Necessity's Child (Liaden Universe®) Page 2

  “It was awfully complex,” he said, to make her feel better.

  She smiled and reached out to unwind the sloppy loops from his fingers.

  “It was, wasn’t it?” she said, coiling the string and putting it back in her pocket. “Let that be a lesson to us both, then: Too much complexity ruins the game.”

  * * *

  Later, after he’d gone down with Padi to the little parlor, where tall Uncle Shan was waiting, and had from each of them a kiss . . .

  After he’d watched their car go down the drive, between the browning lawns, and walked slowly back to the nursery, to meet his math tutor . . .

  After he’d had his dinner with Mrs. pel’Esla, and after Cousin Anthora had come to the nursery to visit—not him, of course, but the twins, though she kindly stopped for a game of skittles . . .

  After he’d washed behind his ears, said his own good-nights to Shindi and Mik; and slid into bed, remembering to thank Mrs. pel’Esla for her service this day . . .

  And after he’d lain awake for a little while, listening to the soft noises that Mrs. pel’Esla made as she put things to rights in the common room; wishing that he was in the dormitory he had shared with his cousins at Runig’s Rock, which Grandaunt would doubtless tell him was a great piece of nonsense . . .

  After he had not cried—or only a little—because he was all alone—which of course he couldn’t be, safe in-House and under Tree, surrounded by kin—he slid into a doze, remembering how it had been, at the Rock.

  They’d had lessons, of course—Grandfather Luken and Grandaunt Kareen had been very strict about lessons. Just because they were in hiding from Korval’s enemies, Grandaunt had said often, was no reason to descend into savagery.

  They’d had math; history, planetary and galactic; languages, the High Tongue, Trade, Terran, and hand-talk; systems-and-repair; dance; melant’i drills; weapon lore and practice.

  His favorites had been weapon lore and dance, though he wasn’t nearly as proficient as Quin and Padi. Grandfather had said he did well in keeping up with the others, who were, after all, so much older, and more advanced in their studies.

  That made him feel good.

  Practice was hardest. They had to pretend, which should have been easy, but the things they pretended—that Korval’s enemies had found them, there in the fastness of the Rock, and that they had to run away, to the ship that Quin and Padi would pilot. There was the order of retreat—Quin leading, because he was First Board, then Syl Vor, carrying the twins in their special basket, and Padi covering them both. That was right: the pilot, who kept the ship safe; then the passengers, who were under the pilot’s care; then copilot, guarding pilot and ship.

  There was nothing scary about pretending that—everybody knew the order of ship precedence.

  The scary part though—behind them would come Grandfather and Grandaunt, delaying the enemy in any way they could, so that the pilots and Syl Vor with the babies had time to gain the ship.

  They pretended that Grandfather . . . fell, and they . . . they pretended to leave him, the pilots sealing the hatch behind Grandaunt Kareen. They pretended that Grandaunt was lost. They pretended that neither elder gained the hatch by the time the pilots’ count was done, and the greatest good for ship and folk came down to Quin’s sole choice . . .

  One of the twins—Mik, by the little catch in the voice—was beginning a complaint. Syl Vor stirred, hoping he hadn’t pulled the webbing too tight, and then the sound, unmistakable, of the hatch sealing tight—

  Caught in the web of memory, Syl Vor choked, crying out, “Wait!” and that woke him to his own bed, where he lay, heart roaring in his ears, and his cheeks wet with tears.

  He concentrated like Padi had taught him—concentrated on breathing slow and deep. It was hard, but he kept at it until he was limp beneath the blankets, and told himself that it was pretend—that it had always been pretend; that Grandaunt and Grandfather were safe, just as he was, and the babies his charges; and Quin, and Padi . . .

  No longer deafened by his own heartbeat, Syl Vor heard a small sound, and knew that part of his dreaming had been real.

