by Sharon Lee
“That would, I think, be the best use, Trader,” Father said to Padi, as if he were deferring to her.
But, Padi thought, he was deferring to her; it was her reception, after all, and her decision to make.
She smiled at Ms. Hartensis.
“Please, if you would convey what is left to the corner kitchen, that would, as the master trader has said, be the best use.”
“It shall be done,” Ms. Hartensis said, and nodded to her helper in his long white apron, who immediately moved to the breads table.
“It was,” Padi said, then, “a very fine event, ma’am. I wonder…”
She hesitated. On this point, as on all others, she had done her research carefully, and knew herself on safe ground with the offer, yet the phrasing must not offend.
“I wonder,” she said again, “if I might give a gift, in appreciation of your kind attention to us.”
The caterer colored somewhat, and Padi felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. The World Book did sometimes get custom wrong, and how—how awkward if this should be one of those times!
But, no; perhaps it had merely been pleasure which had brought color to the other’s cheek. She was bowing now—that strange and uncomfortable hinging at the hip that looked like a daibri’at move, only too quickly done, and too stiffly held…
“You are all kindness, Trader yos’Galan,” said Unet Hartensis, when she had straightened out of her bow. “A gift would find welcome with me.”
—•—
Hazenthull had Inki’s file open on one screen, Tolly’s file on a second, nav up on a third, a research query line waiting on a fourth. Fifth screen, front and above, was traffic, Admiral Bunter limned in green.
Inki being young at her trade, she had included the names of those who had trained her, to establish that she had been well educated. This was in contrast to Tolly’s file, which was fat with real accomplishment.
She moved a hand, to flip to the next page in Inki’s file—and paused, her eyes snagging on a particular sequence of words.
Graduated with honors, Lyre Institute for Exceptional Children
In memory’s ear, she heard Inki’s voice:…and as one who has graduated from his own institute, though many Standards behind him…
Inki, so Hazenthull was beginning to suspect, did nothing at random. It would not be going too far to suppose that she had deliberately set that piece of information out where Hazenthull might recall it, at need.
There only remained the question: had Inki planted a lie for her to recall, or the plain truth?
No, no, Pilot Haz, Inki had chided her; if I hint you further along, I will do myself a mischief, which the directors would hardly care for.
She recalled Tolly himself, answering her query into who she had killed for him.
…both of ’em—were directors—sorta the direct opposite of Pilot Tocohl, when it comes to matters of free choice.
So. A match—and an Explorer’s leap of intuition.
Lyre Institute for Exceptional Children, her fingers tapped the words into the research screen.
Comm chimed—message incoming. She extended a hand without looking and touched the proper key.
“Recorded message begins,” came the flat tones of a nonsentient machine, quickly followed by Tolly’s voice, edged and cold; each word a blade struck from ice.
“Go home. I don’t want you, and I don’t need you. Message ends.”
Hazenthull snorted lightly, and tapped the line closed.
The Lyre Institute for Exceptional Children had multiple locations. She threw each into the nav program, opened a sixth screen, and called up Admiral Bunter’s stats, compare and contrast with Tarigan’s.
This was the first time she had made inquiry into Tarigan’s history and full capabilities. Perhaps she should have done so before; such a lack of initiative would perhaps not show well, should the captain ask for a report, when she returned.
However it was, she felt a shock of warm delight as Tarigan revealed herself now.
Yes, thought Hazenthull, scrolling thought the screens, Pilot Tocohl had excellent taste in ships.
Tarigan was a reconditioned Scout survey ship, meant to transport a team and equipment. Not so nimble as a single-ship, but, then, Admiral Bunter was no Scout ship at all.
Admiral Bunter was a perfectly serviceable little freighter, solidly built, and competently refurbished. Granted, his pod-mounts were empty, and he was traveling light, Tolly being no great weight.
Even with those advantages, however, he was not quick. And he was most certainly not nimble. If she knew for certain where he was bound, with his prisoner, she might very well over-Jump him, and be waiting at dock when he arrived.
The Lyre Institute held a hiring office on Vanichi; there was a secondary school, so called, on Anon, another hiring hall on Nostrilia, and the institute itself, on Lyre-Unthilon. Hazenthull fingered the keypad absently, considering the routes from Jemiatha’s Jumble Stop to each.
Inki was, she reminded herself, a subtle woman. But she was also a practical woman. If her intention was to ensure that Tolly came whole into the hands of the directors…
Inki would not wish to give Tolly too much time alone with Admiral Bunter. She might be certain that her methods were as good as she could make them, but she could not be certain that they were proof against Tolly Jones, whom she styled—sincerely, so Hazenthull thought—the greatest mentor of the current age.
She would therefore, Hazenthull reasoned, opt for the quickest route to a director that she might contrive.
Hazenthull squinted slightly at the plotting screen.
Nostrilia.
A hiring hall, at Nostrilia. Surely, if the whistle which rent Tolly’s will from him were the common means of controlling unruly graduates of Lyre Institute, there would be at least one director and one whistle at Nostrilia.
