Alliance of Equals

by Sharon Lee

  Padi was particularly impressed by a shop hosting a live demonstration of what she gathered was a traditional dyeing technique. It would seem that Dil Nem and Sally were similarly struck, for neither protested Padi’s suggestion that they stay to watch a second demonstration.

  The dyer noticed their interest and rewarded it by draping a finished scarf in graduating shades of green around Dil Nem’s neck with a smile.

  “It becomes ’ee,” he said. “Wear it in health.”

  For a moment, it seemed to Padi as if Dil Nem might refuse the gift—then he bowed smoothly.

  “I thank you,” he said, and Padi, just behind him, added, “Have you a card? If anyone asks my kinsman where he came by such a handsome scarf, we want to give good directions.”

  The man grinned. He produced a card from the pocket of his apron with a flourish, and handed it to Padi.

  “There’s a smart kitlet,” he said. “For that, your own scarf, and your friend, too!”

  He was as good as his word: Sally’s scarf was a deep crimson with pale pink borders, and Padi’s sported a swirling pattern of misty violet and deep purple.

  After leaving the dye shop, Padi’s comm pinged three times, on a rising tone. She snatched it off her belt and thumbed on the screen.

  She stopped, staring.

  “Bad news?” Sally asked, from beside her.

  “No…” she said slowly. “I don’t think so. My lot sold at”—three-and-a-half percent over average!—“a good price. But I am wanted by the auctioneer, to sign an…affidavit.”

  —•—

  The traders of Chesselport were a standoffish lot, Shan thought, leaning back in his chair with a frown. Working with the port directory and trade bios, he had created a list of traders to contact, from most desirable to least, and had spent the last hour and a half calling them, in order. He had not expected to complete the list before it was time to depart for the portmaster’s reception, but he had expected that he would have at least six appointments to keep afterward.

  As it happened, he was disappointed in both of his expectations, for he had called every name on the list, and still lacked three-quarters of an hour to his departure time, and…he had not one appointment to show for his labors.

  True, he had only managed to speak to a handful of traders personally, but every one of them had been busy, or had nothing to offer at this time. To the latter, he had said that it was an introductory visit only, whereupon they, too, were busy.

  It was…unprecedented. Staring up at the ceiling, arms folded behind his head, Shan tried to recall if he had ever in his life found a port where no one cared to speak to him. Even on Dayan, so long as he remained in the port proper, and in the company of a woman, he found traders willing to talk with him. Not necessarily to trade with him, he having made the genetic error of being male, but to show wares, in case he happened to know of a ship properly captained by a woman, where the trader was also a woman of a clan whose delm was a woman.

  Really, it was quite lowering. He was beginning to enter into Theo’s feelings of rejection.

  Perhaps he had erred in the matter of the auction. He had wished to feel out the market, as, one had assumed, the market had wished to feel out a new trader come to port. Lot Number Three, commonplace as it was, generally produced good results in that regard. The simplicity of the offerings very often served to soothe those who might be wary of that new trader on port, thinking that he might be too dear, or one of those fellows who dandled in exotic wares and would scarcely admit that there might ever be the possibility of a market for hairbrushes.

  He sighed at the ceiling, and closed his eyes.

  Had he come up against local custom? Was he, in fact, precipitate? Ought he to have waited until the portmaster’s reception? The Chesselport World Book had not mentioned an introduction protocol, but the books were sometimes blind in…interesting ways. If it was so ingrained—that one must be introduced to a stranger by a person of suitable status before one might interact with said stranger—it might very well go without saying, for what civilized person would behave differently?

  He snorted lightly.

  “Assume that you’ve sinned against custom, Shan,” he said aloud. “Go to the portmaster’s gather, become introduced, and hope that the traders you contacted out of order are of a uniformly forgiving—”

  A gong sounded loudly.

  Shan spun the chair, his hand flashing out to the keyboard—alert incoming, that ugly noise meant.

