Liaden Universe 18: Dragon in Exile Page 27

  She laughed.

  “Seemed to me like he kept the habit.” She sobered. “Shouldn’t we be getting him and Aelliana back soon? If nothing else, Uncle’s gotta be getting tired of buying whetstones.”

  “I think the Uncle is a patient man, when it suits his purpose. Nor would it surprise me to learn that he has to hand a sufficiently large supply of whetstones. I am inclined to think that he is finding the present currents as difficult to navigate as we, though he is not a primary target. He did speak of strikes against his enterprises, in his last correspondence.”

  “So you’re willing to give him more time?”

  “Yes. Father was badly wounded, and may yet be so weak that a careful man—and there are few men more careful than the Uncle—would not wish to send him off to fend for himself. Also, if the Uncle is involved in straightening out his own affairs, he may not be able to turn aside at this juncture. And, you know, Father may be of some use to him.”

  “For values of use,” Miri muttered, “including mayhem.”

  “Almost certainly mayhem,” Val Con assured her, as they moved into the main room of their apartment. “My uncle made a point of assuring me that my father’s skills were in no way inadequate.”

  He opened the door, and they stepped out into the hall.

  “What does the Road Boss have on her schedule today?”

  “Not one thing. I figure I’ll be reading reports and drinking coffee all day. When that gets boring, maybe I’ll play cards with Nelirikk.”

  “Teach him pikit,” Val Con suggested.

  “Prolly better’n letting him skin me at poker.”

  They descended the stairs, and Miri turned left, toward the side door where Nelirikk would be waiting for her with the car.

  “Miri,” Val Con said, his voice sharp.

  She turned, thinking it was a kiss he wanted; thinking that his voice had been a little too urgent for that, alone.

  “What?”

  “Be careful today,” he said, still sharp-voiced. “I—” He took a breath, and shook his head. “Something—I think that something may happen.”

  Well, that was nice and vague, wasn’t it? On the other hand, it wasn’t a good idea to ignore Val Con’s hunches, vague or otherwise.

  She gave him a smile.

  “I’ll do my level best to make sure nothing at all happens. Deal?”

  His smile was wry.

  “It isn’t much, is it? Take care, cha’trez.” He stepped forward, and bent, his kiss everything that wasn’t vague.

  “I’m gonna be taking you up on that, later,” she said, when she could talk again.

  “That’s a deal,” he answered, and turned up the hall, toward the office.

  Miri watched him for a minute, sighed, and headed for the side door.

  “Need to tell you, Haz, this is my last shift with Security.”

  They were standing at Nelsin’s counter sipping their mid-shift coffees. Hazenthull looked down, but Tolly had his face turned aside.

  “Will you allow this person who hunts you—this man without honor—to take the field unchallenged?”

  “He can do what he wants, ’s’long as he does it far away from me. See, my colleague came through with a job offer, and I’m going off-world. The contract and prepay came through this morning, all right and tight. So, after this shift is done with, I’m gonna go see Commander Liz, turn in my service gun, sign the separation papers and—go. Ship lifts this evening, and I aim to be on it.”

  Hazenthull raised her cup and drank coffee she no longer wanted.

  “I will miss you,” she said, when she had put the cup down.

  “If it comes to that, I’ll miss you, too, Haz. You’re a good partner; one of the best partners I’ve had. Always know you got my back.”

  A silence fell between them, which was not unusual, but this one felt . . . strained, as if the troop had been divided, already.

  “This job—you will be a pilot?”

  “Some piloting; some consulting. It sounds like a rare knot, if you want the truth. Something I can really get my teeth into. So, I’m excited. And it’s the work I was trained to do—my specialty, see? Gonna be good to get back to it.”

  “Yes,” she said, and wondered if she could ask him, now, what his specialty was.

  “So,” he thumped his cup on the counter, and called a ‘Hey, thanks!’ to Nelsin, who was at the back grill.

  “Let’s swing over to Mack’s then up by the portmaster’s office. Sound good to you?”

