laughed at her, Kezzi had done just that. The luthia, Grandmother Silain, made her sit at the fire, and poured tea from her kettle for them both. She asked many questions about the ducts, their purpose, and their importance to the kompani; sipping, listening with witch’s ears while Kezzi explained that the ducts were the path that the boiling water took along the bottom of the floor above their heads, that at once warmed the soil of the garden, and the kompani’s living space.

  When she had finished, the luthia poured more tea into Kezzi’s cup, and bade her drink; that a strong head was not a weak heart.

  Now, waiting on hands and knees in the damp heat, the little light in her work hat flickering like a flame in a draft, she tried to breathe slow and calm, like Silain had taught her. It was not a sin, that she disliked the ducts; she did not have to like them. All that was required of her was that she do her given-work well.

  It was said of the kompani by the elders of the kompani that what Bedel hands built rarely needed repair.

  The ducts, and the steam plant—those had not been built by Bedel, but they had been rebuilt by those capable hands, and Kezzi’s trips inside were not frequent.

  Still, she thought, taking another breath, and thinking, not of water so hot it would boil the skin from her bones in an eyeblink, but of Malda, waiting for her at the access point, sitting exactly where she had told him, quivering from pointed nose to skinny tail. She had promised him a run in the upper level, when this work for her elder was done.

  What was Pulka doing? Kezzi wondered irritably. Had he fallen asleep?

  As if he had heard her thought, Pulka spoke, his voice loud through the metal skin.

  “Tolerances check. You may return to us, little sister.”

  This was the worst part. She had long since grown too big to turn around in this small space, which meant she had to crawl backward to the nearest access point. As slow as it was to crawl in, it was twice as slow and slower to back out.

  At last, though, she made it. A breeze cooled her sweaty cheeks, and she bit her lip, forcing herself to keep an even pace. If she went too fast, she risked another seam parting, which would mean she would have to go back inside . . .

  Strong hands grabbed her around the waist, pulled her free of the last inches of the duct. Pulka swung her around high over his head, like she was a baby, then set her gently on her feet.

  “Well done, little sister. I am grateful for your assistance, and now I give you leave to go.” Pulka pulled the work hat from her head, and gave her a swat on the rump. “By all means, do go! And take your blessed servant with you.”

  He meant Malda, who sat as she had pictured him, quivering with joy at her return, his pointed snout wrinkled in a smile. Pulka, Kezzi thought, didn’t much like Malda, but, then, Malda didn’t much like Pulka.

  She pulled off her gloves and hung them on the loop of her belt.

  “Malda,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Come.”

  The little dog leapt up and ran to her, made one tight, wriggling turn around her ankles, and looked up into her face expectantly, as if he was afraid she’d forgotten her promise.

  As if she could. Kezzi took a deep breath of cooler air, and another, hearing the clatters and clanks Pulka made, as he sealed up the hatch. As soon as that was done, he would go to the wheel and turn it, flooding the place she had just been with scalding water.

  Kezzi swallowed, and turned hastily toward the ramp, snapping her fingers at Malda to follow.

  They were hardly three steps into freedom when a bell sounded, high enough to pierce the ear, soft enough that it would not be heard—outside.

  Kezzi groaned. She thought, fleetingly, of running on; of pretending that she hadn’t heard.

  . . . but she had heard. And even if she hadn’t, Pulka had, and he was calling her.

  “Little sister, come! The Bedel are rung together!”

  * * *

  They gathered ’round the common fire, all who had been in-kompani, and heard the call. Nearest the fire sat Alosha, the headman, and Silain, the luthia. At Silain’s right hand was Torv, whose given-work took him often among those outside, to repair what had not been built by Bedel hands, to watch, and to listen.

  Kezzi slipped into her place between Vylet and Droi, and gathered Malda onto her lap, hoping that Torv would speak quickly, so that she and Malda could get their run, before dreamwork took her.

  The bell rang again, and all the talk and chatter and laughter among the kompani quietened.

  Alosha the headman rose and looked around at them all, gathered in the half-circle before the fire. Such was the strength of his soul, that Kezzi felt his gaze touch her face, and move on, until he had seen them all.

  “Torv of our kompani has news from the City Above,” he said then. “Listen well, Bedel. After, we will talk.”