One whistle, wielded by one knowledgeable director—that ought to be enough to imprison Tolly Jones within Thirteen-Sixty-Two.
Hazenthull smiled, slightly, and without humor.
Nostrilia, it was then.
There came a flare of green in the traffic screen, and she paused, looking up, and sighing.
Admiral Bunter had Jumped. She took a breath—and then recalled it was no matter. She would be waiting for them at Nostrilia.
If she was right.
If Tolly was still alive at Nostrilia.
That was her greater fear, that he would act to keep himself forever free of the directors, and their orders. He might well take his own life. She feared he might choose grace as his best course, but she did not fear that he would act…immediately.
Tolly, as his partner had come to understand him, was an optimist. He would attempt…less final solutions to his situation before he embraced death. Possibly, he would even allow himself to be brought to the hiring hall itself, in the hope that he might overcome the director. Such risks, as she knew, were not beyond him—and very often they paid off.
She would have to pin her hope on that aspect of his nature, and be certain that she was there, at his back, when he needed her most.
And Pilot Tocohl traveling, according to clever, subtle, and dishonest Inki, of her own will in that person’s company?
Pilot Tocohl, as she had stated in her report to the captain—Pilot Tocohl was very well able to take care of herself.
—•—
Priscilla cried aloud, hand outstretched to snatch at insubstantial fingers—and woke, sitting upright in her bunk, face wet with tears.
She drew a shuddering sigh.
It was the dream.
The same dream.
Twice now it had woken her; twice now leaving her sick and shaken, and not…quite…certain if it were a True Dreaming, or only remarkably realistic.
To dream a death…was never easy. To dream the death of her lifemate’s daughter and heir…that was disturbing in the extreme.
Priscilla sighed, threw back the blanket and slid out of bed. The decking w
as cold against bare soles as she crossed to her closet and withdrew a sweater and a pair of soft pants. A glance at the clock showed that her sleep shift was three-quarters done, and in any case, she was done with sleep.
She crossed the room, laid her hand against the door-plate and a moment later was in the captain’s office, touching the pot for tea. When the cup was full, she took it to the couch and curled into the corner, feet tucked under her.
Sipping, she looked around the room, its lines and contents softened by the low lighting. This had been Shan’s office when, friendless, she’d first come aboard the Passage, years ago. Before Shan, it had been his father’s office. Er Thom yos’Galan had held two melant’is on the Dutiful Passage—captain and master trader. When she came aboard, Shan had held those dual roles, as his father’s heir.
Plan B had altered that, as it had altered so very much. Shan had been separated from the ship; she, the first mate, had risen properly to captain in the emergency. But when ship and Shan had been reunited at last, he had not taken up the captain’s duty, instead placing it formally and firmly among her melant’i, while he took up the melant’i of a master trader with both hands.
It had been a wise move: Plan B—again—having altered the usual manner of their lives.
Plan B, she thought, sipping her tea, having altered lives, even more than the manner of them, and no lives so definitely as those of Korval’s children, sent to shelter at Runig’s Rock.
Had her life proceeded in its normal and usual fashion, Padi yos’Galan would have come into her gifts in a controlled environment, taking such time as had been needful, rather than pushing those same gifts away, and creating for herself and everyone around her, an environment fraught with uncertainty and danger.
It was rare, Priscilla thought, that a nascent Witch was destroyed by the advent of her powers, though it did happen. There were records of such events, at the Temple where she had been Maiden and trained to stand as Moonhawk’s vessel. Lina admitted that the Healers also had records of such events—“Very few, Priscilla,” Lina had said, “but there have always been those who are too powerful to live.”
And what that might have to do with Padi yos’Galan…Priscilla very much feared to learn. Perhaps that was what the dream was showing her: that accepting her gifts would change Padi’s life yet again. If she were powerful, she might well be reft from the life she wished most to embrace. She might become strange to herself—dead, or so it might be said, to her former life.
That…would be unfortunate. Padi so much wished to be a pilot of Korval and a master of trade. Still, she was young, and might adjust to a new life. For that was the best way to think of such things—as acquiring a new life, though new lives sprouted from the ashes of old lives.
And yet…the dream had not been couched in the imagery of life, of rebirth.
The dream was dark and fearful, and her contact with Padi a tangle of anguish and confusion. Priscilla had reached out her hand, reached out with her own—and perhaps even with Moonhawk’s gift—
And the girl was gone.
Not distant.
Not unconscious, nor oblivious.
Gone, as if she had never been.
Even death rarely cut a life down so completely. Often, there remained something, a breath of radiance that danced joy for the benediction of freedom before it faded, though it was never lost.
The dream…the dream proposed not merely death, then, but—annihilation.
And she had dreamed it twice.
What I tell you three times is true.
She drew in a deep breath, one hand leaving the teacup and settling on her abdomen.
The Goddess had spoken to her. For one who had been trained as a priestess, there could be no mistaking the Voice of the Goddess.
It is time, Daughter; the soul who is to become your child is eager for life.
She had been filled with joy, hearing both the Voice and the message. Surely, a child was welcome, and precious.
