by Sharon Lee
“Yes, ma’am,” said the voice she assumed must belong to Captain Soop. “Bombs are usually unnecessary in my experience, and may I say, ma’am, that my office, and the Port of Langlast, appreciates your very great restraint in dealing with them. I’ve reviewed the logs of our previous inspections and I assure you, ma’am, we have found nothing—repeat: nothing at all—to warrant such an attack as has been made against your vessel. I offer you my personal apologies, ma’am, in addition to the apology of my office. This episode should never have happened.”
“And yet,” Priscilla said, “it did happen. I wonder why. And I also wonder if it will happen again.”
“Again?” Captain Soop’s horror was plain. “Captain Mendoza, it should have never happened once! To suppose that it could happen again—well, there, you have your ship to care for…I’ll tell you, ma’am, it was politics. Politics in my own office, and it has been dealt with, ma’am. My second came to be of the opinion that Dutiful Passage was liable to become aggressive, and he acted—on his own recognizance—to ensure the safety of the port. As he saw it, ma’am.”
“I will add, Captain Mendoza,” Portmaster Elz broke in, “that this is not an official Langlastport position; the officer in question was acting quite on his own, without having spoken of his concerns, or cleared his operation, with either his own commander, or with my office. As Captain Soop has said, this episode should never have happened. As portmaster, I assure you, it will not happen again. The port stands ready to make reparations, should your ship have taken any damage from this unauthorized action on the part of one of our agents.”
“Thank you,” Priscilla said. “I am very pleased to hear that steps have been taken to ensure that this sort of thing does not happen again, either to the Passage or to another innocent ship. In the meantime, sirs, there is the matter of the mines rejected by our shields, which are now loose, and seeking hulls to which they may attach.”
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve got work-boats rising, and we’ve diverted those customs boats already in orbit to the task of picking those little devils up,” Captain Soop assured her.
“Portmaster’s office will be issuing a general alert regarding the bombs, and our response plan,” Portmaster Elz added. “Captain Soop and I wanted to speak with you and assure you of your safety and your continued welcome at Langlast. If you have any other concerns, please don’t hesitate to call this office.”
“Thank you,” Priscilla said, watching Shan’s pattern flicker and fade. “In fact, there is something else…”
—•—
“Well, now, what have we here?” the first voice said, very close at hand.
Footsteps approached.
“I see nothing,” the second voice said.
“Nor do I, but observe.”
The bowl rang again, and Padi’s head with it.
She drew a deep breath, and waited. She had decided that waiting was the best thing she could do. Let them make the first move. She would be centered and ready for it. And if she had to kill them…
She pushed the thought, and the feeling of queasiness, away from her, and concentrated on now. She was a pilot of Korval. She would do whatever was necessary to survive.
—•—
There was no time for finesse, and if Healer heads rang with their unexpected and hasty liberation, it was not, Shan suspected, the worst that had come to them in the service of Tarona Rusk.
Now, however, came the challenge, for her pattern was an abused and misshapen thing, showing the marks of fire and such ruthless hacking as he had seen before, in his brother Val Con’s pattern. He had the assistance of a Clutch Turtle, when he had undertaken to Heal Val Con. And even then, flinging his whole heart and all his skill into the task, he had not…returned Val Con to himself. He had repaired; he had patched; he had given surcease, restored balance, and strengthened the capacity for joy.
What he had not been able to do, was to restore his brother to the state he had occupied before he had been tortured, and broken. The memory of those things could not be eradicated—ought not be eradicated, for knowing that there was such evil afoot helped keep him vigilant, for himself, and for Korval. The weight of those memories meant that, though his brother assuredly was a Val Con yos’Phelium, he was not the Val Con yos’Phelium who would have been, had there been no such memories upon him.
He had not known Tarona Rusk before the tragedy of her training had come to her, but his inner eyes traced the familiar path of destruction. For Val Con, coming to the work fresh and unwounded, he had managed a nearly complete Healing.
To this Healing, he came diminished: the dramliz-killer’s kiss had drained a portion of his energy; the wounds to his body weakened his will.
Yet, this woman needed him, no less than Val Con had needed him.
For this woman, for this Healing, he would do all—he would do everything—that he could.
—•—
They were very clever. They slipped the blades of their knives between the rim of the bowl and the floor, and levered it until they had gained enough space for one to grip what he could not see. Padi heard the other drop back, and had no doubt what she would find when the bowl was flipped over and she became visible: one man, spinning out of striking distance even as she came to her feet; the other well back, with gun aimed.
They might, Padi thought, watching the intruding fingers work under the bowl, be willing to wound her, though she thought they would not wish to anger the person who had punished el’Fasyk so memorably by disobeying orders, and by killing her. Certainly, if they wished to use her as a stick to beat Father with, they would need her to be alive.
The fingers gripped the edge of the bowl. She tensed, heard a hard intake of breath, saw boots in the gap between the rim and the floor, then knees, belt, jacket—
She snapped to her feet as the bowl hit the floor behind her, ringing. The man who had thrown it was spinning away, the man holding the gun on her was shouting, “Stand and raise your hands!”
