by Sharon Lee
Father had explained, privately, to her and to Syl Vor, why Trealla Fantrol—yos’Galan’s own house—had to be razed, which had made her angry. Then she found that Jeeves had brought all of her things and had arranged her new suite, in Jelaza Kazone—Korval’s first, and most ancient, house—exactly as it had been in her own, lost rooms, and perhaps she had, just a little, cried…
Well. One could have accommodated even so much change, in the service of destroying this Department of the Interior, so that it would do no more harm, to Korval, or to anyone else.
But, as it transpired, the Department had not been destroyed, it had merely been wounded, though badly.
Indeed, the Department had been so grievously wounded that anyone might have thought they would withdraw from the field. Father told her that this had been expected.
Only…the Department had not withdrawn. They had, unexpectedly, and perhaps unwisely, after the most modest of pauses to rest and recruit themselves, increased hostilities.
And that was why they—herself and the other youngers, and Grandfather and Cousin Kareen—had been removed from the clan’s safe place at Runig’s Rock.
Not because their enemy had been utterly vanquished, and their name ground into the dust, but because there was no certainty that the Rock would not come under attack in the mad increase of hostility.
One might have supposed from this that the delm intended them to sit quietly under guard at Surebleak, but no, that had not been the plan, at all. Korval needed to establish itself upon its new homeworld: there were trade routes—trade routes advantageous to ships based upon Surebleak—to be built, alliances to be redeemed and lives to be lived.
“Korval,” had said Uncle Val Con, in his melant’i as delm…” Korval is ill-suited to the role of mouse. We began as dragons, and as dragons we shall go on.” Here, he had sent a stern look to Father and added, quite unfairly, “careful dragons.”
Careful dragons meant that the Passage herself would not take port at any of the worlds they called upon, but would rather remain in orbit, while crew was given leave, or went about the ship’s portside business in groups of no less than three.
Which was a circumstance, Padi thought, stifling a yawn, not entirely convenient for one who would learn to trade, and for whom a solitary ramble around port might reveal treasures untold—or, at least, unanticipated wares which might be turned to profit.
Behold, for instance, Andiree. She was already scheduled to go down in Father’s group, and while she was not fool enough to think that a ’prentice had nothing to learn from a master trader, her own attempts at trade could not but be influenced by his presence. He might hold himself back, but folk would see the big amethyst ring of a master trader, and they would bargain with him, no matter they spoke to the ’prentice.
It was a vexing situation, and one that she had been considering since the schedule had arrived in her duty queue. She could hardly refuse the assignment—she didn’t want to refuse the assignment! It was far more than an honor to watch Father at work! And he was going to be concentrating on artworks! Merely she wished to be certain it was her skill that carried her trade, rather than Father’s ring. She had great hope for the milaster scheme—perhaps too much hope. The transaction had somehow acquired a weight in her mind, as if turning the milaster around at a handy profit would define her fitness for trade.
Ridiculous.
Well.
She sighed again.
Father was a Healer, after all. Perhaps he could simply suggest to the breeze that he was a sack of potatoes, and thus be safely ignored.
Her screen beeped, reminding her that she had been staring at the same page of text for twelve minutes—and without, she thought irritably, having read a word of it. She might as well have gone to bed, if she was going to waste her study time in dreams and regrets.
Irritably, she closed the text, promising herself that she would catch up her deficiency by studying tomorrow over breakfast…well, no. She needed to review the tolerance tables over breakfast, so she would be ready for her shift with Cargo Master ira’Barti. Over lunch—but no. She would be on the trade bridge by then; Father had promised a cold tray at the console, and a large bottle of tea…
Oh, she would find time! Perhaps she would be less distracted next-shift, and be able to borrow another, productive hour from her sleep schedule.
For now, though, she’d best go to bed.
—•—
“Hey, Haz?”