  Quietly, he slipped out of bed and ghosted across the dark common room, to the little alcove where the twins slept. Syl Vor peered ’round the corner. A night-dim on the corner table gave the room a faint, pearly glow. Mrs. pel’Esla, usually to hand, was at this moment absent. Doubtless, she had not gone far, and would return quickly to comfort Mik—that was no longer his job. No less a personage than his mother had said that he might put the order of Runig’s Rock behind him; that such arrangements were not required within the clanhouse. Still, it was not so easy to do as to say. They had been his to keep safe; his to decide for, if it came to such measures. They were his cousins; he was elder to them—surely that still held, even in-House?

  Mik complained again, fretfully louder. If he kept up like that, he would wake Shindi, and then everyone would know. A tale-teller’s voice, had Shindi. At least, so Grandfather said.

  Syl Vor slipped closer to the little bed, and peered over the low rail. Mik was asleep, but muttering, likely caught in some dream of his own. Carefully, Syl Vor stroked the soft cheek, murmuring, like he used to do at the Rock, when they were pretending and it was his job to keep them quiet.

  Mik’s eyelashes fluttered, his small body tensing toward wakefulness.

  “Mik, sweet one, sleep, brave child,” Syl Vor whispered, which were the words he had learned from Grandfather. He moved his hand to smoothe the rumpled dark hair.

  Mik sighed, his body relaxing back to sleep.

  Syl Vor continued to murmur, his hand against his cousin’s cheek, only a little longer, to be certain—and then looked up, hearing a step in the larger room outside.

  In a moment, Mrs. pel’Esla arrived, murmuring crossly, “. . . like to know how that cat—” She cut her complaint off at the sight of Syl Vor leaning over the crib, and sighed.

  “Are you wakeful, child?”

  “I heard Mik fretting,” he said, which was true, even as it sidestepped her question. “I was worried, in case he should wake Shindi.”

  “And woe to us all, in that case,” Mrs. pel’Esla said. She stepped to the crib and looked in.

  “You have a good touch with your cousins,” she said. “They honor you.”

  Syl Vor felt warmed. “I did my best to take care of them.”

  “That you did—and they remember it,” the nurse said. “Now, though, you must care for yourself. Can you find your bed in the dark? Would you like some hot milk to help you sleep?”

  “It’s not so dark,” Syl Vor told her, and, “No, thank you.”

  “Then I shall again bid you good-night, young Syl Vor,” Mrs. pel’Esla said. “I will look in on you after I settle this young rogue, in case you change your mind, about the milk.”

  “Thank you,” Syl Vor said, and ran his finger down Mik’s cheek one more time before he left the alcove and went back to his empty room.

  . . . which was not so empty, after all.

  There, curled among the blankets, was a rangy orange cat with white feet. She looked up when Syl Vor entered—and squinted her eyes in a cat smile.

  Syl Vor pressed his hand against his mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Eztina, you know Mrs. pel’Esla doesn’t like you here at night.”

  The cat yawned, and Syl Vor bit his lip, concentrating very hard on not laughing as he climbed into bed and scooched under those blankets not held down by cat.

  He curled around on his side and closed his eyes, Eztina tucked into the curve of his belly, and he flicked a corner of the coverlet over her. The cat began to purr, and Syl Vor rode that pleasant sound into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It could not be expected that the Bedel would long submit to meekness—so said Silain the luthia to Alosha the headman.

  The headman sighed to hear it, and fingered his pipe from his belt, and his smoke-pouch from his vest pocket.

  “In truth, we were made to wander, and wander, that we will.”

  Kezzi, sitting with Malda at some little distance from the luthia’s hearth recognized the line from one of the Truing Songs. The next line rose unbidden to her mind, and she hastily pushed it aside. She was supposed to be listening, not remembering!

  “Has wandering brought sorrow,” Silain asked, “or joy?”

  “Neither, as I parse it,” Alosha said, filling his pipe and tamping the leaf down with his thumb. “Whatever dispute exists between the Folk of the Tree and those who oppose them has flowed past us. The new order imposed upon the streets by the kompani of Bosses likewise flows past the Bedel, barely dampening our boots.”

  He snapped a firestick with the hand not occupied with his pipe, held the flame to the bowl and drew. Kezzi smelled bark and cherry as the smoke wafted past, and smiled.

  “We have been twice fortunate,” the headman continued, when the pipe was going to his satisfaction. “Will we be three times unfortunate?”

