by Sharon Lee
“Splendid! You return!” a woman’s exclaimed from quite nearby. “How did you enjoy your first kiss from the dramliz-killer?”
He turned his head to face Tarona Rusk, his captor, sitting on the desk before him, leaning back on her hands, and utterly at her ease.
“Sadly without finesse,” he replied, keeping his voice calm. “I wonder why you have removed me from its embrace.”
“An excellent question.”
She smiled, as if he were a particularly clever student.
“While there are those of us who believe that it would satisfy our mission goal to simply deprive Korval of its master trader, yos’Galan of its thodelm, and Val Con yos’Phelium of his cha’leket, others of us wish to conserve resources. I speak no flattery when I say that you are extremely powerful—doubly so, for one who is merely cha’dramliza. As a teaching master myself, I find it possible to be critical of your teachers. They did not push you hard enough, merely—curiously—to the point where it suited you to have them give over, eh? Coming full dramliza would not have done for you at all, would it? A Healer might yet pursue a life of trade, but a dramliza would have other calls upon his time and his nature.”
“Power alone does not a dramliza make,” Shan said, his inner sight on the dire tangle around Vanner’s soul. The man had not moved, he had not blinked; he was utterly in thrall, and if that was the work of the woman before him…
“True, very true,” Tarona Rusk said now, as if they were merely chatting over tea. “Proper training, however, may accomplish much with raw resource. Sometimes, you know, we masters must be a little cruel, in order to open our students to their fullest potential. You will understand, presently.”
“Do you intend to make me your student, then? As much as it must pain me to say it, I would prefer not.”
“You will change your mind, in time,” she said, with perfect good cheer. “Now! In a moment, you will be tested. If you are not able to rise to the challenge—well. There is always the path favored by those of us who see harm to Korval as the greatest good we might accomplish. I will tell you, however, that I believe you will triumph in the testing.”
“Your faith in me is humbling,” Shan murmured. “But I do not think that I am interested in participating in your test.”
“That is every student’s choice,” she said cordially. “Attend me, now.”
She raised a hand and pointed at Vanner, sitting enthralled and motionless.
“Here we have a subject. I shall influence him to an action, while you will seek to influence him to a different action. Thus, we shall test your innate ability.”
Shan took a breath, trying to still the sudden fear.
“He is not of Korval, and he is not of the dramliz,” he said reasonably. “You have no quarrel with him. Let him go.”
“Certainly, he is no dramliza: blind and dumb, this one, and so charmingly open to suggestion—thus.”
Sitting stiff in his chair, Vanner moved, slowly, while his face remained blank and his eyes remained sightless. He raised his right hand, reached beneath his jacket…
…and withdrew his gun.
Shan’s breath went short; horror filled him. Healer sight showed him the black threads moving, manipulating, compelling. The sense of those manipulating energies was beyond him, but he could glimpse Vanner’s emotive grid in gaps left by the encroaching threads—and what he saw was terror and despair.
He tried to enclose the threads—he could not touch them.
And Vanner’s hand still rose inexorably, turning now, and the muzzle sought its nest under the square chin.
Shan took a breath and thrust his will through one of the gaps in the threads, snatching at the place where Vanner’s pattern was light and lit with joy—memories, those were; happy memories—and threw them before the unseeing eyes.
The gun stopped moving.
Vanner surged to his feet, casting the thing away, joy singing through his pattern, and ecstasy on his face. He took a step, toward what encompassing happiness only he could know—
And folded onto the floor with a final thud, the life torn from him between one breath and the next.
Shan clamped his jaw, locking his cry of protest, of pain, in his chest.
There was silence. A glance at his captor revealed her to be studying him, head tipped to one side, eyes wide and intent.
He drew a breath, and another, and asked the question as calmly as he could manage.
“Precisely what was the point of that?”
She shrugged, very much in the Terran way, dismissing Vanner as if he were so much soiled laundry.
“He is of no further use to us. The other members of the team would certainly not have granted him his freedom, save in this same manner, only with much more pain beforehand. You made your point over me by recalling him to ecstasy. It seemed the best I might do for you, my student, who held his oath, to free him on that note.”
She shrugged again, the gesture more fluidly Liaden this time.
“Now that you have passed your testing, and become therefore my student, I will examine you. It will, as you know, be far less disagreeable if you open your shields and willingly allow me within.”
“But I don’t want you within,” Shan said, gathering his will and thrusting it the core of her dense pattern like a knife. “I don’t like you. I am not your student, and I believe you have bitten off a far bigger piece of Korval than you can reasonably chew. You might save the lives of yourself and your team, if you let me go now.”
She laughed.
“You must of course try, and it was, if you will allow me, a very credible effort. I am impressed by such an effort from a mere Healer. Now, we have very little time for pleasantries. My colleagues will be returning with your heir very soon, and they will then wish to see results. In order to save your life, we must proceed.”
“My heir is a child and utterly untrained.”