Alone in the captain’s office, Priscilla shook her head.
Gods were chancy. Gods had their own necessities. Gods—even the Goddess Herself, harking back to the old histories—sometimes forgot that, among flawed humans, one child was not…the same as another.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Langlastport
The Torridon Hotel
The short tour, from the Happy Occasion to the hotel, was like—it was like a public day at some other House’s gardens, Padi thought. One met only friends and agreeable acquaintances, and only glad subjects were discussed: the flowers, the weather, perhaps one’s new coat, or a piece of Quin’s jewelry.
Of course, public day at one’s own House was rather less agreeable, for it always occurred on a day for which one had received several pleasant invitations, which of course had to be turned down in favor of welcoming strangers into the gardens, strolling among them to point out the best flowers, or an exceptionally clever bit of topiary, and, of course, the refreshment trays.
Not very much different, now that she had actually traversed the path, from the duties of a host of a trade reception.
The merchants they called briefly upon—no more than five minutes each, so as not, Father said, to wear out their welcome on the very first pass—seemed not to find them a burden. Indeed, there were smiles, and exchanges of infokeys, and pleasant things said on both sides. Two wished the master trader to return on another day when they might talk at more depth. One ’prentice was desolate that his own master had not been able to be present when the traders called. She offered an infokey, saying the master would be pleased to meet the traders at their convenience anytime inside the next two-day, if their stay on port would accommodate it.
And so they progressed, with the hotel in sight and only two more shops between them and the entrance. Padi sighed to herself. She was enjoying herself immensely, though whether she had learned anything would need to wait upon review.
Though their progress was interesting—not just for the illustration of what an announcement in the port news, a direct letter to everyone listed in the Langlastport Merchant Association, and a reception might do to create a favorable impression—it remained to be learned whether the favorable impression translated into equally favorable negotiations and concluded deals.
She…was just as happy to leave those discoveries for the morrow, and the day after. Her head had begun to ache again, which she thought might be a lack of food. While there had certainly been sufficient food at the reception, she had felt it her duty to at least introduce herself to each guest, and direct them to the refreshment tables. At the beginning, also, she had been nervous regarding the arrangements, but, really, Ms. Hartensis had managed beautifully, and produced a buffet reception that even Cousin Kareen must have pronounced unexceptional.
In any case, she had rather stupidly not eaten anything, other than the samples, though she had managed a glass of two of the red juice, which had been very agreeable, though perhaps, in retrospect, a little sweet.
They strolled into the second-but-last shop, a gem-and-jewelry emporium. The ample light was pure, and drawers of gemstones gleamed and glittered behind security crystal displays. Padi narrowed her eyes against the excessive brightness as a tall and willowy person came out from behind the counter to bow gracefully to them. Surprisingly, it was a full Liaden bow, between business associates.
“Master Trader, Trader, welcome to my establishment! I am Tarona Rusk, and this”—a graceful motion of the hand drew their attention to the glittering displays—“is the Gems Garden.”
Tarona Rusk spoke the High Tongue with an accent, but her mode did not falter—also, as between business associates, which was, perhaps, a little forward, thought Padi, as they had concluded no business, but which also showed a willingness to proceed in an association.
Father bowed, and Padi did.
“Forgive me,” Father said upon straightening. “I had not expected to hear the language of home, here on Langlast.”
&nb
sp; “I hope I have not offended?”
“Indeed, no. Merely a surprise—and that not unpleasant, at the end of a long day. I wonder—did you perhaps attend the University of Solcintra?”
Tarona Rusk laughed gently.
“No scholar, I!” she said, raising a hand. “Always, it was the stones with me, and the fabrication of settings which might be worthy of them.” Another small bow. “I had the honor to sit as Moonel’s ’prentice, in the Avenue of Jewels, at Solcintra Port.”
“I’ll wager he drove you harder than any professor,” Father said.
“Doubtless he did, and why not? Should I waste the master’s time and generosity by shirking my lessons, or creating that which was less than inspired? May I ask—how fares Moonel? Still at work in the Avenue of Jewels?”
Father sighed, and bowed gently, as the bearer of unfortunate news.
“I regret. Moonel has gone ahead, doubtless to fashion more perfect settings for the stars. The shop in the Avenue of Jewels stood empty, when last I was on Solcintra Port.”
“Ah.”
The jeweler bowed her head, and swayed somewhat. When she looked up, her eyes were damp, but her face was properly smooth.
“It grieves me to hear it, though it ought be no surprise. One likes to recall those who illuminated one’s life as unchanged and ever-continuing. But—it is as you say; he has doubtless embraced a higher art, which we mere students hold no hope of comprehending.”
There was a small pause, so that they might admire the phrase, before the jeweler spoke again.
“Do you make a long stay, here on Langlastport?”
“A few days. Perhaps as long as a local week. Tomorrow’s tour will tell the tale.”
“Of course. Please, allow me to offer you this—” An infokey was proferred. Father took it gracefully and offered his, in turn.
“My thanks. For now, let me not keep you longer from your rest. Come again, before you leave us. It would please me, if we could identify a mutual benefit.”