The voice was familiar, even welcome, but entirely out of place. Even so near a comrade as Tolly had become, he had no place by her berth. Indeed, should the Elder find him…
“C’mon, Haz, rise and shine!”
Blades and blood! If he kept up in such a manner, he would see himself dead before this day was out, and by her hand, before she obeyed the order to turn the weapon upon herself.
She extended an arm, meaning to snatch and stifle him—
“Ouf!”
Her elbow smacked into a barrier; her hand smacked her nose hard enough bring tears.
“Yeah, sorry ’bout that. We had to fold you up some to get you into the ’doc. Gonna take some unkinking to get you out.” There was a pause.
“Be a lot easier if you’d open your eyes and get with the program. The pilot’s gonna be needing me back at the board for breakout. An’ you don’t wanna be stuck in there, now you’re awake. You’re awake, aren’t you, Haz? ’Cause, if not, maybe I should wait to thank you for saving my life.”
Recent memory came boiling back then. Tolly, the whistle, the woman striking him with the butt of her gun, opening a gash on his face. The kick of her weapon against her palm as she neutralized the threat to her partner.
She opened her eyes.
Tolly’s face was above hers: tan skin, freckles, even features that she had come to understand soothed Terrans and Liadens alike. His hair was an undistinguished yellow, and his eyes were blue, neither particularly dark, or noticeably pale. At the moment, they were squinted slightly, as if he were looking into a bright light, or straining to see something clearly at a distance.
“You are yourself again?” she demanded. “You were not late for your ship?”
But he had said something just now, had he not, about breakout and the pilot wanting him at his board?
“I’m myself again and I made my ship, all because of you,” he said, giving her a grin. “C’mon, now, let’s get you up on your feet.”
* * *
Some while later, unkinked, on her feet, and in the galley, second handwich half-eaten, Haz considered what Tolly had told her.
Wounded and in danger of her life, she had been brought aboard the ship that had contracted his services, and placed in the autodoc. The pilot’s mission was of some urgency; Tocohl was reluctant to put her lift back, and also reluctant, so Tolly had it, to endanger one in the service of Clan Korval. Pilot Tocohl had, therefore, contacted Captain Robertson herself, and obtained her permission for Hazenthull’s attachment to the mission.
“How is it that the captain gave her permission so easily?” Hazenthull asked.
Tolly was leaning against the counter, a mug in one hand, from which he occasionally sipped tea. “Pilot Tocohl’s known to Korval,” Tolly said. “One of the first things the pilot said to me, once we got you situated, was that this ship doesn’t count Korval as trouble.”
Hazenthull thought about that, around another bite of handwich.
“I will make myself known to Pilot Tocohl,” she said eventually. “She is not among the lists of allies which I was given to learn. Also, I should report in. Commander Lizardi—”
But, given Tolly’s recital of events, Commander Lizardi had likely struck Hazenthull nor’Phelium from the lists of Port Security several Surebleak days ago.
“Captain Robertson being aware of your situation—and ours—it wouldn’t surprise me if she right away called Commander Liz and explained your leaving so sudden.”
The captain, of course, understo
od chain of command, Hazenthull thought, finishing the handwich and reaching for the mug of plain water. It had surely been done as Tolly said, and already someone else walking her beat…beside a partner who was not Tolly Jones.
She finished the water, stood, and placed the mug into the washer, waiting a moment while Tolly dealt similarly with his mug.
“I will,” she said again, “make myself known to Pilot Tocohl.”
“Sure thing,” Tolly said. “You stay right here; I’ll send her in.”
—•—
“It might be,” Priscilla said, sipping her wine, “that Padi’s being prudent. Runig’s Rock generated a great many secrets. She might well have locked them behind walls.”
They were in their private quarters, and at their ease, having ruthlessly rearranged schedules to gain two shifts together—saving an emergency call upon the captain, naturally. There was also the possibility of an emergency call upon the master trader, but that was not nearly so likely. At least, not until they came out of Jump.
