Dragon in Exile Read online

  “It might,” Natesa said, “be a test.”

  Pat Rin looked at her. “A test of whom? Or what?”

  “Security,” Cheever said. “How good are these guys?”

  “Possibly,” Natesa agreed. “Someone may also have wished to ascertain how good Hazenthull is, specifically.”

  Pat Rin frowned. “You mean a strike at Korval.”

  She moved her hand in the pilot’s sign for maybe/maybe not.

  “In this case, multiple strikes could be delivered with one blow: Hazenthull, her partner, Security, Korval, and the Council of Bosses. Or it could have been something simpler.

  “A test, as Cheever suggests, to find how Hazenthull comports herself—or to mark any weakness in the working relationship between the partners, which might be exploited.”

  She sighed and shook her head.

  “Again, had they been more organized”—she threw Cheever a half-smile—“or chosen a sharper blade, they might have created a situation that pulled other Security teams away from the real target. As it is . . . Chief Lizardi is a canny woman. She will already have put her officers on alert. I am in the port this morning and can easily stop by and talk with her regarding potential targets.”

  Pat Rin sighed, irritated. “Ifs and maybes.”

  “’S’what keeps life inneresting,” Cheever said. “What do you want to do with this Kipler, Boss?”

  “There is a council meeting tomorrow evening. Mr. Kipler may continue to enjoy the hospitality of the Whosegow until he may be brought before all of the Bosses to explain himself. We will schedule him as light entertainment.”

  “I will mention that to Liz when I see her,” Natesa said, rising. She stepped to the side of the desk and bent to kiss his cheek. “I will be back in good time for dinner.”

  He caught her hand, and looked up into ebon eyes.

  “Be safe today, my love.”

  “Always,” she said lightly, and left them.

  “Okay, then,” Cheever McFarland said, after the door had closed behind her. “What’s on the schedule that’s fun, today?”

  They sat ’round the hearth, the grandmother, her grandson, and his brother. Tea had been brewed and poured. Sensing that the brother of her grandson yet needed some time to order his thoughts, and himself, Silain had opened the basket they had brought, and exclaimed over the contents. She directed Rys to cut and butter three of the rolls, to go with the tea, while she continued to loudly, and perhaps, just a little outrageously, praise the giver of the gifts.

  “Certainly, I am everything that is virtuous and good,” Val Con yos’Phelium said at last, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. “Even the Bedel must fall under my sway.”

  “No,” said Silain, well pleased with him. “There, you go too far. The Bedel may love you, and the Bedel may find for you this precious thing or that. But the Bedel go their own way, as we always have.”

  “Now, come,” she continued, returning the various packets of food and spice, and scented soaps to the basket. “Tell me what you think of this dream Rys has made.”

  He swallowed some of the strong black tea, and smacked his lips, as if he was of the kompani in truth. Then he set the cup by his knee and let his gaze touch Rys before he looked to her.

  “It is a . . . powerful dream. I do not think that I would have had the strength to have made it. However, I wonder how Rys knew to make the assignment . . . peculiar to myself, let us say.”

  Rys frowned, as well he might, who knew so little of the technicalities of dream-making.

  Silain, who knew very much of such things, leaned slightly forward. “There are codes that the one who tends the recording device inserts at the proper points. The core lesson is marked out by a fixed set—that never changes. Certain details are malleable. The assignment, for instance, must be tuned to the dreamer, or dreaming is all for nothing. The technician sets the code.”

  “I understand you to say that every dreamer will receive a different assignment,” replied Val Con.

  “Peculiar to herself,” Silain said, nodding. “Yes.”

  Val Con took a deep breath. It seemed to Silain that he was . . . distressed. She sipped tea, waiting for his next question, which was not long in coming.

  “May one ask how this is done, on the level below the setting of codes?”

  “That,” Silain admitted, “goes beyond me. I know that dream and dreamer interact, but the mechanics of that interaction . . .”