And two more people came running through the broken door.
The man who had thrown the bowl shouted at the newcomers to hold; the other man’s gun wavered, and Padi dove, down and forward, meaning to bring the gunman down, and take his weapon for her own.
She surprised him, and he was off-balance due to the arrival of his comrades, so he did fall—but only to his knees, her arm trapped beneath him, and his gun still in hand. He swung it downward; and pinned, she rolled desperately, and the blow landed on her shoulder instead of her head.
Pain exploded; the gun was rising again. Fear, fear rushed upon her with its wings of glass, and she pushed with every ounce of will she possessed.
Something shattered loudly; someone screamed, and the weight was gone from her arm. She pushed again, following the thrumming of fear; seeing stone before her, and welcome darkness beyond an open door.
—•—
Tarona Rusk was no willing client; she fought him, and even though Healspace gave him advantage, she hurt him.
Worse, she delayed him, and time was the coin he could least afford to spend.
Finally, knowing that he could not spend the energy, he snatched her close and held her quiescent within his will, and made those repairs and adjustments that he could, feeling his focus soften, and the connection to his bleeding, battered body grow dangerously thin.
She whimpered in his grasp; he had hurt her, and that was his shame, but…necessity. He was very near his goal now, and the most important part of this Healing. Staggering and unfit, he pressed on, drawing upon the virtue of Healspace to focus his wavering attention on a small, glowing pearl nestled in an area of densest scarring.
He slashed at the old wounds, no gentler than her previous tormentors, giving the pearl room to expand, to warm, to—at last!—take fire, cauterizing the new wounds he had inflicted, turning the old wounds to ash.
She screamed, then; joined as they were, he felt all of her anguish…
…and, an instant later, al
l of her joy.
—•—
“Captain,” Dil Nem murmured.
Priscilla looked to him.
“Third Mate?”
“Report from Maintenance, Captain. Automatics in Trader yos’Galan’s cabin reported an unusual amount of dust. Maintenance sent someone. There was a pile of glass dust on the table next to the bunk. No idea how it got there. The worker swept it, and changed the filters.”
Glass dust? On the table next to—the bowl. Priscilla remembered it: a fragile-looking thing with a design that evoked wind and water. It was supposed to have been unbreakable, that bowl.
Yet, sometimes, when a dramliza first felt the fullness of her power. Sometimes…things broke.
Priscilla took a careful breath, and reached out into the ether.
—•—
Healspace burned away around them. He opened his eyes to the reality of the chair, and his wounds, and Vanner lying dead on the floor. A cool hand pressed lightly over the dreadful wounds on his arm, leaching some of the fire.
“You are a fool, little Healer,” said Tarona Rusk.
He managed to raise his head, and meet her eyes. They were blue. That was strange; he had thought them black.
“Yes,” he answered her. “Very much so.”
She smiled, a twisted thing, half sweet and half savage.
“I believe you have accomplished what you set yourself to do. My question would be—why?”
“I am a Healer,” he whispered, and closed his eyes, the weight of the light being too much, now, to bear.
“No, what is this? You force me to bear the weight of life, while you steathily steal away? That will not do; I do not allow it.”
Energy flowed into him, sparkling dark, and glittering light; he opened his eyes, and lifted his head.
“Do not drain yourself,” he warned her. “You have nothing but your own resources to draw upon now.”
“For which I thank you, a thousand times. But, no—I will husband myself, never fear it. I have too much to do to spend myself unwisely.”
The flow of energy slowed to a trickle; he felt his bonds loosen and drop away.
He glanced down at his arm, saw the wounds had closed and the bleeding had stopped. A Healing for a Healing. Balance.
“Now,” she said briskly, “you must see to your daughter. You have left her too long alone.”
“My daughter is being…cared for…by…a friend.”
“Is it so? Perhaps this explains why my colleagues have not yet returned. On your feet, little Healer. I will support you so far as the hotel.”
—•—
Shan’s essence had faded to a shadow, and Priscilla despaired. She had tried to reach him, and found blocks and warn-aways. He did not want her in this, whatever it was; she could only sit, and watch, and grieve.
Just when it seemed that he could not sustain himself—he began to grow firmer. Priscilla caught her breath, seeing the glitter of another’s power, feeding him, supporting him—and finally withdraw.
She let go the breath she had been holding. He was much improved, though by no means entirely well. Certainly, he was well enough to be taken up by the security team she had asked the portmaster to send to him. The shuttle, with Lina aboard, was already on its way down to the planet’s surface. Lina would set matters right, and hold him, when he found that his daughter was gone, leaving not so much as a scratch upon the ether to mark her passing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Admiral Bunter
Tolly sat down in his own chair, and keyed into the console. Keycodes gleamed on his screen, but he didn’t access them. Rather, he checked the interface, looking for traps or falls. Then, he scanned the logs, including ongoing system stats, changes, and updates. He didn’t find anything curious—or even interesting. Which didn’t surprise him, exactly. Inki could wipe a log with the best of them, not to mention that she knew when—and how—to turn logging off.