“I spoke to Lina,” Priscilla continued. She was reclining on the lounge, her long, slim shape draped in a starry blue robe that bared her breasts—a fashion from her homeworld, where Priscilla had been the initiate of a goddess. In comparison, Shan’s robe of deep red ’broidered with yellow flowers, and belted at his waist, was the merest commonplace. He sat on the rug beside the lounge, looking up into her face, and her eyes, like black diamonds beneath arching black brows.
“Lina hasn’t had another glimpse of this wall, though she’s still aware of Padi shifting the energy raised in the dance…somewhere.” She smiled slightly. “She asked me to tell you that her least-willing student has become over these last few sessions…somewhat more willing.”
Shan lifted his glass high. “Behold me, relieved! One naturally wishes one’s heir to accumulate accolades, but ‘least-willing student of daibri’at in the history of the dance’ is not quite in the line of one’s fondest hopes.”
Priscilla laughed.
“She already has ‘avid student of menfri’at,’” she pointed out.
“There is that. Am I to understand that Lina remains willing to wait, to watch with the rest of us, and to hope that the child wakens to her fullness with—shall we say—as little trauma as possible?”
“She’d rather not force Padi into her power,” Priscilla said, her eyes serious. “Neither would I.”
“Nor I. The Healers are in accord.”
He raised his glass again, in salute. Priscilla raised hers. There was a small, sharp clink as the rims kissed, and they drank.
A moment only to savor the vintage before Priscilla raised her glass once more. Shan lifted his in echo.
“To the bright life who would share our lives and our love. We invite you to this time and this place, where we will welcome you and treasure you.” She drank with a flourish, and set the empty glass aside.
Shan did the same, though with perhaps more puzzlement than flourish.
Priscilla extended a hand.
Her skin was cool and smooth, her fingers pale as cream against his brown palm. The familiar sweep of her aura simultaneously soothed and thrilled him.
“Priscilla?” he ventured.
“Yes, my love?”
“Are we going to have a child?”
She smiled, and he did, giddy with her joy.
“If the Goddess is willing—and you are.”
He bent his head to kiss her hand.
“Willing, though laggard. Why now, I wonder?”
A dark thread rippled through her joy, gone before he could read it.
“If I say that the Goddess came to me in a dream and told me that now is the time, the soul which will come to us as our child is ready…will that make you less willing?”
He considered that seriously. His respect for Priscilla’s faith did not particularly extend to her goddess, whom he regarded as unnecessarily meddlesome. On the other hand, the delms had made it clear that full nurseries were a priority of the House. Not that the delms were anything less than meddlesome themselves.
However, the thought of holding their child, with Priscilla’s black eyes and softly curling hair, fair melted him where he sat.
He shook his head, and smiled wryly.
“Let us leave it there—I am willing. No! I am eager.”
“Not too eager, I hope,” Priscilla said.
She swung her legs over the side of the lounge, drawing him to her as she sat up.
He rose to his knees, and kissed an upstanding nipple, the shiver of her delighted lust warming him.
“Not too eager,” she repeated, running her fingers through his hair. She slipped a hand beneath his chin and raised his face.
“We have hours,” she whispered, and kissed him.
—•—
Padi was at Runig’s Rock, and she was afraid.
So much depended on her—on all of them—but she was the only one who was afraid. Quin was grim, and Syl Vor serious, but they weren’t afraid. They didn’t huddle in their beds after lights-out, shivering with nothing more than fear.
Grandfather Luken and Cousin Kareen were quite matter-of-fact, even when discussing those plans of evacuation the success of which depended upon them staying behind to hold the enemy, to buy pilots and passengers time to board the ship, time to tumble out into space, and be well away. Time bought with Kareen and Luken’s lives, which they very well knew, and yet—they were not afraid.
Padi yos’Galan, whose duty was to stand copilot, to protect the pilot, and the ship, and the passengers—Padi yos’Galan was afraid.