“Indeed, indeed. I saw how it was with her during your first visit to this establishment. Her naivete will make her a pliant student. However, the lack of even the most basic training makes her less desirable to me as a student than yourself—trained, talented, and quick-witted. You will be a jewel in the crown of the Department’s recruitment program.”
“Recruitment?”
“Yes, did your brother not tell you? Well, no matter. Soon you will know for yourself. Open to me!”
The command voice was augmented with a lash of agony, which he managed to partially turn aside.
“Well done,” said Tarona Rusk mildly, and snapped again—“Open to me!”
The lash this time was a physical stripe across his forearm, slicing fabric and flesh. Blood welled, the pain quite astonishing.
“I am dramliza, little Healer. Spare yourself; open the shields.”
He threw his whole will into the shields, retreating behind them as much as he was able, even as the lash sliced twice in quick succession, and he heard himself cry out.
Behind the shields, he turned his attention to the links he shared with Priscilla, and with Padi. Tarona Rusk was strong; eventually, she would break his shields, and Padi—
Lute had promised to protect Padi.
If he managed it, Tarona Rusk would not find her through him.
And by all the gods that might exist, she must not find Priscilla.
He broke those links—all of them, even the strongest and most intimate…especially those. So much damage, so quickly—he was hurting her!
One more set of links to Priscilla. He cut them as quickly as he could; felt a wave of faintness, the searing blare of headache—and shook both away, turning his attention to the web that linked him to Padi.
This would be easier, he told himself. Padi herself had no awareness of the bonds; she would not feel the pain of separation.
He would.
Shan centered himself, feeling his shields shudder under Tarona Rusk’s continued attack. Quick, he must be quick. And, gods, he must not falter.
H
e extended his will toward the web that bound him to Padi—
—Just as they broke from the other side, a surgical slice that severed all at once.
Agony flared—and was gone, flaming out all in an instant.
Shan gathered his wits, and his strength, and turned his attention to the matter at hand.
—•—
They’d been right, of course, to strap in, and she should have done the same herself immediately, having issued General Quarters.
Now—
She felt the tension in the bridge, read the distant hum of the crew’s concern and fear, watched the screen as she moved quickly to her own chair to belt in. Anger flirted with annoyance in her: there was no need to threaten their child for some local chief’s bid for celebrity!
That was a true Seeing, Priscilla knew, feeling power rise in her, feeling Moonhawk watching over her shoulder where no one stood, helping guard the child unformed. She blinked away the sense of Moonhawk, and returned to the streaming now of the monitor.
The unpowered swarm of limpets was like snow on the screen, tumbling toward the Passage and then jouncing in their movement as the ship’s fields took hold, rejecting them, pushing most of them into odd arcs and bouncing some few directly away from the ship.
“Shall I arm weapons?”
Dil Nem’s inquiry brought a frisson of power again, and a voice…not quite Shan’s, a shadow, fingering a flashing counter, “A blade loose too soon is a mistake with someone’s blood on it.”
Moonhawk had bowed to that voice in another life. Priscilla nodded at the memory.
“No,” she said to Dil Nem. “Do not arm. That’s what they want. Track, but do not arm.”
Images on screen showed a confusing disarray now, the cutters braking and evading the very mines with which they sought to entangle Dutiful Passage.
“Comm,” she said, “broadcast these screens live on one channel, and the replay of our contacts on another. Broadbeam it and send direct to the Trade Guild, the Pilots Guild, and to Langlast Port Authority. Add this—”
Priscilla sat straighter, took a deep, calming breath, and pressed the comm button:
“To all pilots, traders, travelers, and citizens of Langlast. This is Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza Clan Korval, captain of Dutiful Passage, out of Surebleak.
“Know that by my command this ship is operating under high shielding following an unwarranted stealth attempt by forces wearing the livery of Langlast Port Authority to compromise our security and safety by seeding our hull with remote activation bombs. To our knowledge, this attempt has been rebuffed. I post a hazard warning for shipping due to the ordnance now floating in nearspace. I add a caution for any ship piloting to Langlast Port. I post a request for a proper Pilots Guild civilian inquest into the events here.
“We await response from Langlast Port Authority and will continue to broadcast continuous feeds until such time as our security is not at issue.
“Captain out,” she said.
“Message out on broadbeam, Captain,” Kik said. “Orders?”
“We wait,” she answered. “Our response to a hostility is…shield, log, transmit broadbeam. If we have no answer from Langlast Port Authority in thirty minutes, inquire again. If we see increased hostilities, or another flight of bombs, rotate shields.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Priscilla released her belt, put her hands on the arms of the command chair—and sat back.
The newly established link with Shan was gone, cut as cleanly as by a crystal blade. She snatched at their other connections, feeling each cut in turn, swiftly, without care for the shock of being separated so quickly. The bridge wavered, edged in black. She closed her eyes, swallowing against nausea, seeing him—a flash, a flare—before he vanished from her awareness.