  “I will ask Pulka for the way of it,” Rys said. His mouth quirked into a half-smile, “though you risk having another dream given you, Brother.”

  Val Con shook his head. “In that case, allow me to consult my own resources, first. One would prefer not to disturb Pulka at his work.”

  “That is wise,” Rys agreed solemnly.

  “My question then becomes—can the dream be . . . edited?” He looked fully at Rys. “Understand me, I do not wish you to dream again! You have done enough. I only wish to know if the existing . . . experience . . . may be manipulated.”

  Rys looked to Silain; she nodded.

  “We may copy the dream,” she said. “We may extract segments, or rearrange the whole. What is in your mind?”

  “The segment in which we are . . . recaptured and bound anew. Those we seek to rescue have been acquired and remain in thrall. I believe that all we need do is offer the choice.”

  “Yes,” Rys said, before she could speak. “It is the choice that is key. But choice alone . . . may be too abrupt. There must, I think, be some context.”

  Silain nodded again.

  “That is so, else the choice will merely seem a random thought, and easily ignored. If you wish to free slaves, the dream must be real.”

  “I understand. Let me think on this, and take counsel of my sister.” Val Con reached to the common plate and took up a portion of buttered roll, which he ate with every appearance of enjoyment.

  Silain drank what was left of her tea, and handed the mug to Rys for refilling.

  “As I sit here reflecting with you, my child, I wonder . . . should the choices offered be three?”

  “Three?”

  She accepted her refilled mug from the gleaming hand of her grandson and leaned forward slightly.

  “The dream offers the choice Rys was given: allow the nightmare to swallow him entirely, or stand as the man he had been. To say, ‘No. I, Rys Lin pen’Chala, do not murder schoolchildren. I will not perform this action, and I will do everything in my power to prevent it being done by another.’”

  “Yes.” Val Con was watching her, green eyes intent.

  “As you say, those who are in your care are already wrapped in nightmare. They may not have the strength to stand against it, but they may very much wish to leave its service.”

  His face hardened, and when he spoke, his voice was flat and chill. “You counsel me to offer them death.”

  “I do, and I ask you this question: During your own time caught in the nightmare, if your death would have deprived your masters of the single weapon of yourself, would you have chosen it?”

  He sipped tea, giving himself, so she thought, time to consider the question fairly. When he met her eyes again, his were solemn.

  “Given that I had the ability to understand my situation, yes; I would far rather have died.”

  “And so might others, too weakened in will to accept the burden of freedom.”

  “I concede the point. I have already allowed two of those under my protection to die.”

  They pained him, these deaths. He had failed those he had taken into his heart to save. Good men cared about such things.

  “The first one, how did she die?” she asked softly.

  He moved a shoulder, his mouth hard.

  “Her . . . core self was isolated from the Department’s training—without reference or warning. The programming therefore decided that she had been compromised, and chose for her.”

  “And the second?”

  “The second? I k
illed her, by her intent. I had thought it was the programming, again, but, perhaps . . .”

  “Perhaps she had taken the third choice,” Silain finished for him. “You will not know that until you put the question to her, when you meet in the World Beyond. The first . . . you say that she was given, at the last, no choice, and so died a bad death. But you have forgotten that we pass into the World Beyond without wounds or pain.”

  She put her hand on his knee and looked into his eyes. “Death freed her to herself again. The nightmare did not win.”

  Tears sprang to his eyes; they glittered like jewels in the hearthlight, before he bowed his head.

  “May it be as you say, Grandmother.”

  He did not believe; young men rarely did. She patted his knee and withdrew.

  After a moment, he raised his head and looked to Rys.

  “I wonder, Brother, if you wish to be . . . involved further in this project.”

  Rys frowned. “Is there more that I might do? I stand willing, but you must guide me.”

  “I must think, and consult, with my lady, and with my sister. It is enough, today, to know you are willing. How may I contact you?”

  “A message sent with Kezzi will find me,” Rys said, naming the luthia’s apprentice, and the sister of one of the younger members of Clan Korval.

