Dragon in Exile

by Sharon Lee

  The other man—his age, more or less, and like him, much older than mere years could account—the other man’s smile softened, as if he understood. But of course he did understand. Val Con yos’Phelium had been an Agent of Change, a man shaped by torture and dark arts into someone—something—other than who he had been. Terrifyingly other. A man who betrayed and killed effortlessly, without remorse, without shame.

  Very much the same as Rys Lin pen’Chala.

  “Forgive me,” Rys said, soft enough for a brother’s ears. “I had no wish to disturb the evening meal.”

  “The arrival of a brother is no disturbance. There is a place for you at the table—indeed, you find us much reduced this evening, with so many away on the clan’s business.

  “But, here! You have met my sister Anthora, and her lifemate, Ren Zel dea’Judan; the lady next is my aunt Kareen yos’Phelium, and next to her, my sister’s mother, who guests with us—Scholar Kamele Waitley. Beyond her is my lifemate, Miri Robertson Tiazan. All—here is my brother Rys Lin pen’Chala.”

  As introductions went, it had more the feel of the kompani than a Liaden High House, but no one seemed put out; the elder lady aunt was not best pleased, and not just, he thought, by her nephew’s rag manners. From her frown, it would appear that he, himself, offended her sense of propriety, a point of view with which he had some sympathy.

  By the standards of the kompani, he was splendidly attired, but a costume comprising an emerald green shirt with sweeping, dramatic sleeves worn under a black vest lavishly embroidered in scarlet, yellow, and brilliant blue, and a gold-tasseled scarlet sash did render him . . . rather obvious. Something modest, such as his brother Val Con’s pearly shirt, would have more likely gained an elderly aunt’s approval.

  He bowed carefully, convenably, to the room. Straightening, he murmured, “I am informed and honored.”

  “Also, hungry,” the red-haired lifemate of his brother said, in Terran, her voice too fine for the harsh Surebleak accent. “Bring the man down here and give him his dinner.”

  It would appear that this was a strong hint to all present to return to their own interrupted meals. They did this, and voices began to take up the threads of suspended conversations. Rys went down the room on his brother’s arm, and took the chair next to Miri Robertson Tiazan.

  A dish of clear soup appeared before he had gotten his napkin to his knee. The others at table had already moved on to the next course, but apparently he was to have a complete meal. Shaking his sleeve back, Rys reached for the soup spoon, then simply put his hand flat on the table, and sat staring down at his own gleaming fingers, shivering.

  What in the names of the unfeeling gods was he doing here, in this house, among these people? He was not High House. His clan had been seated upon an outworld; their livelihood gotten from the growing of grapes and the making of wine. Gone now, all save Rys Lin pen’Chala, destroyed in an Yxtrang raid. And Rys Lin pen’Chala destroyed as well, in a far more fearsome disaster . . .

  “Little too much bold action, there?” Miri Robertson Tiazan said quietly from his side.

  He took one hard, deep breath, lifted his head and met candid grey eyes.

  “I fear that I had not . . . properly regarded the hour.”

  Had he stopped to consider, he might easily have realized that a visit at this time of the evening would intrude upon Prime. However, he had not considered—or, he had only considered that, having taken his decision and in possession of the fruit of his labors, he must at once place it into the hands of the man who would know best how to use it.

  “Take your time,” she said. “If it’ll help, I’ll just talk in your direction, so your conversational duty’s covered.”

  That was . . . kind. He felt tears rise again, and blinked them away.

  “I am grateful,” he murmured, and picked up the proper spoon. The soup was excellent.

  “I wonder if you might advise me,” he murmured, looking again to his host.

  She tipped her head to show that she was listening.

  “Yes. I . . . believe that I will not do justice to a full formal meal. At . . . home, we are accustomed to simpler fare.”

  “Just eat what you want. If the soup’s enough, that’s fine; maybe with some finger food, to fill in the edges. If it’ll ease you, we ain’t doing full formal—hardly ever do. Tonight we got the soup, the main course, and dessert. Which is pretty informal.” She looked momentarily owlish. “So they tell me. Kareen ain’t comfortable unless we dress, else you’d’ve caught us in Surebleak motley, and you all prettied up!”