  Something bad had happened.

  —•—

  “No, I will not sign that.”

  Padi looked directly into the auctioneer’s eyes.

  “I did not enter stolen goods into the auction, and I do not agree to forfeit my profit. I showed you the receipts and the certifications. You accepted them and placed them in the bid packet with the rest of the information.” She paused, and deliberately lifted an eyebrow. “Did you not?”

  That was, perhaps, a bit too much, from a ’prentice trader to an auctioneer, but she was angry, and she was certainly not going to sign this…this affidavit admitting a crime she did not commit, nor was she going to allow them to keep the proceeds of her sale—the considerable proceeds of her sale.

  “The receipts and certifications are legitimate,” the auctioneer said. “I regret that we accepted them before we were informed that the lot is part of an ongoing criminal enterprise. I advise you that signing the affidavit and forfeiting the funds is your best option.”

  “I will do no such thing! I am connected with a registered and well-respected tradeship, the Dutiful Passage herself! Show me this ongoing criminal enterprise.”

  “The burden of proof is not on me,” the auctioneer said.

  “Relinquish my profits,” Padi said, proud of how stern and steady her voice was. “I will not sign the affidavit; you may take it away.”

  “Trader, I cannot. The law is clear. Profits from a criminal enterprise are forfeit to the port. Those who do not sign the affidavit reveal themselves as criminals in fact and are taken up by Security.”

  She felt a presence by her left shoulder; heard low-voiced Liaden in her ear.

  “Trader, perhaps it is best to sign.”

  “No!” she said sharply, to Dil Nem and the auctioneer alike. “I shall not sign. What I will do, however, is file a report with TerraTrade. This is theft.”

  “Very good, Trader,” Dil Nem said, in loud Terran. “Let us return to the ship.”

  He took her arm. She thought about resisting him, but what more could she do here? The auctioneer was adamant; there seemed little hope of recovering what was hers, short of holding him at gunpoint—and perhaps not even then.

  The pressure on her arm increased. She relaxed, deliberately, and allowed Dil Nem to turn—a simple pivot, very smoothly done—and the three of them exited the hall.

  No one stepped forward to prevent it.

  “The shuttle,” Dil Nem said, once they were outside, “quickly. Comm Tech, please call ahead, inform the pilot that we will require immediate entry.”

  “Yes, Third Mate,” Sally said, and in a moment Padi heard her on the comm, crisply relaying the third mate’s orders.

  Padi’s knees were shaking, and she could scarcely think, for the anger burning in her breast. Her plan had merit! She had sold her cargo at a fine profit—which the auctioneer refused to pay out—and it wasn’t fair! It was theft, and she would not—

  “Best to bring it before the master trader,” Dil Nem murmured, and more loudly, “Comm Tech, please ask the pilot to contact Captain Mendoza and Master Trader yos’Galan. Say that the trader has lost her profit to…port legalities. Say, ongoing criminal enterprise.”

  “Yes, Third Mate,” Sally said again, and once more there was the sound of quiet consultation behind Padi’s back.

  “You may,” Padi said, “release me, Third Mate.”

  He cast a measuring look at her. She met his eyes firmly, and after a moment, he released her arm.


  At the same time, however, he increased his pace—not running, never running. A person running on port only inspired others to run after her. He was, however, walking very briskly, and therefore several steps ahead of their small group when they came ’round the corner and onto the street that lead to the shipyard.

  “Halt!”

  Three large persons dressed in the livery of Chesselport Security stood before them, two with weapons leveled.

  Dil Nem halted, and threw out an arm to stop Padi. She, in turn, looked over her shoulder for Sally, who was looking over her shoulder…

  …at three more uniformed persons behind them, each also holding a weapon.

  —•—

  “Master Trader, a message from Comm Tech Sally Triloff, on port with Third Mate Tiazan and Trader yos’Galan, forwarded by the shuttle pilot on-world.”