  “That is well, then.”

  He rose, and Rys with him; Silain remained seated, and looked up at them, two handsome men, each stronger than he knew.

  Val Con bowed, deeply, which was pretty of him, and showed a proper respect for the luthia.

  “Grandmother; my heart is full. I hope to meet you again. Now, I must return to my lady.”

  “I look forward to many meetings, Brother of Rys. Please carry my well-wish to your lady under Tree.”

  He bowed again, less deeply, as light as a kiss upon the cheek, before he turned, Rys with him, and left the hearthside.

  “Certainly, I see no impediment,” Pat Rin said, looking from Luken to Quin. “Quin is perfectly able—after all, you taught him, Father.”

  “Who’re you taking for backup?” Cheever McFarland asked Quin.

  Quin wrinkled his nose.

  “The shop is directly on port and I’ve registered hours of operation with Security,” Quin said. “In addition, there is a security system installed. Surely, I’ll have no need of backup, Mr. McFarland.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Tell you what, humor me and take Skene with you; she ain’t been gettin’ enough street time, and she’ll be glad to step outta the house. Next week this time, let’s you and me and her get together and reassess.”

  In the normal way of things, Quin and Skene were friends; she had served as his security on more than one occasion.

  Still, Pat Rin saw the stubborn set of the jaw. One did not like to accept personal security. Indeed, it seemed that particular dislike was a family trait.

  “If you please, Quin,” he said. “Do Skene a kindness.”

  His son laughed, and bowed—junior to master.

  “Certainly,” he said to Mr. McFarland. “I’ll do Skene a kindness.”

  He entered the house by the side door, and ran up the back stairs, Miri’s song echoing inside his head. The song was one of the many facets of their lifemate link, the first that had manifested and the most . . . comforting.

  Miri alive . . . Miri well . . .

  That was the surface, cheery and bright. If one listened more closely, other melodies and themes were found, fascinating and enticing. He sometimes sank into those deeper flows of music, and never rose, but that he felt . . . energized and . . . lighter. Occasionally, he had tried to play the deeper themes on the omnichora, but his skill failed him; the reproduction was never as invigorating as the original.

  Now, though . . .

  In his confusion, after the dream had done with him, he feared that the link had broken. The song had returned soon enough, and with it the recollection that he had insisted that Miri shield herself from the link’s input.

  It was only after he had reclaimed his car from Nova’s keeping, and was driving out of the city, toward Jelaza Kazone, that he noticed something . . . different in the song. A new subtheme: dark and toothy.

  As soon as he was clear of the city, he accelerated. Possibly, he accelerated too much, the song’s new edge gnawing at him, until he abandoned the car on the apron beside the house and crossed to the door, not running. Not quite running, but moving as quickly as a pilot might, who had urgent business in hand.

  The song drew him to her. He slapped the plate on their apartment door, crossing the threshold with no break in stride.

  Miri was in her rocking chair by the window that overlooked the inner garden. It had become a favorite chair, a favorite view. He walked toward her, more moderate now, the new theme slipping into the background.

  “Hey, Boss. Good thing the peacekeepers don’t give out speeding tickets. You’d’ve won three, at least.”

  “I . . . felt that there might be a difficulty, at home,” he said. “Miri.”

  She turned her head, then, and looked up at him, her face set in grim lines, grey eyes stormy and damp.

  He checked, then snapped forward, lifting her out of the chair by her shoulders, staring down into her eyes, grieving and horrified—

  “You broke your word?”

  He could scarcely credit it. Anthora and Ren Zel were to have been with her; surely they had not—

  “Where are my sister and her lifemate?”

  “Calm down.” She gripped his wrists, hard.

  He took a breath, deliberately calming himself, and she nodded, her grip loosening.