  Kezzi wilted where she sat. Talk. Talk could go on for hours. Malda would have no run today.

  And neither would she.

  The headman stepped back from the fire and sat on his rug. Torv rose to his lanky, considerable height, and looked out over them as the headman had done, though his soul was not so strong that Kezzi felt him see her.

  “I come,” he said, “just now from the City Above, where there is unrest among the gadje—Those Others.”

  Kezzi dropped her chin onto the top of Malda’s head and sighed loudly enough to win Vylet’s frown. Unrest in the City Above was a common thing. Why had the headman gathered them to talk about a fact of life?

  “Some kompani of Those Others have entered into dispute,” Torv continued. “They break each the tools of the other, and dismantle those things built and valued by the rival kompani.”

  Again, Kezzi sighed, though this time not so loudly that Vylet heard. Who cared if gadje disputed with each other, or broke each other’s workings? So far as Kezzi knew, gadje existed to break things. Had they not broken even Malda, leaving him for her to bring back to the kompani so that he might be repaired by Silain, the most potent pair of hands among the Bedel?

  “There is more,” Torv said, as if someone among them had voiced what Kezzi thought. “A blood feud has been opened against the Folk of the Tree. An attempt was made on the life of the headwoman. An answer is expected—is, I will say, brothers and sisters, feared. The gadje are in a time of turmoil, and nothing is safe from them.” He took a breath, and looked to the headman, who moved his hand in assent.

  “Yes. Having seen what I have seen, and heard what I have heard, I advise the ko
mpani, most strongly, to remove for a time from the City Above, in order that we not be caught by or made victim of the gadje’s madness.” He held his arms out as if he would embrace them all.

  “Brothers and sisters, ask what you will. I will answer as best I might.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The strike to Clan Korval’s heart had been turned aside, the unlucky blade captured and given over to the assassin judge, Natesa. Between her arts and those of the clan witches, it would not be long before every careful secret of necessity shared with Otts Clark would be in Korval’s possession.

  And Korval would not hesitate; nor would it waste breath shouting warnings to those who wished them ill. Throughout history, Korval had acted quickly and decisively to threats made against even the least of its members. A strike against the delmae—Korval Herself—that would not go unanswered.

  So it was that the word went out, from cell leader to cell leader, from first in line to least. A single word, but sufficient.

  Run.

  Field Agent Rys Lin pen’Chala was not so far down the chain that the word was long in reaching in his ear. Nor was he so ill-informed that the order surprised.

  There were not so very many agents of the Department of the Interior on Surebleak; indeed, following Korval’s attack upon the Department’s Liaden headquarters, there were not so very many agents—at all.

  That attack, against the very homeworld, had not been without cost. Korval’s allies upon the Council of Clans might have prevented them from being called outlaw, but they had not been able to prevent Korval’s banishment.

  A Liaden clan no more, Korval entered into a contract of employment with the Bosses of Surebleak, and relocated to that cold and backward world. And here they sat, free of their net of allies and servants, vulnerable to attack.

  Though the Department was likewise vulnerable, the Commander had seen opportunity, and deployed agents whose purpose was to undo all of Korval’s works, to unbalance their plans, and to strike a mortal blow.

  The failure of that blow to fall with precision . . .

  Run.

  Agent pen’Chala was not a fool. Certainly, Surebleak Spaceport was a free-for-all, overcrowded with those seeking opportunity, and chaotic at every level. How easy for a single man to lose himself in that unrelenting chaos, to find a ship, and slip away.

  The exercise became more difficult when there were a dozen such seeking anonymity and quiet passage. Add into that equation Korval on the hunt, and prudence dictated a less literal understanding of the orders received.

  Ships were Korval’s chiefest concern; spaceports their second home. Only a fool would try to outpace them on such terrain, while they were alert and searching.

  Let others race to the spaceport, to win past Korval, or to be taken up for questioning and worse. Agent pen’Chala preferred to increase his odds of survival.

  Run might under certain conditions be understood to mean hide.

  Hide until Korval’s face was turned toward some other problem. Until they had caught whomever they did—and they would catch some. Hide until it was . . . less risky to venture onto port and seek out a ship, to buy passage or sign as crew.