She widened her senses, and caught his essence on the ether, limned in blood, star-bright courage casting the very smallest shadow of fear.
Danger—he was in danger; he needed her…
The ship needed her.
She was the captain, the very captain, seated on the bridge of her ship—her ship, which was under attack. She had folk to care for.
Priscilla breathed in calm, felt it distill into resoluteness. Shan was in danger; she could not reach him; she could not succor him. He, himself, had made certain of that. In fact, his actions recalled her to her duty.
Another deep breath, while she regarded his signature, coalescing now, crimson outlines sharpening.
Shan, she thought, was ready to do battle.
Goddess bless you, my dear, she thought.
And opened her eyes to the bridge.
—•—
Padi pulled on sweater and loose pants, braided her damp hair, and wandered out into the common room on bare feet. Father and Mr. Higgs had not returned while she showered, and her glance at the clock this time was more worried than complacent. Perhaps she should call the kitchen, and put dinner back another half-hour.
First, though, she would make a cup of tea. She crossed the room to the hot kettle, touched the button and started its cycle.
While the tea was brewing, she checked her pocket comm for messages—nothing.
Well, she thought, frowning; she might call the desk to find if there were any messages there. Father did sometimes become involved in the trading, but Mr. Higgs would know that she had the ordering of dinner, and would worry if they were overtime.
The kettle beeped, declaring its cycle complete—and the door chime sounded.
Padi nearly dropped the teacup. She recovered herself, however, and set the cup gently on the buffet, before looking at the clock and frowning at the door.
Dinner—it must be their dinner—early by half an hour, which was quite the opposite of what was needed.
Well, she thought, striding toward the door, they could simply take it back down to the kitchen, and keep it warm, or—
She snatched the door open…
…and stood blinking at the two strange men standing on the threshhold. They were Liadens, these strangers, and for one long moment they seemed as taken aback as she.
Padi recovered first; she stepped back, starting to swing the door shut—and the stranger on the left thrust foward, got his shoulder in the door, and pushed it back, hard.
“Come along,” he said, making a snatch for her wrist. “Your father sent us to bring you to him.”
She eluded his grasp, but her only retreat was into the common room, and they followed her, one swinging wide to her right while the other approached directly.
Father would never send strangers to her, that was her first thought. Her next was that Father had fallen into trouble on the port, despite the very capable presence of Vanner Higgs.
“Come with us,” the stranger repeated. “Your father sent us to bring you to him.”
“Where is the token?” she demanded. “Father would have given you a token to prove you are friends!”
“Yes, yes. The token. I have it right here.”
He reached into the outer pocket of his jacket and pulled out a gun.
Padi didn’t think; she reacted, kicking once to send the gun away, spinning to the right to sweep an arm out in a strike that broke the second man’s neck, spinning again before he struck the floor, to strike the first man.
She botched the kill, though the blow brought him to his knees. She struck again—a solid kick this time—and he collapsed on the floor beside his comrade.
Padi rushed across the room to close and lock the door. She turned toward the comm—and stopped, every nerve frozen at the sight of a man who—a man who was not Father, but who might have been Father.
He inclined his head politely from his lean against the buffet, and held up a sinewy brown hand, showing her the worn red game counter Father often toyed with.
“You are formidable,” he said, “and I salute you. However, you should know that this pair has another as backup, down in the lobby. If these do not appear soon, with you in hand, the second team
will ascend to this floor, after summoning their own backup.”
Padi blinked at him. “I will call security to apprehend them.”
“Security has been paid off.”
“Then I will—” she took a breath, not at all certain what she would do.
“Where is Father?” she asked the man who might have been him.
“Presently very much engaged. He desires to keep you safe, and you may judge his state of mind for yourself, that he sent me to ensure it.”
He turned his head slightly, and sighed.
“The backup team approaches. Listen to me, child; there are a number of these persons, and not even you can kill them all. I therefore counsel you to hide yourself, and swiftly.”
“There is no place in the suite they won’t find me, after they break down the door.”
“Nonsense; use your wits! You have power and you have a model. You can hide in this room, and elude them still—but you must be quick!”
The doors moved, as someone tried them, not gently.
Padi gasped, and thought—of her bowl, unbreakable and opaque.
“Excellent!” said the man who was not Father. “Snatch it to and over you!”
She flung out her hands as if she could grasp the thought of her bowl, felt weight inside her head, knelt on the rug right there next to the buffet, and allowed the weight to settle over her.
“Well done,” said the man who was not Father. “I can scarcely see you myself.”
“What of you?” she asked, then. “They will see you!”
But there was no answer.
A heartbeat later, the door opened with a crash.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Admiral Bunter
“Tolly, I am a prisoner.”
Admiral Bunter sounded downright plaintive, Tolly thought. He was finishing up his last lap on the treadmill. He’d been of a mood to push himself hard, which didn’t leave much breath left over for polite conversation. Well, fine. He’d talk to the boy about interrupting somebody while they were exercising in a couple minutes.