  Kezzi held her breath, and put her hand flat on Malda’s side as she leaned forward to hear better. Any question of the kompani’s fortune was serious—and doubly so when it came from the headman, who held their future in his hands.

  Silence from the luthia while she considered this weighty question. Alosha smoked his pipe, and kept his own silence.

  Kezzi had counted to nine, taking and exhaling a deep breath between each number, when at last Silain spoke.

  “First, we must be certain of our position,” she said. “Good fortune may approach the Bedel at this time because the kompani has already hosted her fair sister. Can you, headman, recall any recent unlucky events?”

  “Luthia, I cannot. Song and dream bring me no more than waking memory. We have long been fo
rtunate; the last great distress upon us was the collapse of the second retreat tunnel. Thus, I bring the matter to you, whose memory is longer, whose eyes are sharper, than my own.”

  That last part—that was a Proper Asking, and in truth, the luthia had the longest memory of any in the kompani. Her eyes were sharp enough, for her age, but that was great—she had been a child, had Silain, when the kompani commenced its chafurma.

  Kezzi gasped, snatching again at her wandering thoughts—focus!

  “ . . . I will dream on this. Since the Bedel wander, as is our heritage and our right, it may be well for the headman to convene an Affirmation.”

  Kezzi bit her lip. An Affirmation was three days of singing, tale-telling, eating, and dance. A time, said the luthia, for the Bedel to recall what it meant to be of the kompani, and to forget the ways and worries of the gadje—Those Others—among whom they lived, but were apart.

  “I will think upon it,” the headman said, taking his pipe from his mouth and blowing a circle of smoke. He rose with that, and gave the luthia her proper salute. “Luthia, I thank you for the gift of your wisdom,” he said, and went away across the common area, toward his own place.

  Kezzi sat back and sighed out the breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

  “Little sister,” the luthia said from the hearthside. “Come and share tea with me.”

  * * *

  There was music in the hallway.

  Syl Vor stopped with his hand on the bannister, listening.

  He had just come in from the garden, and it was time to go upstairs and do his prep work for tomorrow’s lessons. But the music . . . it pulled him somehow, down two stairs, to the hall, and down the hall, to the library door.

  Which was closed.

  Syl Vor took a breath, the music tugging at him. The door was closed; he hadn’t been invited in. He had work to do upstairs, he was already late, and—

  The music crashed, soared; the door opened to his touch, and he was inside the library.

  Uncle Val Con was standing at the desk, his shoulder to the door, his hands working the keys of the omnichora, and the music . . .

  Impossibly, the music soared higher, sounding . . . angry, and joy-filled, and sad, all at once. It pulled at his chest, and he was sure that if he opened his mouth, his heart would fly out and up, tangled in the music, taken by the turbulent air, and never be found, or seen again.

  Uncle Val Con leaned into the ’chora, and the music screamed. Syl Vor jammed his fist against his mouth, and then—

  It was like the music spun, and caught a downdraft, circling down, back down to Uncle Val Con, through his fingers, softer now, and simpler, only sad, but so very sad . . . and then it was quiet, and Syl Vor realized that he was crying.

  He swallowed and tried to think of the calming exercises he had learned on the Rock, but all he could hear was the music. He was cold, and his chest hurt. He bent forward a little to ease the pain.

  “Syl Vor!”

  Strong arms drew him close, and his cheek was against Uncle Val Con’s shoulder and he was trying not to cry, straining all his muscles trying to stop, but all that did was make him hiccup—and cry harder.

  “Softly, softly. Cry if you must, sweeting. There’s no shame.”

  Syl Vor felt a slow stroking down his back, over and over, like he would stroke a cat. Slowly, he warmed, and eventually he realized that his chest didn’t hurt anymore.

  He sniffled, and raised his head to look into his uncle’s face.

  “Forgive me,” he managed, his voice husky.

  “For what wrong?” Uncle Val Con asked, and his voice sounded strained, too, like he’d been screaming with the music. “Surely there is nothing to forgive if kin weep together.”

  And it was true, Syl Vor saw. Uncle Val Con’s face was wet, his eyelashes were sticky with tears.