  “Better. And you’re right; I didn’t keep my word. I couldn’t keep my word. The link’s . . . too strong, and it don’t want nothing in its way. It took Anthora and Ren Zel together to fog me up; they had to work hard to do it, and even then, bits kept flowing in around the shield.” She smiled tiredly. “I think I got the high points. When it seemed like the fireworks was over, I told the pair of them to retire to quarters and take a nap.”

  The link . . .

  “Gods, cha’trez.” He stared down into her face, her song in all its depth rising into his consciousness. “You dreamed . . .”

  “I missed the intro, if there was one. Came in on the slash-and-patch job.” Tears rose again, and spilled over. “That’s—they did that to you, didn’t they? It wasn’t just a sim, or a dream . . .”

  “Today, it was a dream. Before . . . yes, they did that. Miri, I would never have had you—”

  “Right, I got that.” She leaned forward and he gathered her to him, felt her arms go around his waist, tight.

  After a time, she spoke again.

  “Those people we’re holding—they’re living that, right now.”

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Then you and Rys—you’re right. If we can give them a way out, we gotta do it.” She sighed; he felt her shudder as he held her.

  “Wanna know my favorite part?” she asked.

  He caught his breath, but managed to answer easily. “Of course I do.”

  “Right there near the last, where we were being pushed and pushed to give up the last bit of ourselves?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well that’s my favorite part, right there. ’Cause we didn’t break.”

  She twisted slightly, and he let her go, and she looked up into his face, raising her hands to his cheeks.

  “We didn’t break,” she repeated. “That’s the take-away.”

  “Yes,” he said, and touched the corner of her eye, feeling dampness there. “But you took harm.”

  “I got understanding. I knew it’d been bad; I didn’t know . . .”

  “There was never any reason for you to know!”

  “Nope, there you’re wrong,” she said, shockingly calm. “I think. Anthora offers to smooth things over, if it turns out the system got disrupted. But what I think is that the system worked just like it’s supposed to. The l
ink—it’s growing, and we’re changing.”

  “Yes,” he said again, and for a moment he wanted to excise the link before it caused her any more—

  “No, you don’t,” Miri interrupted, apparently snatching the thought out of his head. “And neither do I. What I do want is for you to sit here in this chair . . .”

  She pulled him over to the rocker, and saw him seated. He sighed and looked out over the garden. Flowers bloomed—it seemed that all the flowers bloomed at once, in celebration of Surebleak’s short and chilly summer.

  Miri sat on his lap, leaning in and tucking her head down on his shoulder, so she, too, could look out over the garden.

  “Okay, now. Tell me how we’re going to use that dream to break those people loose. And what we’re gonna do with them, after.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Jelaza Kazone

  Surebleak

  “You ask a difficult question,” Kareen yos’Phelium said. “My brother and I were not—how is it said in Terran?”

  “Close?” Kamele suggested.

  “Ah, yes, of course. Close. An apt word, in the case, for in truth my brother and I could scarcely have been less close: I am his elder by every one of a dozen Standards. Such a gap in age does not, of course, preclude closeness. I believe that Sae Zar—a cousin of my own age, in the yos’Galan Line—Sae Zar made an effort to ingratiate himself with the boys, and they were undoubtedly fond of him, with what fondness they could spare from each other.”

  “Boys?” Kamele asked. “Jen Sar—Daav—has . . . a brother?”

  They were sitting together in a small, slightly shabby parlor, the predominant color of which was a faded mauve. There was a firebrick in the hearth, and the little room was almost too warm for Kamele’s taste, though Lady Kareen seemed inclined to be chilly, still. It was the hour they had set aside to converse in Terran, in order that Kareen might perfect her skill. They also met for the morning meal, and spoke entirely in Liaden, in order that Kamele might practice what she had absorbed the previous evening, during her session in the learner.

  “Daav had, as I did, an age-mate of the yos’Galan Line. Er Thom yos’Galan. It was not possible to see one without seeing both.” Kareen smiled, a cool expression on her austere face. “Daav and Er Thom were close. In Liaden, the relationship is described as cha’leket, which I have been told comes into Terran as kin of the heart.”