  Hazenthull checked her sidearm, and nodded.

  “Sounds good to me,” she said.

  Pat Rin rose from behind his desk, eyebrows lifting.

  “Do you intend to seduce the High Judge?” he asked.

  “Merely to dazzle him with my magnificence. Do you think me too bold?”

  “Not in the least, though, after this meeting is done, I beg you will come with me to Audrey. She cannot miss this.”

  “I will, in fact,” Val Con said, flipping the lace back from his hand with a practiced snap of the wrist, “set a fashion.”

  “You may well do so. One would have supposed you satisfied with the skimmer.”

  “That has been years ago. One wishes, from time to time, to test whether one’s powers have faded.”

  Pat Rin laughed.

  “Well, I shall look a dull dog, indeed. I cannot recall the last time I saw so much lace before Prime.” He nodded at the chair beside his desk. “Come sit down, do. Will you have tea? Coffee? Wine?”

  “Am I so far in advance of the judge? I mean no discourtesy, but my feeling is that we may soon find ourselves in a three-pot meeting.”

  “I hope for two pots, myself,” Pat Rin said, sighing. “But, I concur. The judge is only moments behind you, if so much, and the kitchen has already taken a notion to produce refreshments calculated to amaze a palate accustomed to the thin pap available, outworld.”

  “They guard your melant’i well,” Val Con murmured.

  “I believe they have a certain pride in the household,” Pat Rin countered—and turned his head toward the door as it opened to admit a wiry woman with strong-looking yellow hair and a broad, pleasant face.

  “Sorry to disturb you, sir. Cook asks if you or your brother would be wanting a cup of tea.”

  “We shall wait for our third, thank you, Gwince,” Pat Rin said.

  “I’ll pass the message,” she said, and gave Val Con a sociable nod. “Mornin’, Mr. Falcon.”

  “Good morning, Gwince. What do you think of my coat?”

  “Real fine looking,” she said without the flicker of an eyelash. “I’ll just pass that message back to Cook.”

  She withdrew, the door closing behind her.

  Pat Rin sighed.

  “There’s to be a shooting competition, have you heard?” he asked. He plucked a paper from the stack on his desk, and passed it to Val Con, who ran an eye down the page.

  “A Boss round? Is that wise?”

  Pat Rin turned his hands palms-up.

  “Mr. Golden and Ms. Jazdak seem to think it can do no harm, and might, indeed, serve as fair warning. Mr. McFarland is taking counsel from the other head ’hands. I agree with Mr. Golden’s central point, which is that it ought to be made plain that the Bosses are not, shall we say, wholly dependent upon the skill of their oathsworn. On the other hand, one dislikes showing one’s cards.”

  “I agree. Perhaps, rather than a competition, the Bosses might provide a variety of demonstrations?”

  “To avoid comparisons being made? That might answer. I will put it to Mr. McFarland. In any case—”

  The door opened to Gwince again.

  “’Scuse me, Boss. High Judge Falish Meron is here to see you.”

  Pat Rin looked at Val Con. Val Con raised an eyebrow.

  “Indeed. Please show the High Judge in, Gwince.”

  “I’ve done what?”

  Ren Zel sank into the chair next to the Master Healer’s desk, swallowing against a ris
ing feeling of illness.

  “How . . . long?”

  Master Healer Pel Tyr moved his hands in the pilot’s sign for uncertain.

  “Years,” he said. “How many years? More than twelve. One of my colleagues believes that it may be as many as thirty.”

  Thirty years. Gods, gods, he had stripped half a man’s lifetime away with a single small pinch of his will. Who was he to have done such a thing? And to a man who had so desperately chosen for life?

  “I—” he shook his head, horror outflowing. He tried to calm himself, out of respect for the Healer’s sensibilities. He could at least be courteous.

  Even as he struggled to master his emotions, he felt a subtle warming of his blood, and calmness descend upon his disordered thoughts.