  “But why?”

  Uncle Val Con sighed, and shifted his position, crossing his legs and drawing Syl Vor onto his lap.

  “Let us agree for the moment that I lost something . . . very precious, that I ought to have guarded more nearly.”

  “But,” Syl Vor said, remembering what Mrs. pel’Esla said when he lost something, “you can find it again.”

  “No.” Uncle Val Con used the tips of his fingers to brush the damp from Syl Vor’s face. “No, child, I can’t.”

  He looked so stern that Syl Vor didn’t like to ask any more questions. He had been quite little when Uncle Val Con stepped away from clan and kin to take up duty as a Scout, but he remembered him as laughing and lighthearted. Now that he was returned, and properly delm, as Grandaunt said, he seemed not to laugh so much.

  “I do ask your forgiveness,” his uncle murmured. “I had not intended the music to distress you.”

  “I had just come in from the garden,” Syl Vor said reasonably. “You couldn’t have known I was in the hall. And it was rude, to open the door when it was closed.”

  He felt a slight jerk; heard a light snort, as if Uncle Val Con had tried not to laugh.

  “Well, then,” he said, “we are both beyond shame, and need say nothing more.”

  “Except . . .” Syl Vor began—and stopped, uncertain if that meant nothing more at all.

  “Except?”

  “What was that music, if you please?”

  “Ah. That music was taught to me by your Grandmother Anne. It is called Swan Lake.”

  “What is a swan?”

  “A large and elegant waterbird. Your grandmother said that swans were sometimes mistaken for dancers all dressed in white, so graceful are they on the water. That, she said, was what inspired the story.”

  “Story?”

  “Ah, are you interested?”

  “Yes!” Uncle Val Con’s stories had always been interesting.

  “Hold. You are wanted in the nursery, are you not?”

  Syl Vor sighed, seeing the story flutter beyond his reach.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In that case, you must allow me to escort you, and make your excuses to Mrs. pel’Esla. I will tell you the story as we walk. Do we have a bargain?”

  “Yes!” Syl Vor said again.

  They rose, Syl Vor first. Uncle Val Con held down his hand, and Syl Vor took it as they left the room.

  “Now it happens that the delm had decided it was time for a son of the House to enter into his first contract of marriage . . .”

  * * *

  “You did well, little sister,” the luthia said, after the first cup of tea and Kezzi’s recitation of the conversation with the headman were both finished.

  “Your pardon, Grandmother,” Kezzi answered politely. “I was twice distracted.”

  “So you were,” the luthia said, as if she hadn’t noticed until Kezzi spoke of it. “I will give you a small dream, which will teach how to avoid unbidden memories; and another, to reinforce the art of listening for later.”

  “For now . . .” She put her cup aside, and held out both hands.

  Hesitantly, Kezzi surrendered her cup. In the usual way of things, they would now drink more tea, and the luthia would invite her to tell this tale or that, that she had learned from another of the kompani.

  “You must excuse me, little sister,” the luthia said with a smile. “I have said that I will dream upon this matter of the kompani’s fortune. This I will now do. I ask that you walk past Jin’s hearth on your way across the common, and say that I crave her assistance.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Kezzi said, rising and bowing, with the tips of her fingers tucked into the sleeves of her sweater.

  “That is well. The dreams, I will send this evening. Come to me again in two days, and bring with you a branch of limin blooms.”

  “Yes, Grandmother,” Kezzi said again. She snapped her fingers for Malda and went off to give Jin the luthia’s summons.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “You’re up early,” Nova yos’Galan said to her cousin Pat Rin yos’Phelium, ignoring the fact that she was, also, up before Surebleak’s uncertain sun.

  “One likes to take the air while it is still crisp,” Pat Rin told her loftily, one eyebrow raised.

  Had they been on Liad, and she a forward-coming acquaintance met before Day Port, that mode—and that eyebrow—would have succeeded in destroying all pretension. Indeed, it would have suddenly seemed not merely the most natural thing imaginable, that Lord Pat Rin would take the predawn air, but produced a certainty that everyone of proper breeding did so, as well.