by Sharon Lee
“I want Tekelia!” Vaiza said.
“Of course you do,” Geritsi said with a grin. “Anyone would. You show very good taste. However, we Haosa have rules—different rules from those I daresay you’ve been used to, but rules, just the same. And one of those rules is that no one touches Tekelia.”
Vaiza blinked at her, and turned his head to address Tekelia.
“Are you being punished?”
“No,” Tekelia said, leaving philosophy for another day. “My connection to the ambient is very strong. So strong that those who touch me, even if they are shielded, are sometimes wrenched out of themselves and into the ether. Then, we need to find them and help them reenter their bodies and rebuild their center. All of that is time-consuming, beside being frightening for the person thrust into the ether. Best for all if we avoid the possibility entirely.”
Tekelia bowed.
“Among the Haosa, I am called a Child of Chaos. There are one or two born every generation.”
“Is that why you sparkle?” Vaiza asked, and Tekelia Looked deeply at the child until—oh, yes. Wild Talent indeed.
“I did not realize that I sparkle,” Tekelia said, “but I don’t find it impossible.”
Vaiza nodded. “Also, your eyes are different colors.”
“That, I did know,” Tekelia admitted. “What color are they now?”
“Amber,” said Vaiza, “and purple.”
“Thank you,” Tekelia said.
“Now,” said Geritsi, “it’s time for a snack before we walk back to the village. If we hurry, we’ll be home in time for dinner!”
Dutiful Passage
* * *
I
Priscilla and Lina were with Dyoli ven’Deelin, who had neither stirred nor waked during her transport from the tiny, airless cubicle in the day-worker dorms to sickbay aboard Dutiful Passage.
Tima had taken charge of Mar Tyn pai’Fortana, guiding him, so Padi assumed, to secure quarters, there being no brig or holding cells on the Passage, until the captain, or possibly the head of security, had time for him.
Padi, returning to her quarters, tapped her screen up on her way to the ’fresher. She was scheduled to meet with Lina in ten minutes for another lesson on how to be a wizard, but she would be very surprised, she thought as she washed her face, if that session hadn’t been canceled.
She dried her face, combed her hair, and clasped it with a hair ring before exiting the ’fresher.
She ought, she thought, contact the master trader and ask when it might be convenient for him to accept delivery of his book, but when she came again to the screen, she found that she was behind time; the master trader had already sent her a note.
Greetings, Trader! Please do me the honor of attending me in my office after you have refreshed yourself. I will provide tea and small-foods.
Of course, she thought, half amused. There were no other messages in-queue, so she closed her screen, picked up the wrapped book, and went to wait upon the master trader.
“ . . . separation trauma,” Priscilla was saying, her distress obvious even over the comm, “and exhaustion. Keriana is with her now, doing an assessment. There are no physical injuries—though she is dehydrated and malnourished. After Keriana’s done, we’ll all three consult. It may be that a session in the ’doc will be of benefit to Healer ven’Deelin, but we’re being”—a bare hint of laughter in Priscilla’s voice—“ . . . conservative.”
Conservative, Shan recalled, was one of the many concepts with which Padi took issue, when applied to herself. One hoped that she would not produce similar objections on behalf of Healer ven’Deelin.
“After she’s physically stable,” Priscilla continued, “Lina will do a more detailed examination, with an eye to performing a Healing. From our preliminary exam, it seems that Healer ven’Deelin depleted her talent and her resources by attempting a working that exceeded her abilities.”
“Do you know if she completed the working?” Shan asked, watching the comm as if he could see Priscilla’s face through it.
“We’ll have to wait until she’s stable to probe at that level—or until she wakes up and tells us. If I were to guess, I’d say that she did complete it.”
“Really? What leads you to that conclusion?”
“Mar Tyn pai’Fortana is alive.”
“Ah. Where is Master pai’Fortana presently?”
“Tima took him to one of the guest rooms and put it under security lock. He’s awaiting our questions, if any.”
“As it happens, I have questions, which I will be very pleased to put to him, while you and Lina concentrate on more pressing matters.”
Priscilla sighed.
“I seem to have gotten us into a scrape,” she said ruefully.
“No, only think how much more terrifying if we had left a ven’Deelin in need,” Shan said.
That, of course, could not be thought of. Ixin was not a particular ally, though they tended to move along orbits parallel to Korval’s. Certainly, they were not an enemy, though they might have brought that about by ignoring one of the Rabbit’s children in her extremity.
“There’s that,” Priscilla admitted; there was a short pause, and the sound of voices in the background, then she was back online.
“Keriana has completed her exam, and recommends that her patient be allowed six hours of physical therapy before we attempt to rouse, or Heal, her. It may be that she’ll wake on her own, in which case Keriana will alert Lina. If she does not wake, we three will consult again as to the best course.”
“Prudent,” Shan agreed. “I will speak with Master pai’Fortana directly after Padi and I have had tea,” he said, then—“Priscilla.”
“Yes?”
“Will you sleep with me tonight?”
He didn’t need to see her smile; he felt it in their link.
“I will arrange the schedule,” she said.