  “I understand,” said the Master Healer, who was doubtless the origin of these gifts. “I understand that you were set to witness what change might occur, and that a part of your duty was to . . . cut the threads, should one who had chosen to embrace . . . evil take strength from their decision.”

  “Yes . . .” Ren Zel said, his voice unsteady. “But Bon Vit . . .”

  “Had chosen life, yes. However, you tell us that you acted out of necessity. That even though he had chosen, yet his enemy had sown the seeds of some terrible vengeance in his soul. When he engaged again with life, those seeds were in danger of being drawn out of his soul into the wider universe.”

  “All true. But they were so few; the universe is vast. Had I known, I would have let them go. Surely, they could not have survived . . .”

  “Or,” the Master Healer interrupted, “they might have seeded themselves among all the threads and done unimaginable harm. Do you know that they would not?”

  He thought; he opened himself to his gift—but there was no answer. Could the universe itself not know the answer?

  “No,” he said.

  “Your grief does you credit, for it is no small thing, to halve a man’s life,” the Master Healer said. “But in Balance, you may have preserved all life. Why do you have this gift, if not to do precisely as you did?”

  “I don’t know,” Ren Zel said, and gratefully partook of the calmness the Healer offered. He rose.

  “If he is able, I would . . . speak with Bon Vit.”

  The Master Healer rose.

  “I will take you to him,” he said.

  INTERLUDE NINE

  Vivulonj Prosperu

  In Transit

  The lights told the tale—a bright bar of living blue—but Uncle had long ago learned not to depend on a single source of information.

  Accordingly, he opened the annotated files, and perused them, before crossing the cubicle to the independent monitor and accessing its information.

  Both sources confirmed the testimony of the blue bars on the status board: Daav yos’Phelium’s rebirth was complete; the biological statistics, gene construction, and other vital parameters overlapped perfectly. The person who lay in the birthing unit was, to a percentage of point nine-nine-nine-nine-nine, Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval.

  Uncle nodded to himself. He had not expected to find any deviation, not with the abundance of material that had been available to the devices, but it was well to be certain.

  Especially in such a case.

  He closed the monitor, and turned again to the birthing unit. On this front, at least, all was proceeding according to plan. It was well that the man—a practical man, once a Scout and a delm—was ready for birth first. By the time his lifemate was ready, in her turn, for awakening, he would be in possession of the facts of their new existence, and would have had time to process any misgivings he might entertain, and so be better able to assist her in adjusting to her peculiar biological condition. He would be further along in the acclimatization process and be able to assist her there, as well, thereby freeing Uncle and Dulsey from the necessity of tutoring a second newborn in the facts of life.

  Uncle touched a key on the unit’s status board; the dome of the pod, which had been opaque, rippled and became transparent. Visible through that window was a lean young man lying on a pale mat, his tender flesh uniformly golden, showing neither scar nor mar. His nose and his face alike were long, the mouth perhaps a bit thin, lips presently pressed into a firm line. The eyebrows were strong, dark like the thick lashes that lay lightly along his cheek. Short, dark hair covered his head like a tight-fitting velvet cap; his ears were shapely.

  He breathed deep and slow, as would a man in a coma.

  The Uncle reached to the board and made an adjustment. Soon, cooler air would flow into the capsule, carrying a mild stimulant, to raise the man from near coma to deep sleep, and from deep sleep, eventually, to wakefulness.

  The process would take a few minutes; there was no need or necessity to hurry. While the automatics worked, Uncle opened a wall locker and withdrew a soft pair of ship pants, a sweater, and a transparent bag.

  He placed the clothing on the chair next to the capsule, opened the bag and withdrew a seed pod. It lay round and green and somehow cheerful-looking in the palm of his hand. Perhaps it anticipated its imminent consumption and the completion of its purpose, whatever it might be.

  A chime sounded, softly, and Uncle approached the capsule. The man within had shifted somewhat on the mat; the instruments reflected the movement of his eyes beneath closed lids.

  Uncle made another adjustment to the board, and counted, silently, to twelve.

  There came a soft hiss from the pod, and the canopy lifted, sliding away into the side of the unit.