  Agent pen’Chala knew how to hide. Indeed, he was an adept, proved by circumstance.

  Decision taken, he turned his face from the spaceport, and instead moved further into the city, striking for the abandoned warehouse belt.

  He would hide. And, as before, he would survive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “When will you return to us?”

  Grandaunt Kareen would have approved his form just there, Syl Vor thought. He had framed the question in proper style—anticipating the joyful return of favored kin. If he had not minded his lessons, he might have said, “How long will you be away?”—and that would have been cruel, to burden his cousin with his dismay, when she had duty before her.

  He didn’t wish to be cruel to Padi—he liked Padi—and so he took care with his words. His eyes did sting, a little, but he blinked hard, and took a deep breath. He wasn’t a baby. And, besides, if he cried, Padi would be distressed, and it was his duty to send her to hers with no shadow on her heart.

  He had learned a great deal about duty from Grandaunt Kareen. They all had.

  “Well,” Padi said now, in answer to his question. “It’s an adjusted route that we’re testing. Father said to plan on half a Standard, but to pack for a whole.”

  Padi’s father was Uncle Shan—Master Trader yos’Galan. Padi would of course be the clan’s master trader when she was older, so she had a great deal to learn. And, Syl Vor had heard her say to Quin that she was behind in her lessons—as they all were—because of Plan B.

  Plan B was over now, and they—Padi and Quin and Syl Vor and the twins; Grandfather and Grandaunt—had been brought from the sanctuary at Runig’s Rock. They had all come . . . well, not to their very own home, Trealla Fantrol, where the yos’Galans had lived forever. Trealla Fantrol was gone. Uncle Shan had explained it—that the clan could only bring one house and of course they had to bring the Tree, so it was Jelaza Kazone that had come to Surebleak, and sheltered all the clan.

  Just like olden times, said Uncle Shan.

  So, now they were safe back with kin at Jelaza Kazone, and it was right and proper that they take up their usual training and the duties that Plan B had interrupted.

  Quin had only a few days ago been fetched down to Blair Road, and his father’s city house. Quin was to learn to be a Boss, that’s what Syl Vor had heard Grandfather Luken say. Bosses were in a “leadership capacity peculiar to the culture of this new homeworld”—that much Syl Vor knew. He hadn’t been able to get anything more useful than that out of his tutor. Yet.

  “You’ll be quite the expert on Surebleak by the time I come back,” Padi said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a piece of string. “I’ll depend on you to bring me up to line.”

  She wove the string casually between her fingers, until her hand was encompassed by what appeared to be an edifice of space and twine. Smiling, she held it out to him.

  Syl Vor hesitated, wondering if he should take offense, while the string and its pattern was held temptingly before him. No, he decided, Padi was only doing her duty, as his elder. The string game was pilot-play; it taught . . . well, he wasn’t exactly sure what it taught, but he was sure that he knew less about it than Padi did, and if he wished, when he was older, to be a pilot of Korval—which he very much did—then he had better learn everything she knew.

  He therefore studied the pattern carefully before slipping his fingers along two joint sections, and pulling the whole structure from her hands onto his.

  The pattern was changed in the transfer, as it should be. Syl Vor looked at it anxiously, but so far as he could see it was true, without tangles, knots or twists.

  Padi grinned and leaned forward in her turn, pinching a high point and a low—which was a surprise. If it had been Syl Vor’s turn to twist the pattern, he would have chosen . . .

  “There!” Padi said with satisfaction. “Now what will you do?”

  Syl Vor blinked at the newly complex weaving of string and wondered the same thing. Frowning, he studied it for a long moment, seeing nothing but a dense tapestry of line and space, complete in itself, and resistant to manipulation.

  Suddenly, the pattern seemed to come into sharper focus and Syl Vor saw a pair of junction points—one deep toward center; the other only one space from the pattern’s border. Boldly, he pinched each, lifted . . . pulled—and watched in dismay as the dense weaving unraveled into a limp double loop sagging around his fingers.

  Syl Vor bit his lip, expecting Padi’s ready laughter, but—

  “Forgive me, Cousin,” she said, sounding formal and grown-up. He looked up at her in surprise. “I twisted the thread during my transfer, and so gave you a faulty beginning.”