“Excellent.”
“Until soon,” Priscilla murmured, and ended the call.
Shan closed his eyes, ran a relaxation exercise, and opened his eyes just as the annunciator sounded.
“Come!” he called.
The door opened to admit Padi, carrying a neatly wrapped package and looking . . . somewhat worn, despite a freshly clean face, and hair pulled back into a neat tail.
Well.
He rose, smiling, and came ’round the desk, arms wide. She walked into his embrace and leaned her head against his shoulder. Six heartbeats later, he heard her sigh, and felt her relax.
“Hello, Father,” she said, voice muffled.
“Hello, Padi,” he answered. “Come and have tea.”
* * *
“How did you know it existed?” Padi demanded after the dainty stuffed pastries had been given their due and the second cup of tea had been poured.
Shan smiled. He reached for a pastry knife, slit the sealing tape, and pulled the book free of its wrappings.
“But I didn’t know that it existed,” he said. “I only hoped that it—or something like it—existed.”
Padi shook her head slightly.
“Is that a—dramliz talent?”
“Now, that would be terrifying, wouldn’t it? To be able to alter the universe and its furnishings with a thought or a wish? I sincerely hope that there’s no such talent.”
“Then—what? Just a guess?”
Shan finished his tea and put the cup aside.
“Perhaps a hunch—a minor Seeing. I’ll note that I’m not often moved to ask that objects which don’t exist be found for me; and that, on those occasions when I do, the requested object is only found about one time in four. One has better odds playing at Hazard.”
Padi didn’t answer, loudly. She finished her tea and put the cup away, then leaned forward to place her hand on the book—Wu and Fabricant’s Guide to The Redlands.
“May I read it when you are done?” she asked.
“You will be required to read it, Trader, though the captain may wish to read it before either
of us. Perhaps I will ask the library to make copies for the traders and all department heads. Yes, I’ll do that.”
She nodded and leaned back, brows drawn and a line etched vertically between them.
“Father,” she said suddenly.
“Yes.”
“What is—binding?”
Shan felt a shiver run his spine, as memory supplied an image of the hundreds of psychic links that had supported Tarona Rusk.
“In what context, I wonder?” he murmured.
Padi drew a breath.
“Mar Tyn pai’Fortana . . . he said that Priscilla might bind him; that he would submit so long as she agreed to help the Healer.” She glanced aside, clearly agitated, and met his eyes again.
“He said it as if—as if it were quite usual; as if it were something he—that had been done to him—perhaps even done often to him. Priscilla . . . refused, though she did say that she would kill him if he tried to harm us.”
“And Master pai’Fortana’s reaction to that provision?”
“He seemed to find it quite fair. But . . . Priscilla didn’t care . . . at all . . . for the offer of binding . . . ”
“No, I suppose she must have been horrified.”
Shan sighed.
“Binding, in this context, is an extremely questionable practice which good Healers and dramliz do not employ. It involves depriving another person of their free will and volition, therefore rendering them, if you will, a mere extension of the binder.”
He stopped. Padi, he noted, was looking rather ill.
“Do you think,” she said, her voice not quite steady, “that the ven’Deelin—”
“I think it unlikely that any of Ixin would take up such tactics, no matter their necessity. They are, after all, justly proud of their negotiating skills.”
“Yes, of course.” Padi sighed, her face still pale.
“I think that the question is best put to Master pai’Fortana. You may be certain that I will do so, when I speak with him. In the meanwhile, Trader, I require several things from you—attend me well!”
Padi squared her shoulders.
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. First, I wish you to visit the norbears directly you leave me, and share the events of your day with Lady Selph. I believe she will be interested.
“Second, please check our progress at Pommierport Trade and send me a report.
“Third, go to bed. Put yourself to sleep for five hours. When you have waked and broken your fast, come to me here.”
“Yes, sir.”
He considered her, and added sternly: “You will sleep for five hours. Stint yourself and you will have the master trader and your father to contend with. Am I plain?”
Padi grinned.
“Yes, sir; extremely plain.”
“I am gratified. Please assure Lady Selph of my respect and steadfast affection.”
II
They had locked him in, of course. He had no complaint to make there; he was, in fact, disposed to be grateful. The quarters were spacious, set beside most he’d known: clean and tidy, with everything working as it should. Well, the screen only offered books, and vid, and puzzle-games, but that was surely intentional.
If it weren’t for his fear for Dyoli, he might have been well content in this pretty prison room; might have opened a book, or taken a nap, or . . .
It had been hours now, since he’d been shown inside and had the door locked upon him, with the information that someone would be by to talk with him soon.
Perhaps they’d forgotten him.
Perhaps Dyoli—but no. Surely, surely they would have told him if Dyoli . . .
A chime interrupted this worrisome chain of thought, followed by a man’s voice.
“Master pai’Fortana, it is Shan yos’Galan, master trader on-board. May I have a moment of your time?”
yos’Galan. Mar Tyn took a deep breath. He had expected a security person, or perhaps the captain, again. He had not expected the master trader. Had never expected yos’Galan himself.
It had not occurred to him that he would be required to answer so high.