  A chilly breeze blew across the back of Shan’s neck. He took a deep, quiet breath.

  “Please proceed, Comm Tech.”

  “Yes, sir. Message follows: Trader yos’Galan has lost her profit to…port legalities. The auctioneer wanted her to sign an affidavit, which she refused to do. Reason given for confiscation: involvement in an ongoing criminal enterprise.”

  Roner Jerethine, that was the tech’s name. An unflappable individual, in Shan’s experience, this moment sounding just a bit breathless.

  “Continues,” the tech said. “The three have been placed under arrest by armed Chesselport Security, and are being escorted to the magistrate’s office, where they will be incarcerated, fined, or both. The pilot heard, through the open comm, a man’s voice state in Trade that those found to be complicit in crimes against a planet have in the past been executed.”

  There was a small pause, as if Comm Tech Jerethine was swallowing his horror as Shan was swallowing his, then, “At this juncture, the pilot says the comm was taken away from Tech Triloff; he heard her protesting, and demanding that it be returned. There was a very loud noise and the unit went dead.”

  But this was ridiculous, Shan thought. Crimes against a planet meant piracy and aggression, and while some worlds did, indeed, hang convicted pirates, the charge itself was ludicrous. Dutiful Passage was an honorable and well-known tradeship. She…

  He closed his eyes.

  Dutiful Passage had stood above Liad, weapons live, backing an action that had seen Terran mercenaries on the ground at the spaceport, that left a gaping hole in its largest city; an action that had killed people, innocent people, who had simply been going about their lives…

  Crimes against a planet, indeed.

  “Same message relayed to Captain Mendoza, sir,” Tech Jerethine said. “She’s talking to Chesselport Magistrate Office now.”

  “Thank you, Roner,” he said, as calmly as if Padi was on board and at daibri’at, beyond all possible threats against her life. “Please ask the captain to call me, when she’s done with the magistrate.”

  “Will do.” Shan thought he heard a note of sympathy in the man’s voice. “Anything else for me, sir?”

  “Not at the moment, I thank you.”

  “Right then.” A deep breath. “Jerethine out.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Vivulonj Prosperu

  Something had woken him: the movement of air against his cheek, the whisper of fabric against skin, a…chime?

  Perhaps a chime, he thought, though he did not find it in recent memory.

  The dream of a chime?

  That was very possible. He had all his life been attended by chimes, buzzes, clicks, and bells. The comfortable chiming of the study clock, counting the hours. The warning bell as a ship broke from Jump into real space. The click of a comm switch being depressed. The sharp buzz denoting the end of a class period.

  Perhaps he was late abed, and his dream-mind had produced a chime to rouse him.

  He took a breath, tasting mint; felt a cool breeze kiss his cheek.

  Well, best he rise, then, if he were slugabed, and see to the order of the day.

  He opened his eyes to a dim and featureless chamber. The walls were smooth, the floor was smooth, both dark; reflective enough that they seemed to glow somewhat in the meager light.

  There appeared to be no door in the wall, nor hatch in the floor, nor aught else in the chamber, save himself and the piloting couch upon which he lay.

  A careful breath before he rolled lightly to his feet. Again, he tasted mint, and…something else, familiar, but borne away in the chill rush of memory.

  Doors.

  There had been doors. He remembered the old wooden door, the main door into Jelaza Kazone, the Tree-and-Dragon worn smooth by the palms of countless homecoming Korval pilots.

  But that door had been…locked? No. Korval’s door had been…beyond him. He remembered lying prone on the chilly plain, dry grasses scratching his face. Stripped of everything but thought, he accepted that he would never again put his palm against that door, or feel the latch work under his hand.

  He remembered, next, her voice, rousing him, questioning him, prodding him to attend her; to pay attention; to live.

  I have found us a different door, van’chela. You must trust me.

  Of course he trusted her; how else? She was his pilot, his lifemate, his love.