Syl Vor, whose duty was the most terrible of all—to protect the babies. To keep them quiet, and warm; fed and calm.
And, under no circumstances, in no conceivable situation, was he to allow them to fall into the hands of their enemies. Syl Vor carried a pistol, and Grandfather had very carefully explained who those pellets were for, and that Syl Vor must be very quick, and very certain, and that he must not miss when it came to the last shot.
Syl Vor was solemn; he was earnest. Syl Vor did not want to hurt the babies, his cousins. Certainly, he did not want to hurt himself.
But Syl Vor was not afraid. He absorbed his duty, learned what he must do and the manner of it. He drilled; he danced; and sometimes, in the evening, when drills and dance and lessons were done, he would sit and draw pictures of home: certain of the cats, Jeeves, the east flower garden, the stream, and the stepping stones…
Of them all, each holding duties far more terrible than her own…only Padi yos’Galan was afraid. Sometimes, in the night, she was so overcome with fear that she cried under the blankets; her fist stuffed in her mouth, lest she wake Quin, who had sharp ears, even in sleep. Not that Quin would mock her, but he was her pilot. He would question her ability to do her duty—rightly so. He might properly bring his concern to Grandfather, who would—what? There was no one else to take Padi’s duty. Grandfather held a third-class license; Cousin Kareen was no pilot at all. She was Quin’s copilot; that duty was hers, and hers alone, and she could not let fear cripple her.
“Ah!”
The cry woke her, and she sat up, chest heaving with sobs, her face wet with tears. Lights came up, illuminating her familiar quarters on the Passage—where her screen, stylus, and boots were all floating significantly above the surfaces where they been resting when she sought her bunk.
No! Not here, not now!
She covered her face with her hands, and swallowed, taking a deep breath against the sobs, just as she had done, the night she had decided, on the Rock, what she must do with her fear.
That night, she had completed a pilot’s breathing exercise, and when the sobs had subsided, she had lain down and run the Rainbow, telling herself at the end of the sequence not to sleep, but to arise, with sharpened senses, and go to the practice room.
She had done that, without waking anyone, and there, she had danced. In her mind’s eye, she had danced inside her room at the end of the Rainbow,
and her dancing had built a closet, made of stone. She had stepped into the closet and screamed out all her fear and all her tears. When she was empty, she exited, and locked the closet behind her.
Aboard the Passage, with less than two hours until the end of her sleep shift, she could not go to any of the practice rooms. The ship would note her deviation from schedule, and alert Father, or the captain, or the officer on duty. She would have to explain herself, and it was the last thing she wanted to tell anyone—least of all Father—that she was a coward—and that she had lied to him.
So, then.
Shivering, but no longer crying, Padi slipped out of her bunk. She glared at her boots, which were floating at about the level of her nose, breathed in, and snapped, “Behave!”
They hit the floor with a solid thump. Behind her she heard the stylus strike the desktop and roll, and her screen settle with a bump.
Padi looked about her quarters. Far too cramped here for menfri’at.
But it was not, she thought suddenly, too cramped to dance daibri’at. For focus, was it? And to make her aware of her intent?
Yes, certainly.
The closet had weakened since its creation. She would reinforce it; make it so strong that the fear would never break free again.
She took a breath, brought her imaginary ball in front of her heart, and called upon her intentions.
CHAPTER SIX
Dutiful Passage
Andiree Approach
They had made good use of their hours together, Shan thought with a certain satisfaction, as he settled in behind his desk. No doubt, it was very wrong of him to wish that they had hours—even days!—more ahead of them.
“Which, of course, you do,” he told himself, as he opened his mail queue. “Or so one trusts. Viewed correctly, in fact, this small interlude of labor provides an opportunity for you to recruit your strength.”
Priscilla was on the bridge, as a captain ought to be, during breakout. Soon enough, he would himself be on the trade bridge, eager ’prentice in attendance, and the entire Port of Andiree clamoring to do business with them.