Another breath, and he found his courage again; courage to speak as if the door obeyed his voice.
“Please enter, Master Trader,” he said. “I am entirely at your service.”
The door slid open, and his visitor stepped within, everything that was tall and elegant, with the sheen of High House sophistication upon him.
He had silver hair and silver eyes, yet he was not, Mar Tyn noted, beautiful. He was far more than beautiful; he was self-possessed, polished, well-dressed, and—as became apparent as he paused to bow welcome to the visitor—charming.
If his nose were a trifle bold, his skin more brown than gold, and his chin rather too pointed, what matter? Those were not the defects they would be counted in some lesser person, but rather marks of distinction.
Mar Tyn bowed as lesser to greater, showing his empty, upturned hands.
“I would bid you welcome, my lord, but it would be an impertinence.”
“Would it? Well, perhaps you’re correct. Allow me, then, to bid you welcome, and ask if you have time to sit and talk with me. I have, as you may suppose, some questions.”
“Yes,” said Mar Tyn. “I had supposed that . . . someone . . . would have questions.”
yos’Galan tipped his head and sent a sharp glance at him.
“But you hadn’t supposed that it would be me? I regret. We are short-handed, and all the crew is doing double duty.”
He moved a graceful hand, showing Mar Tyn the room, the bunk, the single chair.
“Please, sit, and be as comfortable as you may be. I will do my best not to come the High House lordling.”
Almost Mar Tyn smiled, remembering Dyoli’s attempts to leave a like manner behind. He expected that this man might have somewhat more success than she had done, but he would never be mistaken for a Lowporter.
He sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the chair for the yos’Galan, who nodded slightly and settled himself.
“Do you want for anything?” he asked. “Have you been fed?”
“Master Trader, I want for nothing, save word that Dyoli—Healer ven’Deelin—is conscious and recovering herself.”
“I regret that I am not able to give you that word . . . yet. I hope to be able to do so in the near future.
“In the meanwhile, you will wish to know that she is under the care of our med tech, and is receiving fluids and nutrients intravenously. The ship’s Healers have performed a preliminary scan, and it is their opinion, bolstered by the med tech’s findings, that Healer ven’Deelin reached for that which was beyond her grasp, thereby expending a great deal more energy than is usually considered wise or safe.”
He paused, head tipped slightly.
“As one who has only recently erred in the same way, I can tell you that I have been advised that my abilities will return—eventually. You must hold yourself ready to assist—your partner, I believe you said to Captain Mendoza—in many small ways, and to remind her not to tax herself during recuperation.”
Mar Tyn bowed his head.
“Of course, I will assist her in any way that I might,” he said. “As to our relationship—we were partners by necessity. Now that our situation has . . . been altered, it is likely that the partnership will be put aside.
“Properly,” he added, after a moment, “I am no fit partner for her.”
Slanted white brows rose in polite disbelief.
“As you say. But I am remiss! You must allow me to congratulate you on your boldness!”
Mar Tyn considered him suspiciously.
“In what way have I been bold?” he asked, and hearing his tone, added more temperately, “Sir.”
“Neatly caught,” the yos’Galan said. “As for boldness—you are a Luck, are you not?”
Ah, here it came, then. He had for a moment hoped that so charming a person might refrain from open contempt of himself and his talent. Well, at least he k
new how to meet derision.
“Indeed,” he said calmly, “I am a Luck. I pay my dues to House Fortana.”
In truth, he was many quarters arrears in his dues, and very likely Fortana had struck his name from the membership lists. But that was a worry for much further down the path he’d been forced onto, and in no case a life tragedy. If House Fortana would not take him back, there were others who would have him—and his dues—with joy.
For now, though . . .
“I fail to understand in what way I have been bold,” he said, still a little more sharply than was perhaps wise. “I am not accustomed to being thought any such thing.”
“And yet you have survived into adulthood, in Low Port, and have made your way into one of the guilds. I would think that bold enough—or perhaps I mean determined.”
Mar Tyn waited.
The yos’Galan’s lips twitched.
“Yes, well. My point is merely that you are a Luck, yet you allowed yourself to be brought onto a Korval ship, knowing, in a way that many cannot, our relationship with luck. Did that not give you pause?”
It took him a moment to regroup, to realize that he was being offered a sensible question, the sort that those who had enough energy left for debate at the end of the day might discuss among themselves, gathered in Fortana’s common room, with drinks and snacks to hand.
“In truth, it did not occur to me, what coming aboard a Korval ship might do to—to my talent. It is, after all, a poor thing; hardly worth Dyoli—Healer ven’Deelin’s—life.”
“And yet . . . ” prodded the master trader.
“And yet, it is thought, by those of us who care to consider it, that the luck with which Korval is known to interact is a—say, it is a field. The field of luck no more belongs to you than gravity belongs to a planet.”
He moved his shoulders.
“Speaking to my own case, I am a talent; my abilities are inborn, precisely as other, more respectable talents are inborn. It is the same as having been born with brown eyes.”
He drew a breath, aware that his voice had quickened in response to a topic that interested him.