  He smiled. “My grandmother would not have me shame the kompani by calling upon my brother in less than the best I might wear,” he said.

  “Very proper,” came the overly clear voice of the elder aunt.

  He raised his eyes to look at her, and she inclined her head.

  “One has naturally been informed of the circumstances of the delm’s brother. May one inquire as to your grandmother’s name?”

  “Indeed.” He met the lady’s eyes firmly, his experience of such being that anything less than firmness would mark him as dismissible.

  “My grandmother’s name is Silain Bedel. Her title, by which it is proper for those not of the kompani to address her, is luthia.”

  “I thank you,” the lady said, with sharp, but seemingly genuine sincerity. “One makes a study, you understand, of modes of politeness. I would not wish to err, nor to give offense, should I have the honor of meeting Silain-luthia.”

  “One’s grandmother holds similar views,” he murmured, glancing down to find that his empty soup dish had been removed, replaced by a plate of small savories, and another of warm rolls.

  “Politeness smooths many paths,” the pale-haired mother of his brother’s sister said in laborious Liaden. She smiled, open and utterly Terran, and he felt an immediate affection for her, as one might for a child.

  “Please”—this was again the elder aunt—“commend me to your grandmother, if you will. I am Lady Kareen. It would be my very great pleasure to have Silain-luthia to tea, perhaps also including Scholar Waitley, if she does not object. I do understand that we are inconveniently located, here at the end of the road. Rather than demand such a journey from the luthia, I would be pleased to host her at the house of my son, in the city. Or perhaps she may recommend an appropriate bakery or tea shop where we might meet as equals.”

  He inclined his head.

  “I will take your message to my grandmother, Lady,” he murmured, careful not to make any promise on Silain’s behalf.

  “Thank you,” she said, bestowing a cool smile upon him, and turned her attention to the scholar.

  Rys gave a silent sigh of relief to have lost her scrutiny, reached for his glass, and sipped, carefully. The wine was white, floral, with an afternote of lemon. He smiled, and sipped again, enjoying the simple vintage.

  “Good evening, Rys,” came a voice he knew very well, indeed.

  He looked across the table to meet the silver eyes of Anthora yos’Galan, known to some as “Korval’s Witch.” It had been Anthora yos’Galan who had read his mind and his heart during his questioning by Judge Natesa. It had been Anthora yos’Galan who had certified that he had regained what the Department’s training had left of his former self; and that he was no further danger to Korval, or to himself.

  He owed Anthora yos’Galan . . . more than his life, and he would thus remain forever in her debt.

  “Good evening, Lady,” he said respectfully.

  “No, now that you are come as Val Con’s brother, I must be Anthora,” she told him, and looked to her lifemate, sitting modest at her side. “Must I not, Ren Zel?”

  “Surely that is for Master pen’Chala to decide?”

  “Is it?” She frowned slightly, as if considering the proper protocol. “Well, perhaps it is, at that. But I may hope that he will decide in my favor, may I not?”

  “Indeed; as I will also hope, on my own behalf. I think, though, that he must come
to know us a little better.”

  He looked to Rys, brown eyes betraying mischief. “I am newcome to the clan, as well,” he said. “There is a learning curve.”

  Rys smiled, warmed. “I see that there might be. For myself, I am well situated with my brothers and sisters of the kompani, and do not foresee coming into Korval. However, it is my . . . belief—newfound—that one cannot have too many brothers.”

  “So I believe, as well,” Ren Zel answered, his smile gentle. “Already, we find common ground.”

  Beside him, he heard his brother’s lifemate chuckle.

  “Ren Zel can charm the portrait off a cantra piece,” she said, and used her chin to point at what was left of his plate of savories.

  “Dessert’s coming. You want fruit, or a sweet?”

  “I believe we have accomplished wonders,” Luken said.