  The man on the mat gasped, and opened his eyes. For a moment, he lay as he had been, feeling, as the Uncle knew from his own numerous rebirths, at peace, not so much an empty receptacle, as open to every potential.

  It would be a moment or two, before identity fully returned. There would be, perhaps, an extended interval, if the newborn—as one who had been Scout-trained in a past life might do—inventoried himself for weakness or wounds, sought among his memories for a clue as to his whereabouts, and perhaps attempted to plan—

  The man in the capsule convulsed, his breath gone to ragged gasps. From the status board came a shrill warning; Uncle looked up as the bright blue bars snapped to orange. The systems gauges were falling, and the man on the mat was curled on his side, shuddering, breathing in huge, tearing sobs.

  Uncle grabbed one shoulder, careless of tender new skin, and pulled the man onto his back. There was no resistance; his muscles were like a child’s. His eyes were screwed shut and he gasped as if he were drowning.

  “Look at me!” Uncle snapped. “Daav yos’Phelium Clan Korval!”

  Black eyes, already dull, opened, and sought his face.

  “What ails you?” Uncle demanded, for the gauges only told him that this man, who had been perfectly healthy in his new body only moments ago, now was declining toward death.

  “. . . gone . . .” the other said, the word nearly swallowed in his gasping.

  Uncle took a hard breath, and flung out his hand, showing the seed pod.

  “Here, Pilot; take this.”

  The black eyes closed. The status board shrilled another warning, and the orange bars faded.

  “Daav, eat the pod.” Uncle pushed it under that long nose, hoping that the scent would . . .

  The man turned his head away.

  “. . . not ripe . . .” he choked.

  For a moment, Uncle stood frozen, then his long habit of decisiveness reestablished itself.

  He pocketed the pod even as he turned toward the board, hands moving with quick deliberation among the controls.

  Warm air laced with pheromones and specialized drugs began to flow into the capsule even before the canopy locked into place. Support systems were engaged, and Daav yos’Phelium was plunged into a coma, his new body’s functions taken over by the unit. The status lights brightened from orange to green; the gauges rose—seventy percent, eighty percent . . . eighty-five percent.

  . . . and there they stabilized.

 
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Boss Conrad’s House

  Blair Road

  If Falish Meron, the High Judge of the Juntavas, found Val Con’s mode of dress extraordinary in any way, he did not allow the thought to reach his face.

  Pat Rin had not expected anything less from this visitor, but, then, Natesa had given him tales—sagas!—regarding the High Judge, which was an advantage that Val Con had not had. And, after all, there was no harm in finding if the sagas were true.

  Thus far, they showed well against reality. High Judge Meron was short for a Terran, his face beige and freckled; rust-red hair twisted into a knot at the back of his head. He had a decisive, and to Liaden sensibilities, overenergetic manner, but one could not doubt his intelligence, nor his determination.

  After tea was poured and tasted, he thanked them for allowing him to intrude upon their day, and stated that, as they were all busy people, he would make shift to move himself along quickly.

  He then stated that he came to them as the proxy of Sambra Reallan, Chairman of the Juntavas, with the express purpose of reexamining the ancient agreement between Korval and the Juntavas.

  Pat Rin sipped tea. Thus was the stipulation for the delm-genetic explained.

  Very well, then.

  He put his cup down and smiled gently at the High Judge.

  “You and I might usefully speak, I think, on the matter of certain freelancers on our streets, who have come to do business, and, in the process . . . overrepresent their attachment to, or place in, your organization, and I hope that we will have the opportunity to do so.

  “However, the chairman’s business is most properly placed before my cousin, for it is Korval House policy that you seek to reexamine. I will, therefore, withdraw—”

  The Judge raised a hand on which a large seal ring gleamed sleekly gold.

  “The freelancers—that’s the other reason I’m here. I’ll be talking to certain people, sir, and I expect there will be results. If there aren’t—you have the means to contact me, in-house, and I’ll ask you not to hesitate, if there’s something that requires my attention.”