  It was only after she had bullied him to his feet, and taken his hand firmly in hers…it was only when he had seen it—them—those different doors she had found, that he began to fear that she had bargained poorly for their lives.

  They were not doors, the portals she had found for them, but tunnels; as dire a pair as ever he’d seen, each filled with a horrifying blare of light. He had tried to stop their advance, to turn, to avert…but he had been weak with dying, and the wind that had sprung up to harry him—to harry them—had overpowered him, even in his horror.

  The wind pushed harder. Her hand gripped his, strong and sure, and her voice came to him over the roar, steady and clear.

  You will not lose me! Daav, I swear it!

  The last thing he remembered, as the light burned out his vision, and the wind filled up his ears, was her hand slipping out of his grasp.

  And now, this place, and him awake, perhaps not dying, not now; or alone in some solitary afterlife.

  She had sworn that he would not lose her. He remembered that and chose to believe, in this moment, at least, that she had the power to guarantee such a thing.

  He drew a breath. The air was drier, he thought. Warmer.

  “Aelliana?” he called.

  His voice vanished into the dimness, swallowed by smooth walls.

  There was no answer.

  Well.

  She was not always immediately present, after all. Sharing one body as they had, these last twenty Standards and more, yet still she had the ability to go…elsewhere, beyond his conscious touch. If he insisted, she would answer; irritable, perhaps, or a little sharp—which he surmised meant that he had interrupted her at work.

  But, she answered, had always answered, after he had learnt that, despite the evidence of his eyes, she was not dead, but…transferred, somehow—the her of her—into, but apart from, his own personality and thought processes.

  The how of that transfer, and her survival—well, it had been the Tree, of course, meddling, as it did, and in the case, to good cause.

  “Aelliana?”

  His voice was sharper this time; it cut some little way into the silence around him.

  The air was growing decidedly warm, and worrisomely thin. He accessed a pilot’s mental exercise to calm himself and walked forward, striking boot heels deliberately against the floor.

  …and heard nothing. He might as well have walked Scout-silent, for all the sound his steps gave up.

  He reached the far wall and leaned forward, placing his hands flat against the dull surface. For an instant, his palms were warmed by ungiving metal. He was panting now; the air was hot, and she did not answer him.

  He knew, then, that she would not answer; that she was gone, not merely absent. At the la
st, she had not been able to keep her word, which meant he was…

  …alone.

  He sagged against the wall, which vanished under his hands, sending him tumbling headlong into some other place that was bright, and cool, though his lungs still labored, and she was gone…gone…away from him and he would die, now, of being alone…

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

  The voice belonged to someone who was not Aelliana, but—the voice knew his name. An ally, perhaps a friend.

  He made the effort to open his eyes, shuddering, gasping, though there was air here, only his muscles had locked, and he remembered…remembered the terrible time immediately after…after he had seen her fall, shattered by the fragging pellet, blood like crimson rain, and he screaming for both of them…after…

  …after, his brain had struggled to accommodate the violence done to it, had he only known it at the time. He had seizures that had taken his breath, leaving him unable even to sob. Pain would slice through his head like so many lightning bolts, until there came an excruciating black explosion, and he would lose knowledge of…everything…

  Gasping, he looked up into a man’s face, twisted with anger, or fear.

  “What ails you?” the stranger demanded.

  He tried to get air, enough air to speak, but all he could manage was the single word—the word that told his doom.

  “…gone…”

  A shudder wracked him. He couldn’t breathe. A hard hand fell onto his shoulder, pressing him flat, even as he caught the scent familiar to him since childhood.

  “Here, Pilot,” the other said. “Take this.”

  He saw it before another shudder forced him to close his eyes.

  Somewhere, close at hand, a bell screamed a warning.

  “Daav, eat the pod.”

  Eat the pod?

  If he had breath to spare, he might have laughed. As it was, he turned his head away, and forced the words out, for the other was not clan; he did not know that the aid he offered was…

  “…not ripe…” he choked.