  He waved his assistants toward the back wall, and himself walked to the center of the showroom. There, he slowly turned on his heel, surveying the display walls with small rugs hung in a flow of texture and tone; the bright carpets scattered across the gold-toned wooden decking, like autumn leaves scattered on the forest floor. He looked at the sample book set discreetly upon a creamy ceramic pedestal—there was nothing so crass as a sales counter in Luken’s showroom—at the carpets hung on wooden rods, and the small refreshment table against the back wall, and lastly at Villy and Quin.

  He smiled.

  “We have, indeed, accomplished wonders,” he stated. “Never has a man had two such willing and able helpers. I had hoped that we might achieve enough today that the shop might open in two or three days. With your help, we may open tomorrow.”

  “Who will tend the shop, Grandfather?” Quin asked, coming forward himself and glancing about. It looked good, he thought. It wasn’t, of course, the equal of Grandfather’s former shop in the Solcintra High Port, but then, Surebleak was hardly Solcintra.

  “Do you know, I had intended Kensi al’Findosh—you recall her, boy-dear; she had assisted in the old shop for the last few years—I had intended that she should manage the port annex. It still seems a good notion to me—she is entirely knowledgeable, personable, and shrewd. Sadly, she had been detained by the necessity to show her delm that this proposed move of hers to an outworld will profit the clan. I have had a letter from her recently which indicates that she has been successful in that project, and will be joining us here as quickly as might be. I suppose, therefore, that I shall tend the annex until she arrives.”

  Quin frowned slightly.

  “That would mean slowing the work at the primary location,” he said. “If I promise not to make an entire muddle of the business, I might stand in until Merchant al’Findosh arrives.”

  “Why, what a generous offer, Quin dear!” Luken smiled. “I have no concern regarding muddles. Certainly, between your father and I, you’ve received a thorough education in rugs.”

  “I am no match for you,” Quin said, holding his hands up, palms out, and laughing slightly. “I hope you will keep yourself available, should I need to call the shop’s expert.”

  “Gotta charge extra when you call in the expert,” Villy observed, drifting into the center of the room. “Mr. Luken, this is everything that’s grand.”

  “And it could not have been achieved without your assistance,” Luken told him warmly. “I am very pleased.”

  He turned about once more, slowly, and came to rest with a sigh.

  “Excellent. Come, let us make ourselves presentable. I believe that such an accomplishment calls for the best dinner the Emerald can provide.” He glanced at Villy, and added, “As host, the honor of paying the bill falls to me.”

  Villy’s face relaxed. “I am hungry,” he admitted.

  “Then we must not delay a moment longer! Please, take a moment to order yourself, while Quin and I review the security system.”

  “Thanks,” Villy said, and headed for the back room.

  The walkway was crowded, and they were obliged to walk in a staggered line, Luken somewhat to the fore, Quin and Villy following.

  “Port’s jumping tonight,” Villy said. “Summer’s got everybody feeling spry.”

  Quin, who had turned the collar of his jacket up, for warmth, and tucked his hands into his pockets, sighed.

  “I thought summer was a warm season.”

  “It is warm!” Villy said smartly. “We don’t hardly ever get snowstorms in summer!”

  “At—on Liad, we never got snow at all,” Quin said ruefully, “except on the mountains.”

  “I dunno I’d like that,” Villy countered. “By the end of winter, I usually figure I can do with less of it, but getting rid of all the winter—that just doesn’t seem right.”

  “It is one of the many things that I find myself enjoying about our new home,” Luken said, addressing them over his shoulder. “The weather is so interes— Ah!”

  “Grandfather!”

  Quin leapt forward, knocking the stranger who had slammed into Luken back with a hard shoulder. He raised his fists, braced and ready to take an attack.

  The man staggered, in no wise steady, blinked blearily, and seemed to register Quin’s attitude. He raised his hands to shoulder height, showing palms and spread fingers.

  “Hey, hey, no worries, kid. Jus’ a little . . .” He shook his head and raised his voice a little. “Sorry, Pops. Sorry! Not so steady right now. Ain’t hurt, is he?” This last apparently addressed to Quin.