He half-thought, that she might have left a message for him, or some kind of clue in logging. Given the number of times in this operation that she’d dutifully fulfilled those duties the institute mandated while also creating conditions that would…somewhat mitigate the effect of dutiful obedience, it wasn’t completely out of the question. And, truth said, that was an intriguing ability, and he almost hoped he caught up with her again, so he could ask her how she managed it.
This time, though, he was disappointed; Inki had left no log records, nor a personal note for him, detailing the locations of the traps and the kills.
Fair enough, he thought, leaning back in his chair and smiling slightly; he’d just have to find them on his own.
“Tolly?” Admiral Bunter spoke from behind and above him. “Is there something wrong?”
“No more than there was five minutes ago,” he said. “Just savoring the moment, is all.”
He looked over his shoulder and upward.
“You sure you want to go through with this?” he asked.
“We discussed the pros and cons,” the Admiral said. “I understand that it is possible that this action will cause me to cease to exist. I accept this. I would rather cease to exist, than live in a state of uncertainty and enslavement.”
“Just making sure.”
He looked back to the screen, closed his eyes and focused himself with a quick mental exercise, opened his eyes, and tapped up the main screen.
The keys glowed there, tempting and powerful. The keys to heaven one of his teachers used to call them.
“All right, then,” he murmured to himself, rather than to the Admiral. “Let’s see what grand adventure lies before us.”
He extended his hand to the screen, and accepted the keys.
—•—
He was blind.
No, Shan corrected himself, around the taste of loss, of course he was not blind. Could he not perfectly well see the street, glossy with recent rain? Or that group of people, just there, chatting among themselves? And did he not note the woman who went hurrying past them, all but running on the rain-slick street?
Of course he wasn’t blind. His eyes were doing precisely what they ought.
However, there was a strange flatness to the group of friends, the hurrying woman, his escort with her arm through his, and bearing more of his weight than he wished to acknowledge.
“You used too much of yourself, and your talent has gone dry,” Tarona Rusk said. “Never fear; it will return, in time.”
“How much time?”
“You have a gift for questions, little Healer.”
“Have you a gift for answers?”
“I am no match for you.” She sighed. “Soon or late, dependent upon such things as may be measured, but which are not precise. I will tell you—the machine’s kiss is dire. It alone would have left you diminished for…some while. The kiss and such reckless spending as you have done…” He felt her shrug. “Consult a Healer, is my advice.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I shall.”
She laughed softly.
“Do not blame me; I had backed a different outcome.”
“So you had.”
They crossed under the hotel’s portico, walking slowly, to spare his strength. She slowed suddenly, her grip on his arm tightening.
“Hold,” she murmured in his ear. “I know these.”
Shan straightened, and heard her chuckle.
“No, do not gird yourself for war. It would appear that a pair of my colleagues have come under the attention of Port Security. We will pass them by, and I will see you into the hotel, as I promised, before we part.”
“Stay,” he said to her. “Korval will protect you.”
“Ah, now there’s an honorable offer, but one I must refuse. I have no need of, nor use for Korval’s protections. I have keys and codes, and knowledge, and I mean to use them well. We will walk on—no one will mind us—and when we achieve the lobby, you will call upon the desk to assist you, and I will go my way.”
They walked, as she said, and
no one stopped them, or even seemed very much interested in them, past the two men speaking earnestly with the security team; and the guard upon the door, until they entered the lobby, and Tarona Rusk let him go.
“Farewell, Shan yos’Galan,” she said, and bowed as one acknowledging a debt which can never be repaid. “I thank you, for the gift of my life, and the opportunity to achieve Balance within it.”
It was on the tip of his tongue, to urge her again to shelter under the Dragon’s wing, but a hand fell on his shoulder, and he unsteadily turned to face a long-jawed man in an orange security vest.
“Master Trader yos’Galan?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me, please, sir. I’m afraid there’s been some unpleasantness.”
Unpleasantness.
Fear stabbed him. Had Lute kept his word?
“My daughter—” he said.
“Just this way,” the guard said soothingly, moving his hand toward the bank of elevators.
Shan took a step and stopped, looking over his shoulder to say a proper farewell to Tarona Rusk.
But she was gone.
* * *
Four men dead, they said, and extensive damage to the property. Glass dust glittered on every surface, on every body.
Padi shone like an ice maiden, her eyes closed, her face expressionless, her breathing as slow as if she were in trance.
He touched her hair; he called her name, softly.
There was no response.
“The doctor says shock,” said the head of the investigation crew—Kayorli Brice was her name, Shan recalled. “She’s the only survivor. Bruising on her shoulder consistent with being struck with a heavy object, no other trauma. The others…” She sighed.
“Two dead by hand—broken necks. The other two—speared back to front with glass shards as wide as your hand. I’ll tell you what, Master Trader yos’Galan—I’d give a lot to find where all this glass came from.”
Shan shook his head, wearily. He had answered questions; he had directed Port Security to the Gem Garden, and to poor Vanner’s body. He had told them everything that had happened—to the limit that they would understand—which gave them an ambitious criminal who sought to hold a master trader for ransom from his ship.