  Drunk, Quin told himself. He’s only drunk; and he fell. It had been an accident, not an attack. He took a deep breath that failed to bring inner calm, and managed to lower his fists, though he kept to his station between Luken and the stranger.

  “I am quite unharmed, Quin,” Grandfather said from behind him. “You may stand down.”

  “Go!” Quin snarled, and the stranger backed up, his steps tangling together. He fell to one knee, leapt up.

  “I’m gone!” he said, and was.

  “Sleet, you’re scary when you’re mad,” Villy said, slipping his arm through Quin’s. “Just a drunk, s’all. Mr. Luken, he’s fine.”

  “Indeed, I am,” Grandfather said calmly, taking Quin’s other arm.

  Quin tried another deep breath to cool the burning need for action.

  “Hey, it’s okay . . .” Villy said softly, pressing against him gently. “Easy . . . that’s it, just breathe deep, right?”

  In fact, the third breath seemed more calming. Quin sighed it out, feeling his muscles begin to relax.

  “That’s the ticket,” Villy murmured. “No sense bein’ all mad.”

  “There,” Luken said. “That is more in the mode. Shall we proceed? I believe we have all earned a glass of wine.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Jelaza Kazone

  Surebleak

  Dinner done, the two repaired to his brother’s office. Val Con poured a glass of the jade for each.

  Rys sipped—and sighed, as much for the finish as the vintage.

  “Will you start a vineyard?” Val Con murmured, so softly it could have been his own thought.

  Rys moved the glass, and watched the wine swirl.

  “As it happens, one of my sisters—an avid gardener—has brought me into an endeavor with grapes. It is very much in the nature of an experiment, and I do not entertain . . . very high hopes of the outcome. Still, the subject interests her, and it would be unbrotherly, to refuse what aid I can give.”

  He raised his eyes and met Val Con’s gaze.

  “Truly, I never thought to work among the vines again.”

  “And I had never thought to remove Korval to Surebleak. You may yet discover a grape hardy enough for the climate, which can be made into something drinkable. I mention this, as your brother, for our cellar will not last forever.”

  Rys laughed. “I see that you mean to be a tyrant.”

  “Only when necessary. And, now, if it is not precipitate—will you tell me how I may serve you?”

  For a moment he had no answer, for
surely there was nothing he wanted, or needed, that was not provided by the kompani . . .

  Then he remembered himself.

  “I have a gift for you, Brother.”

  Val Con raised his eyebrows. “A gift?”

  Rys nodded, and reached into his vest for the three tiles in their silver frame, the whole no larger than his palm.

  Val Con moved forward, but he did not take the gift. Instead, he looked closely at the palm on which it rested.

  “Am I permitted to say that your hand is a work of art, Brother?”

  “Beautiful and fully functional.” Rys smiled. “Rafin insists that his creations be both. Truly, I am fortunate in my brothers.”

  “As I am fortunate in mine. Now, tell me—what is this? An ornament?”

  Rys shook his head. “It is a dream.”

  He drew a breath, trying to slow himself, but the fever—temporarily cooled by the demands of courtesy—the fever was upon him again, to see the thing well on its way, now that he had completed his part, and he rushed onward.

  “I will tell you that the gift comes to you only so that you may use it in the service of those . . . those others, who are yet what we were, and who are held in your care.”

  Val Con’s face closed like a door slamming.

  Rys gasped—and shook his head even as surety rose. Those who had been held beneath the Dragon’s wing . . . surely he would not, who had been . . . who knew—and yet, what choice had he, with a clan to keep, his resources straitened . . .

  He was beginning to shiver, and his eyes were damp again. The hand and arm that Rafin had built for him could not tire, but the dream chimed softly against his metal palm.

  “Peace.”

  The tiles were plucked from his hand, and a warm arm slipped ’round his shoulders. He was guided downroom and pressed softly into a chair. The glass was taken from his hand and placed on the table at his elbow.

  “Peace,” his brother said again, settling into the chair opposite. “You caught me on a new wound.”

  “Forgive me,” Rys murmured, while he mourned them in his heart, who had not had the chance . . . He had been too slow!